Frost

Four lessons tonight, under what looks like a full moon.

I reflected on being a member of a species that can rest unconcerned about predators. I imagined that the only other creatures that might have this privilege are those at the top of the food chain. But then, doesn't a mountain lion have to beware of other mountain lions? Yes, just as we humans have other humans to fear.

Kneeling on the ground, I imagined a raccoon near me. I didn't want to stand (in this imaginary scenario), lest I frighten the raccoon. Yet what if it were rabid and posed a danger to me? Likewise, why do we crouch around others, hide our full strength and stature, when doing so may invite unpleasantness upon us?

Didn't want to pray tonight, so late already that I just wanted to get into bed. But a feeling came to me of my relationship with my body, with having birthed my son, and how sacred that is to me. How sacred that must be to all women, to their own degree, and how so many women in Africa and around the world have been raped by men, had that precious history of their bodies overwritten by violence and degredation. This reminded me that my selfish desire for sleeping sooner rather than later is not as important as it feels to me sometimes, relative to others' needs and the importance of me doing the work that I can do through prayer.

I prayed for gentle but firm guidance so that I may do what I can to help women, especially in southern Africa, where so many men are committing rapes that it is being referred to as an "epidemic." The question then came to me: "If I were in their shoes - if I were one of the women experiencing this cultural trauma, what would I want someone in my shoes to do?"

Growth

Outside tonight, I felt called to step off my comfortable spot on the porch and put my hands on the wet grass, put my face down to smell the wet earth. When I looked up, I glimpsed the moon for a moment through the swiftly moving clouds. A shudder passed through me at the sight of it; the glowing center in an otherwise dark landscape of clouds, and then to see the full outline of the moon beyond the clouds was delicious.

In moments like this, witnessing pure beauty, I have learned recently that I have a choice. I can let that shudder run through me, physically feel the delicious sensation of whatever I am witnessing. Or, as I newly discovered, I can open myself up as a channel of sorts, letting the wonder and appreciation flow through me and then out of me, out into the universe. By doing this, I forgo the physical pleasure, but then a deeper appreciation comes, an understanding of the meaning of the moment that grounds me, matures me. I sacrifice a fleeting pleasure for an understanding that invariably connects me more fully to the earth, helps me to grow in my relation to things.

Fine Lines

there is a fine line between always striving to improve oneself and always being disappointed with oneself. a fine line between living cautiously and living fearfully. i stumble on these lines, generally tending to walk on the less pleasant side.

when the boy asks "moon?" on cloudy nights, i tell him she's hiding behind the clouds. tonight he finally got a glimpse of what i've been trying to relay in words. we watched the skies outside tonight, and he was delighted, as usual, to see and talk about the moon. clouds moved in, obscuring the moon from time to time, and i explained to him what was happening. he fell silent and watched it all.

Water

rain.

i've been praying outside for ten minutes each day. i usually go out at night, the time not presenting itself readily during the day.

tonight, grieving the dog, i felt the impulse to step off the porch and put my hand on the earth. on the way down the steps, the impulse shifted to touching the earth where the dog is buried, under the little magnolia we planted for him. once there, an impulse not only to touch the earth with my hand, but to kneel on it, lie on the cold, rain-soaked grass (in my warm, dry, cozy pyjamas). felt the cold water soaking into my pyjamas, the rain beginning to fall harder on my face, my hands. the water under the tree a little frightening, the way dark reflections can be. i looked in when i felt called to, saw only a silhouette of a figure looking out at me - another part of creation, i knew, another part of me, as we are all part of this whole. a person from another place, perhaps another time, another era, this being observing me in the water under it's tree.

gave thanks for the reminder, the understanding that we are all one and the same thing, in the end. began to ascend the steps to go inside, wanting to dry and change and get in my bed, but knew that i wasn't done with my learning yet for tonight. walked back down the steps and to the tree, lay on my side on the earth, then flat on my back. cold, cold water, cold air. rested my hand beyond my head, in the puddle under the tree. felt the raindrops, the quick shivering of my body, the icy water about my hand. then i gave in, remembered how to let go of my striving - striving to be warm, to be dry, to be elsewhere - and just swallowed this experience of being under the tree in the dark, wet night. the shivering stopped, the icy water surrounding my hand became not a discomfort but simply a sensation to be experienced, and i felt entirely peaceful. i saw with new eyes - the eyes that can comprehend the interconnections, that sees that we all live this life believing ourselves to be separate from one another, but that we all pass through the veil upon our bodily death and recover our knowing that we are all part of one. this is the supreme peace that is spoken of during "near death" experiences, is it not? this peace, when we return to the arms of creation and know our place there.

a fellow on the playground the other day said, on speaking of children's understanding of the world, "you're another me."

Coccoon

I've been sick. Found a tick on me a month ago that tested positive for a nasty illness. Three weeks of antibiotics have now landed me with my first case of bronchitis. For days now I've had energy only to rise for 15 minutes at a time, then back to bed for a couple more hours.

It's been gradually sinking in to me that this can be a renewal process for me, if I choose to make it be. My base instinct is to bemoan my inability to go out, play with the boy, spend time with my husband, soak in the summer and the world. But there is also the option of learning all during this time. Opening myself up to what messages are coming through to me, what lessons come from the weakness, the rattled breathing, the infirmity, the physical restrictions.

What came today, as I lay flat, listening to my husband goofing around with our boy, was that I am being directed to move into a scary new lifestyle of being open and public with my spirituality, and that this illness is my rest before my new way of living. The idea of ceasing to hide my prayerful self has frightened me ever since I was a child; as I prayed outside with the trees and the earth at night, I believed fully that what I was doing was not something to share - I don't believe I ever even told anyone about it until years later, when I visited the Cherokee and learned that I am not alone.

So, though this post is not a lovely one, it being written quickly before I retire again, I am using it to further cement my decision to live myself fully, my life fully. To allow others to see me offer my prayers when I am called to offer them, whatever scorn, pity, judgment comes as a result. I am strong enough to face turned backs, and am stronger -and a better force in the world - when I heed my calling.

Lessons from Prayer

Giving thanks tonight, in the dark and the quiet under the stars, I gave thanks for a recent resurgence I've had in my belief in myself, in my commitment to live out my spiritual directions to their fullest, despite my worries about how I will be seen and judged by other people. I'd gone outside on an urge to give thanks to the cow whose meat - or rather, a quarter of whose meat - has been feeding my family since last Autumn. I was thanking it for its sacrifice, from which we have all been benefiting.

I was reminded that creatures and plants the world over sacrifice themselves, their bodies and lives, so that others can be fed and nourished by them, and I gave thanks to all of the beings who offer themselves up in such a way, who share what they have so that others may benefit. And it settled upon me that my strong connection to the Earth, to spirits, to energy, to Creator is the gift that I have to give, and that the sacrifice I must make in order to be able to live and share this gift is my ego's control.

When I choose that my personality, my ego, will decide my actions, I abide by our culture's rules about what is considered normal behavior, what is considered healthy behavior. When I let my ego down a notch or two and allow my spirit to move me more, I become sensitive to the callings I don't otherwise hear. These are the tugs of Spirits who have messages for me, of Creator who has lessons for me, of nights in which I am supposed to be out of bed, listening and learning. It is in these communications that I learn the lessons I need. It is from this commitment, this willingness to sacrifice in a way that makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, that my strength rises up. On the heels of the praying comes a creative wave that washes away the monotony into which I've settled and opens up endless possibilities for how I respond to my world and my life. On the heels of my embarrassment and sense of exposure comes a foundation of strength, a firm belief in my right to be who and how I am, nothing less. On the heels of going out into the dark when what I want is to go to bed comes a reconnection with Creator, with the spirits who live around me, with my ability to bring new things, good things, to the world. Things that only I can bring.

I took this picture tonight of our soup pot after simmering short ribs.

Yes, the sides of the pot are a little gross, but what I see in it that thrills me is a planet, or a dark sun, or a fertilized egg about to explode into growing. What else? What else? What else do we find when we allow ourselves to be fully, completely ourselves?

A Duck

stayed the weekend at a much-loved farmhouse inn with my family. horses, chickens, a large garden, a jungle gym, and a small pond with four resident ducks. every day, the ducks were let out of their barn and waddled their way to the pond, where they would spend their day, swimming, bathing, nibbling the grass, steering clear of us and our young ones. at the end of the day, a person would come and walk them to the barn, they all waddling quickly in a line behind her, into their barn.

this morning, i sat on the porch with my mom, drinking coffee, enjoying the lovely clouds and breeze together. as we talked, i watched as the foursome appeared from their barn and made their way to the water. later on, as we prepared to go, we learned that one of them had been struck by a car and killed. i went over to it with my sister and our little ones, and i stroked its still body as we sang it a song together. i told the other ducks that i was sorry for them, and one of them quacked and quacked, the long ones they do when they're fussing about something, and we all said it was grieving.

everything is so fragile. days come and days go and things seem to stay the same, and yet each of these days is a gift. the friend we make behind the counter at the post office, the children our little ones play with, our sisters and brothers, our parents, our dogs. all of us are walking a precious life together, so dependent on so much, on so many moments. i see myself wanting to smooth all of this over, to push away this lesson and return to the comforting numbness, return to taking it all for granted. how do we hold these lessons we are offered? how do we make these changes, let go of the habits we are ready to lose, incorporate new, more vivid understandings into our choices?

Loss

we lost my dad's dog today, and then we found him.

searching for a house for my dad on back roads, we found a promising one for sale. we got out, walked around, discussed things, and then the dog was gone. we always let him out to run around, and always he is right there when it's time to go. for five hours we called for him, drove around, called the police station, the humane society, talked to neighbors there, to the corner store, all to no avail. this dog is my dad's partner, and my dad'd life is pretty much scheduled around tenn's needs, as my dad is retired and has no set schedule of his own. they walk for hours together, bushwhacking through the woods, every day. they are a great pair, and facing the possibility that my dad might go home tonight alone was heartbreaking.

on our final departure from the house, posters in hand to hang up all around town, there he was, standing alert but confused in the neighbor's yard. there was a great homecoming, then my dad declared that he hated him and was going to take a shotgun to him, and then he wiped tears from his eyes.

during the time that he was missing, i felt myself again in that nightmare limbo, the same feeling as the day i put fritz down: "something awful may well happen today, and all i can do is sit and wait for it to happen," holding my breath, not able to pay attention to any one thing, just wishing and wishing. when he showed up, he glowed, in my eyes, with the aura of one who is precious, of one who was torn from our arms and then restored to the place in our life where he belongs. i was confused, in a way, for quite a while. i had grown so accustomed to looking for him and not finding him and reminding myself that he was lost that even when he was back, i kept reminding myself that he was lost. my brain was stuck on remembering the loss. when i finally accepted that he really was back, the expectation and hope arose in me that fritz would come back, too. if tenn was lost and dad's heart was broken and then tenn came back and they're happy, then fritz can come back, too! now, tonight, i am settling back into my reality that fritz is not coming back, which i continue to resist.

when tenn returned and was safe in the car and i was aware of how much he means to our family, it brought to mind the knowledge that people in past times and people in other countries face loss much more than we do, whether from illness, injuries, animal attacks, war, or whatever. loss of loved ones has been more prevalent than it is for us, and the resulting sense of appreciation for what we have when our loved ones are with us must, i imagine, have been felt more acutely and been more a part of everyday reality. what would it mean to hold our loss daily, to remember what it feels like to lose ones we love as we go about our lives? already my feelings from today are drifting away, being covered up by the knowledge that everything is fine, everything is back to normal. but what if held that pain, that fear, that celebration from today? how would that change my attitude toward other people who are in the midst of loss? toward those who are dear to me? how would that change the choices i make, what i choose to do with my time.

while tenn was still glowing with his recent return and i was still melting with appreciation for the simple fact that he was with us again, i felt myself at a crossroads: whether to love and risk losing, or whether to maintain a distance for the rest of my life, thereby protecting myself from ever experiencing sharp pain again. it is a possibility - one that i chose when i was younger, and then worked years with my husband to reverse so that i could open up again and bare my heart to the world and him. but how tempting to close all the doors, try to take control over our hearts in this way. and how devastating for us, our souls, dried up and alone.

flames and dances

a week today since the dog's passing.

remembered this morning all of the things i used to do to give him love, all the gestures i made towards him during my daily movements through the house: when i used to bend down and pat him when he asked for attention, scratch his back when he wasn't asking for it, bring him outside with us every time we went into the backyard, tap him with my foot whenever he was searching, blind and nearly deaf, through the house for me. all of these offerings that gave him love. they came to me all together this morning, and showed me that he was surrounded by our love, even if i can see a version in which he was alone and discarded.

i have been bringing him spirit plates this week, sharing our meals with him whenever i felt called to, and placing them on his grave, then in the compost when another was ready. felt strongly the drive to do this for several days, and entirely free of any concern for what others might think of me doing so. after a few days, the drive began to dissipate some, and i wondered how long i would do it, how long it needed to be done, how i would know. concurrent with this waning direction, i began to feel more self-conscious about what my neighbors and family out back were thinking; their judgments of me began to have sway over the time i spent at his grave, how freely i moved there.

today, a week since he left his body and us, i wanted to be out there, on the land where he died and where he now lies, in the afternoon when last week we were loving him and putting him to sleep. i lit a candle and a lantern, left the candle on the counter inside and brought the lantern out and placed it on his grave. the boy was attentive with the fire, showing me the "fire" sign with his hands, fingers waving and moving up, up. he and i moved about the yard, and i picked dandelions, violets, gil-o'er-the-ground, and other wildflowers while keeping the boy's adventures within arm's reach. laid the flowers on Fritz's grave and sat beside it in the grass. the last week of rain has made lush the grass where he was euthanized, made it long and tussled, no trace of where we sat, where he lay, the story all grown out of it.

it was good to sit there beside his grave. the boy sat beside me putting rocks into a bowl, adding grass, stirring it with his little hand, dumping it all out and starting over again. it felt companionable, not like Fritz needed me there, but as though we both appreciated the nearness, the intention to pass this time together. after some time, i suddenly was free of the anchor holding me there, and at the same time, the boy said "bye-bye", and walked away. i emptied what i felt clearly to be his last spirit bowl into the compost out back. we looped around the garden, gathering some johnny jump-ups, oregano, and sage, laid them on his grave as we passed by it on our way into the house, and i brought the lantern in with us. it burns now beside me with the candle, the only two lights in the house aside from the computer screen. they give the warm, rich, comforting glow of fire, unlike any electric light. i'll leave them burning until my husband comes home, and we will blow them out together.

the candle and lantern burn in the window that looks out over our back yard. high above them, at the top of the window, a paper decoration rocks and dances in the warmth they send up. two little flames alone in the world, and a dance they don't know they inspire.

a ritual of celebrating and letting go, coming from the direction and guidance i feel. i have always felt the tug of what steps i should take, though most of the time i shush it in order to continue to blend in with those around me. during my time with the cherokee and lakota people, they walked in this same way, and showed me that i have company, sisters and brothers. they reminded me how right it is, how it is the only way, to move as we are called, to move as Creator leads us.

pictures

here is a happy series of him in our garden three years ago, showing his energy and delight in life and in my love (and in fresh vegetables).



the pictures featuring him trail off once the boy comes into the spotlight, and most of the ones over the past year tell the story of what how we treated him - he appears only in the backgrounds with no focus on him, and mostly he is either alone on his bed or waiting at the foot of the action to be noticed. these are very painful for me.



when the boy sees the photos of him on the computer, he smiles and reaches to the screen, saying "touch" and "tickle." "tickle" is what he used to say when he patted Fritz.

looking at photos of him returns me momentarily to how it felt when he was living this life with us. a monumental distraction from his death that brings him back to me while i look at them. i continue to be jolted when i stop looking at the pictures, back into the reality that he is gone and that these things are just traces of when he lived. but they do soothe, they make his memory more alive, and help to keep him a part of my life.

i long for some thing to memorialize him. not a stone, not a locket with his fur, not a doll sewn from his old dog bed with his smell on it. the right idea has yet to present itself, and i wait to create it when it does.

walking with grief

i have been walking through Fritz's routines, asking to feel how the last year and half of his life were, the months that our arms were about him a little less tightly when the boy took his position of primary little one. i can feel the ache of loneliness, longing for activity, adventures outside of the house, longing for the affection and attention that surrounded him before the boy arrived. who would not retreat into sleep under these circumstances? the warm bed in the corner, the nooks where we folded blankets for him throughout the house. who would not follow the owner religiously, staying close by her heels, his heels, to know that they were near when one's eyes no longer see? who would not celebrate every arrival home with gusto, with singing, with dancing, even if one's celebration is ignored - or, worse, shoved and squashed - as they try to keep the boy asleep?

Fritz

we had to euthanize our dog today.
he woke from sleep with pain, and carried it throughout the day, through vet tests, during the long time in his cage there. it was lessened when they filled him with pain meds so i could drive him home and have him die here at home, though he still panted and tensed from it.
he was old, my little fritty.
he sniffed the air when i opened the door, smelling his home, the familiar scents. he'd wagged his tail when i came in to the vets to pick him up. i didn't greet him back, i was too intent on discussing things with the vet. i did hold his face and kiss him later, and convinced them to remove the muzzle.
he sat in the car a long time, peeing twice onto my favorite blanket that was made for my son, the one my mum so lovingly made for him, the one i wanted him to come home on because it meant a lot to me. his urine was dark from his body shutting down, so now the blanket is done.
my husband came home shortly, rescheduled his charges and coworkers to be here with us, here for Fritz. Fritz sniffed the air when my husband got out of his car next to us in our driveway, and perked up. my husband looked down at Fritz in the car, leaned his head on the roof, and cried. working all day with the knowledge of this coming, working with clients about their emotional and sexual abuse while carrying his grief and love for our dying dog in his heart. we both watched Fritz, patted him, talked to him, and cried. i brought him water, let him drink some, then took it away to keep him from overloading his system.

Fritz indicated after a long time of waiting that he wanted down, so i lifted him in his blanket, still anticipating the crying that the vets had reported upon lifting, but he was quite as i carried him to the back yard and set him down. he moved around a bit back there, going for the stairs to be inside, but we encouraged him gently to stay outside, for husband's discomfort with Fritz's death coming in our house. we gave him more water, still not as much as he wanted. the vet came with his assistant, a distant relative of my husband's who had been unkind to him in their younger years. the vet was gentle, giving us love, respecting Fritz, surrounding all of us with his caring. they sedated him before the anesthesia so they could put him down without the muzzle that the other vet had insisted on. we sat with him, patted him, waited and coached him through the movement towards sleep. they said the sedative make him less aware of the pain that had had him moaning now and then. we gave him the water again and he drank and drank. i offered another bowl when he's nearly emptied the first; he lapped at it once or twice, the gave us all a sad chuckled when he turned back towards the original bowl to finish. he lapped at it more and more slowly, his chin moving down into it, still slow laps, me tipping the bowl up on its side to accommodate him, still very slow laps, his chin in the water, taking it in. he stopped drinking and we moved the bowl away.

his head lowered slowly to the ground, then rested on the ground. we continued patting him gently, i glad for him and my husband that my husband was crouched by his head, as he always wanted my husband's love. i lay by his head, told him we loved him, looked into his sleepy, clouded eyes. my husband gave him love. we nodded to the vet, who gently put the anesthesia into the port on Fritz's leg. we patted him and loved him. i watched his breaths for a few seconds, then saw his head and shoulders relax fully down to the earth, and knew it had worked. it was as though he melted into the earth, all that was active in him, the "life" in him, sank down into the earth from which it had come. his eyes were opened a little, the blue, scarred corneas showing. my husband and i cried. the vet and the relative left, i gave her a daffodil from our yard that was just starting to open.

my husband wrapped his arms around Fritz, held him and cried for a long time. i was glad he had that, the pouring of his love into Fritz's little frame.

later, my husband suggested we bury him there, where we'd pass by him every day on our way into our backyard, our garden, up to our family in the houses behind. he suggested we plant a willow there; we've been discussing one for a while, this could be the spot, for Fritz. he asked would it have enough room? would it have enough room? between it and the house, just as he started to dig Fritz's grave. i looked up, pictured the willow in 20 years, and said it would.

the boy arrived with his nana as husband dug. he commented on husband's activity, then trotted over to fritz, squatted and toussled the fur between his ears familiarly.

i dug a little deeper, husband decided to wrap Fritz in his blanket, the one i'd saved after we brought my childhood dog home from the vet in it, the small soft blue one. he went in to fetch it, came out and wrapped him, asked me if i wanted to lower Fritz into the grave. i gently laid him in it, and he looked cozy and comfortably curled in it, and i said so. i took the shovel and dug compost from all three piles Fritz wanted to eat from all spring, and shifted it from the shovel onto Fritz's little body. i brought him an egg from the house, as we'd done for my childhood dog, and cracked it and placed it near him. i tore a lettuce leaf and placed it down with him. i poured milk over the compost. he'd loved milk and eggs and fresh lettuce and compost, and aside from the lettuce, he couldn't have them for the health problems they gave him. well, not the compost; we kept him from that because of many nights of getting up with him at 2 am to go outside and eat grass, and compost was on the list of suspects. so the eggs and milk were finally free for him. i also brought him some of the dirt from the driveway which he always wanted to eat and which i sometimes roughly pulled him back from, to keep him from possibly getting us up at night.

we began to sprinkle the soil over him, breaking up the soil and clay clumps in our hands as we came upon them. the boy dropped his collar in, we fetched it out, he dropped it in, we fetched it out, he dropped it in again and we both told each other that perhaps it was supposed to go into the earth with him. we lifted and shook more and more soil, clay from our hands. following my husband's lead, we filled his whole grave with the soil from our hands. so right, so slow, to fill a grave this way, the shovel having done its work in digging. as the level of the soil rose up to meet the ground level, we began to shift the surface of it around, to keep it evenly filled, and it was like toussling Fritz's fur. when the grave was filled and we came to the last of the soil, we raked the soil gently from the grass around the grave with our fingers, and we were running our fingers through Fritz's fur.

his little body lies curled, softly, in our earth tonight. we cry in our hearts, we cry out loud. we speak our misgivings about so many requests for love that Fritz gave us that went unmet. so many moments of thoughtlessness, withholding, that he experienced at our hands, and we grieve and hurt for him and for us.

i understand drugs tonight, i understand drinking, i understand constant distraction. this pain has nowhere to go, is accompanied by no thoughts to ease it. we could have given him a better life. now he is out of our hands, back to creation and wholeness, as i know, out to loneliness, as my husband feels tonight, and we cannot pat him, cannot play with him, cannot kiss him and make him feel beloved now. only grieve him and pray that he feels and knows, or remembers, our love. Fritz, you are loved and missed.

Sapling

sporadic visits to this site, though i author posts in my head many times a week.

today is called "earth day", and marks the anniversary of the day last year when so many of the trees in our yard were cut down.

i've come to appreciate the open sky, the perspective from seeing so much horizon, the sense of community i feel in watching my in-laws in their yards behind us.

a dear friend visited today - the same one, coincidentally, having visited last year as the trees were being cut down. the boy delighted in her company, asking her to pick him up, leaning his head against her chest as she held him. behaviors he's only shown to me, his father, and his nana until now he freely offered to her, having met her only a few times.

we walked outside, shared talk of the flowers, the birds. my friend pointed out that the violets under the forsythia are blooming from yesterday's rain (the first in two weeks). i dug up a birch sapling and a small silky dogwood from our vegetable garden, seeded there by the forest that was cut down last year. we set them in the ground beside the new road, in the drainage ditch that replaces our marshy forest.

tonight, a peeper calls from the drainage ditch, or perhaps from the puddle that extends permanently from it out into our yard. it comes to me that the marsh is still there. it's been levelled, much has been covered over, and there has been an attempt to grow grass there, but the water of the marsh remains nonetheless. i will reclaim it by bringing in the plants that were removed: dogwoods, birches, perhaps introducing speckled alders from other swamps, native species who will contribute to the ecosystem. i can bring in plants that will thrive in the water and who will offer to the chickadees, peepers, all of its previous inhabitants the same shelters and nourishment provided by the original swamp.

i heard on the radio today that there is a burgeoning movement in our country to provide rights to nature and ecosystems such that even though one might have ownership of a parcel of land, the ecosytems on that land would be provided some measure of protection. (i wanted to provide a link here to this movement, but haven't been able to find it on the web.)

Thanks

i have begun again to give thanks before i eat and drink, pausing a moment to hold in my awareness all of the beings who worked and gave so that i can be fed. thanks to the animals and plants who give their bodies, milk, eggs, fruit for our food. thanks to the insects who pollinate the plants. thanks to the earth, who holds and nourishes the plants, animals, all of us. thanks to the sun, whose light feeds the plants who feed us all. thanks to water, which feeds the plants, animals, us. thanks to all of the humans who worked with the food, who carried it over miles, so that it could be here for me.

i haven't given thanks in a long time in this way. living without others who give thanks when they eat, at least in a visible way, i have slowly shied away from it, opting over time to take the quieter route, to not stand out. as i return again to this more full version of myself, as i again pay respects to my inner calling by paying respect to those things that let me live, i return to myself in a profound way.

Equinox

welcome spring.

today i bought a swing for the boy. hung it in the apple tree in our backyard, sat him in it just as husband was getting home from work. we both laughed to see how he loved it. initially the boy laughed and laughed, looking at us both, pouring his love of it out to us. then, eyes still gleaming, he slipped into a swing-trance, lids lowering, and just sang "ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" for entire breaths as he swung forward and back, forward and back, a reverie of pleasure.

later on, indoors, i touched my husband's head, ran my fingers through his hair as he worked at the computer, then cradled the boy's head in my hand while he nursed to sleep in his sling. my two beloved men, safe in our home. how blessed we are, to live in this land in a time of peace. how heartbreaking, so many families living their lives in places of war.

a crow hopped about in the low branches of our red maple the other day. curious, as i rarely seen one so low in a tree. then i saw the twig in its mouth - gathering material for a nest!

saw my first daffodil leaves of the season extending upward today, tucked against a building. straight green stalks of leaves, like sea grass, floating entirely toward the sky.

pruned the forsythia this week, cutting out many of the old central stalks, as the book says, to encourage more flowers on the newer stalks. had to cut several of the new stalks in order to reach the old ones. prayed as i worked that i may cut away some of my old growth, my old habits and behaviors that no longer serve me well, to open up room within myself for flowers, for lightness. that i may accept the pain and discomfort of letting these patterns go in the interest of the new growth.

planning to prune our grand old apple trees again this month, as well as our new little plums, peach, and cherry. once the snow is all cleared and the garden soil a little dried, in with the lettuce! hoping to set up the greenhouse i bought two years ago under the guidance of my friend rick, to shelter and encourage the lettuce.

march 7

so, dear friend, tomorrow is the day to say goodbye. you're all in ashes now, and we gather around you, we who love you.
it's still too much to believe you've died - you, laughing, always awork at something, involved with this or that - how are we to believe that you've left us, you lively spirit?
are you in joy, dancing around us though we grieve, laughing your laugh?
or are you, like us, grief-stricken, unbelieving, mourning this life?
it is a scant two weeks since you were well among us, living just as we do, one of us. now, suddenly, your time has come to be attended to, held, loved, celebrated. how do we remember you when we want you to continue walking with us? how do we allow you to become "memory" when we want you here with us?

i never said to you how much you meant to me. let me say it now.
i never said how i loved your crow's feet when you laughed. how you made us feel welcomed, seen, appreciated. i never told you that the day was brighter when you were there, that i liked to hear what you thought. that it always made me glad to have you around. i never told you that you were good company, that the world was a nicer place because you were in it. these things are known without words, but you deserve to be told them, as well.
friend, how do we let go of you when we weren't ready for you to die? you are still so vibrant in our minds, so recent our memories of you, so alive. why aren't you alive?
where do we find you now? in our own love of things. in the spring approaching, carrying to us the sun, the breezes warm on our skin, hands in the earth to dig, plant, tend. in the apple blossoms that will come, the daffodils, crocuses, lilacs. in shared laughter. in our own fear. in our willingness to be ouselves fully, openly, courageously, truthfully, even when those around us don't understand why we must be different. where do we find you? in the arms of our friends, in gentleness, in the lightness of laughter that lifts us up and out of our troubles. in our impulse to help, and help.
the rain will still fall over your land, the sun will still warm it, inviting your flowers to rise and bloom, only this spring will be without you. and more will come, and the plants you buried in the earth will continue in their ways, placed by the design from your heart. your trees will quiver in the wind, and will continue to hold safely the nests of the birds.
where do we find you? the love we have for you is made of you, generated by who you are, who we were as friends. if you had not lived, it would not be there, so the love itself is you, your effect on us. when we feel it, it is you being held in our hearts that we feel.
may we all be so loved, and so released.

Rick

my friend rick died today.

he'd been having chest pains on monday, went to his doctor. doctor told him to go directly to the hospital. rick decided he "had some things to do", and went home first. he collapsed there. they started his heart back up on the way to the hospital. his body was alive for this last week, but we never knew if he was there. we all surrounded him for the past week: his family, his friends, his coworkers. we all surrounded him, loved him, told him we were angry with him, told him we loved him, told him we wanted him to come back to us, to share in this life with us some more. told him we love the world that has him in it, his laughter, his lovely crow's feet that accompany his laughter, his sparkling eyes. his delight in crudities, his inexplicable, laughing attempts to lure everyone he knew to go see the midgets at the local strip club, despite his being openly gay. told him we were sorry for this thing, sorry for that thing. i told him i was sorry i didn't go see him last thursday when he asked me to come by with the boy for a visit at my old job. told him i didn't have a good reason for not going to see him that day, i could have fit it easily into my day, i just decided to do errands, giving up my last chance to see him, talk to him, the last chance for him to know my boy, to share in all of his joie de vivre. told him it meant a lot to me that he'd asked me to come in, knowing, as i do, that that is a special request coming from him.

our shared friend told me the news tonight.

my dad and his dog, tennessee, came up for a visit today, our monthly house-hunting day. just before leaving the house, i discovered a peculiar plumbing situation in the basement, and we ended up spending our whole visit bailing out sewage and calling plumbers, excavators, etc. at one point in the afternoon, as i was leaning out the basement window, passing a sump pump back and forth with the plumber, trying to control flowing water outside and inside the house at the same time, our yard dug up into muddy piles of earth and snow, no one knowing if our basement was soon going to be under 3 inches of sewage, and rick in my heart all the while, my attention was drawn past the gathered men to the apple boughs by the porch. there was a little dark-eyed junco, flitting about the bough. it was so perfect: dark above, light below, perfectly clean movements, joyful little creature. a simple bird in a tree. it was such a site of perfection, a place and moment of pure beauty on the earth, in the midst of mess and grief.

i held the boy as i cried tonight. i sang rick onward, sang thanks for his life, for his having a community who loves him, for the gift of having walked for a time beside him, for his passing back to creator. the boy sat in my lap, playing quietly. every once in a while, he reached his hand up and put his fingers inside my mouth. his own little gesture, letting me know we were still together.

Sunset

visiting my childhood home, my father's home now. getting the boy ready for bed up in one of our old rooms, the sun pouring an orange rectangle onto the wall. the crabapple branches offered it the shape of webs; criss-crossing, swaying, gray webs in the peach light. ancient cobwebs never dusted down, fallen into each other, no distinguishable pattern. dancing, just as they are.

Glorious Day