Is everything about loss this year, I wondered pedaling my fancy bike down the seaside road on the shore this past Saturday afternoon. It was grey and unseasonably warm for December and I was still anguished over Henry’s death three days earlier. Henry, the most beautiful yellow lab in the world, was 14, a ripe old age for a lab I’m told. His hips were giving out and it was harder and harder to get up and about. We knew there were pain issues, and his medications and treatments had gradually increased these past few years, but he was no complainer. In the mornings, when he was back with mom from Crozet, he’d come to the studio door and bark once to let me know he was present and ready for attention. If the petting didn’t last long enough, he’d gently paw for more. He did this on his last day. No dog was kinder or more obedient. Early on we realized we didn’t need a leash to walk him to the beach. He’d stop at the busy Atlantic Ave and not think of crossing until permission was granted.

I had the hardest time saying yes to the decision to phone the vet and arrange the house call. Rationally it made sense but I wasn’t ready. I would never be. Wednesday was a lovely blue sky day. Walker and Henry and I walked over to the beach one last time as we’d done a million times. But in my heart of hearts it was depressing. I felt like Judas. Henry was slower but sprinted a bit across the open sand down to the water. Don’t do that I thought. Please don’t do that. Please don’t show me you have some good life left. Walker knelt, one arm around Henry’s neck, the other taking selfies. Let’s just not walk back, I thought. Let’s stay here until the vet has come and gone. Surely they’ve had people change there mind. Surely.

But we walked back. Slowly. Sadly. And three days later I’m still processing as if this is a procedure with some good finish line.

Is everything about loss this year? I know better but certainly it’s a year unlike any I’ve lived through. Covid, the election and civil unrest have ruled the day though there have been bright spots. My 91-year-old mother got covid, was hospitalized and near death before miraculously recovering. Unfortunately, not everyone’s been so lucky. More than 200,000 have died in this country and how we do business has changed forever. We wear masks everywhere. We don’t hug. And we often don’t recognize people we know. We are isolated. We’ve had loved ones die and we’ve seen businesses fail. Now the holidays are upon us.

So when I ask the question about loss, I’m quick and determined to remind myself that mine is a fortunate life. That I have much to be thankful about, even when the clouds are thick.

Two other deaths this year left me saddened and grateful, and I wanted to be sure to focus on the grateful on this Saturday rolling over the shore. I met Dr. Hirji Adenwalla while traveling in India for Smile Train around 2000. He worked at the Jubilee Mission hospital for over 50 years and lived in a lovely simple home on the grounds of the hospital, within earshot of the wards where mothers sung songs to sleep their babies. I was just passing through, but after less than 24 hours in Trissur I determined to return and a year later spent two weeks with Dr. A and his sweet wife Gulnar. He loved his work and the families he cared for, and seemed to carry compassion as though it were some sweet fragrance to be easily waved around. He would quote the words of great writers as we walked the hallways of the hospital, me often just trying to keep up. He made me hopeful and in his presence I was reminded of many blessings. A year or so after my trip, he came to New York to receive a humanitarian award and in his remarks said:

“The lessons that we learn from human misery are to love, to never forget your own insignificance, and to never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest place, to pursue beauty to it’s lair, and to never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength never power, to try to understand, to never forget and to never, never look away.”

Of all the places I have traveled, all the people I have met, I marvel that the world turned in such away that we collided.

Back at home, four weeks ago, I learned my good friend Craig Embrey died. He lived alone in DC. A housekeeper found him on his bathroom floor, and I hated that he had no one around that might have changed this outcome. Too soon, too tragic. Much of what I learned about style and design I learned in our years of friendship. He was a kind friend and sometimes a difficult human. His mother committed suicide on Christmas Day in the 70s and he carried his talent like a tumultuous demon on his shoulder, sure of his pedigree though short on the filters of polite society. At our many Christmas evening cocktail parties where his cologne always announced his arrival, he’d invariably leave in a huff over something after numerous vodkas. We’d all be momentarily wounded, then days would pass and we could not remember why the storm or cared not to. The diva went with the designer. He always claimed that the Christmas season was depressing but invariably showered his friends with unique and generous presents - from paper whites to antique vases, candles and books. Always interesting and personal. And always fancy treats for the dogs. His own decorations were certainly at odds with any notion of not liking Christmas.

His style really was impeccable. He could mix antiques with modern minimalist pieces and his rooms were both comfortable and stunningly right. His were spaces you liked being in. He loved good lighting, and anything less was an affront to his senses. He would adjust light levels and move things around whenever he came over. And it of course would be better.

He was certainly more work than Dr. A and Henry, but no less important. These were friendships that were each unique and special, gifted and gone. And as I get more air, I’ll mourn less and celebrate more. As it should be, I’m sure.

ATKINSON