Image of the Week: The Paw Print
© D. Yael Bernhard
This painting, completed just a few days ago, depicts a dream I had about a week after my beloved dog died in March. She came to me in the darkness before dawn and slithered against me like an evanescent fish. I felt the soft fur of her tail brush against my side, then the warmth of her body against my other side. For one precious moment she curled up beside me, just as in life – then the thin veil of sleep dissolved into the light of day, and she was gone.
As an artist, I'm attached to physical expression. For the past two months since my dear animal companion left this world, I've struggled to anchor my memories of her in form. This dream, my most cherished of her fleeting visitations, seemed the most worthy of expression. Yaldah's paw print, taken by the vet after her heart stopped, is inlaid in the canvas, cutting and scarring the surface just as my own heart is forever imprinted and scarred.
Animals, in their innocence, are like little pieces of God. Like all dogs who are loved and cared for, Yaldah's nature was suffused with goodness. She was both simple like a child and wise as an elder; free of judgment; accepting of disappointment; genuine in her needs. Her presence was a constant blessing. Her satisfaction in the little things in life taught me so much. While I struggled to meditate, she spent her whole life patiently watching, listening, smelling and breathing the world around her. The twittering of a bird was enough to satisfy her. Her acceptance in the face of losing her abilities at the end of her life astounded me. As much as I loved her, that is how vast the hole is that she left behind.
Art has been my only solace. Many times over the past two months I've cast my work aside in my grief, grateful for my ability to honor this beautiful creature who blessed my life for twelve years, eleven months, and fourteen days. Only when my children were infants have I experienced a love so pure. But Yaldah wasn't a child and never grew up, never needed to individuate or push me away; never tired of walking along the stream with me near our home; never failed to greet me at the door with real enthusiasm. The simple pleasures we shared are too numerous, too subtle to be captured in images or words. The great paradox of something so ordinary being so special – and so fleeting – cracked my heart open again and again.
Many tears beaded up on this oil painting as I worked on it. I even found one of Yaldah's hairs stuck in the wet paint. As in life, so in art. And as in art, so in life . . . for the painting itself dictated that I balance the darkness with a hint of sunrise, imminent in the same unstoppable passage of time that took my dog's life. Life goes on, and the stream along our road continues to makes its way to the Hudson River and eventually, the sea. So too do our individual lives flow inexorably toward their great source. A dear friend sent me a card with a Japanese print of an ocean wave to remind me of this. It's up on my fridge, next to an enlarged photo of Yaldah.
I'm like a blank canvas now, waiting to see what life will paint on me next.
To all my readers who've experienced the loss of a beloved animal, my heart goes out to you. I welcome your stories, if you care to share.
A good week to all –