Get Your Own Invisible Pig

Grief digs moats. We can cross them.

My son and his best friend Aiden were arguing in the back seat. They almost never argued.

“You guys, what’s going on?”
”Aiden has an invisible pig and he won’t let me have a turn with it.”
”It’s MY invisible pig!”
{almost choking on my own laughter}
”Tadg just get your own invisible pig!”
”Oh, OK.”

Even though years have passed I’m still proud of that one pearl of parenting wisdom: “just get your own invisible pig.” Some of us (like Aiden) are good at making invisible pigs. Others need to be reminded that we all have the ability to use our imaginations to conjure something as magical and wonderful as an invisible pig out of thin air.

I never heard Tadg talk about having an invisible pig again, I don’t think he brought it home with him. He’s not an invisible pig kind of guy. His sister and I are very much invisible pig people. We could both happily spend the rest of our lives on our own islands with only invisible pigs for company.

Memories like this, from early in our family, have been returning to me in the last few months. I’ve been able to remember afternoons spent at the nearby Elkhorn Slough, eating burritos from the local market, watching the trains roll by while we checked out what the fisherman were reeling in that day. I can see the quality of light as it filters through the coastal fog, feel the coolness of the wind strafing the reeds off Hummingbird Island. I can feel it all so clearly, even more easily than my cadre of invisible pigs.

I not only loved those times for the pure joy of sharing in their childhood wonderment, but I loved the father I was becoming. I could see how the life we were making nourished our kids deeply, filling them with joy and a deep inner sense of freedom. Every day was soul food for each of us, Momma included. I was proud of who we all were, what we made together.

There was a moat to cross to get to those memories after her loss. Grief digs moats like that.

I only cross those moats when it’s easy, effortless to get to the other side. I haven’t had the energy to force myself to remember, to make myself forgive life for taking Terry from us when it did. If grief, anger, and resentment need to setup shop in my heart for a few years then thats OK with me, I’m busy getting the kids ready for school and feeding my invisible pigs. If I look back and notice that I’ve crossed another moat, it’s just another win for the day.

It’s funny how showing up for the moment, being in “now”, is sometimes the best way to break down those barriers.

I’ve felt so grateful for the return of these memories in particular. The long grey winter has had me a little down and this trove blew out all the dust and cobwebs from my heart. I can believe again that life still holds the potential for abundant joy for all of us. I’m ready to pull out my conjuring wand and, with some ridiculous sounding incantation, call into being unicorns and invisible pigs dancing through the many treasures nature has to offer us here. It feels so good to be on the other side of this moat.

Back in 2021 I wrote about feeling overwhelmed by loss in a post titled “Tenderness and Time.” Terry had been visiting me in dreams, giving me gifts of warmth and togetherness.

“Terry is letting me say goodbye to her in dreams, giving me the romantic moments I wanted so much at the end. She’s still sick when I see her, but I can feel the vitality of her body. I get to love her through the small gestures of familiar couples one last time. We went to the market together, had a meal with our friends Lora and Don, held hands on our way home to rest. I could still feel her strength as we walked, even though we both knew her body was fading. We made plans for how her passing would go, I found great peace in that knowing.”

Looking back I can see how these many ways of feeling the loss of her, and being soothed by dreams and memories, are healing me at deeper and deeper levels. There is a natural ebb and flow of me that has grown to include grief as healing. Feeling her loss is the path to greater wholeness, greater availability to joy.

Truly and I saw a movie called “If”, about invisible friends last weekend. The main child in the movie is also a young girl who’s Mother has died. One running joke throughout the movie is an invisible friend named Keith that is invisible not only to everyone else, but to the child that created him too. Even though Keith has no dialog in the movie (apparently mute as well as invisible) Brad Pitt is credited as being cast in the role. People are constantly tripping over Keith, angry but understanding that even invisible invisible friends are important.

I walked away from the movie with the message that if we’re able to open up to everything - the horrible losses, the invisible pigs, all of it - then we have a chance to truly, deeply heal. We can cross the moats that grief makes, we can do so effortlessly, if we have the willingness to say yes to it all, over and over again… while we’re doing laundry, making lunches and reminiscing about invisible pigs and lost loves.

Yes to all of it. Just yes.