The Death Light (And Saying Goodbye to Finnegan)

*Content warning: this piece is about death, and specifically about the loss of a pet. 

From time to time in all of our lives, the Death Light comes to shine on us. Most of the time, we avoid thinking about death, but when it appears right in front of us, we can’t ignore it. Nor should we—it has important wisdom for us if we can pay attention. In her book Women Who Run with the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes refers to this energy as the “skull light.” She writes, “The skull-light is not forgiving. It is easier to throw away the light and go back to sleep. It is true, it is hard to hold the skull-light out before us sometimes. For with it, we clearly see all sides of ourselves and others, both the disfigured and the divine and all conditions in between” (104).

The Death Light has been something of a theme for me in the last couple of months. It can be metaphorical or existential—working on a will, thinking about changing our life paths, or considering the legacy we want to leave after we’re gone. But sometimes it’s literal. We witness death, face a serious illness, or someone close to us has died. This last month, one of the ways Death came to my door was for my little orange fox dog Finnegan. 

Many of you knew of Finnegan, and some of you even spent some time with him. He was a very sweet and fluffy dog, he loved people, and he especially loved treats. He would show up in class from time to time and liked to sleep on my yoga mat until my downward dogs forced him to get out of the way. I adopted him from a shelter about a decade ago and I never regretted it. But he got a lot older all of a sudden, it seemed. He was in a lot of pain, and a lot of that happy, playful, constantly hungry personality had disappeared. It was time.

I knew the moment I adopted him that I would be responsible for his life as well as his death. I had intentions for the end of his life—I wanted to do it before he was in abject misery, and I wanted to be with him in the moment of his death, to be holding him, telling him it was going to be alright. I did all of those things and I’m glad I did. But it was still pretty awful. 

The truth is, the Death Light is harsh. It’s not a flattering light. When we’re in it, our intuitions don’t always show up the way we want them to and our feelings can surprise and overwhelm us. Sometimes we have to do things that are right even though they don’t “feel” right. The Death Light requires that we see things that are normally invisible. It’s up to us whether or not we’re willing to keep our eyes open and receive those lessons. 

Spiritual practice can mean a lot of things to a lot of people, but for me (at least right now) it means receiving and respecting the full range of emotions that I feel, including the guilt and shame that can underlie grief. It means being radically compassionate to myself in my worst moments—even when I notice my brain is chattering a lot about my deepest fears and insecurities (and when I’m constantly dreaming about being uncool in high school).

And I find that I’m okay. I can look at the Death Light, listen for it, and stay present with it, even if I don’t know yet what it might have to teach me. I can hold my grief close, remembering that grief is a form of love when the loved object is gone. I can remember Finnegan as the fluffy comedian he once was, knowing he’s always with me in spirit, and still miss him. I can bask in the Death Light. And still look forward to when the light changes again.