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?