Iktsuarpok: Are you here yet?

Waiting for someone to arrive

My two-year-old, Lou, has been obsessed with his shadow lately. Yesterday, we were in the backyard and he asked, “Where’s my shadow, mama?” I had to explain to him that you can’t see your shadow when you’re in the shade. “Step into the sun,” I told him. “You can only see your shadow when you’re in the sun.” And it struck me as a metaphor for shadow work: the process of confronting old, invisible pain that still haunts your life. It’s hard to see the shape of that pain when you’re engulfed by it. Shadows only show themselves in the presence of light. In other words, maybe we can only understand the shadows of our past when we put ourselves in a brighter environment. As Lou stepped into the sunlight, gazing at his shadow, he waved and said, “Hi, shadow.”

Iktsuarpok (Inuit)

In 2018, my husband and I adopted a shaggy brown dog from a shelter and named her Murphy. Murphy was anxious and avoided people. At the dog park, she'd hide under the nearest bench. On walks? She'd pull away from strangers who tried to pet her. When our doorbell would ring at home, Murphy would bark loud, ferocious barks. It was a whole thing. Guests would come in, she’d keep barking, and we would apologize profusely.

People assured us she would outgrow this behavior. Shelter dogs have tough lives. “Give her a few weeks,” they said. “She’ll be a completely different dog.” But Murphy never grew out of it. Instead, we vowed to accept her the way she was and stop trying to force her out of it.

I was the only person Murphy seemed to tolerate. Sometimes, when I’d leave the house for a quick grocery run, I’d see Murphy’s little head following the car as I pulled out of the driveway. And when I got back, she’d be waiting for me in the same spot. Sometimes I’d open the door and she would turn into a little puppy, wagging her tail and jumping on me. It always made me a little sad to think of the dog Murphy could have been if she didn’t have such a presumably troubled past. 

The Inuit word iktsuarpok describes “the feeling of anticipation and restlessness that leads you to keep looking outside to check if someone is coming.” It’s the uncertainty of waiting for someone's arrival—the anxious feeling you get from wondering when someone is coming. It’s like waiting on a friend at a restaurant and looking up each time someone walks in the door. And iktsuarpok is how I imagine Murphy must have felt looking out of that window, waiting for the only human being in the world she could tolerate to return home.

A little over a year ago, we said goodbye to Murphy. She had a peaceful passing, in our home, surrounded by people who loved her. Still, losing a pet is always heartbreaking, and for me, the tiny reminders of their absence hurt the most: the empty dog bed that took me weeks to put away. The clump of hair that got stuck to the bottom of our trash can from the last time I brushed her (I still can’t bring myself to clean it out). Even now, the doorbell rings and I sometimes find myself bracing for her loud, ferocious bark. Of course, there’s only silence, and I’m reminded of my grief. I’m reminded that she used to be here. This anticipation is automatic and reflexive, my memory’s version of iktsuarpok. It's as if a part of me will always be looking out of a window, awaiting her return.

From the archives

The Myth of the Frivolous Female Spender (NYT): Women buy shoes, men buy power — or so goes the trope. Here’s why that myth persists.

Share-worthy

• For Marketplace’s This Is Uncomfortable newsletter, I defended a recent splurge. 

• This essay by Teresa Wong: Good Mom on Paper.  Teresa writes, “the creative impulse remains, disruptive and uncontrollable as ever. My only job is to stay with it and to let it become fully alive and fully itself—just like the child in my care.”

• Julie Vick’s McSweeney’s piece: We Are The Babies of the World, And We Are Keeping Track of People Who Are Being Jerks About Us. Also, Julie’s breakdown of her writing process.

 — Kristin