Becoming Kin
What I learned in loving and caring for Barley
Story
The day Barley died, the crows were everywhere.
In the morning, I witnessed a flock flying east toward the water.
Some hours after the kind and gentle vet came to help Barley transition to the spirit world, Patti and I went out for a walk in the nor’easter with its pouring, blustery rain. Exactly the kind of weather Barley loved.
We walked to the river where Patti and Barley had gone every morning for his almost-18 years, until he could no longer walk that far. On our way home, we passed several dozen crows swooping in and out under the eves of an old brick building. We had never seen crows there before. “Maybe they’re holding a wake for Barley,” Patti said.
Later that day we watched more crows, or the same crows, from our kitchen window. They played in the wind and rested in the two spindly Eastern White Pines next to the pet store.
And that evening, when I went out to pick up dinner that a kind colleague had ordered for us, the crows were across the street, cawing and settling into the trees for the night.
I couldn’t help but feel that these birds knew Barley had died. That they were keeping us company on one of the saddest days of our lives.
~~~
I recently learned that ravens mate for life. They find a partner they like and they stick together until the end. Even if most humans can’t distinguish one bird from other, they know each other. And they know us. Crows recognize human faces; they know individuals.
Once, I found a crow’s body, recently dead, on the path I often walk. The next day, I returned with some offerings and prayers. And when I passed that spot again a few days later, I heard a crow in a nearby tree, cawing and cawing and cawing. In grief, I imagined.
~~~
Patti often said that she never knew she could love a dog as much as she loved Barley. They had been loving each other for almost a decade when I came into the picture. At the time, I liked dogs fine, but I had always been a cat person. But once I came to know Barley, that all changed.
I fell in love with this being who was a clear and direct communicator, with opinions and preferences. He was full of mischief and love, and expressed both often and enthusiastically. He was stubborn as all get out.
Getting to know and love Barley—and later Hazel, another Wheaten Terrier who joined our pack—I was gifted with the opportunity to deeply experience the personhood of beings who are not human. Barley showed me that we could communicate in ways beyond human language. Observing how Patti and Barley interacted and took care of each other, I saw what human and more-than-human relationships could look like beyond domination and exploitation. And in our little family of four, I had the embodied experience of what it looks like to prioritize all of our well-being, not just the humans’.
This became especially true in his later years, as he passed his thirteenth, then fifteenth, then seventeenth birthday, each year a miracle and a blessing. His spirit was just as vivacious and strong as it had ever been, even as his body got weaker each year.
As he became less and less independent, we accommodated, shifting our routines and daily lives. At first, it was in small ways: shorter walks, then separate walks when he couldn’t go as far or as quickly as Hazel. Carrying him up and down the stairs, and getting rugs to put on the hardwood floor so he could get up more easily. Then, in larger ways: finding vacation spots where we could bring the dogs, timing our outings to his schedule and needs, waking up in the middle of the night to settle him down or take him outside.
In his last years, we couldn’t easily leave him with dog sitters. And it was challenging for just one of the humans to take care of both dogs for more than a few days at a time. So, I postponed applying to writing residencies, and we postponed trips. In his last months, we always had an ear out for where he was and what he needed, ready to drop what we were doing to take him outside or help him get up.
At first, I felt some resentment as our lives changed and we couldn’t do everything we wanted to do. He was, after all, a dog, and I was a human.
I had lived my whole life indoctrinated into the belief that human lives are intrinsically more valuable than animal lives. Surely there were ways we could be kind and humane while still living our lives exactly how we wished.
But slowly, I came to understand that Barley and Patti—who was the most attentive to him, who always thought of him as we made plans—were teaching me how to live in a way that de-centers the human and prioritizes the welfare of all of us. I imagine this isn’t too dissimilar to how parents of human children learn how to de-center themselves and their needs as they care for their infants.
But unlike parents, we weren’t taking care of a creature who wasn’t on his way to becoming more independent; rather, increasingly less so.
In his final year, Barley also taught me what the process of dying looks like, and how one cares for a creature who is leaving this corporeal world.
I worked beside him as he slept for hours at a time, his legs kicking as he dreamed of running in a way he no longer could during his waking hours. I walked so slowly with him down the street as he sniffed every inch of the sidewalk and, through to the very end, brought smiles and joy to those who stopped to pet him. I witnessed his determination to climb up the little hill in the backyard. When I carried him, he would wriggle in my arms as if to say, “Put me down! I’ve got this!”
As we cared for him and cleaned up after him, I learned how to be my most attentive self, my most caring self, my most humorous self.
And I gained a deeper understanding of how we can live differently on this planet, in relationship to all the creatures on it. Barley taught me—in his living and his dying— how to imagine a way of existing as humans where we are in reciprocal relationship with all living beings. This is a way of living in the world that is embedded in Indigenous culture and knowledge, one that colonization and white supremacy has tried to obliterate—to our profound detriment.
If we are to survive the Anthroporcene, I believe it will be, in part, because the overculture will come to accept that humans are one small part of the world we inhabit. And if we are to thrive beyond this age, it will be, in part, because we learn how to live in right relationship with all our kin.
~~~
I don’t know for sure why the crows stuck close to our house the day that Barley’s spirit finally left his body.
But I can imagine they somehow knew that a remarkable creature had passed on from this world. That they were paying their respects and celebrating his life.
And maybe, even, it was because they recognized our love for him and were keeping us company on a day our hearts broke wide apart. Wide enough to take in the whole of this world in all its pain and beauty. Wide enough to know that we were not alone.
Starlight
The poet Hyejung Kook has a marvelous essay, “Poetry as Prayer,” in our forthcoming Poetry as Spellcasting. I’m thrilled to share with you here a powerful prompt she has created for writing a prayer toward transformation.
Sailing through this to that: a prayer for transformation
A prompt by Hyejung Kook
I’m so grateful to Tamiko for the invitation to contribute work to Poetry as Spellcasting as well as to share a prompt for Starlight & Strategy. Re-reading my essay “Poetry as Prayer,” I realized how much I personally need to reconnect to the inner self and create again, and so the act of creating this prompt has been not only for others, but also for me.
Before beginning, find the space and time where you can sit quietly, think, and write for at least 20-30 minutes.
*
Listen. What do you hear in your stillness? In a moment of deep feeling, what have you heard from your innermost self? Who did you turn to?
*
1) “Listen.” Find a comfortable seated position in a chair or on the floor, then close your eyes. Place one hand on your heart and one hand on your belly. Bring intention to your breathing, inhaling through your nostrils and exhaling through your mouth. Listen to the sound your breath makes. Feel how your chest and belly move with each inhalation and each exhalation. Shift your body a little as you breathe, settling deeper into your seat and rooting down as you inhale. From that rootedness, allow your head to rise upward, lengthening your body as you exhale.
2) “What do you hear in your stillness?” Once you have settled into an expansive body and breath, say to yourself “I am” as you inhale, and then be open to whatever comes to your mind as you exhale.
Breathe in “I am” and perhaps breathe out “at peace.” Or perhaps “hurting” or “the red ochre of earth.” Let each exhale finish the “I am” in a different way. When you feel you have finished this litany of “I am” statements, finish with “I am listening. I am here.”
3) Take one to two minutes to write down some of the “I am” statements that came to mind. Take another couple minutes to freewrite a list of answers to the questions, “What do you hear in your stillness?” and “In a moment of deep feeling, what have you heard from your innermost self?” If you feel yourself getting stuck, return to your meditative breathing.
4) “Who did you turn to?” Poetry and prayer both involve addressing an Other with the hope of being heard. Spend one to two minutes jotting down entities whom you might invoke and address in your poem. Include in your possibilities a person, an animal, a plant, a physical space, an aspect of yourself (physical or spiritual), and an abstract noun.
5) In my essay, I spend some time with Lucille Clifton's beautiful poem “blessing the boats.” Here it is:
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that
The repetition of the word “may” is especially charged with intention. Other verbs that have a sense of performative power include “wish,” “let,” and “will.”
6) Take a look at your writing so far and circle the following:
At least one “I am” statement
At least one phrase written in response to “What do you hear in your stillness?” and “In a moment of deep feeling, what have you heard from your innermost self?”
At least one entity from your list
7) Draft a poem! The first draft should: 1) Include all your circled phrases. If it feels better to change the “I am” statement from first person into second or third person, please do so. 2) Name and address at least one entity from your list. The entity does not need to be the chief focus of the poem. 3) Repeat “may,” “wish,” “let,” “will,” or some other similarly performative verb at least three times.
As you write, try to determine what transformation your poem is seeking. Good luck and happy writing!
Stargaze
What I’m reading and listening to
I have been recommending Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H to many people in my life. There are so many things I appreciate about this powerful memoir, not the least is how Lamya H structures it around stories in the Quran as she explores her queer identity in the context of her religion and the societies she navigates.
Babel: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution is like Harry Potter with grown-ups, which grapples with the harm of British imperialism, capitalism, and the industrial revolution. The magic here is language, specifically the gaps in meaning that occur when translating from one language to another. I adored this novel.
“The Great Ungrieving” came out just about a year ago, but as I grieve Barley’s death, I’ve been thinking about the lack of structures, rituals, and support for grieving in this society. And this article came to mind, about how the U.S.’s inability to collectively grieve for those who have died in the COVID-19 pandemic is indicative of individualistic and privatized way that this society operates—and how the power of grief could be a pathway toward a more collective and caring society.
Starshine
Announcements from the Starlight & Strategy community
Review of Lisbeth White’s American Sycamore. If you haven’t already checked out Lisbeth’s stunning book, I offer this review, recently published at the Georgia Review, in which I share how her book helped me see the trees.
Poetry As Spellcasting events
Mark your calendars! Join me, my co-editors, and contributors—including Hyejung Kook—at the following events for our forthcoming book, Poetry As Spellcasting! More details and links coming soon.
Poetry as Spellcasting virtual workshop: Writing toward the liberatory gift of wonder
Saturday, April 22 at 7:00 PM EDT
Part of the Mass Poetry Festival lead-up
Led by Lisbeth White and me
Virtual launch party
Wednesday, May 24, time TBD
Featuring all three editors and as many contributors we can gather!
Registration info to comeLive event hosted by the Brookline Booksmith in Boston & live streamed on YouTube
Thursday, June 8, 7 pm EDT
Featuring contributor Joan Naviyuk Kane and me
More info to comeVirtual event hosted by Left Bank Books in St. Louis
Thursday, July 13, 8 pm EDT
Featuring all three editors and contributor Hyejung Kook
More info to come
Do you have an event, a book, an album, a gallery showing, a theater production, an action, a rally, a retreat, a podcast or other artistic/spiritual/activist announcement you’d like to share with this community? Send it my way!
Thank you, dear one, for holding this issue with your heart and reading to the end. If you are grieving a loved one—human or another of your kin—I am holding you, too. I invite you to send me your story, or share your thoughts in the comments if you feel so moved.
Starlight & Strategy will be back on the next full moon, May 5. Until then, I hope you are held in the community of kin who surround you.