Gratitude for a Life

My dear Pasha flew away from here on a cold Monday morning, January 20.

People often call their cats their babies, it never felt right to me. My life was 

enormously enriched in relationship to another being, the wise and profoundly 

present, Pasha. The many months of coming to terms with this coming transition, 

the bone-deep grieving in anticipation, has lessened the pain, but the loss is enormous.

I have had the week to cleanse and clear and sink into the reality of living without 

him here with me. I have had a lot of support. 

I feel deeply grateful for having been chosen by this wild spirit as his human. 

Maybe someday I will tell that story - of how we came together - but not now. This 

loss on top of the loss of my mother last year - well, I am fragile - doing OK, but 

fragile. 

Misha Pasha Willow Bear

I am deeply grateful for the wild and free life you shared with me, 

I feel your spirit flying free. 

Blessed blessed be. 

P.S. It was an intense few weeks... thanks for your comments on the last post, 

I didn't get to replying. 

A Song at the End of a Life

"The death of a beloved is an event that rings and rings through life:

bearing it is not a problem to be solved, but a long, slow piece of music to listen
 to. And mourning, like music, is best listened to with others."    Sarah Miles 

I'm not one to avoid the hard things...and coming here tonight feels hard. Mom died 

in mid-October, the day before my birthday. She loved reading this blog and was one 

of my most enthusiastic supporters. My sister and I got to Florida in time to spend 

two good days with her before she began the active dying process. On Saturday when 

we arrived, she was alert, talkative, sitting up and and so relieved that we made it in time. Hospice came a day and a half later, and by Tuesday afternoon, she had flown 

away with the birds. There were profound gifts of beauty and love along with the pain and deepening grief. It was a gift to be able to offer her healing work during her last days, and to sing to her as she died. My sister and father sang with me as she slipped more and more into dreaming. In her final moments, we sang Swing Low Sweet Chariot and marveled at the chorus of birds outside her window as she took her last breaths. 

Being with the land is a great solace, as always, and soon some of Mom's ashes will 

be spread in the moss garden here, a decision that she made after I first moved here, 

long, long before her illness. I think a stone bench and a birdbath are in order, to 

tuck amongst the mosses and ferns, so we - the birds and I - can continue our singing. 

I don't have a lot to say tonight, so I offer you images. I needed to come here and 
write this to mark this moment, to say that I am OK, up and down as the grief process 
is - not making much art. I'm walking and looking and taking photographs, and marveling at the astonishing beauty of water drops on shriveled weeds and the November forest surrendering to the coming winter.