Developing Enthusiasm

by Christine Destrempes

As I say goodbye that Friday morning, the thought that Eve might not be safe with Noel flickers through my mind. His judgment, diluted with beer, is now questionable. But it’s too late to make alternate arrangements and besides, how can I tell my husband that I don’t trust him to take care of my dog for the weekend?

Half dachshund and half pug, weighing ten pounds with ears that stick out straight from the sides of her head, Eve is a one-year-old rescued dog from Tennessee who looks like an oddly stretched Boston terrier. She’s so timid that when a male friend had dinner with us shortly after we got her, she wouldn’t walk by the chair he sat in for weeks afterward.

When I have that twinkle of doubt before leaving, a darker thought I’m ashamed to admit arises: Eve has a lot of baggage. I could learn to live without her. Immediately, I question where this cavalier attitude came from because it’s not how I feel. I try to shake it off, not allow it to gain momentum, but guilt seeps into my gray matter and that thought starts looping. Once that happens, I can’t stop fondling it.

Our minds are supposed to have thoughts—that’s their nature. Buddhists teach that we give too much weight to our thoughts and the way to train ourselves to stop taking them too seriously is through mindfulness meditation, where thoughts are identified when they arise as “thinking,” with no labels. Basically, every morning I watch myself think, which sounds like a multiple personality disorder but is a way to wear down the many facets of the ego. The witness part of my mind patiently waits for the more opinionated and anxious parts to tire and give up, although oftentimes I fall into the trap of identifying with my thoughts, concretizing them into monuments of shame or triumph. In general I’m a competent, mature person who isn’t easily flustered, but there are times, especially when I’m harboring unresolved resentment, when the feeling frenzy is too seductive to resist. The kick in the pants here is that I’ve practiced mindfulness meditation for many years and am acutely aware of this entire dynamic but continue to engage in it.

I’m going to a weekend workshop on synchronicity at the Jungian Center in Vermont with a friend and am staying with her and her husband. It’s a beautiful spring day, and we sit on their deck to catch up.

I call Noel to let him know I’ve arrived, but he doesn’t pick up, which is unusual. After dinner, he calls and immediately I hear distress in his voice. I walk out to the deck, closing the door behind me, “What’s the matter?”

“Something terrible has happened. I lost Eve. She ran away.”

I resist absorbing these words as they float in my mind like gasoline on a puddle. I don’t want this to be true. Noel tells me the details. I watch myself judge him, reminding myself that blame is unproductive. Reminding myself to breath. Reminding myself to accept. Trying and failing to feel the panic so that it does not overwhelm me, but I go numb. I hang up and sit on the step, staring at nothing. Mental chaos brings me back.

Eve is petrified not only of men, but also of loud noises and vehicles. Noel took her through the car wash and then to visit his friend JJ, who works with massive earth-moving equipment and has a man-gang that hangs out every Friday afternoon, drinking beer and spewing tobacco. Noel opened his truck door, and Eve bolted like lightning into the woods. Noel was surprised by this.

I pack up my stuff, say goodbye to my friends, and head back home just as the sun is sinking. I drive too fast, even though I don’t see well in the dwindling light. I try to picture Eve safely at home as I breathe deeply, but I’m struggling to harness the disturbing images that keep stomping on the cozy ones. I have to pee so badly by the time I make it to a big box store that I dance-walk to the restroom, my focus temporarily shifting from imagining Eve being ripped apart by coyotes to controlling my bladder. A flurry of spastic movement—my pants are down and I’m sitting on the toilet. The restroom lights are harsh. Momentary relief before the parade of predators pounces back: fishers, bobcats, eagles, and mountain lions salivating over an easy meal. Eve bolted wearing a raspberry harness and matching leash. She’s caught up on a branch in the woods. An easy target. I buy a heavy-duty headlamp and drive home.

When I get there, I bring my stuff into the house, fill my water bottle, change into hiking gear, adjust the new headlamp, and get back in my car. Noel’s doing penance behind JJ’s barn. During my drive to JJ’s, my mind ramps up the inner dialogue:

How could Noel take Eve to a car wash? Blaming Noel is unkind. And you’re being an asshole for doing it anyway. Breathe. I can’t even go away for two days. Thoughts aren’t real. I know that. Let it go. It’s all my fault. He feels terrible. He should. Breathing in, I see myself as a mountain. How could I have been so stupid? How could he be so stupid? So fucking stupid? Breathing out, I feel solid. Am I codependent? He was probably drunk. Of course he was drunk. When is he not drunk? Breathing in, I see myself as a flower. What if we never find Eve? She’s being ripped apart. My poor little girl. Breathing out, I feel fresh. If I hadn’t had that evil thought, this never would’ve happened. It’s all going to work out. Loser. Stop it! Thoughts aren’t real. But Eve being lost is really real. I know that. Breathing in I see myself as still water. Be kind and understanding. I really am a bitch. Breathing out, I reflect everything that’s true. This is such a drag. Could’ve happened to anyone. Who’s drunk. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.

The reality of Eve being lost in the woods after dark is too overwhelming for me to calm my mind. As soon as I think, “Noel made a poor choice,” the monument is built and installed, or more accurately, it’s being expanded. But I can’t leave that part out. It was less than a poor choice. He didn’t even think enough for it have become a choice. And poor choices are becoming more common, which scares the shit out of me. Even so, I decide to choose the high road. To be kind and understanding. After all, he’s my husband, and I love him.

I drive down JJ’s long driveway. It’s pitch black. Noel’s parked where Eve was last spotted, a red crate on the ground with treats in it. Noel gets out of his truck and lets out our two German shepherds and my son Jesse’s dog, Jake, a goofy, black Lab who we are taking care of while Jesse and his family are on vacation. All the dogs are happy to see me. Except for Eve, of course. Noel looks for connection. My headlamp blinds him, and I see how badly he feels. But I can’t reach out. So much for the high road. Fishing for some sympathy, he says, “I feel terrible. Could you turn off the headlamp?”

I look away as I don’t stop myself from saying, “How could you have taken Eve to a car wash and here of all places?”

I turn off the headlamp, and we’re lost in total darkness. I watch myself blame him, building a wall with Quikrete thoughts. I realize how ordinary I am, turn on my headlamp, then stomp off down the logging road alone, my mind racing with fear, rage, and self-recrimination.

It’s dark. Millions of tiny insects fly through my headlamp beam, streaks against the blackness. I call Eve. Silence. The road is muddy and uneven. I’m grateful for my hiking boots. I call Eve. Silence. I ask myself over and over again how Noel could have brought her here and then beat myself up for being so judgmental.

I once told my meditation teacher that Noel drinks too much, and she said, “It’s always the sensitive ones.” Noel’s an amazing man with the biggest heart. I can talk to him about anything at any time. He’s fit as a fiddle, has a deep voice and more balls than a brass monkey, and is comfortable crying in front of people. A retired engineer, he now cuts and sells cordwood. Everyone who meets him falls in love. Younger men want to be like him. Women are putty in his hands. And he drinks too much.

When Noel and I were first dating twenty-five years ago, he’d drink beer while driving around our small town. I thought that was stupid but kept my opinion to myself. One time he said, “If the cops stop us, say the beer is yours.”

I said, “I will never do that.”

He was surprised. I silently acknowledged that red flag and chose to ignore it. Swollen with idiot compassion at the time, I believed I could abide his addiction with equanimity. And I do, most of the time, because he’s so high-functioning. But as the years flow by and I watch his short-term memory dissolve and his cognitive skills blur, I worry about the amount of alcohol he consumes. It’s more than a pain in the ass because he’s likely to say something inappropriate or mood swing into a raging temper tantrum. He drinks beer all day by himself in the woods while wielding chain saws and operating heavy equipment. I don’t regret overlooking the red flag, but I’m worn out from worry.

I get to what looks like the end of the logging road, but it’s so dark I can’t tell for sure, even though I’m a walking lighthouse. I call, knowing Eve isn’t there. I’m afraid to venture too deeply into the woods. I’m exhausted and head back to my car. Noel’s waiting, hoping I’ll be nice to him. I’m not. I drive away slowly scanning the sides of the road for lifeless puppies in pink. I’ve been up since six  a.m., and it’s now almost midnight. I’m losing steam and decide to go home and post on Facebook. I fall into bed, barely talking to Noel. There’s a wide space between us where Eve usually sleeps; neither of us venturing into that emptiness.

Noel’s up before I am, which is not his routine. The sun is shining.How beautiful. Suddenly my brain registers that Eve has spent the night in the woods. I jump out of bed and put on my clothes from yesterday. Noel makes toast and coffee to go and heads out the door with few words. The phone rings with friends wanting to help. My bright idea is to find someone with a drone. My friend Jane says she’ll track one down. Jesse calls from the Virgin Islands offering to pay for whatever help is needed. He says, “Ma, get three drones. Tell Jake to find Eve. I know he doesn’t seem that smart, but he can help.” I go to my office to make flyers. My breakfast turns in my stomach as I lay out the page. “LOST” is as big as Eve’s photo. Eve = LOST.

I drive back to JJ’s, where Noel’s parked, and give him the flyers. My anger is numbed by fear. We’re polite. Noel’s relieved to have an assignment. I keep Jake with me and offer him Eve’s blanket to sniff like I’m in a “Lassie” episode. Jake shows no interest. I feel stupid. Jane shows up, and Noel says, “I fucked up.” Jane gives him a kiss and says, “We all fuck up. We’re human.” Jane doesn’t even meditate. I’m ashamed of myself as I willfully withhold forgiveness.

Jane and I fan out. I tell Jake to find Eve, and he’s delighted in his incomprehension. We follow a trail down to a small road, and I realize that if Eve followed logging roads to paved roads, she could be in another state by now. I try to center myself with my breathing. I try to not pass out with fear. I wrestle with how I’ll forgive Noel if Eve is found dead or never at all.

I meet up with Jane back at the cars. She must go to work but reports that the drone man will show up at two, four hours from now. Will Eve still be alive? I decide to comb more of the woods. Jake is cluelessly busy while I keep telling him to find Eve.

After another hour tromping around, I’m thinking that Eve’s leash is not hung up on a branch in these woods. She would’ve barked when she heard me call her name. She must’ve followed a logging road. I cover the back of my hatchback with Eve’s blanket for Jake and tell him to get in. He looks at me like “you’re kidding,” but then jumps in, taking up every inch of space. I raise my arm to close the hatch, and his eyes bug and roll up in trepidation, quarter moons of white at the bottom of brown orbs. This makes me smile. I tell him it’ll be OK, grateful for his company.

Noel calls, he needs more flyers. He’s knocked on the doors of all the houses bordering JJ’s property. One guy said there’s a coyote den in his back yard. Another saw a mountain lion recently. Thanks for sharing that. I tell him I’m going to drive around and then get water, food, and more flyers before resuming my search. Noel says he’ll go back to JJ’s.

Jake and I head home, driving slowly, annoying everyone behind us. I stop at the entrance of a sand pit and walk a long way into what looks like another planet. I find predator scat with embedded fur that’s not Eve’s and calculate that she couldn’t have been digested and eliminated this quickly. My voice is getting hoarse. I wish I could cry. I’m no longer stoking my rage.

Jake leads the way back to the car, and we drive through a housing development. As we pass a swath of power lines, I realize this would be a logical route for Eve because it borders JJ’s property. The road takes us out to a rural highway, where the lines cross. I park, walk in, and call Eve. She must’ve gone this route. It’s been recently cleared. Feeling faint from hunger, thirst, and stress, I head home with an inkling of hope.

I notice my blaming mind has shifted into woman-on-a-mission mode and I’m only thinking of Eve. I send her Tonglen, which is a Buddhist exercise where you breathe in another’s suffering and breathe out a reassuring image. I breathe in Eve running in fear and breathe out her sitting on the back of our couch looking out the window at birds. After two breaths, my vision is impaired by an ocular migraine, a definite indication of suffering overload.

Back at the house, the message light is blinking. An unfamiliar voice says her name is Kate and that Eve has found her and that Eve looks fine and is sunning herself by the pond in Kate’s yard. I write down the phone number though a wavering crescent of blindness and call back. Kate tells me she lives next to the power lines. I was just there. I ask her if she’d seen the flyer. Kate says, “No, I called the general store, and Michelle, the owner, said, ‘Oh yeah, that’s Christine and Noel’s dog,’ and she gave me your number.” Small-town living at its finest.

I don’t call Noel immediately because he’ll have to hear every detail, which will delay my reunion with Eve. Instead I hop in the car and drive too fast toward Kate’s. My vision is seriously impaired. I’ll call Noel when I get out of our cell phone dead zone. Halfway there, his truck approaches, and we both slam on the brakes and back up. I tell him the good news, and he says he’s right behind me. I realize I left without Kate’s number and hope the address in my head is the right one. I wish I could cry.

There’s a granite post with a chiseled number at the end of the paved driveway, which looks like it was just scrubbed. There’s a brand new substantial wooden bridge over a rushing stream,then a long drive up a steep hill to an immaculate compound. Kate glides across the driveway. I’m looking for the pond, and Kate points to a small reflecting pool, impeccably landscaped. Eve is high up on a rocky ledge. We make eye contact, but Eve is unsure because I’m wearing a baseball hat. I call her and drop to my knees with open arms. When she realizes it’s me, she comes running. I pick her up and hug her as she trembles and cries. I start to cry, but just surface tears. I want them to come from a deeper place, but I can’t access it. They will come in a few days after I’ve disentangled myself from my mental mosh pit. Kate is photographing my bunged-up meltdown, and I become self-conscious.

Noel arrives and bursts into tears. Kate says, “Oh no, you too!” He hugs Eve and weeps. I take her back and pick ticks off of her while Noel squishes them against the macadam with his big boot, all the while chattering like a magpie at Kate, who is smiling up at him dreamily dewy-eyed.

I’ve learned from Buddhist studies that blame is a way to protect your heart, to not own the pain. But it didn’t work that way for me. Even though I couldn’t resist going there, blaming Noel left me feeling miserable. My heart didn’t feel protected; it felt ripped to shreds. I owned the pain so much I twiddled it raw.

It isn’t only Eve that I’m petrified of losing. Sure, I was sick with worry over her disappearance and my imagination ran wild with flashbacks from “Wild Kingdom.” But what also terrifies me is the idea that this experience is a prelude to a much more devastating loss. Noel can no longer hold his liquor the way he used to. His short-term memory is fading, and it takes him longer to understand things. Toss in a chain saw, a hydraulic splitter, a mountain of thirty-foot logs, and two six-packs, and we’re left with a recipe for disaster.

Because I don’t dwell on this, I’d fooled myself throughout our marriage into thinking that I’d evolved to acceptance. But I knotted up my fear into a monumental monkey fist and locked in my heart a dark anxiety that was exhausting me. I’m familiar enough with 12-step programs to understand just how powerless I am over another’s drinking. Losing Eve exposed the dimensions of my fear for Noel’s safety. My spiritual teacher taught me that underneath anger is fear and underneath fear is longing. My anger and fear got tangled. Of course, I’ll continue to long for my husband to be safe in doing the work he loves. As far as how to cope with the apprehension of being married to a beer-swigging, aging lumberjack, I’m working on that.

This morning my daily reading by Pema Chodron offered yet another pithy lesson: “It takes time to develop enthusiasm for how remaining open really feels.” As I read this, perched on my meditation bench, Eve is wedged between my knees sleeping. Noel’s dreaming under the down comforter. On the other side of the window, tightly furled shoots of hosta strain toward the brightening light.