Maria finished her Jane Austen jigsaw puzzle (500 pieces) in one day. She surprised me by showing me a lovely (pink and green) handbag she made for a child in her family. She is thinking of making them along with her quilts and potholders. I’ll post a photo of it tomorrow. Maria says my mantra ought to be the line above: “My feelings will not be repressed.”

December 19, 2009 – If you love and live with animals, you will almost surely know joy and love, and as surely you will experience pain and loss. Animals do not live long, as a rule, and our circumstances change. They are powerless, dependent on us to make good decisions for them, even if it hurts and wounds. Animals get sick, hurt. They die.  Sometimes we can’t take care of them anymore – we move, change jobs, go broke, get sick – and sometimes a situation comes along that is better for them.

Sometimes we love them not by hanging on, but by letting go.

Unlike many humans, they adapt. Almost always, they adapt.

I’ve experienced this joy and loss many times, and it no longer surprises me. I move on.  This is the price we pay, our own toll, for living with these remarkable creatures. Many people, I see, are stunned by the loss and grief they feel over a lost dog or cat, or a horse, and it takes them a long time to recover, if they do.

I got a beautiful message Saturday from Marjorie, who lives on a small farm in New England. In October, she gave her horse away to a family with a teenage girl to love him, amiable barn mates,  and plenty of room for him to run. He had been with her for 18 years.

“Wow, I fell off the edge when he left. I felt like I was in a bubble and all outside sounds were muted. I hung out at home with my Labs and did a lot of writing and photography. It is still strange for me to not do chores, but I can now go into the barn for other reasons. I have chosen not to add any creatures to my life, but to adjust. To use the time for other creative pursuits.”

Marjorie loves her small farm, the memories it evokes, the sense of life and past activity, the animal dramas, the light coming off the barns and buildings, the deer coming out in the afternoon, the hawks hunting in the skies, the smells and ghosts, mists and mountains.  The thought of living elsewhere, she says, does not even seem possible. She thanked me for the blog, and for helping her focus her pain in a creative manner and come back to hearing those outside sounds again.

Her letter evokes two things powerfully – the sorrow of letting an animal go that you love,  the passion one can have for the texture, history,  and emotional geography of a farm.

But the truth is, she is the one I ought to thank, the one who has taught and helped me but sending me so beautiful and thoughtful a message. So thanks to you, Marjorie.