Who I am is yet unknown

Who knew a gander of geese could put out so much sausage-like material.
My neck of the woods suddenly is teeming with great green gobs of goose poop. It is a virtual war zone out there laden with log bombs that make every step a hazard and the bottom of every shoe I own a yucky, grossly-caked disaster.
The geese must swoop in when I’m at work or perhaps waddle in from the creek when the way is clear of human presence. Whichever method they are using, I reluctantly give the big birds credit for the stealth necessary to complete such a large emissions project.
My optimistic side is hoping all that fertilizer will make for greener pastures around here come next spring, although I suspect the manure will be sucked up by the dandelion roots and re-populate an ongoing and booming crop of the little yellow devils in every 12-hour period between April and September.
Hence another reason I miss my old dog. She would have made the feathers fly when the geese stepped foot on her roving grounds.
As it stands, the deer knew she was gone and took no time at all to trespass on parts of the lawn that haven’t seen hoof marks and little deer turds in the six years that I’ve lived here.
It’s been a tender soulful week and much more so than I expected. I’ve had to remind myself several times as I’ve made the trek home after work that there is no “one” here to come home to each day.
And although my mind knows the dog days are done, my heart still hears the tinkle of her dog tag against the water bowl. And I’ve even strained an ear to the air once or twice thinking I heard her barking outside.
Old habits die hard. Familiarity dies harder.
And I’ve realized that even though I thought I’d worked my loss recovery program to my very core, all it took was for my dog to die for a few unstitched scars to pull loose and ooze.
I know this because I decided to bury my dog on my country property and when I drove that shovel into the ground, it didn’t take but two minutes for the unattainable past to engulf me and become the only hospitable yet wretched place to be.
I promptly found myself in a pit of “why me” syndrome and I took it all out on a deep hole in the ground that I dug for my dog. I drove that shovel with sorrow and self-pity, and cried and yelled to the Universe about why my house never gets off the “be swept clean” list.
It had nothing to do with the dog gone nor the choices made by a husband I loved who decided never to come back, nor the choices of a man I loved on a cold afternoon in January.
It had everything to do with my seemingly unfinished business with loss and coming to grips with the parts of life I cannot control.
Mark Nepo wrote, “The current of life requires us to stand up, again and again, and we are not defeated when we are worn down, just exposed anew at a deeper level.”
This I believe.
I dug a grave for my dog and it made me kneel. And then I stood up—worn bare yet again—and so thankful I am still here, moving forward, still getting to know who I really am and grateful for your company, my friend.

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