Dust

Going through a bunch of drawers in an effort to clean out and let go of outdated or irrelevant stuff, I came across a good measure of dust. This kind of dust is unpleasant and it always feels good to wash it out, and away. It got me to thinking about a different kind of dust, of a more healing type. There is a dust that softens pain, loss by patiently reminding us that time has passed, that wounds heal, and that out of the loss, new life and chances can be born. I found a little dried flower, and a little towel, whose frail threads were letting in light as I held it up. It seemed an act of mercy, reminding me that time does not stand still, no matter how much we would like it to sometimes. To feel the precious little dried flower turn to a fragrant dust in my fingers, and to see the sentiments attached to the piece of fabric turn to shredded pieces, almost like snowflakes of a memory past, made me sigh with relief at the understanding that a time comes when even grief becomes irrelevant and we must nod acceptance to new opportunities and carry the memories in our hearts, not in in our faded drawers. Nature is merciful in its implacable laws of making sure the organic process of decay takes its due course. It feels harsh and even merciless when a wound of a loss is fresh, but over time you realize that implacability is an act of love. Nature renews itself endlessly, and follows a logic that may offend our sensibilities emotionally, but that cyclical rhythm is a way to guarantee that life continues to thrive, to go forward, to stay relevant, strong, fresh. Our bafflement with the irreversible passage of time and the ravages it brings, and the death it brings inevitably of all our lives, makes us want to hang on, through pictures, paintings, sculptures of the people and beings that mean the world to us. But that is an illusion. People who die don't come back. Wherever they are, it is not with us anymore. Accepting that is easier when we see that time passes, like a cherished flower a loved one gave us that finally turns to dust in our hands. I am grateful for that process, as I clean out drawers and find pictures of people I lost who look so alive in the photos I am holding. The precious little flower especially, given so long ago, is a reminder that time has irrevocably changed, and that I will never again hold a fresh flower picked by the person I loved and who died. Acceptance is a difficult thing, when it comes to loss, but nature's wisdom in the matter is, to me, a blessing.

I Walk Alone

This morning on the way home, I heard the line in Greenday 's song "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" : "I Walk Alone", and it hit a nerve. After being in the US for 37 years now, there is definitely a strong thread in my story line that is made up of a 100% solitude. I walk alone, I do, in many respects, as far as my perspective goes, as far as my understanding and emotions go, when it comes to absorbing the new culture that I have been soaked in since I was 19. I now realize that walking alone, emotionally, does not mean you are alone physically, or that you are isolated. It just means your world and the way you see it, because of multiple layers of experiences and understandings, and adjustments, limits you in the ability to share that perspective in an environment that gives you an audience, whether they be family or friends, that can relate to you, let alone understand you. After many years of being able to let that predicament season like a good wine, I have reached a place of peace, acceptance and even tolerance of my immigrant's bitter-sweet point of view and perch. The often precarious perch offers me strength, charisma and an almost endless patience with conflicting ideas, people, circumstances. On a bad day, I call it detachment, on a good day, wisdom. It is not an easy place to be, but it is definitely interesting. There are definitely times I feel the pain of not having a supportive family of in-laws, of having had a disastrous blood family, of having always to struggle with relevant friendships that allow me to share my deeper interests. It just did not happen. Who knows why. My writing is a way to express and share my unique experiences and perspectives, and hopefully provide meaning to people with similar experiences, or an interest in the experiences. Over the years I have developed a deep love and passion for animals, especially neglected and abused animals, and I know that solitude is a trait in cats. In that way, having been close to four cats that were pets over the last 13 years, has allowed me to appreciate solitude as a viable life style that has its benefits. On the other hand, I am also painfully aware of how heartbreaking that solitude can become when it is not a choice , but enforced, as more than one chained up and caged dog in our neighborhood know that I have helped and am still trying to help. My own situation, on a good day, is that of the contented solitary cat, like Sneakers, our tabby we had for 13 years. On a bad day, my situation is that of the caged dog, howling its frustrated despair wondering the why of the cruelty. Most days fall somewhere in between, as I would imagine most people's lives fall, somewhere between purgatory and a peaceful oasis for our hopes and dreams.

Seasons in the Sun

There is a song that Terry Jacks made popular in 1974 called "Seasons in the Sun". I always loved this song, mostly because of the line, " it is hard to die when all the birds are singing in the sky", referring to how hard it is to give up life. Yesterday, my most favorite cat, who walked in to our garden 13 years ago, died after she suffered a massive stroke. I nicknamed her "Tinker Bell", because of a little bell she wore on her collar, to give the birds fair warning. She was part Siamese, and had the most amazing clear blue eyes, and the softest fur, that reminded me of a chinchilla's fur, so thick and rich and soft. Sneakers had this marvelous ability to enjoy each and every day. She loved being outside, and she loved to snuggle on her soft blankets. I had recently bought her a new one, and she would burrow her face deep into it, and snore contentedly. When she was dying, I realized she wanted to go outside, and it was a gorgeous, sunny day, about 78degrees Fahrenheit, under a bright turquoise sky. I wrapped her up gently and put her down near one of her most favorite summer spots, near the old honey suckle bush, where the shade dappled the bright sun light. She relaxed, and I stayed with her, watching her struggle to hang on to every breath. The birds were singing, the bees were buzzing around her, as there was a bunch of butter cups nearby. It broke my heart to see her die, this great companion of mine for 13 years, who loved life so very much. Yesterday she was still heartily eating tuna, lapping up the fresh water I brought her, purring as I comforted her, and petted her. Then, she fell silent, and hot tears started streaming down my cheeks. There was this silence, this reverence at this sacred event we do not understand anymore, called dying. But, outside, it took on a quality of mystic beauty. I told my husband and my 21 year old son that when my time came, if possible, to take me outside, to my garden, where nature seems to have an intuitive respect and acceptance of death and its mystery. I am always surprised how many people are afraid of death. My husband and son can't even talk about it. I remember when my youngest sister committed suicide 15 years ago, and I went to her funeral in Georgia, how I touched her ice cold hands, and kissed her ice cold forehead goodbye at the wake, and I felt this warm glow of energy from her in return. It was awesome. While my father and my other sister, who died 7 years later, could hardly make themselves look at her, let alone touch her. But if you accept the event, if you can or happen to be there, open yourself to the experience, and you will not only bring great comfort to the dying person, or even loved animal companion, but you will receive something in return. A deep peace, a gentle understanding that life and death are two sides of a much larger mystery that only silence and respect can briefly reveal . Today, the sky is overcast, the air is cooler, but yesterday the day was glorious, celebrating in the small part of my world the passing of a great animal companion, with whom I truly had many a splendid season in the sun. My heart aches for I really loved her, and I will miss her very much, because apart from her warmth and ease, she ties me to a deep love for the peace and joy nature can bring, as she well knew. Sneakers taught me that every day is a gift, to not worry, to just enjoy and be grateful for what you have ,and not worry about what you don't have. I do not know where her spirit is now, but I know the love she gave me and that I have for her will stay in my beating heart for as long as I breathe, until it is my time also to let go, hopefully on a sunny day, outside in my garden, with the presence and comfort of someone who cares about me, loves me and respects and accepts what is happening. Sneakers will be buried tonight in a little wooden coffin my husband made, resting on her sweet blanket, with some buttercup flowers I put on the blanket before we closed the lid. We will bury her near her favorite spot in the garden, where I will visit her often, and talk to her still.