Instead of trying to make sense of everything, I want to say…
That there’s a fine yellow filament falling from the trees in my yard. I’ve been on this property for 27 years and it only started happening a few years ago. The trees are telling us something.
And when Mark’s dog, Karma, ran away a week ago, Mark didn’t worry much until two hours passed. She’d been on a leash for the last year and a half because of a couple of surgeries that meant she couldn’t run. Two weeks off the leash and she took off like a teenager who finally got the keys to the car. Mark has been emptied. Karma was his night time spoon, his morning snuggle, his co-pilot sitting shot gun in the truck. His girlfriend. That’s what he called her. Karma was his person.
One psychic told Mark that Karma had been bitten by a scorpion. Another said she was with a good family. One seer said Karma had gone north, another said she’d gone south. One said she saw a barn with a vertical roof and tall windows, and the next day Mark found that very barn, but no Karma. One day Mark covered 600 acres of New Mexican sage brush in the middle of nowhere, calling her name until he was hoarse. He put up flyers, flew a drone over the high desert. The thing that made the most sense to me was the animal tracker who told Mark to hang his dirty socks and underwear on the line so Karma could catch Mark’s scent and follow it home.
Sometimes I think it’s easier to write about other people than to write about myself.
It’s easier to show you a picture of Mark scanning the horizon for his dog. Or the way Zoe, our youngest, flew to New Mexico and drove two hours so she could sit huddled with Mark near his wood burning stove, and plot where they would look next.
It’s easier to write about those things than it is to share what Ellen told me when I asked her what my blindspot was.
“You believe that you need to work very hard,” she texted me.
It wasn’t the first time someone reflected to me how hard I work, how I could ease up on the perfectionism, not take everything so seriously, consider lowering the bar. But it was the first time I heard the truth in it. I think it was the way Ellen added at the end of the text, “And that makes you sad.”
Maybe that’s what got my attention, because that part was true. I do recognize a sadness, an exhaustion. Not for my work, but for the way I’ve been working for my whole life – a mashup of Taurean intensity meets how good it feels to do things well, and the approval and the love that comes with doing things well, and then a desire to do more things well, and how over time I’ve found myself running to the next thing, and the thing after that, barely looking back.
Survival becomes pattern, becomes habit, becomes life.
Instead of trying to make sense of it, I’m remembering something Gary, our old therapist told me years ago when I was having a real breakdown. “I’m falling apart,” I told him. “No,” he said, “the parts you don’t need anymore are falling away from you.”
And I like what Lisa said in Wild Writing the other day, how she wished she could unbutton the top button of her jeans right there in class because her pants felt tight. And so tomorrow in class, I’m going to suggest we all start by unbuttoning that top button – just start with that.
Which won’t bring Karma back. But it does suggest a kind of exhale, and a release for all that we’re carrying. For the mysterious yellow filament falling from the trees, for the forgiveness Mark must give himself for losing Karma. For me, it’s all this efforting that I’ve carried my entire life, and that is no longer sustainable. May I begin to let it go, and into the wind, so I might follow the scent of something more true inside of myself and follow that dog home.
Listen to Laurie read the piece here …
So beautiful, brings me tears. Thank you, Laurie.
Dear Laurie, Thank you so much for sharing. I’m so touched by the love in your story. I’ll join you all in prayer if I may 🙏❤️
I thought I was dying but they were labor pains, said C. Lispector in one of her books.
Your texto reminded me of Hera. And of me. And of all human kind, trying sometimes so hard to survive. Thank you for this, ir Is beautiful.
Beautiful, sad and hopeful. Thank you.
Wow Laurie, this bit got me “And that makes you sad.”
I hope you can make peace with this.
Felt deeply. A desperate call that will fill you with support for a sobbing heart ♥️. Feeling with you today.
Beautiful, Laurie.
Such beautiful writing, Laurie. I love the way you lace the fine yellow filament through your story from beginning to end, keeping us on the edge of Karma – life, loss, not knowing what’s next and if Karma will come back is heartbreakingly brilliant and poignant.
Thank you for sharing your gift of storytelling and truth with us as you do— for opening your heart which gives us permission to open our hearts just a little more.
I’ve been a fan of yours for years and I love sharing your writing pieces with friends as little gifts to land in their inbox. ✨
Since I’ve moved from the Midwest to SF, I hope to meet you in person and work with you someday!
Marianne ~
Oh all the losses I’d like to name Karma in hopes they would come back to me… I’m sad for Mark. May there be some peace there.
But for the perfectionism I inherited from my mother that she inherited from the patriarchy? May that never come back to me! Yes, yes, let it all go in the wind. 🌬
Oh, Mark…
My heart breaks for him. I can only pray that Karma is alive, and well, and that maybe she finds her way back.
And, for you…the mother, the tribe leader, the maker of marvelous moments. May we all find a bit of peace in just being.
The pen truths us out …doesn’t it?
Thanks for this, Laurie.
Thank you Laurie, for sharing your vulnerability with us, touching me deeply, and feeling so grateful for your honesty and your fine sensitivity and your willingness to look at your own patterns and habits and all, and to consider other ways to Be in your world, your life, your work… Namaste… I will read it over some more and allow your insights to sink into me too…
Laurie, this was a beautiful breakdown. You have put into words what I have been carrying for all of my years. I need to “..follow the scent of something more true..” Thank you for sharing and I hope Karma returns and may you begin to let it go.
My heart breaks- I love you just the way you are. Mom
You touch my heart Laurie. I hear myself in your words and thank God (and you) I’m not alone. And Mark and Karma…just tears and love.
My heart breaks for Mark. Beautiful writing dearest Laurie. We love you and Mark and Karma and mama and your girls.
Thank you for this. May you all find your way home. It often takes longer than we expect.
I’m left teary this October 11th morning, your words are heart-heavy and heart beautiful! Thank you, Laurie or this gorgeous piece!
Thank you for sharing all these insights in such a beautiful way, Laurie, my teacher.
I love you and your inspiration for others and yourself. May Mark and Karma find peace.
Beautiful and true as always. I hope Karma makes it home. And that you learn to let a few things fall away. And like it.
<3
Love to all.
This is such an important recognition :”…how over time I’ve found myself running to the next thing, and the thing after that, barely looking back.” There is a reason that an organisation called WA, Workaholics Anonymous. Working can be our drug of choice; we run toward the next project, and away from a satchel of yet unnamed sadnesses. Lisa named that for you, and you heard here. Thank you for sharing with us.
Beautiful and poignant. So many images. The one I copied down to digest and share with a loved one is: “I’m remembering something Gary, our old therapist told me years ago when I was having a real breakdown. “I’m falling apart,” I told him. “No,” he said, “the parts you don’t need anymore are falling away from you.””
So many of us have been shedding those unneeded parts these past few years.
Thank you.
You are magic. The teller of truth and often illuminating our collective anguish. Love you so.
Beautiful braided narrative laurie.
What a deep and caring piece of from the morrow of the bone writing, Laurie. So carefully tender, raw, honest. Bowing.
Beautiful and so true!
I pray for a miraculous homecoming for Karma, who must be missing Mark, too. So sad. (Have him check all rescues in the area, and dog pounds in case someone has found her and turned her in.) I resonate with thinking we have to work too hard. I worked too hard my entire life and my body paid for running on adrenalin by developing chronic fatigue, which forced me to slow the pace. It still took time to let go of the idea I should be Doing More. Old age has taken care of that. And now I live leisurely days, tortoise-paced, and wish I had learned to do some of that so many years earlier. Smiles.
Absolutely beautiful (as always). Last time I sent in a comment it was from Singapore – this one comes from Spain…..your blog travels the world with me and never ceases to make me wish I was a better writer!
Laurie,
This post hits home in so many ways. I too feel I’m working so damn hard, always have, and starting to wonder why exactly?
Also heartbroken for Mark. Hoping Karma will find her way back to him – in one form or another.Thank you for sharing. XXoo
I’ve been finding great joy in doing nothing, achieving little, going nowhere. The guilt comes, or the discomfort comes, or the suspicion, the back-talk. And then I have to shrug it off and get back to less. Then the next wonderful thing comes along you’re ready. It can take a while. Here’s to shaking off the sadness, and thank you for sharing this.
So touched by the unconditional love your daughter showed. That’s family (and humanity) at its finest. May there be a happy ending for Mark and Karma. The entire piece touched my heart.
You are such a good storyteller, Laurie. I just love this story. I can relate to the work and more work and doing all the work. And then I wonder why I always have too much to do. The little list of tasks I store in my mind keeps growing. Too, the concept of shedding that which we no longer need comforts me. Is that what happened when a friend, my best friend, suddenly disappeared? Does that mean I no longer need him in my life? And, most of all, the loss of the dog, another best friend, a partner, the one who is always there, does not judge. I have lost dogs — to death, to disappearance; this breaks my heart the most and I’ve never fully healed from losing my furry companions. But, I go on. Is this why I submerge myself in work — avoidance or that maybe someday the jagged edges of the pieces will all fit together neatly and present the perfect picture? Or, maybe there IS no solution. It’s just life. A deeply touching story well told. Thank you, Laurie
Thank you for sharing such vulnerable parts of yourself. I am going to release the top button right now!
Mai-Lon
Laurie, as always, thank you. This is aching and beautiful and true.
Laurie, this is so real, so beautiful in a way that beauty is not easy. I could see Mark looking for Karma, as I Can see myself (and many people) saying good bye to the people/animal we love the most!
I want to also unbotton the first botton… Lots of love!
Feeling an ache in my throat and tasting tears for Mark and Karma, for you and your knowing and your sadness about it, for Zoe and how it must have felt around that wood stove. Your writing is like hanging a line for those who follow the scent of truth telling and the brutiful human experience. I love you. Am going to pray that the land and wind help Karma find her way back to Mark and the nooks she molded herself into.
Thank you for this piece. I’m sending love and healing to Mark and Karma wherever she may be. And I feel your weariness and your willingness to be weary. Truly beautiful and haunting.
Wow! Been awhile since I listened with my inner ear to your fine tuned writing – snapshots of life in all its auras – lovely to connect with your voice again even in its angst for self and others. So hard to let go and move on when we hear that inner knock – thanks for reminding me we are all in this together. BJ
Another beautiful reflection. It’s amazing how, through your blog, Karma came home to all of us. And that photo .. so beautiful. So beautiful.