Golden light
Golden leaves
Golden air
Golden earth.
No fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin
Spins gold from straw at this address.
No yellow brick road
Dances toward the Emerald City.
No celluloid print
No well-worn book
Shapeshifts into this golden autumn day.
This precious gold
Has no proprietor.
No author, no director.
No princess. No dwarf.
No whirlwind trip from Kansas
Nor thrice-clicked heels
to get from here—where’s here?—to there.
It surges out of earth
each spring. A stream
of life-filled sap
to dimple buds,
glow into emerald leaves,
Harbor nests of songbirds,
Release oxygen to an azure sky.
And, yes, as
Darkness overtakes day
And temperatures plummet,
Golden shines from sky
Falls to earth
Composts to richness
Readies itself.
Though it feels like forever
Soon enough it will rise
through roots, trunk,
branches, leaves
Pressing skyward
Then floating ...
gently, down....
Each fall a fantasy unfurls
Calling trees to harmonious collusion:
It’s a seasonal dispute. As glossy summer green
Shrinks, shivering, from winter’s wiles
Fall brackets herself between them
Saluting both
With golden flames of brilliance.
Here, Under the Forest Canopy, we’re plunged into a blaze of gold. The forest, characteristically dark and quiet, demands: “See me. Adore my beauty. Breathe it in deeply.”
Fall’s grand display nears its final curtain call. Leaves drift toward Earth more quickly. Their light-infused hue darkens as they fade from brilliant yellow to rose, rust, then trembling brown.... Soon enough they’ll blacken ‘neath a thick down of white.
But next year we re-member this story....
The cast of characters remains the same with some old wood logged off and new, hardy saplings standing straight and true. The costumes, of course, are fully recycled. They’ll look like new—made fresh this season—since no one player dares wear the same dress twice. The colors are astonishing. You’ll swear that you’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful ...
‘til next year.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Living with Diabetes ... in Print and Otherwise
“Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices” arrived in the mail last week. I devoured it whole.
The book—which contained one of my contributions—was published in 2004. I missed news of its publication because, in the interim between writing and submitting my piece and its’ eventual printing, I moved to Bayfield, WI. Once I wandered into the woods I became a creature of the forest and, literally, lost track of my previous life—and pursuits—in the city. (See September 21, 2009 post: “Reflections on a Life with Google.”)
Sure enough, reading this book was an affirming, alarming, fear-inducing, reassuring, and ... a power-full and power-filled experience. Of course, I write this sentence immediately after testing my blood sugars for the fourth time today and discovering—after a day of higher-than-normal sugars—that I’m now too low. Don’t worry. I’m chomping on an apple as I write.
The stories contained in this book are reminiscent of stories told in the diabetes support group I formed and co-facilitated in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Members of my support group—and this book group—share our fears, challenges, hopes, and failures openly with each other because we trust that those of us with this disease understand. We’ve lived life, day-after-day and year-after-year, knowing how unruly and unmanageable, how frustrating and flagrant, how debilitating and rehabilitating diabetes' effects are on our lives and relationships. And—most significantly—on our bodies and souls.
I formed my support group several years after my diagnosis when a relaxing soak in the tub segued into a four-hour plunge into unconsciousness. After several years of living with insulin-dependent diabetes I quickly learned the dangers and disasters of insulin treatment for the disease. But I also discovered from other women in our group that there were untold complications that haunted and plagued us as well.
The most frightening story came from a group member who suffered from autonomic neuropathy. Over a 14 year period her internal organs slowed ... and then shut down one by one. Diagnosed at 21 she too-soon experienced stomach, kidney, and intestinal problems that led to a pancreas transplant. When the transplant failed, her complications continued to mount. She died at age 35.
THIS BOOK is a support group too. It goes beyond the firsthand experiences of people with diabetes to include family and friends. And this collection of stories and poems is filled with emotion: longing, regret, strength, resilience, anger, fear, and reconciliation.
It’s liberating to delve into the subterranean expanse of diabetes, a place that’s typically occupied only by those of us who live with diabetes and those family members and friends who live closely with us. The reader quickly confronts his or her misperceptions about diabetes. Clearly, low-sugar diets and regular exercise are minor players in a complex regimen of self-care.
I’m proud and honored to be included in this collection of stories and poems about life with diabetes. It proves undeniably that anyone who lives with this illness cannot be labeled or categorized by the one-word descriptor: diabetic. We—and those who love us—have learned to incorporate diabetes into our lives but not to become it.
One thing is clear from reading this book: There are still too many misperceptions about this disease ... so much unnecessary shame. Too many fearful and challenging moments when we discover diabetes’ debilitating effects on body and mind, energy, relationships, and so much more.
But this book also proves something I’ve known for many years: We are survivors. As we balance on the tightrope of diabetes self-management we discover that, despite the highs and lows (blood sugar and otherwise), we will continue on ...
The book—which contained one of my contributions—was published in 2004. I missed news of its publication because, in the interim between writing and submitting my piece and its’ eventual printing, I moved to Bayfield, WI. Once I wandered into the woods I became a creature of the forest and, literally, lost track of my previous life—and pursuits—in the city. (See September 21, 2009 post: “Reflections on a Life with Google.”)
Sure enough, reading this book was an affirming, alarming, fear-inducing, reassuring, and ... a power-full and power-filled experience. Of course, I write this sentence immediately after testing my blood sugars for the fourth time today and discovering—after a day of higher-than-normal sugars—that I’m now too low. Don’t worry. I’m chomping on an apple as I write.
The stories contained in this book are reminiscent of stories told in the diabetes support group I formed and co-facilitated in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Members of my support group—and this book group—share our fears, challenges, hopes, and failures openly with each other because we trust that those of us with this disease understand. We’ve lived life, day-after-day and year-after-year, knowing how unruly and unmanageable, how frustrating and flagrant, how debilitating and rehabilitating diabetes' effects are on our lives and relationships. And—most significantly—on our bodies and souls.
I formed my support group several years after my diagnosis when a relaxing soak in the tub segued into a four-hour plunge into unconsciousness. After several years of living with insulin-dependent diabetes I quickly learned the dangers and disasters of insulin treatment for the disease. But I also discovered from other women in our group that there were untold complications that haunted and plagued us as well.
The most frightening story came from a group member who suffered from autonomic neuropathy. Over a 14 year period her internal organs slowed ... and then shut down one by one. Diagnosed at 21 she too-soon experienced stomach, kidney, and intestinal problems that led to a pancreas transplant. When the transplant failed, her complications continued to mount. She died at age 35.
THIS BOOK is a support group too. It goes beyond the firsthand experiences of people with diabetes to include family and friends. And this collection of stories and poems is filled with emotion: longing, regret, strength, resilience, anger, fear, and reconciliation.
It’s liberating to delve into the subterranean expanse of diabetes, a place that’s typically occupied only by those of us who live with diabetes and those family members and friends who live closely with us. The reader quickly confronts his or her misperceptions about diabetes. Clearly, low-sugar diets and regular exercise are minor players in a complex regimen of self-care.
I’m proud and honored to be included in this collection of stories and poems about life with diabetes. It proves undeniably that anyone who lives with this illness cannot be labeled or categorized by the one-word descriptor: diabetic. We—and those who love us—have learned to incorporate diabetes into our lives but not to become it.
One thing is clear from reading this book: There are still too many misperceptions about this disease ... so much unnecessary shame. Too many fearful and challenging moments when we discover diabetes’ debilitating effects on body and mind, energy, relationships, and so much more.
But this book also proves something I’ve known for many years: We are survivors. As we balance on the tightrope of diabetes self-management we discover that, despite the highs and lows (blood sugar and otherwise), we will continue on ...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Apple Cider and ... Cheese & Beer & Snow
Yesterday I woke to a winter wonderland—hey, wait a minute, fall’s barely begun—trees, leaves, cars, and earth covered with two inches of heavy, wet, frozen ... snow? I know. Just a few days ago I wrote about leaves gradually transforming from green to scarlet and gold. It WAS shocking. And, no, I wasn’t ready!
The snow motivated me to pick the last two tiny zucchinis off the vine. Later in the afternoon we drove to a friend’s home to press apples for cider. Our host told us that rain would postpone the event but ... snow did not.
A group of 15-20 picked and chopped apples then pressed and strained them through a large wooden cider press. Our reward was a gallon jug each of fresh sweetness. The afternoon brimmed with conversation, laughter, shared labor, and a well-deserved mug of hot cider to warm frosty hands.
On Friday night Frances and I attended Lou and Peter Berryman’s concert. This folk singing duo composes songs that tumble out of their mouths, flip through the air, and somersault into audience member’s heads. What a thrill to discover performers who LOVE words. The intricate word-webs that Lou and Peter create with their accordion, guitar, professional artistry, and wicked wordiness are delicious.
Humor hurtles through the Berrymans’ performance. Many songs are fabricated conversations highlighting the foibles and frailties of the human species. Their facility with language—and Lou’s ability to articulate complex and tangled phrases—is astounding.
Songs spring from common, day-to-day experience and indelicately critique the off-kilter lives we lead. One song about Wisconsin covered the three main themes of life in our Midwestern state: “Cheese & Beer & Snow.” Another asked the listener “Why am I Painting the Living Room?” as the singer/songwriter listed a host of other more enlightened political causes s/he could pursue.
Lou admitted to an inability to yodel. She and Peter then proceeded to impress us with their “Double Yodel” in which Peter sang the lower part and Lou joined in at the top range. Their double yodel was, indeed, a masterful maneuvering of intricate timing.
“Does Your Dog Agonize?” reminded me of our dog, Namasté. “Artiste Interrupted,” a fanciful venture into creativity, revealed how impossible it is to choose one art form when the artiste has limited talent in all potentialities. Again, Lou’s ability to interrupt herself while singing highlighted the inability of artistic types to settle on one—just one—art form.
I particularly loved the Berryman’s song, “Walking with Roget.” Peter blasted us with clichés then guided us through a world of synonyms for “walk” from Roget’s Thesaurus. Luckily, I strolled and slithered, slunk and traversed right alongside them as they wended their way through a hilarious evening of music and fun. My conclusion? “Winter’s not here yet!”
The snow motivated me to pick the last two tiny zucchinis off the vine. Later in the afternoon we drove to a friend’s home to press apples for cider. Our host told us that rain would postpone the event but ... snow did not.
A group of 15-20 picked and chopped apples then pressed and strained them through a large wooden cider press. Our reward was a gallon jug each of fresh sweetness. The afternoon brimmed with conversation, laughter, shared labor, and a well-deserved mug of hot cider to warm frosty hands.
On Friday night Frances and I attended Lou and Peter Berryman’s concert. This folk singing duo composes songs that tumble out of their mouths, flip through the air, and somersault into audience member’s heads. What a thrill to discover performers who LOVE words. The intricate word-webs that Lou and Peter create with their accordion, guitar, professional artistry, and wicked wordiness are delicious.
Humor hurtles through the Berrymans’ performance. Many songs are fabricated conversations highlighting the foibles and frailties of the human species. Their facility with language—and Lou’s ability to articulate complex and tangled phrases—is astounding.
Songs spring from common, day-to-day experience and indelicately critique the off-kilter lives we lead. One song about Wisconsin covered the three main themes of life in our Midwestern state: “Cheese & Beer & Snow.” Another asked the listener “Why am I Painting the Living Room?” as the singer/songwriter listed a host of other more enlightened political causes s/he could pursue.
Lou admitted to an inability to yodel. She and Peter then proceeded to impress us with their “Double Yodel” in which Peter sang the lower part and Lou joined in at the top range. Their double yodel was, indeed, a masterful maneuvering of intricate timing.
“Does Your Dog Agonize?” reminded me of our dog, Namasté. “Artiste Interrupted,” a fanciful venture into creativity, revealed how impossible it is to choose one art form when the artiste has limited talent in all potentialities. Again, Lou’s ability to interrupt herself while singing highlighted the inability of artistic types to settle on one—just one—art form.
I particularly loved the Berryman’s song, “Walking with Roget.” Peter blasted us with clichés then guided us through a world of synonyms for “walk” from Roget’s Thesaurus. Luckily, I strolled and slithered, slunk and traversed right alongside them as they wended their way through a hilarious evening of music and fun. My conclusion? “Winter’s not here yet!”
Friday, October 9, 2009
Live-giving. Breathtaking.
That’s fall in the north woods of Wisconsin.
I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.
But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.
Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.
This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.
Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.
I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)
My thoughts exactly.
I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.
But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.
Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.
This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.
Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.
I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)
My thoughts exactly.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tumbling Temps and Withering Winds ...
Suddenly, unexpectedly, autumn arrived.
Fall equinox came and went a week ago. Nonetheless I always hope that seasonal changes will occur gently and slowly, allowing my blood and bones time to acclimate to colder temps and drier air with ease and, even, affability.
No such luck. Last week’s hot, sunny days segued into rain, wind, and spiraling temperatures. Nature’s tree trimmer—the wind—blew through yesterday loosening and flinging branches over yard and drive. Today I woke to temps near 30 degrees. I’ve already heard tonight’s prediction: frost warning with temperatures dropping into the 20s.
“It’s too early!” my body whines.
“Get used to it,” Mother Nature seems to say, “You are an adult now, aren’t you?”
Ironically, the leaves have barely begun to color. Oaks, maples, poplar, and birch are still luscious green with occasional yellows and splashes of red scattered throughout the forest and along the roadsides. But our wood stove is fired up and blazing. It’s clearly time to switch to flannel sheets on the bed. And I’m back to wearing my fleece jacket, a full-time fashion statement until May or June.
This morning when I opened the door to the goose barn a bird fluttered, frantically, inside. The hay bale walls are roofed with a pickup topper to allow light into Lucy and Ander’s home. I could see the entrapped winged-one before I propped open the door.
After feeding and watering the big birds I returned to the barn and opened the end of the topper. I expect that the bird, who won’t fly out the lower barn door, will easily exit via the open topper. I’ll check later to see if my strategy worked. Who knows? It’s my guess that these withering winds encourage everyone—including the birds—to stay inside.
Fall equinox came and went a week ago. Nonetheless I always hope that seasonal changes will occur gently and slowly, allowing my blood and bones time to acclimate to colder temps and drier air with ease and, even, affability.
No such luck. Last week’s hot, sunny days segued into rain, wind, and spiraling temperatures. Nature’s tree trimmer—the wind—blew through yesterday loosening and flinging branches over yard and drive. Today I woke to temps near 30 degrees. I’ve already heard tonight’s prediction: frost warning with temperatures dropping into the 20s.
“It’s too early!” my body whines.
“Get used to it,” Mother Nature seems to say, “You are an adult now, aren’t you?”
Ironically, the leaves have barely begun to color. Oaks, maples, poplar, and birch are still luscious green with occasional yellows and splashes of red scattered throughout the forest and along the roadsides. But our wood stove is fired up and blazing. It’s clearly time to switch to flannel sheets on the bed. And I’m back to wearing my fleece jacket, a full-time fashion statement until May or June.
This morning when I opened the door to the goose barn a bird fluttered, frantically, inside. The hay bale walls are roofed with a pickup topper to allow light into Lucy and Ander’s home. I could see the entrapped winged-one before I propped open the door.
After feeding and watering the big birds I returned to the barn and opened the end of the topper. I expect that the bird, who won’t fly out the lower barn door, will easily exit via the open topper. I’ll check later to see if my strategy worked. Who knows? It’s my guess that these withering winds encourage everyone—including the birds—to stay inside.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Reflections on a Life with Google
Last night I Googled “Steph Winter.” I was curious. What pieces of my personal information dangle listlessly and/or skyrocket around the universe on the World Wide Web?
My inspiration to conduct this Google research came after last week’s visit from two friends. We discussed the dangers of identity theft over lunch. One friend then insisted that it was important to regularly monitor our own public information.
I’d also recently listened to a public radio story that profiled a man who’d purposefully tried to stay hidden for a minimum of 30 days but was discovered—via previous public profiles and current fabricated profiles—in less time. This man, I believe he was a journalist, was surprised to discover how easily he could be found and how quickly his ruse could unravel through bits of information posted on the internet.
Well, it didn’t seem likely that this Steph Winter would be found any time soon. I plugged through page after page of listings. Page one indicated that I was signed up with LinkedIn, a professional networking site. I admit, I signed on at the invitation of one of the aforementioned friends but I’d never gone any further than posting my name and business information.
Next came innumerable other Steph Winters—there are a lot of us! We twittered—not me!; facebooked—seldom!; played competitive online games, posted info at MySpace, participated in flixster, and posted videos, poems, pictures—not me!, not me!, not me!, not me!
On page four of the Google listings ... jackpot! I found a link for Frances’ and my business—Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC—published in Travel WI. Next, my name was captured from a copy of the Town of Russell board meeting minutes on May 12, 2009. I’d spoken out against nude dancing at the bar across the road from our house. Then, a link to an article I wrote for the Minnesota Women’s Press many years ago. I’d interviewed the owners and operators of Sacred Sites Tours. The two women tour guides loved my writing and subsequently posted my article on their website.
Okay. So now I was cooking with gas.... On page five of the Google listings I found my blog address. Page six mentioned my appearance at the Bayfield County Board of Supervisor’s meeting on September 30, 2008. Public input about a proposed zoning change to permit an airstrip and 380-acre development in the Town of Russell included Steph Winter reading two short quotes from Moby Dick which had “dramatic meaning.” Yep, that was me.
Finally, on page seven I discovered what I did NOT know about myself.... I’m a published author!
Many years ago—I’m not sure when—I responded to a call for submissions for a book about living with diabetes (in Poets & Writers or another literary magazine). I wrote a piece about walking the tightrope of diabetes self care. In it I included an incident where Minneapolis police found me blacked out in my bathtub with a film crew from the national TV show, “Cops,” conveniently present. I heard that my piece was accepted, later received a letter from the editors notifying contributors that they were still searching for a publisher, and then ... nothing.
In 2002 Frances and I moved to Bayfield. End of story ... or so I thought. In 2004 the book, "Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices," was published. Or, at least, that’s what I found out last night.
Huh, I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about me. Silly. Yet, don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit crazy that we can discover things we don’t know about ourselves while surfing the internet?
My inspiration to conduct this Google research came after last week’s visit from two friends. We discussed the dangers of identity theft over lunch. One friend then insisted that it was important to regularly monitor our own public information.
I’d also recently listened to a public radio story that profiled a man who’d purposefully tried to stay hidden for a minimum of 30 days but was discovered—via previous public profiles and current fabricated profiles—in less time. This man, I believe he was a journalist, was surprised to discover how easily he could be found and how quickly his ruse could unravel through bits of information posted on the internet.
Well, it didn’t seem likely that this Steph Winter would be found any time soon. I plugged through page after page of listings. Page one indicated that I was signed up with LinkedIn, a professional networking site. I admit, I signed on at the invitation of one of the aforementioned friends but I’d never gone any further than posting my name and business information.
Next came innumerable other Steph Winters—there are a lot of us! We twittered—not me!; facebooked—seldom!; played competitive online games, posted info at MySpace, participated in flixster, and posted videos, poems, pictures—not me!, not me!, not me!, not me!
On page four of the Google listings ... jackpot! I found a link for Frances’ and my business—Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC—published in Travel WI. Next, my name was captured from a copy of the Town of Russell board meeting minutes on May 12, 2009. I’d spoken out against nude dancing at the bar across the road from our house. Then, a link to an article I wrote for the Minnesota Women’s Press many years ago. I’d interviewed the owners and operators of Sacred Sites Tours. The two women tour guides loved my writing and subsequently posted my article on their website.
Okay. So now I was cooking with gas.... On page five of the Google listings I found my blog address. Page six mentioned my appearance at the Bayfield County Board of Supervisor’s meeting on September 30, 2008. Public input about a proposed zoning change to permit an airstrip and 380-acre development in the Town of Russell included Steph Winter reading two short quotes from Moby Dick which had “dramatic meaning.” Yep, that was me.
Finally, on page seven I discovered what I did NOT know about myself.... I’m a published author!
Many years ago—I’m not sure when—I responded to a call for submissions for a book about living with diabetes (in Poets & Writers or another literary magazine). I wrote a piece about walking the tightrope of diabetes self care. In it I included an incident where Minneapolis police found me blacked out in my bathtub with a film crew from the national TV show, “Cops,” conveniently present. I heard that my piece was accepted, later received a letter from the editors notifying contributors that they were still searching for a publisher, and then ... nothing.
In 2002 Frances and I moved to Bayfield. End of story ... or so I thought. In 2004 the book, "Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices," was published. Or, at least, that’s what I found out last night.
Huh, I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about me. Silly. Yet, don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit crazy that we can discover things we don’t know about ourselves while surfing the internet?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
In Memory of Hiziki ... and Carlos
Last Thursday was the one-year anniversary of my cat Hiziki’s death. My memories of him still comfort and, sometimes, sadden me. I walk by his grave each morning to hang two bird feeders. When I pass the dangling lavender wreath that marks his burial spot, I offer a greeting: “Good morning, Zeker the Sneaker.”
Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.
This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.
Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, Namasté.
Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, Namasté shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.
The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although Namasté is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.
Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.
Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?
The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.
Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.
What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?
Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.
This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.
Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, Namasté.
Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, Namasté shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.
The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although Namasté is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.
Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.
Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?
The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.
Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.
What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?
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