Right now I'm thinking of pets past.  Pets Passed.  Blessings to you who've provided comfy, happy, loving homes for animals who needed you. 

Zebu, the younger of my two Chinese Cresteds, died on June 19th of this year.  He was 12 and 1/2 years old.  I'm still working through the grief.  I know that sounds crazy to people without a great love for pets. 

Earlier in the year, my younger daughter's and son-in-law's cat Goliath died at an advanced age.  I grieve with them.  He was a giant among cats, and I'll miss sharing my ice cream with him when I'm in Orlando.  A few years ago he inspired me to write and illustrate some Haiku as I saw him lying next to the window, watching and dreaming of the hunt (though he was purely an indoor boy).

                                               


Merciful and kind are you who appreciate the wild ones, feed them when they need food, provide them with water, protect them, and concern yourselves over their ability to survive in a world increasingly unacquainted with the untamed.

Like many of you, I've also experienced the loss of some very important, beloved members of my extended human family this year. There have been eulogies, celebrations of their lives, and grieving which leave me nothing to say, except I miss them, love them, and always will.  

I believe we benefit from taking time to think through the comings and goings of lives intertwined with our own.  How have they, even the animals in our care, shaped us?

bb

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens...

Ecclesiastes 3:1

(New International Version IV)

It's bitter cold this morning.  A light snowfall persists, disproving the "no accumulation" prediction I just heard on the radio. I sweep a path across the patio from the back door to the yard, to make it less daunting for my hairless dog Zulu.  Even dressed in his little sweater, he backs away when he feels the cold air, so I'm carrying him outside.

There's something appropriate about the bitter cold arriving between Christmas and the new year. My sense of "being here" in the fullness of the present shivers and makes room for the past and future.

Seemingly random thoughts appear in front of me like the warm fog I breathe into the air while putting out seed for the birds. Words? Emotions? Pictures? Memories and Possibilities hang there in a nebulous cluster and dissipate with my next breath. I'm adrift, in a blizzard of wonder over what's happened in my life and what's yet to come.      

I love warmth and comfort, whether stretched out in a hammock beneath the summer shade trees or snuggled in a soft blanket in front of the fireplace watching the snow beyond the windows. Yet, when the startling wind of a brittle freeze stings my skin and burns my eyes, it can serve to shake me awake.  I'm reminded of the mystery and the magnificence of life from beginning to end. 

As the new year comes into view, I hope to spend time in meditation of all that I cherish, blessings I've received, people and situations I've learned from, sorrows experienced, mistakes I've made, and pain I've caused. (I'll strive to do this without self-hatred, for God loves his creation, and so must I.)  Resting into the presence of the Holy Spirit, I'll allow him to show me what He will of days to come.

I'm guarding against worry, praying for the world and all its creatures, and am filled with joy and gratitude. 

Oh, by the way, I'm not forgetting to pray for all those who are working outside or struggling in unheated conditions during these frigid days!  The winter cold, polar vortex, arctic front, or whatever we're calling it this time is way beyond metaphor for them.

--BB


                                               

On the Evening of Her 92nd Birthday

My mother is passing.

I watch her try, half-spirited, to stay awake, present in the room.
Her heartbeat is conspicuously visible on the side of her neck.
I stroke her white hair.
She can keep her eyes open for only a moment, and even then, I suspect she’s asleep.
Her face is still, with no sign of dreams.  Perhaps she experiences something deeper and fuller than dreams:
something that doesn't require intellectual strength or knowledge of any sort known to us;
something that comforts;
something that confirms to her inner self what it’s known forever;
something she won’t remember upon waking, but will not be forgotten;
something that eases her detachment as she steps away from us and toward Other, unknowingly content.
 
I don’t believe God pulls her away. In His unfailing love which we cannot fathom, He simply accompanies her as He always has.

Surely it's only death that can finally remove the veil separating earthbound creation from complete knowledge of Creator...yet, I ponder the fabric of the veil.  Something speaks to me of a veil of many layers. Whether it be an instant or gradual death, will we begin to glimpse with our spirit-selves the incomprehensible mystery while becoming part of it? Because this mystery is inconceivable to the human brain, does our consciousness remain confounded to the last?  Does our brain through its miraculous design grapple with the unknown and begin to dance with the Holy Spirit in a lovely choreography of Here and There?  Is there an intensifying of the Light we've known here? Are there precious visions of those who are there?

 Our souls must fill to the point of bursting with what they learn through the Spirit’s counsel and love as we step into eternal awareness.

 

--bb
*I don't mean to alarm--my mother was indeed only sleeping, if a bit differently to my eye.  She is passing, but has been leaving us for some time now and none of us know how long the good bye will continue.  Every moment is dear to us, as I'm sure it is for you and those you love.

Now

Despite everything

because of everything

I’m here. 

Not merely here, but present in this moment

intentionally present in each as it comes

leaving the last one where it is

and moving on

into now. 

 

Now is where I find contentment and joy. 

Life is most sacred here and God most apparent. 

Unlike my joy, happiness doesn’t dwell here, nor does sorrow. 

They pass through, are passed through, leaving their marks and memories-- 

and all of these,

my realities,

are ingredients of my being. 

Today and every today.

 

Being here is sacred work.

 

bb