Progress, I hope

In a movie named, I think, “28 Days”, Sandra Bullock played a recovering alcoholic who was counting down the days of her first mandated incarceration in a detox/rehabilitation center.  One of the counselors offered this sage bit of wisdom.  I’m paraphrasing here.  “If you want a relationship, first try to keep a plant alive.  If you succeed for a year, then get a pet and tend to it.  If the pet survives and still loves you after a year, then you are ready to give yourself to love.”

            I was thinking about this philosophy when I noticed many of my plants were languishing.  It’s been a long and hot summer, but that’s no excuse for the pitiful display of wimpy vegetable plants in the garden or the wilting violet on the window sill.

            I am comforted by the thriving ivy plant in the bathroom and the newly transplanted potted plant in the living room.  My petunias also seem to be flowering beautifully.  Not sure I can take full credit for them though, since they are so very hardy.

            I realized, when I remembered the counselor’s words, I haven’t been talking to my plants for a while.  I either barely remember to water them, or I drown them twice a day and they turn yellow from too much water.  Fertilizing has not been on the schedule either.

            What I’m hoping is that the fact I even started paying attention within the last week or two will count as the first step in reconnecting and nurturing something outside me.  That would be a very good sign regarding how I’m re-entering the lives of all that is around me.

Ravens Abound

Ravens came from everywhere when I placed the food offering outside this morning.  I watched a noisy teen have morsels chosen for it by the large female who I have dubbed ‘The Matriarch.’  She chased all the others away then filled her beak to overflowing before waddling off to the side and dumping it in front of her squawking young one.  Then she waited while others fed before chasing them away to feed herself.  Before she’d pecked twice, her young charge was squawking for more.  Not much different for any mother of any species.

Moms are always feeding someone.  That’s at least how it once was for me.  As soon as that first husband came on the scene, the food preparation was endless.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner with snacks were the order of the day, and now, well, I’ve got myself down to snacks and one meal a day at least.  I finally do not over-buy only to throw out rotten food, but it took me almost a year to correct that habit.

A friend gave me some guidance about downsizing my kitchen.  She looked around and commented, “You know, you only need one large pot.”

I have six.

In these last fifteen years, I’ve fed dozens of people at one meal or over a weekend, and, on occasion, have fed more.  That doesn’t seem to be happening now, nor does it look possible that it will ever happen again.  So, I can’t make decisions based on what has been.  Since I can’t see into the future, decisions can’t be made based on what will be.  More to the point, it would seem I need to make decisions based on what is.

I can only sort through the collection of goods I’ve inherited from my mother (she’s now in a skilled nursing facility), the motor home left-overs (it’s been sold), the boxes  left forgotten by two grown children with families of their own, my late husband’s shop tools and unfinished projects, and all the accessories that have made this place my home.

I’m dis-assembling lives and a way of living.  It’s tough, and I find I have to seek solace on my bed with its new duvet cover and plenty of pillows.  Floating there, I sleep, write, read, think, cry, and wonder what’s next.

That is until I hear the squawking of teen-aged ravens, reminding me the sun is up, and I’m late with my morning prayers and spirit offering which they consume daily.  I hope they’ll follow me or pass the word regarding my morning ritual to their friends.  It would be nice to have something stay the same when I move.

Another Blessed Messenger

Today I had another ‘out of the ordinary’ visitation, this time from a moth.  I seem to be getting any number of contacts with all kinds of animals recently, so I must be ready for their messages.

Most often I’ve already had a primary experience with one of my visitors.  I believe everything and everyone is created with the ability to provide insight, a kind of spiritual medicine, for anyone who takes the time to build a relationship with them.  You and I can do this also for others when we stay conscious and connected to the present moment and to all that is.  As to animals and insects, we can have an affinity with certain kinds, while others don’t seem to resonate with or for us.  For me, when one, who has offered me a message or insight previously, comes again in a new eye-catching way, I feel it is their method of reminding me about what I already know or have learned.

During a three day fast, many years ago, I had watched moths hover near a specially-fashioned prayer object in one corner of my designated area.  This object was a physical representation of the Great Spirit here on Earth; I came to realize the moths were being drawn to it for more than the fact it was made of red flannel and tobacco.

Moths traditionally are so drawn to the light, they will sacrifice themselves by getting so close to the brightness and heat they become part of it.  These particular moths danced to and fro, forward and back, for hours.  By the third day, many had begun to rest on the cloth.  I wondered why they had settled so comfortably when the words came, “They had faith it would be alright.” 

This is how moths have come to represent faith for me.  It is their message among the constellation of messages I have learned from the many contacts I’ve had with animals and insects over my years of questing and visioning.

This morning had brought me sudden tears as I was doing my morning offering and prayers.  Life is moving along.  I've cast a lay-line along which to proceed down this mountain into town.  I’m worried and anxious, excited, and all jumbled up, but I have kept to my list of things to do and was working on the deck with my flowers.

Going in and out of the screen door, I finally noticed this small brown moth, just below my eye level on the outside of the door.  Stopping to take a good look, I closed the screen and stood outside wondering why it was clinging so tightly there.

Suddenly it flew toward me and landed on my left chest, that place where my hand goes to represent my heart during the Pledge of Allegiance.  I asked, “Are you reminding me to hold faith in my heart”

It fluttered its wings as if shaking its head ‘yes’, then rose in slow motion and flew away.

Too Close For Comfort

Thankfully, my house, garden, and outbuildings survived my ten days of house/cat sitting in Carmel so I could be close to my mom for longer than a weekend.  She had good days and bad, as did I, and we made many new memories, at least I did since her short term memory is shot.

            Seeing home intact was encouraging and being in my own bed was lovely.  The next day, after a cookie baking marathon with Simone, my granddaughter, I grilled some hamburgers.  We were eating when Simone looked over her shoulder out the kitchen window and did a double take.

            “What’re you looking at?” I asked.

            “A bear,” she answered very quietly.

            “You’re kidding?” I joked.

            “No Grams, it’s a bear.”

            I approached the window and watched unbelieving as a brown, shaggy bear with cob webs all over its head ambled between the fenced garden and the green house, sniffing the air.  He/she investigated the corrugated building but continued to follow its nose toward the open kitchen window. Now that I look back, I realize my heart was pounding, but I hadn’t really felt fear.  I was numb with a mixture of awe and wonder that this living being could be so close.  All life was in slow motion, and I believe I could have stood and watched until he/she had wandered past.

            However, a picnic table stands on wood blocks under the window so Y could have a place to work at waist level.  This bear, standing on all fours was taller than that table, and I swear, along with Simone, it was proposing to climb it and come through the open window.  For bears, it’s all about the food, and nothing gets in the way of their eating.

             “I don’t remember,” I said in a low voice, “do we stay quiet or make a big noise?”

            “Big noise,” Simone answered.

            I grabbed the plastic bag of recycling with its empty tuna and baked bean cans.  Shaking it to make any kind of sound while I searched for something louder, I watched as the bear lazily backed away, then walked toward the deck where the grill lives.

            I stomped out the screen door and said “Shoo!”

            Darn bear stood and looked at me as if to say, “Is that all you’ve got?”

            I felt foolish and a little helpless so I banged the recycling on top of the metal hood to the grill.  With what looked like a shrug, the bear sauntered down the hill, over the dry creek, and into the forest on the other side.  I never heard it crash through the trees so I can only assume it had merely moved out of sight.  I didn’t like the feeling it might be waiting til I went to bed to sample whatever it could of the meat that had clung to the metal of the grill, so I charred the remnants with a high fire for ten minutes

            Simone said, “I don’t know, but it seemed like a very sad bear.”

            “Maybe,” I said, “I’m glad I had a chance to see it that close, but it’s one more reason I really don’t want to live here anymore.”