Jung Believed Death Brings Us Closer to Life

Atticus M. Finch with a local moose.

Jung believed that death brings us closer to life, and there are few times we are more alive than when dealing with death.

That’s where I am these days.

Many are surprised that I smile as much as I do when talking about Atticus. But hell, I had it darn good for fourteen years. We were like an old couple who knew everything about each other, dancing to music in perfect harmony, never missing a step. There was little need for words, for we had melded together first in our initial bonding, then on the way to standing on two thousand mountaintops. Never underestimate the intimacy of hiking partners.

Yes, mourning is taking place and tears fall, but overriding all of that is a warmth that emanates from within that shouts, “You two got it right!”

Our non-human animal friends don’t have our same lifespan. We can see this as cruel, or we can take it at face value and appreciate what we do (or in our case, did) have.

Someone asked me about my outlook the other day, about going through what I went through in the hospital and saying goodbye to Atticus.

“I figure we have two choices,” I told him. “We can be broken and just lay down and quit, living in the past and loss, or we can figure that whatever powers that be have dealt us a hand and it’s up to us to play it. I may not always have a choice in picking my experiences, but I have the freedom to choose my attitude.”

In saying goodbye to Atticus, I sometimes find it hard to believe he’s gone, but more than that I smile at the joy of a life shared together that marched to its own drummer. We found a place where species didn’t matter, layered in love and dignity. From the beginning, I told him I’d treat him like an equal. He would never be infantilized by me or anyone else. When people referred to him as a baby, I reminded them that he was an adult, or even elderly (at the very end). I let him know he’d always have a say in what we did and where we went and how we did things.

From the very beginning, he hated wearing a leash, so we set out together to live a leashless life. That’s one of the reasons we moved to this small town because it was acceptable for him to walk freely. If it were an issue here, we would have chosen  another community instead.

And when Atticus decided he didn’t want to hike on certain days, we always turned back, or in one case, never got out of the car. Because of this, I didn’t have to worry about him endangering himself just to please me.

The only rules enforced in the beginning was that he treated everyone respectfully, and behaved responsibly. He was never a nuisance and was always polite and for that reason, he was invited into many businesses that may not always allow dogs.

He earned freedom and trust. People often commented about how he’d walk along Route 16 ten to twenty feet ahead of me, right on the very narrow shoulder of the road facing traffic.

A woman asked, “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to run into the street and get hit by a car?”

“No. Why, is that something you’d do?”

Not all souls are alike, but it’s our job to read those from other species and see their needs and abilities. Where Atticus thrived, others might not, whether it’s along a busy road or a mountaintop in winter, or sitting within twenty feet of the bears in our backyard.

Once, when people were pulled over on the side of the road and standing outside of their cars to watch a moose, Atticus and I pulled over and also got out. We took a seat on a small hillock close to the moose. He looked in our direction.  A man on the other side of the small marsh started yelling at me to get Atticus out of there for the moose would charge him. I mostly ignored the fellow, other than perhaps a small hand gesture suggesting he mind his own business. But the man didn’t and he continued to create a ruckus. Eventually, the moose did charge, not at us, but at the loud fellow.

I don’t know why animals felt calm around Atticus; I just know they did, and I trusted him to know what he felt comfortable with. Now and then, however, I’d remind him to be cautious. One night, on a hike along the Doubleheads, we encountered a porcupine. She immediately put her quills up and turned them in our direction.

“She’s nervous, Atti. How about if we just have a seat and let her know we mean no harm?” 

We sat and watched her and eventually she turned back around and sat and watched us. It was twenty minutes of bliss under the moonlight in the col between two peaks.

When I did speak to Atticus, it was as an equal. Words like “please” and “thank you” were commonly used. And when a woman I was dating took a video of a “chat” between Atticus and me on top of a mountain without me knowing, I delighted in watching it later. For I spoke with words delivered to a friend, and for his part, Atticus responded with his ears and eyebrows and eyes. That was his way of communicating.

People may be surprised to realize I’m not pining away, choked by sadness. It is because I have much to be grateful for, much to smile about, and I’d rather leave all that sadness behind. It has been my experience that many people like to dwell in sadness, and while that’s fine for them, it’s not a place I find very useful.

My friend lives within me, and I’m sure when the next book tour begins, it will be a challenge talking about Atticus and Will without breaking down on stage. The tears will flow, and I’ll need a box of Kleenex on hand. But here’s the thing about those tears, they will be caused more out of being part of something so powerful and good than they will be out of sadness.

For here’s the way I look at it, just what do I have to be sad about? I have been given the gift of life, of feeling and loving and being one of Creation's lively souls. The dance continues, no matter the tempo, and I persevere not only to just get by but to thrive.