Robyn Fritz — Page 35 — Intuitive and Spiritual Consulting, Past Life Regression

The Alchemy of Grief: 50 Years Later

November 1, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

In Memoriam: Randall Ray Fritz, July 26, 1947 – November 1, 1961.

Years ago, I couldn’t imagine that today would ever occur.

Today, it’s been 50 years. What to make of them?

In October 1961 my grandparents came out from Montana to visit. My oldest brother, Randy, was sick, in and out of the hospital, and in those days, it was a long drive to Salem from our small Oregon home town. So far, in fact, that in September Randy moved to Salem to live with our grandparents during the week, so he could attend Catholic high school.

Just like that, Randy got sick.

I remember the last time I saw him. He was in the hospital, pale and thin beneath the covers. Alert.

I was just a kid. Naïve. Trusting. Sheltered. Optimistic. Like all kids and many adults I was uncomfortable visiting the hospital. And I didn’t know why Randy was there and couldn’t come home.

All I knew was that I had always adored my older brother, which is not the same thing as always liking him. But the sun rose and set on Randy. Even when we talked about death in school—because Catholics, at least, only talk about dying, from getting ready to die to actually doing it—I used to think that everyone could die, even my parents.

But not Randy. No, Randy would never die.

All those years ago, I didn’t know what it meant to be intuitive. I just remember what hit me in those last few moments, before we left that day. The last day I saw my brother alive.

Surrounded by family, Randy looked over at me, held out his hand, and as I reached out and held his, our eyes met. In that moment, I knew.

Randy was dying. And he knew it. In that shared moment he said goodbye.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare at him in shock.

I don’t remember when that last day was. Sometime in late October the doctors told my parents that Randy had leukemia and would die in six weeks to six months. He was gone in less than a week.

Sometime in those last days the doctors also asked my parents to allow them to use Randy as a guinea pig. Literally. They need drug trials on a promising drug that wouldn’t help Randy, but might help others in the future.

My dad was a pharmacist. He knew from drugs. My parents agreed.

That last morning my Grandma Fritz sobbed at the kitchen table while my younger brother and I played. When asked, over and over, why she was crying, she simply said she felt sorry for Randy. It didn’t make any sense to me. Nothing did.

I had no context. Why would it make sense?

Later, we were called in from playing. I was taking off my shoes when my mom walked over to me and blurted it out.

“Your brother went to heaven an hour ago.”

I stared at her in confused, stunned silence until it sunk in. I burst into tears. In some ways I have not stopped crying all these years later.

My brother’s death destroyed my family. There’s no other way to put it. My parents … when I think of them I think of impossible grief. Of two people who’d survived a world war, created a good business in a small rural community, raised their kids to be honest citizens, anticipated a future bright with promise, and lost their oldest child in a matter of days to a disease they’d never really heard of.

On November 1, 1961.

My parents never recovered. Sure, they laughed again, they raised us, they staggered on. To a degree. With pain like that you have two choices: to grieve and move on, or to block yourself emotionally. I’m not sure which is the easiest, but they chose to be blocked. Because of that, two little kids didn’t just lose a brother that day.

I think now everyone must have known that Randy was dying except the children. Everyone had time to prepare, except for my younger brother and me. I think even Randy had time to prepare. They never told him he was dying. But I know he knew. I knew that day.

The community rallied around us. Food arrived. Friends and family and strangers flocked to the funeral home. To the funeral. There were so many flowers that the smell overwhelmed me, and, after being forced to touch Randy’s cold, stiff hand as we stared at him in his coffin, the flowers choked me and I turned and raced away as fast as I could, with my uncle running behind me trying to help. He did. But I re-live that nightmare every time I walk into a florist shop. I can’t stand the smell of carnations.

So here’s another story. For several years the community had been raising money to buy land to build a Catholic high school. That school was dedicated two years later, in 1963. My brother and I graduated from it, as did my nephews.

In their shock and grief my parents sought comfort. They decided to scrimp and save and donate $5,000 to the building fund for the school chapel, built in Randy’s memory. It was still there several years ago, at my nephews’ graduation. Once I learned the truth of that chapel, I never cared about it again. My parents had given the money they thought they would spend on Randy’s college education to build that chapel—to somehow make his death mean something, to ease their sorrow, I don’t know. Some people respected them for it. Others decided that if we had that kind of money to give away, then we didn’t need their business.

I know this sounds bitter. Really, it’s ironic. It’s all part of community, isn’t it? The not so nice part that you can sometimes understand because community isn’t perfect. It’s a whole lot of work. Even when it doesn’t work.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my brother. I carried that pain and grief for years, the fear, that many kids have, that petty jealousies somehow cause our stricken sibling to die. That took years to get over. It makes me really useful to kids who are dealing with that now, because I know exactly what they’re feeling, even if they won’t say it. But I can tell them. And their parents. I can tell them to talk to each other. To hold on.

But for me, truly, it took a dog, and a dog’s well-lived life, to let the grief go. It took creating a family of my own, and seeing family beyond humans, to heal that grief.

It took expanding community to include all life, and working to build it. It took the ongoing work of creating a community with all life—that’s what I do, however I can, in fits and starts.

And healing took a goddess, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing about grief.

Grief teaches us about all things. From grief we learn hatred. I learned to hate god. On the day we buried Randy I decided that a god who would allow my brother to die was not a god I could respect, or love, or acknowledge. Despite years of being a devout Catholic, and finally being brave enough to leave, I’ve held on to that. Call me stubborn. And consistent. And … whatever works for you.

Grief teaches us fear. If we can lose someone we love, then why risk it? Close the door and hide.

Grief teaches us compassion. Again, you can choose to block life, like my parents did, or you can choose to move on, which is what I did, eventually. Compassion helps our hearts to cry while allowing others to cry with us. Compassion gives us the freedom to reach beyond the hurt to build community. Like my parents did with that chapel.

Grief teaches us love. If I had not been hardened by grief I would not have melted with love. If I had not defied my old community, the one of faith and religion and limitations and petty jealousies and extraordinary generosity and everyday comradeship, I would not have my new community. It means everything to me.

Without grief I would not now be a citizen of the world. I would not now be an intuitive who can talk with all beings, from animals to businesses to homes, to the land and waters and weather around us. I would not now be able to offer compassion to all life.

I would not now have the crystal Fallon as my partner.

There were many things I had to re-learn in the lives that led us back to each other: Fallon, the citrine Lemurian quartz who was rejected around the world, and the lonely lost girl whose invincible adored brother died.

I had to learn the alchemy of grief.

Alchemy is magic. Transformation. The changing of one thing to another.

Given a chance, grief becomes love.

That’s what I finally learned today. The day I realized that it’s been 50 years since my brother died.

Today I learned the alchemy of grief.

So here, 50 years later, I can finally say the tears have stopped. I have moved on. It’s done now. It has been. It’s just time to say it.

Yes, today I finally get to say goodbye to my brother.

Randy, thank you for taking a drug that couldn’t save you, but is now saving so many lives. Thank you for making methotrexate possible. They use it for rheumatoid arthritis now, and at one time it helped our dad as it is now helping a dear friend; it also helped a college student I knew years ago recover from the leukemia that killed you.

Randy, thank you for being my brother.

Randy, thank you for whatever it was we learned together.

Randy, thank you for saying goodbye to me.

Goodbye, Randy.

Introducing LaBelle Construction

October 28, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

At Alchemy West and our magazine, Bridging the Paradigms, we promote community: from creating healthy, balanced lives with our animals, homes, businesses, and nature to creating connections between good businesses and good people.

Let me introduce LaBelle Construction, and my adopted godson, Vincent LaBelle, and his friend and coworker, Brian Meuller. Viincent is a general contractor, and Brian is a skilled tradesman.

I call Vincent my adopted godson because he’s my beloved goddaughter’s brother, and I decided I needed another godchild and latched onto him. Sometimes life is easy like that. And it means I can say he’s a great man and fabulous musician (trombone! plus he records for ‘avant garde jazz musicians’). He’s also worked for me, and I will vouch for him being a wonderful general contractor. Here’s what he has to say about his business:

“LaBelle Construction specializes in restoration, renovation, remodels, and repairs of old homes (pre-1950). We are a full-service general contractor capable of everything from framing to finish work, kitchens, bathrooms, flooring, painting, drainage and waterproofing, and much more. And while we specialize in older homes, we are more than happy to work on any project you may have. We’re a small operation, and we’re happy to take on small projects and repairs. See samples of our work at www.labelleconstruction.com.”

Call Vincent. Interested in a remodel or simple projects? Call him.

Phoning Home: What Women Should Do About Obscene Phone Callers

October 28, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

Unfortunately, I think what most women have in common is an obscene phone caller. We’ve either had it happen to us or to someone we know.

But I have a new way of dealing with it. Won’t you help?

An Obscene Phone Caller Strikes

My most recent experience with an obscene phone caller was shocking and unsettling in a way I never anticipated. Comcast had just installed wireless internet for me, and activated telephone functions I had never bothered with: one was Caller ID.

The call came one evening. I answered, and the man on the other end literally went off on me. Gross.

I hung up on him.

He called back several times over the next few days. I know because I learned what Caller ID was all about. One time, he left a beyond pornographic grunting message that was so appalling I had to cover my ears (not being smart enough to simply turn off the answering machine). Worse, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

My friends insisted I call the police.

Well, years ago I’d had a similar, less pornographic experience. The police came out and sympathized while not commenting on how people should protect themselves if the caller showed up in person. The phone company advised me to shout, “I’ve got your number and I’ll see you in court.” I tried that: it worked.

This time, years of technology intervened.

The Victim Strikes Back

I called the phone company. They taught me how to find phone messages (no wonder people had been complaining about unreturned phone calls) and to how to block a caller. They also urged me to call the police.

So I did. From the nonemergency number I was directed to 911. The 911 dispatcher asked if I’d saved the message left on my recorder.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I was not going to bed with that message on my machine. But I do have his phone number.” (At last, technology works for me!)

The dispatcher wanted to know what I wanted to do. He wanted to send a police officer to file an official complaint.

What did I want to do about this man? Honest, I thought about it. The answer came quickly, unexpectedly, and was totally right.

“I want you to call his mother,” I said.

“Ma’am, we can’t do that,” the dispatcher responded.

“You asked me what I wanted, and I want you to call his mother. I bet a lot of this stuff would stop if these creeps’ mothers knew what they were doing.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Well, you should,” I said reasonably and calmly. I was so right. “Besides, I’ve got his number, you should trace that back to him and find his mother.”

“Ma’am, I’m sending an officer to talk with you.”

The Police (Sort of) Step In … and On Themselves

And he did. Less than ten minutes later one of the tallest men I’d ever seen showed up at my door, in full uniform, including a gun. Honestly, he was so big I was intimidated. And his gun—what if it accidentally fired and hit one of my kids?

We talked. I gave him the obscene phone caller’s number.

He stared at it, shaking his head. “These guys are idiots.”

“No kidding,” I said. “But tell me, since everybody but me knows about Caller ID, did he do it on purpose, so I could find him, or is he just an idiot?”

“Hmm,” the officer said. “How do you think he found you?”

“The phone book?” I said. “How do I know? I do have websites, it could be the Internet.”

And here came the second shocker. The officer’s face twitched knowingly and a brief smirk flitted across it. “Oh, you’re on the Internet,” he said.

Granted, I’m an intuitive and hear things I shouldn’t, but you didn’t need to be a psychic to know what he was thinking. I don’t jump to conclusions, but his were written all over his face.

I was furious, but went deadly quiet. “I am a respectable businesswoman. I do not run a pornographic site.”

He had the grace to flinch and flush. But he didn’t apologize.

He filed a police report. Gave me a case number. Said the police in Oklahoma, where the phone was registered, would check it out. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

How Women Can Take Charge of Obscenity: Call Their Mothers!

Technology has such a large reach now that they can police anything. Find anyone. Anywhere. Sobering. But not real comforting. It isn’t solving our problems, like obscene phone callers. And it wasn’t what I wanted.

“What do you want us to do?” the officer asked. Again.

“I want you to call his mother. I want her to know what a creep she raised. I want her to stop him.”

He assured me that the police couldn’t do that.

Too too bad.

Really, wouldn’t respectability solve a lot of things? At least good manners?

Would wars end because women stood up and refused to send their children to fight?

Would thieves and bad bankers and bad mortgage lenders and bad businesses think twice about whatever crap they were pulling?

Would obscene phone callers be forever silenced if their mothers knew what they were doing?

Sure, some mothers don’t care. Some mothers aren’t really mothers, or citizens of the planet. But a lot of them are.

And more women are like me: sisters, aunts, cousins, friends.

So here you go. All you women out there, talk to your kids, to all the kids you know, about manners. Weirdness. Obsessions.

Telephone abuse.

Granted, our kids don’t always grow up to be good guys. But every woman out there has to try to teach them what it means to be good citizens and neighbors. Set an example of community, compassion, integrity, and simple politeness.

It isn’t that hard. Won’t you help?

Call their mothers. Embarrass all of them.

Stand up for your planet. Your country. Your neighbors.

Do right by your kids.

Make the rest of us proud.

The Worst Part About Living with Animals

October 22, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

I was out with the dogs, scooping poop as we meandered down the street.

The man carefully negotiated the turn on his motorbike and headed up the street toward us. He saw me bagging poop and, with a sympathetic grin, said, “That has to be the worst part of the job.”

“Not even close,” I laughed.

But he got me thinking.

What is the worst thing about living with animals, about living the human-animal bond, about living life as a multi-species families?

Having a migraine and dealing with upset dog tummies in the middle of the night—in a driving rainstorm?

Preparing food when you’re tired?

Baths and grooming?

The medical bills? Or the worry that caused them in the first place?

What it feels like to see the want and need for attention on their faces, and you’re too busy to give it?

Nope, none of those things.

The worst part of living with animals is aging.

Sure, the dying part won’t be a picnic. It will be sad, even if it’s a relief because it’s time (if it is), and I’ll cry a lot and want do-overs. I’ll cry because I’m sentimental and I love them and will miss them. I’ll cry when I think of all the times when I could have been a better friend, even though I know those times start when you’re about 2 and just multiply over the years. And zip by in light-years when you’re living the human-animal bond.

But really, aging is the worst part.

A lot of people give up when frailty strikes an animal companion. Old animals get abandoned. They’re too much work, or people can’t face their own mortality while helping a loved one with theirs. Or the bills are too big. Or they simply can’t accommodate their needs. Sometimes aging isn’t an option because death sneaks up on us.

Most of us stick with our aging animals because we won’t imagine anything else. Because they’re family, a special family: a multi-species one. Because it’s a choice, and not just ours: because our animals choose to grow old, just as we do, and we honor that choice. We watch aging as it happens, and every day our hearts break a little bit more, because we’re enjoying their old age with them, but the days keep slipping by.

I remember when Murphy was a puppy, a goofy high-spirited romper who dug holes bigger than she is and barked all the way down them to China. Now she’s 13, her head twitches a bit at night, the hind end is a bit stiff, the arthritis ripples down her back, and a good long nap, yummy treats, and a few short trips with sniffs are about her speed. Mine, too, really. Oh, yeah, she romps quite a bit, because truth is, she’s 13 going on, oh, about 10.

Now Alki is 10, gray-eared and missing a few teeth, a bit sore in the back at times. But show him a stick or a treat and he’s game for the adventure. Deaf. And sometimes creaky on the stairs.

And Grace the Cat? At 8 she appears to be ageless, but that’s just my way of not thinking about it. Hers, too.

So here’s the thing.

Aging animals are harder. Murphy isn’t up to the kind of exercise that Alki is, so we go out in shifts here. Murphy doesn’t like being left behind, but sometimes it’s necessary. We don’t like leaving her behind, but sometimes we have to.

Murphy had a lot of health problems early on. It astonishes me that people say this is because she’s purebred, as if being purebred is a dishonor instead of a choice. Truth is, while Murphy did inherit a few conditions, a bad vet made them chronic. That’s when I learned to fight back. That’s why Murphy got to be 13—and old.

Aging animals have aches and pains. We manage ours. I won’t tolerate pain, so old age here is as comfortable and easy as it can be.

But aging doesn’t stop.

Things slow down with an aging animal. I look back at the last 13 years with Murphy and I laugh and say to her, “Wow, we grew old together.” We did, but her old age will be shorter than mine. Someday, Murphy will be gone. And Alki. And Grace. But I’ll probably still be here.

Every day I look at my aging animals and I flinch. What will old age hold for us?

I know it’s a road I don’t want to walk. If I could, I’d stop time in its tracks, get the do-overs, spend more time snoozing in the grass with my kids, make everything perfect and painless.

Well, okay, maybe I would. Truth is, I’m not sure that anything would have been better than the life I’ve shared with my multi-species family. They’ve lived long happy lives. I’m tougher and smarter than I ever was without them. Kinder. More loving. Happier than I ever thought possible.

Because of my animal family I’ve found a life I never knew existed. I’m making a contribution to the world I never knew was possible. And I laugh a lot. So do my kids. We value our lives together.

Still, aging is the worst part of living with animals.

It’s also the best.

Aging animals are magnificent. As mine have aged with me I’ve seen the wonder of discovery, the zest for life, maturity and determination, curiosity and excitement and, yes, depression and grief. In my aging animal family I see everything we think we see in the best lives lived by humans.

I see grace. Belief. Possibility. Lives well lived.

Walking this last long road with my family I’m simply grateful that I can. It’s not time I ever thought I’d have, because, when problems cropped up with Murphy, it didn’t look like we had time, and Alki and Grace seemed, well, eternal.

I was naïve.

But I’m not stupid.

Aging is the worst and the best part of living with animals. It means we are lucky enough to experience a complete, full life with them. It’s a gift. An honor. A privilege.

It’s mine. I wouldn’t give it back for anything.

I cherish each and every day. It’s more than I ever expected. Harder than I ever wanted. The best thing that ever was.

Aging is a gift. One I accept with humility, compassion, gratitude, and some worry. One I hope to give back to the world as a lesson learned in love. In acceptance. In getting the last laugh, and making it a good one.

Here’s hoping you get that gift, too.

Choosing Our Way in the New Economy

October 15, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

He didn’t mean to make me smile.

He had been loitering by my shopping cart.

We were both stocking up on office supplies. I was, as usual, simply exhausted by the choices. Wouldn’t life be easier if we didn’t have so much to choose from?

Think about it. I do. A lot. Even choosing a donut is fraught with anxiety: should it be raspberry filled, triple chocolate peanut butter, lemon glazed, or pistachio cream cheese?

With so many options, is it a really a donut, or a lifestyle choice?

Okay, maybe donuts are a lifestyle choice, but, really, isn’t it less stressful, less complicated, and equally satisfying to order coffee and a cruller than a caramel macchiato and a blueberry coconut cake donut? While we’re standing there, weighing our choice as if it really mattered, have we done one thing to connect with the people around us, made one step towards building community?

Yesterday in the office supply store the choices weren’t nearly as delectable as donuts. From the store’s towering shelves to the competing bins of goods it was confusing, tiring, and boring. I needed supplies to keep my business running and I’d had a traumatic few weeks. Which is to say I had a lot on my mind and it wasn’t just donuts and office supplies.

I was headed back to my chock full shopping cart when I saw him.

Mid-thirties, clean cut, he stepped away from my cart as he caught my eye and shyly waved at my cart. “I was leaving you something.”

He shrugged sheepishly, then walked back to my cart, picked something up off my stack, and handed it to me. “I thought you could use this.”

It was a coupon for $30 off a $150 purchase.

I laughed and thanked him. We smiled at each other and he left.

Just like that, the day got a whole lot better.

This is the thing I like about the new economy. Yes, it seems like people are a whole lot meaner and greedier. Fear seems to have stripped many of us down to some desperate level where we run right over anyone, or anything, we even suspect might be in our way.

But even more people are paying attention and reaching out to connect, even as simply as handing a shy smile and a $30 coupon to a frazzled stranger.

Those are the things that keep me going. I’m still overwhelmed by the choices in things we can buy. Fewer choices would be simpler, but it might not be better. Don’t know.

What I do know is that sometimes the choices are simple. As easy as handing a stranger a coupon and getting a smile back.

These are the choices I’m liking in the new economy: how we’re finding simpler ways to connect.

What are you choosing?

Living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever

October 6, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

I live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

I have proof.

Sometimes my planet is real and physical: I revel in the sun and rain, the dark and stormy, the people and the beings who make me laugh and think while challenging me to be my best, no matter what.

Always my planet is a state of mind, clear in the choice of love over fear.

Love drives the Planet of Awesome and Forever. There are a lot of us here. It’s time for everyone else to join us. Here’s why.

I keep hearing how bad things are out there, how desperate people are, how survival means anything goes.

Well, anything does not go. Not on the Planet of Awesome and Forever. Here’s what that means for me.

In many ways 2011 has been a wonderful year for me: I won a prestigious national award for my book, I launched a new kind of intuitive consultation practice—a partnership with my crystal, Fallon—and I’ve met fascinating new people on their own amazing journeys. It’s been both humbling and exciting.

I’ve also faced stunning difficulties:

a virulent flu that derailed most of my year
a crisis that both complicates and enlightens my future
people who learned from me and then stole my work
people who expected me to work for free while they paid themselves (welcome to the new feudalism)
negligent and uneducated vets who endangered my dogs

So here’s what I did:

I took time to get well.
I looked for alternatives that make life easier for me and for my family.
I turned some matters over to an attorney.
I strengthened my resolve to model compassionate, thoughtful interactions.
I continued to quietly build a business that enriches my life as it serves an enlightened community.
I’m bringing the vets up on charges. Oh, you better believe that one!

And here’s what happened, just in the last few weeks.

I am finding answers that are healthy and make sense.
I discovered attorneys can be a good thing, and that controversy can both enlighten and strengthen.
I decided that if I’d had a choice 20 years ago, I’d still choose the pain and limitations of being disabled and having to reinvent a life over being an asshole and a thief and never finding my path.
If you open yourself up to love, fear just bounces the hell off:
- I’ve made wonderful new friends who think my intuitive practice with a partner who’s a crystal is intriguing, fun, and worthwhile.
- Neighbors came running to help my recovering dog.
- A close friend whose mother is dying raced to the vet ER and massaged a painful kink out of my shoulder.
- A dear friend who is undergoing her own family crisis cheerfully bathed my stinking dogs in exchange for a home-cooked meal.
- Two wonderful vets who love my dogs expertly cared for them.
- I finally met my eldest dog’s ‘grandma,’ and we’ll be celebrating life, love, and Cavaliers with her and her family next week, on what will be my multi-species family’s 13^th anniversary together.

Life is awesome!

Choosing Love Over Fear in a Practical World

Here’s what I know. Choosing love over fear doesn’t solve all our problems, because we won’t always agree. But choosing love does model our choices.

My experiences this year have sobered and intrigued me. What I and so many people see out there is troubling and encouraging. Troubling, because serious problems exist. Encouraging because many people are choosing healthy, compassionate ways to explore and resolve them.

We urgently need to define community, whether it’s our work or our social life. How do we want to live together, and how will we?

Make no mistake: living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever is not naïve. It is not turning a blind eye to the problems. It recognizes the increasing hostility in our society, the strange personal and business meltdowns that are justified in the name of survival. The disquiet is everywhere. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

Make note: it is not only humans who are concerned. Remember, I work as a professional intuitive, I talk with all manner of beings, and they, too, are advocating change.

It’s time for change.

The first change is a truth check:

Anything goes does not work.
None of us will survive if ‘survival’ defines our lives.

So here’s a plan:

Quit counting the desperation.
Start counting the awesome.

Here are my awesomes.

I have the world’s greatest family: a woman, two dogs, and a cat are proving that we’ll always be a family, in body or not, because on the Planet of Awesome and Forever love endures.

If we have to have bad days to get to the good ones, then we will. And we’ll make them count. Because there’s no other real, practical, inspiring choice than love. It’s awesome. And forever.

We live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever:

Where nothing is too hard or too much work or too painful
Where all beings are held responsible for their choices: firmly, compassionately, clearly
Because love and truth are always, always awesome and forever

It’s time to take back love, and community. It’s time to stand up for what’s right, to dig deep into conflict with patience and respect and compassion.

It’s time.

Come join us on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

It’s your planet, too.

How an Eagle Kachina Accidentally Helped Build a Community

September 29, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

My mom loved Southwest art. My dad loved my mom. I loved them. When the eagle kachina dropped into our lives, I was greedily snatching as much time with them as I could, building memories.

One day my dad called and said he’d found an art piece for mom. “Not like yours,” he said wryly.

“Oh, bummer,” I said.

We both giggled, remembering the day years before when I’d announced that I’d bought my first art piece. “Does it have horses?” he’d asked. Of course it did.

“So what is it, Indian stuff?” I asked now, referring to mom’s penchant for all things Southwest, right down to their interior décor.

“Of course,” he said. “But it’s big, so when you come down for Christmas will you take me to get it?”

“Absolutely.” I was touched, my parents never asked for much.

A Family’s Last Holiday

So at Christmas that year, I drove dad downtown to pick up his gift for mom. We got it safely home and unwrapped it together, while Dad told me the story of how they found it. Dad was crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, so it fell to me to giftwrap it, ironic, since he had taught me the art of giftwrapping when I worked for him in his business.

We didn’t quite know what to make of this art piece: about two feet wide and tall, it was a copper sculpture, partly painted turquoise, with a curious mixture of human and really big bird. We knew it was the artist’s representation of native American art and spirituality, but that was it: we were appreciative, but ignorant, barbarians.

Eagle Kachina, the tag said. Expensive and hard to wrap, I thought, and not my taste.

But it was clearly my mom’s. Christmas Eve she ripped off my lumpy wrapping and spent the next week dragging Mr. Eagle Guy, as we called it, around the house, trying to decide where to hang it.

I reveled in that Christmas. I got to help my dad give a gift to my mom. I got to listen to my mom babble about it. And I got to share a small family moment with my parents, a moment where we celebrated and had fun together, glorying in the family bond. In community.

As it turned out, it was also the last Christmas I shared with my parents. My dad died in June, and my mom 10 months later.

The Eagle Kachina Comes Home … Sort Of

When we closed up their home, my brother and I sorted out who got what. I insisted on taking Mr. Eagle Man, not because I really liked it, but because it was a concrete reminder of a wonderful last holiday with my parents, at a time when illness and disability dulled all three of us.

No question the piece came home to live with me.

Years went by. Years when I moved the piece around the house. It was beautiful, yes, but not my taste.

It also didn’t belong in my home.

Things like this happen. However they end up with us, the objects in our life don’t always fit. Sometimes we change, or they do, and it’s time for them to move on. The trick is to recognize that and to figure out what happens next.

Truth is, the eagle kachina never fit in my home. These days I work as a professional intuitive, which means I talk with things, from animals to businesses, homes, nature, and, yes, objects, including this piece. Back then I only knew that the piece was sentimental but just plain felt odd to me. It didn’t belong with me. Finally acknowledging that, I thanked it for its service to my family, and asked it to start looking for a new home, while also promising that I would not simply discard it. It was beautiful, full of family memories, and also represented an artist’s vision of a sacred object. It needed to call, and be called, home. Wherever home was.

It stayed with me for a long time, because no matter what I did, I couldn’t find out anything about the piece or the artist, or how to properly, well, rehome it. Not surprising, I guess, because it had been years, and the artist might have moved on, literally and artistically.

The Search for Home

Years went by.

One day, my new friend Tara came by. I was showing her my small condo, and she took one look at the eagle kachina and said, “When you’re ready to sell that, let me know.”

Hmm.

She told me that she collects Southwest art, and she thought my piece would fit well with a large metal sculpture that she’d purchased several years before. She’s a real estate agent and a Reiki master with an easy strong intuition, so when she said she wanted the piece, I just smiled.

She suggested that the store she’d bought her large piece from would know how to value it. So I emailed Hogan Trading Company with a picture and a question.

They promptly emailed back: not only could they put a value on it, they represented the artist, Dale J. Anderson. I spent a few minutes exploring his art at their website. Intriguing. After years wondering, all it took to find the artist was a new, visiting friend.

Strange small world. Awesome universe.

More time went by, because truth is, even when special pieces have to go, a part of you still clings to them. The kachina had to go. Talking with the piece, I knew that it belonged with Tara. The kachina and I both needed time to separate from each other: it was as if we’d both been waiting for its new home to show up before we could really say goodbye to each other. There had to be a new community before the old one could end.

Finally, I told Tara to come get it. Even though she’d only seen it once, briefly, months before, she promptly agreed.

I carefully wrapped it and Tara took it home.

Not long after, she called. The eagle kachina fit perfectly in her home: its beauty and its energy felt great. She was thrilled because it went so well with the treasured, large sculpture she’d invested so much in.

The odd extra touch: when she unwrapped it, she discovered the two pieces were by the same artist.

The eagle kachina really was home.

Treasures of Community

Truth is, I could have kept the piece in the family, or put it up for auction, or done any number of things with it. But the only thing I felt right about was honoring my parents’ love and family bond by finding another family that would fit this piece. It needed a community, and I couldn’t let it go without that.

Its home now is with Tara. For me, the circle is complete. I’ve been lucky enough to meet new people in a new community, and the eagle kachina has bridged both of them. It’s home now. And so am I.

If You Die Before They Do: Protecting Your Animal Family

September 23, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

I had the flu in February. Big time. Haven’t been that sick in years. Bad cough. High fever. So sick I needed help.

I’m the only human in my multi-species family, so getting help was hard. Yes, I have friends to call, and no, I didn’t want to. The ‘flu’ (an epidemiologist told me they couldn’t identify this ‘flu,’ but I’m sure it was as close to a plague as we could ever fear to see). So many people were so sick with it that I worried about accidentally contaminating them by even having them deliver groceries or walk the dogs.

Taking care of myself was hard. Stunning, blinding, debilitating hard. I needed help. So did my animal family.

It’s taken me all year to get well. Two months to recover from the flu, four to recover from the side effects, still counting on rebuilding my energy.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about what would have happened to my animal family if I’d died.

That’s when I realized that I hadn’t updated my will in 9 years. My two dogs, Murphy and Alki, were provided for, but Grace the Cat would, technically, end up homeless. Although I’d had the guardianship conversation recently with any number of people, I hadn’t followed up for my own kids. I’d essentially ignored an essential element of the human-animal bond: I hadn’t made sure they would always be cared for.

So here’s what you do for your animal family: before you die.

Financial and Legal Provisions

Estimate your animal’s longevity.
Estimate your animal’s basic care costs: food, shelter, medical care, entertainment (yep, you’ll be dead, but they’ll still need to play).
Estimate your animal’s special care costs: food, medical care, emergency care, supportive care (palliative, mobility aids, etc.).
Update your will.
Prepare legal documents: have your attorney draw up legal documents providing for transfer of ownership (animals are our families, but legally they are property), care directions, and financial support.
Consider appointing multiple guardians:
- a legal guardian to oversee legal issues
- a welfare guardian to oversee the estate monies and monitor the animal’s welfare in a new home (financial and physical/emotional care)
- a physical guardian to adopt your animals

Physical Provisions

Find a physical guardian. Someone needs to adopt your animals. It’s better to have someone in mind (and willing) than for your animal family to end up in a shelter—or on the street.
- Consider each animal’s physical needs: does your cat need a warm bed at night, do the dogs sleep in bed with you or in the hall to keep cool, what do they like to eat, what are their favorite toys? What kind of family would suit them: a single person, an elderly couple, a rabble-rousing kid-filled family? Must multiple animals be rehomed together? Is your animal handicapped? I adore my handicapped dog, but some people may not be able to physically or emotionally care for an animal with special needs.
- Keep records: write everything up, including medical records. Keep it updated and share it with friends: everything you know about your animal should be right there. Make sure to discuss all of it with your potential guardians.
Find a welfare guardian to oversee your animal’s life in a new home. Appoint someone you know and trust who has common sense, a practical mind, compassion, and shares your mindset. That person will have tough choices. Make sure those choices are as close to your own as you would make. Your animals deserve it.
Consider separating guardianships. One person could supervise ownership transfer, ongoing physical and emotional welfare, and financial care for the animal’s life; another person becomes the caretaker (new owner). Seriously. Consider separating the money from the physical guardian. Welfare guardians can be objective and ensure that the monies are only going for your animal’s care. Yes, there’s the consideration that your animals are only being adopted for their estate, but there’s also the emotional burden physical guardians must deal with if a catastrophic medical issue arises. If you’ve planned properly, this guardian will fall in love with your family: lessen the burden by leaving the financial decisions to someone else.
Regularly update your legal documents to reflect the animal’s physical and emotional condition.
Regularly check in with your appointed guardians. We usually don’t plan to die, but we will, anyway. Say every year at tax time you also check in with prospective guardians, to make sure nothing has changed for them and they will still be available to serve their role.

Emotional Provisions

Define your animal’s basic emotional needs. Assess each animal’s personality, and verify that with friends who know them: our devotion to our animals can blind us to their faults, so make sure you outline what someone would like, and dislike, about each one. You’ll have a better chance of finding your animals a good home.
Physical needs help define emotional ones, but they really are separate issues. What do your animals need to be happy? Yes, they will miss you. Make sure their legal guardian knows what they need to feel safe, happy, comforted—and loved.
Find a good animal communicator. Yes, I talk with animals, but I also have trusted communicators talk with mine. Find someone who can help you talk with your animal companions about their concerns in this process and what they would like. They have rights, too. And opinions and feelings. Honor them.

So, have I updated care instructions for my kids? Um, well. Yes, guardians are notified, monies are set aside, preferences and needs are identified.

Here’s what I learned this year.

Being sick reminds us that we’re mortal, which reminds us that things end. I want to make sure that if I can’t be there, someone else will be: someone who will try, as hard as I do, to create a healthy happy multi-species family.

In the meantime, I’m going to remind myself every day that I’m alive, my kids are alive, and we have the world’s best family. I make sure to tell them that every day.

My kids know it, and believe it.

How about yours? Tell them you love them, every day. Before it’s too late. Enjoy your animal family. And don’t forget: if you’re not there, someone almost as good as you should be. Make sure of it.

How a Company’s Raffle Prize Helped an Animal Shelter

September 13, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

On the weekend before the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show back in February I attended a pet writing conference in New York City, the day before I won the Merial Human-Animal Bond Award for my book, Bridging Species: Thoughts and Tales About Our Lives with Dogs. Yay!

It was a fun weekend and I met some fabulous people. Winning the Merial Award, a coveted prize in the dog writing world, plus a cash grant, was wonderful. The recognition for writing about new ways to think about the human-animal bond felt great.

I also got lucky and won a raffle prize from Hartz at the writing conference. A few weeks later this enormous gift basket arrived in the mail, full of Hartz treats, combs, brushes, a toothbrush, toys galore, and a wonderful note from Jennifer Dombkowski, Integrated Marketing Manager at The Hartz Mountain Corporation.

It was far more than my multi-species family could use, although these pictures prove that they were fascinated! And, yes, played with a toy or two.

The feature photo here is a shot of the complete gift basket at our vet’s office in Port Hadlock, WA, as the gift was on its way to the Jefferson County Animal Shelter. (My apologies to Hartz, as the gift arrived perfectly wrapped, but was inexpertly unwrapped and rewrapped by, you guessed it, me.)

Thanks to Hartz’s generosity at a pet writing conference in New York, a group of homeless dogs and cats in rural western Washington had some fine treats and toys. Jefferson County’s animals have taken a hit with the tough economy, and this briefly helped.

Every time you think that a nice gesture doesn’t count, think about what tossing a business card into a raffle basket can do for an animal near you. Yep, a nice advertising plug for a company, and a good benefit to some needy animals.

Awesome and forever, two of my favorite words.

How We’ll Make the Economy Work Again

September 9, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

We’ll get the economy rolling again when we start taking it—and ourselves—seriously.

That means we start saying ‘NO’ because we should have said that way back at some crazy point when buying things became convenient, and price and ethics didn’t matter.

What is a fair price? What is a fair profit? How do we exchange goods and services so everyone is comfortable?

Granted, this is a big discussion, but it all comes down to one thing: how we create a worldview that includes an economy that makes sense for all of us.

Like this:

The big retailers are now into ‘rollbacks.’ Yay, they’re reducing prices so goods are cheaper. Score one for … can’t say.

Because what were they doing before? ‘Rollforwards?’ Scoring bigger profits than they needed? So they needed to ‘rollback’ to keep us buying?

And you still do business with them why?

Give a good, sound, win-win answer to that for all of us and our economy will work again.

For all of us.