Sit Spot, Day 21

8:45-9:30 tonight.

The sky still held a bit of light as I sat tonight, a hint of Maxfield Parrish blue. The trees and bushes were still barely visible against the earth, even without the moon up yet.

I moved quietly up into the tree, having to duck under a small, thin, dead branch I did not remember, hanging directly in front of the branch I sit on. It was still securely attached to the tree, so it had not recently fallen or broken, but it bent down almost vertically within the path I generally move, restricting the space I had to navigate.

I was not quite as tired as I usually am at this time of night, and was coming down after a day of new relief: my husband completed his last day of grad school yesterday, and already today he had more energy to help with our boy, preparing meals, all those household things I've been holding down since our son was born. Perhaps this relief is what supported the sacred sit I had tonight.

Perhaps, also, the spirit of my dog was lending his love. His last full day in that life, his last good day in that life, was a year ago today.

Regardless of what good energy uplifted me tonight, I sat in the tree like an animal. I first realized what a grounded place I was in when I recognized that I had no fear whatsoever of animals being in the tree with me. On my first night out, I carried with me a strong fear of the unknown in the tree, of what harm could befall me from placing myself outside in the night in the forest. Tonight, I just sat in the tree like everyone else - the birds, the insects, any animals sharing it as well. It occurred to me to check in with the spider-web indicator: if I am one of the holding points of a spider web connecting me to all other beings around me, am I holding it gently, in balance, as nature does, or am I pulling it, twisting it out of shape with my human-centered cockiness, my irrational fears, my addiction to thinkingthinkingthinking?

And I saw, with quiet celebration, that the web conformed perfectly to the shape of the tree, the way some spider's webs are cupped, curving over several planes, based on the spider's design and the anchors available. I was a small, helpful anchor point for the web tonight, and I was grateful.

When thoughts did come to me, I pushed them on one by one, using the image of pushing images past while scrolling on an Ipod screen (I apologize). As one came up and hollered for me to focus on it, I just gave it a little stroke, pushing it on its way, making room for the next one and the next one, letting them all go, keeping me right there in the tree in the dark night.

I thought of the baby growing within me, so tiny yet, just at the beginning of its life in human form, if it decides to continue on this path. And I thought of all the other mother birds, mother animals, mother insects around me in the forest, on the land around us, who also sat in the still night, their babies growing silently and intently within them.

I was ready to spend all night in the tree, to sleep in the branches with everyone else. There wasn't really an aversion to going back inside, there simply wasn't any reason to go in. Everything I needed was there: fresh air, strong branches, darkness with just a couple of stars twinkling through the upper branches, spring peepers lulling us all into the night.

I climbed down when it felt time. As I began my descent, I had a strong feeling that I would do better to hold still than descend just at that moment, so I paused for a few minutes. I wasn't aware of anyone or anything changing around me, but suddenly the feeling lifted and I felt pushed to move then, so I followed the guidance and went out into the yard.

I paused a couple of times on the way to the house, kneeling on the wet grass, touching it with my hands. Still no reason to go in. Why would I go indoors? Why? It was the most natural thing in the world to be outside with all the other creatures, to get to be in the dark night, on the growing earth. Why discard this gift of belonging?

I followed my guidance as it continued to flow, and found myself led to kneel down on the ground. The choice we faced a year ago tomorrow regarding our dear little dog came washing over me, as it does when it gets a chance: To keep him alive through the excruciating two days of pancreatitis until he healed, and pay money we did not have readily available, or choose to end his life, sparing the future episodes he would likely experience, keeping our money in our hands, ending forever our days of holding him, giving him our love, the chance to make up for having withheld our compassion that his old, blind self so dearly needed?

We chose to end his life.

So tonight I knelt down, and I said for the first time that I believed we may have made the wrong decision by choosing to end his life that day. I believe that it may have been better if we had helped him to heal through that episode, pay the couple, three thousand dollars, and bring him home with us, healthy and vigorous as he was. When he died last year, it was after months of coldness from us because of his blind clinginess, our irritation with and crushing of his joyful singing when it happened to coincide with putting the boy to sleep. If we had helped him heal last year, we could have had another chance to love him, to help him to know his worth, to gentle his life of near-blindness and near-deafness, to take him on the walks he delighted in, to catch our frustrations with him and instead show him the patience and compassion we show our son. This may have been the better choice. Then, when another time came, if it did, to face these choices again, at least we would have filled him with love before sending him on.

It was immensely freeing to confess finally what I have been unwilling to face for this year, that we may have done an awful thing that cannot be undone. I don't know for sure whether we did, but just facing the possibility was real and good and strong, and freed me from the fear of it.

It felt good to say all of this in the night, and I felt complete after sharing it. I had said what I needed to say, and I knew I had been heard. I headed once more in the direction of the house, once more paused and drank in the night, my place in the night, and then felt a calling to go in and write.