Yikes! The last three posts all filled to the brim with death. We all know Death as a part of the cyclical pattern that is life on Earth and in the Universe. It is inescapable, undeniable and frightening to many. Sadness tugs at the heartstrings and depression looms, watching with one eye as it peeks round the corner waiting and wondering if it can claim fresh company. I am a wallower. Ofttimes I've had difficulty moving on; wondering if one morning I'll wake to see Gilbert by the kitchen door, a letter in the mail from Great-Grandmother or a message on my phone from a long-departed cousin. Wallowing, as 50's Gal has pointed out recently, is not healthy. Moving on may seem cold sometimes, but dwelling on sadness and loss only make you miss out on the life that is happening now. The week of rain that persisted following the euthanization of darling Gilbert was an apropos mourning time and I have "moved on" with my life. I remember him, and I always will. Some cultures believe that perpetual mourning over the loss of any loved ones, be they human or otherwise, prevents said loved ones from moving on with their journeys. I am letting Gilbert go.
As for my forward journey, I have not practised much, of late. The Sun allowed me reveling time this past weekend (my days off) and today (on the farm.) I adore rain and the fury it can be, but I was ready for a break after the week of gloom! A little (or a lot) of thunder and lightening would have broken the monotony of the constant grey and intermittent beats of drops on my head, roof and windows. The plants enjoyed it all thoroughly, however, and the farm is in full bloom with lovely flowers and yummy things to eat. Auntie's garden is thankful, too, and so are we for the break in the utility bill for not having to water the aforementioned garden. Still no garden planned by me, though.
Speak of canning, preserving, pickling and root cellars this morning at the breakfast table tickled my fancy and Auntie and I will be reviewing which recipes we'll need to take advantage of and which veggies we'll need to add to the garden for a sated and healthy winter. Self-sustenance always excites me! Until that is possible here, though, I've decided to switch to my local businesses. Among other switches, my local grocer will benefit instead of the Stop&Shop to which I could walk. I hope to eventually be able to bike to the local guy (as he is more than a short walk away) , but convenience will be taking a back seat to community from now on. I'm expecting to save money, too, for all of the impulse items I waste my hard earned cash will stay tucked into their environmentally unfriendly, cardboard or plastic displays, garishly decorated until some other schlub falls for their plumage. Not me! I'm done with that. Auntie and I will be growing our own food (which, as I had stated before, she has already begun), baking our own bread and supporting our local community. Why not?! People did it well into the late 1950's! Why not get to know the local grocer/butcher (though I will not be meeting the butcher as I am a vegetarian)/baker/farmer? We even look at our neighbors funny, as if they shouldn't be there. They've got as much a right to happiness and closeness of community as we have! Let's share! Let's resurrect the barn dances, the talks over the fence, the sharing our recipes over coffee or tea! Let's have a summer block party with bonfires and ghost stories and fun for every age!
What am I talking about? A fire has been lit in my vicinity. Here is who lit that fire. She is a must read! I'm not just talking about living life as if you are a housewife in 1955 (as 50's Gal, there), but that we are missing the primal togetherness of community we all, as humans, once had and lost along the way somehow. Forget about race, sex, creed, orientation, etc and look at each other and love one another for the pure reason that we are human beings and we need each other. Each and every one of us needs every other person. Yes, even the people that really grate on your nerves. Without them, we wouldn't learn all of the lessons we thought we were teaching ourselves all these years. I'm not saying you have to keep the poisonous people you know in your life or even bring them back. Just try to acknowledge them in your mind and life and take away the lessons your were meant to learn, or even those you weren't meant to learn, but did instead. Releasing the anger you feel/felt for the poisonous people is better for you in the long run. (I hold my anger in my lower back. *U_U*) Forgive, but don't forget. That is a lesson! Don't carry it with you. Understanding is key in this life. Once you let go of preconceived notions, fears, hatred and doubt, the Universe opens up to you; gives you what you want and need. We don't need what the government, advertising, lawyers or anyone else richer than us says that we need. We need each other to survive and be happy. Embrace that, and be happy.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Dear, Sweet Gilbert
Time to say goodbye to yet another piece of my heart. Thursday brought the sad realization of giving mercy and taking death into our own hands. Auntie and I made the decision, after a week of sudden immobility, refusal to eat and drink independently and wetting himself because he just could not stand, Gilbert, our 17-year-old Jack Russell Terrier had to be put to his final rest.
Gilbert came to Auntie when she was a young, college girl in Michigan. She adored and cared for him as well as each of the happily spoiled pets throughout her life. As she went off to Europe for a year, Grandmother and Grandfather were good enough to take him in and continue loving and caring for him. Change happens and Auntie returned home to move to Massachusetts. As Gilbert had become Grandfather's little shadow, he stayed with my grandparents.
Sadly, my grandmother has Alzheimer's disease and my mother (who has turned out to be the kind of person no one would really want in their life) decided to bring my grandparents out here to help take care of them. Things quickly went downhill with what can only be described as some sort of schizophrenia on her part and she deserted my grandfather's side for sudden selfish (and completely asinine) pursuits. Her abandonment turned into Grandfather wanting to follow her back to Michigan to live with the rest of the family and be near his selfish daughter again. All the while, darling little Gilbert labors along, adoring the man that has been the constant for the majority of his long life.
One day, this constant decided that the old boy was "always getting in the way and under (Grandfather's) foot." So what does he do? Grandfather called my sister that worked in an animal shelter for a year to ask her if she knew of any shelters where he could take Gilbert to be put down! Because he was "in the way!" That is not right, Auntie and I said and we took Gilbert into our custody. The first few weeks were a little difficult with his wandering and looking for Grandfather and accidents because he was a bit disoriented looking for the way out. Once he settled in, though, life with Gilbert was sweet. He'd bark to go out, he'd bark to come in, and he latched on to me for reasons unknown to the three of us. He'd follow me everywhere in the house. It got to the point where we had to keep him from going near the stairs unless he was being carried, for fear that he'd fall and really hurt himself. That didn't stop him. He'd find ways around barriers keeping him from me and I'd constantly find his dark, saucer-like staring longingly up/downstairs as I'd turn the corners. Auntie would tell me how he'd sleep all day but come alive when he knew I'd come home or into the room when I'd been gone to work or in my room. I let him kiss me whenever he felt the urge (though his halitosis was abhorrent due to age.) Nevertheless, I loved him as best I could and he returned the favor. I recall playing with him and another sweet pup long since past (a black chihuahua named Licorice) long before moving at the age of twelve. I have known Gilbert for more than half my life and that is what made this decision all the more difficult (though decisions such and these are never easy.)
Taking him from Grandfather when we did gave him another playful, rambunctious (more than ever expected from a pup his age) 5 months with Auntie's other (two) dogs, with whom he would romp when the passion and ability struck him. So when his inability to function properly came about, Auntie and I were at a loss as to his affliction. We took the three dears to a vet Auntie was never comfortable with, and for good reason. Though I care not to retell the details, I can tell that the three were tested for disease and Gilbert was found to have Lyme Disease. Claiming him from Grandfather, we knew not how long he had been afflicted, but asked the vet his opinion on being euthanized at his age and with this illness. The vet said that, though he was old, he would not dream of putting him down. He gave us pills for the Lyme's and the instructions; two doses each day with food and call him in a month to decide on further treatment. We came away thinking all was well but within two days, he was truly worse. This was when he could not stand, walk, drink and would not eat. Auntie then called and spoke to the vet she knew and trusted.
This brings us to the sorrow of putting down a beloved member of the family, though tossed about, but finally reclaimed by those that ever really loved him. I'll not relive each moment of his euthanization, but once the needle was emptied, the nurse gingerly checked his heartbeat. It had stopped almost immediately. Gilbert was ready to go. I had whispered to him the night prior and once during the carride to the vet that, should he feel he was ready, he mustn't hold on for our sakes. We would miss him terribly (so much more than Auntie nor I had imagined) but we would never want him to press on in pain or anguish (we never heard one yelp from him) just to keep us happy. He could let go if he felt he was ready. We love him very much and always will. These were my final sentiments to our dear, devoted friend.
And I will always love him.
We brought him home and buried him in the orchard in the front yard just below one of the newly planted apple trees. When the weather clears, Auntie and I will plant Forget-Me-Nots, Pansies and Johnny Jump-Ups. (He used to lie in the patch of Johnnies when Grandfather kept him.) When we enjoy the orchard and all the fruit that it will bear and all of the happy times we will have there, he will be with us.
And my heart will always miss him.
Gilbert came to Auntie when she was a young, college girl in Michigan. She adored and cared for him as well as each of the happily spoiled pets throughout her life. As she went off to Europe for a year, Grandmother and Grandfather were good enough to take him in and continue loving and caring for him. Change happens and Auntie returned home to move to Massachusetts. As Gilbert had become Grandfather's little shadow, he stayed with my grandparents.
Sadly, my grandmother has Alzheimer's disease and my mother (who has turned out to be the kind of person no one would really want in their life) decided to bring my grandparents out here to help take care of them. Things quickly went downhill with what can only be described as some sort of schizophrenia on her part and she deserted my grandfather's side for sudden selfish (and completely asinine) pursuits. Her abandonment turned into Grandfather wanting to follow her back to Michigan to live with the rest of the family and be near his selfish daughter again. All the while, darling little Gilbert labors along, adoring the man that has been the constant for the majority of his long life.
One day, this constant decided that the old boy was "always getting in the way and under (Grandfather's) foot." So what does he do? Grandfather called my sister that worked in an animal shelter for a year to ask her if she knew of any shelters where he could take Gilbert to be put down! Because he was "in the way!" That is not right, Auntie and I said and we took Gilbert into our custody. The first few weeks were a little difficult with his wandering and looking for Grandfather and accidents because he was a bit disoriented looking for the way out. Once he settled in, though, life with Gilbert was sweet. He'd bark to go out, he'd bark to come in, and he latched on to me for reasons unknown to the three of us. He'd follow me everywhere in the house. It got to the point where we had to keep him from going near the stairs unless he was being carried, for fear that he'd fall and really hurt himself. That didn't stop him. He'd find ways around barriers keeping him from me and I'd constantly find his dark, saucer-like staring longingly up/downstairs as I'd turn the corners. Auntie would tell me how he'd sleep all day but come alive when he knew I'd come home or into the room when I'd been gone to work or in my room. I let him kiss me whenever he felt the urge (though his halitosis was abhorrent due to age.) Nevertheless, I loved him as best I could and he returned the favor. I recall playing with him and another sweet pup long since past (a black chihuahua named Licorice) long before moving at the age of twelve. I have known Gilbert for more than half my life and that is what made this decision all the more difficult (though decisions such and these are never easy.)
Taking him from Grandfather when we did gave him another playful, rambunctious (more than ever expected from a pup his age) 5 months with Auntie's other (two) dogs, with whom he would romp when the passion and ability struck him. So when his inability to function properly came about, Auntie and I were at a loss as to his affliction. We took the three dears to a vet Auntie was never comfortable with, and for good reason. Though I care not to retell the details, I can tell that the three were tested for disease and Gilbert was found to have Lyme Disease. Claiming him from Grandfather, we knew not how long he had been afflicted, but asked the vet his opinion on being euthanized at his age and with this illness. The vet said that, though he was old, he would not dream of putting him down. He gave us pills for the Lyme's and the instructions; two doses each day with food and call him in a month to decide on further treatment. We came away thinking all was well but within two days, he was truly worse. This was when he could not stand, walk, drink and would not eat. Auntie then called and spoke to the vet she knew and trusted.
This brings us to the sorrow of putting down a beloved member of the family, though tossed about, but finally reclaimed by those that ever really loved him. I'll not relive each moment of his euthanization, but once the needle was emptied, the nurse gingerly checked his heartbeat. It had stopped almost immediately. Gilbert was ready to go. I had whispered to him the night prior and once during the carride to the vet that, should he feel he was ready, he mustn't hold on for our sakes. We would miss him terribly (so much more than Auntie nor I had imagined) but we would never want him to press on in pain or anguish (we never heard one yelp from him) just to keep us happy. He could let go if he felt he was ready. We love him very much and always will. These were my final sentiments to our dear, devoted friend.
And I will always love him.
We brought him home and buried him in the orchard in the front yard just below one of the newly planted apple trees. When the weather clears, Auntie and I will plant Forget-Me-Nots, Pansies and Johnny Jump-Ups. (He used to lie in the patch of Johnnies when Grandfather kept him.) When we enjoy the orchard and all the fruit that it will bear and all of the happy times we will have there, he will be with us.
And my heart will always miss him.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Then Again...
Here's the circle of Life and Death in action!
Shortly after mourning the death of poor Rocky and weeding the garden plot just across the way from his hutch, a coworker found a nest of baby bunnies. Knowing that the mother would have been smart enough to move her babes upon finding the nest disturbed, but also knowing that the bane of the farm rats would soon become that of these poor younglings, Auntie and I returned to the scene of the crime that balmy, mid-afternoon and took pity on them. We brought them home to care for them and re-release them when they are ready. Now, I know some of you chancing upon this blog will wag your tongues and shakes fingers, but, really, left on the farm, they would have only ended up finding the poison meant for the rats. Here, at my home they stand a much greater chance of survival. Hell! It's been about a week, now and they've already graduated from kitten formula to carrots with ease! They are surviving, but not only that, they are recieving motherly love from Auntie, my sister (who visits occasionally) and myself. But that not all! Auntie teacup Chihuahua has an endearing characteristic that we can only assume is a Napolean complex; he simply adores anything smaller than him. He also cannot help but stand stock still and stare at small creatures as if, well, as Auntie puts it, "As if he were standing next to Elvis." Then, there's dear, sweet, blind Sophia. Sophia is Auntie's Italian Greyhound and, being a Greyhound, we always fear her getting too close to small creatures. Having been a mother twice, then being fixed but always having a dazed look of longing to reclaim her puppies, she took right to the bunnies, and they to her. She loves them as if they were her pups come home. They lay with her and she cleans and cuddles them. So, you see, they are in quite a good place.
In a blog on life, I would not dream of leaving out yet another addition of new voices. Just two days ago I went with Auntie to claim her new chicks. We've got chickens and quail already, but Auntie and Uncle go through so many eggs that six more chicks (soon to be laying hens) have become quite necessary. Two Rhode Island Reds and four Americanas (although they might actually be full blood Aracanas, I am uncertain at this posting), all sweet and tame and ready to cuddle the hands that enter their warm, safe, red-lit haven. They will serve their purpose as they grow, but what magnificent little companions they're becoming. (The Chihuahua loves them, too, of course.)
Side note (that has nothing to do with Paganism, but everything to do with a bit of bittersweet mourning): I just watched the final episode of Pushing Daisies that Flimmi on YouTube was good enough to post for us poor Americans who would otherwise have to wait until May 30th. So, why not end this post with the gist of the end of the last episode:
Endings are only Beginnings.
Good night, Dearies.
Shortly after mourning the death of poor Rocky and weeding the garden plot just across the way from his hutch, a coworker found a nest of baby bunnies. Knowing that the mother would have been smart enough to move her babes upon finding the nest disturbed, but also knowing that the bane of the farm rats would soon become that of these poor younglings, Auntie and I returned to the scene of the crime that balmy, mid-afternoon and took pity on them. We brought them home to care for them and re-release them when they are ready. Now, I know some of you chancing upon this blog will wag your tongues and shakes fingers, but, really, left on the farm, they would have only ended up finding the poison meant for the rats. Here, at my home they stand a much greater chance of survival. Hell! It's been about a week, now and they've already graduated from kitten formula to carrots with ease! They are surviving, but not only that, they are recieving motherly love from Auntie, my sister (who visits occasionally) and myself. But that not all! Auntie teacup Chihuahua has an endearing characteristic that we can only assume is a Napolean complex; he simply adores anything smaller than him. He also cannot help but stand stock still and stare at small creatures as if, well, as Auntie puts it, "As if he were standing next to Elvis." Then, there's dear, sweet, blind Sophia. Sophia is Auntie's Italian Greyhound and, being a Greyhound, we always fear her getting too close to small creatures. Having been a mother twice, then being fixed but always having a dazed look of longing to reclaim her puppies, she took right to the bunnies, and they to her. She loves them as if they were her pups come home. They lay with her and she cleans and cuddles them. So, you see, they are in quite a good place.
In a blog on life, I would not dream of leaving out yet another addition of new voices. Just two days ago I went with Auntie to claim her new chicks. We've got chickens and quail already, but Auntie and Uncle go through so many eggs that six more chicks (soon to be laying hens) have become quite necessary. Two Rhode Island Reds and four Americanas (although they might actually be full blood Aracanas, I am uncertain at this posting), all sweet and tame and ready to cuddle the hands that enter their warm, safe, red-lit haven. They will serve their purpose as they grow, but what magnificent little companions they're becoming. (The Chihuahua loves them, too, of course.)
Side note (that has nothing to do with Paganism, but everything to do with a bit of bittersweet mourning): I just watched the final episode of Pushing Daisies that Flimmi on YouTube was good enough to post for us poor Americans who would otherwise have to wait until May 30th. So, why not end this post with the gist of the end of the last episode:
Endings are only Beginnings.
Good night, Dearies.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Resilience of Youth and The Acceptance of Death
Rocky died yesterday.
We at the farm are uncertain of the cause until my boss (a veterinarian) can perform a necropsy. Rocky was the farm rabbit. He was docile and sweet, but came from a neighboring farm at which he was once "free-range." My boss' granddaughter saw and played with him every time he ended up at our farm. Eventually, she and a friend just decided to keep him at our farm in a hutch. Unfair and sad, my friends and I think, but they are only children and they took good care of him as a kept pet. He must have missed being free, though. I would have.
So, when Rocky passed on recently, I cleaned out his pen and hutch and left it at that. I didn't expect the poor girl to be oblivious of the death. Someone, I had thought, would call and tell her. It's not something you want to hear over the phone, but it's probably worse to come looking for him, ready to build him and his prospective mate (Rocky was going to stud...something I don't agree with, but, anyway...) a larger hutch, only to find it empty and devoid of any past life. I felt for the poor girl, too. I stepped outside of the barn to toss out a bucket of water and turned to find her making a bee line for my dry shoulder. She soggyed it up for me. What else could I do but hug her and console her with silence and understanding?
The acceptance of Death is something I inherently knew early on in my life. Perhaps I was a morbid child. (I did prefer my Ghostbusters action figures over my sister's Barbie Dolls and used to torture worms and inscets.) Perhaps it was just something I'd carried over from a former incarnation. I remember the funerals of two great-grandparents. Dry eyes and a heavy heart were what I wore to both. I knew that I was looking at dead people and gravestones. I knew that they were family members of mine. I didn't know one, and the other might as well have been the same for what the Alzheimers' took from him. Maybe this was why I had no tears? Yet, my heart was full of sorrow and love for these people I didn't know and saddness for those I did.
Every drive home from my maternal grandparents' house brought tears to my eyes and a worry that became acceptance as I matured. Luckily, no one saw my damp cheeks and I was able to deal with the concept of impending death on my own. Those carrides allowed me to think. Everyone dies. We are not immortal, and, besides, who would want that? I knew, eventually, those grandparents, the people I loved so high above most of my other family members, would someday die. I would have more funerals to attend and more sorrow to address. This is simply how the Circle flows.
We are born, we live, we die and make rich the soil so that another may live then die and return to the Earth.
So, as I grew into maturity, acceptance of Death came naturally. (Little did I know that my maternal grandmother would forget me, her family and herself, and my paternal grandfather would forget himself and his surroundings.) This is not to say that I don't cry when a lose a family member or beloved pet (Goddess Bless You in the Summerlands, Abracadabra), but the knowledge of what will come to us all has made it easier to travel the paths I choose in life and cherish those I meet for the love we share, lessons I learn or teach and enlightenment I attain.
All of this in my mind, and it still came as a surprise to me when I asked an hour or so later how Rocky's girl was dealing with his death. "I'm okay, now." Of course, she meant that she wasn't going to burst into tears at the mere mention of his name, but she had been with her father when she found out and they went on with their plans for a new hutch (which she then described as if her fuzzy, little friend were still lying on his back in her arms as he so often did.)
Thirteen is a tough year, but it is still so innocent and hopeful. When, exactly do we lose this resilience? When do we stop accepting the pasage of time and assume Death will simply forget about us or our loved ones? Why can't we embrace the final breath and see it as an opportunity? These are questions that will only be answered when we travel to the Summerlands. There we will find answers to questions we cannot solve in this lifetime.
Or will we?
We at the farm are uncertain of the cause until my boss (a veterinarian) can perform a necropsy. Rocky was the farm rabbit. He was docile and sweet, but came from a neighboring farm at which he was once "free-range." My boss' granddaughter saw and played with him every time he ended up at our farm. Eventually, she and a friend just decided to keep him at our farm in a hutch. Unfair and sad, my friends and I think, but they are only children and they took good care of him as a kept pet. He must have missed being free, though. I would have.
So, when Rocky passed on recently, I cleaned out his pen and hutch and left it at that. I didn't expect the poor girl to be oblivious of the death. Someone, I had thought, would call and tell her. It's not something you want to hear over the phone, but it's probably worse to come looking for him, ready to build him and his prospective mate (Rocky was going to stud...something I don't agree with, but, anyway...) a larger hutch, only to find it empty and devoid of any past life. I felt for the poor girl, too. I stepped outside of the barn to toss out a bucket of water and turned to find her making a bee line for my dry shoulder. She soggyed it up for me. What else could I do but hug her and console her with silence and understanding?
The acceptance of Death is something I inherently knew early on in my life. Perhaps I was a morbid child. (I did prefer my Ghostbusters action figures over my sister's Barbie Dolls and used to torture worms and inscets.) Perhaps it was just something I'd carried over from a former incarnation. I remember the funerals of two great-grandparents. Dry eyes and a heavy heart were what I wore to both. I knew that I was looking at dead people and gravestones. I knew that they were family members of mine. I didn't know one, and the other might as well have been the same for what the Alzheimers' took from him. Maybe this was why I had no tears? Yet, my heart was full of sorrow and love for these people I didn't know and saddness for those I did.
Every drive home from my maternal grandparents' house brought tears to my eyes and a worry that became acceptance as I matured. Luckily, no one saw my damp cheeks and I was able to deal with the concept of impending death on my own. Those carrides allowed me to think. Everyone dies. We are not immortal, and, besides, who would want that? I knew, eventually, those grandparents, the people I loved so high above most of my other family members, would someday die. I would have more funerals to attend and more sorrow to address. This is simply how the Circle flows.
We are born, we live, we die and make rich the soil so that another may live then die and return to the Earth.
So, as I grew into maturity, acceptance of Death came naturally. (Little did I know that my maternal grandmother would forget me, her family and herself, and my paternal grandfather would forget himself and his surroundings.) This is not to say that I don't cry when a lose a family member or beloved pet (Goddess Bless You in the Summerlands, Abracadabra), but the knowledge of what will come to us all has made it easier to travel the paths I choose in life and cherish those I meet for the love we share, lessons I learn or teach and enlightenment I attain.
All of this in my mind, and it still came as a surprise to me when I asked an hour or so later how Rocky's girl was dealing with his death. "I'm okay, now." Of course, she meant that she wasn't going to burst into tears at the mere mention of his name, but she had been with her father when she found out and they went on with their plans for a new hutch (which she then described as if her fuzzy, little friend were still lying on his back in her arms as he so often did.)
Thirteen is a tough year, but it is still so innocent and hopeful. When, exactly do we lose this resilience? When do we stop accepting the pasage of time and assume Death will simply forget about us or our loved ones? Why can't we embrace the final breath and see it as an opportunity? These are questions that will only be answered when we travel to the Summerlands. There we will find answers to questions we cannot solve in this lifetime.
Or will we?
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