Euthanasia: Priceless Gift from the Gods.

Yes. I said it.

Copperplate Nr. 21 from John Flaxman's Iliad, 1973.
Hypnos & Thanatos carry the body of Sarpedon.

I don't pretend to have any answers regarding the "True nature" of the gods. I simply choose to relate in my own personal, often very private way. 

Besides, I am not so sure it really matters much, as long as we are true to how we hold Them in our hearts. 

Whatever They may be -- spirits, ideas, incarnate beings, constructs, archetypes or concrete entities -- there are times when my gratitude for the gift of Their existence (regardless of Their "True nature") is so immense I find myself at a loss for words, gesture, offering.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Fear & Suffering are my biggest hangups.

I cannot bear either. I can bear them even less when someone I love is in Fear or in Suffering.

When the condition of Suffering becomes permanent & incurable, having the option of calling upon the merciful intervention of the children of Nyx, the brothers Hypnos & Thanatos (in that order) is nothing less than priceless. 

Why do we withhold this from ourselves when we give & gain so much relief & comfort from employing Their temperate, humane skills for our beloved nonhuman companions? 

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

I tell a friend that I have just helped the Skeleton Cat die -- in my arms -- because her hindquarters were wasted & she could not walk, or use the bathroom without assistance while an aggressive tumor was working its way out in several directions from behind her eye. Yet her wits were still 100%... my little fighter. 

I could not bear it.

My friend tells me, "That's what happened to my dad. It was hell." 

Dad had to live on in Suffering.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Whether we choose to recognize it or not, the choice to die at the right time, as each individual deems it, is a gift. (It ought to be a right.)

"Drugs are bad," our culture says -- yet we force our people, our beloved ones, to live their last days, weeks, months, years dependent on opiates & other narcotics because we will not permit them the final dignity, the gift, of choice, of mercy, of endings. 

In the refrigerator we have a pharmacy bag filled with tiny, abandoned syringes, each one bearing a Skeleton Cat sized dose of feline-formulated morphine. They will never be used -- she has left them behind.

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

This is obviously not a casual decision. Making this call on behalf of my beloved, my best girl, was traumatic & one of the most crushing tasks of my lifetime. But it was still a gift. 

She was a gift. 

Her merciful death was also a gift, not that I would choose to trade. 

Except that I did. 

For her welfare, for her dignity & because I love her enough to give her that immeasurable & unpopular gift. 

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

I very rarely petition the gods, but I made two special requests this past month: First, I asked Mother Nyx for Her ancient, dispassionate wisdom. "Please, please help me recognize when it is the right time..." I asked, fearing my emotions would cloud my judgement. Second, when I knew it was the right time, I asked that Hypnos & Thanatos kindly guide my baby girl into the soft, quiet Darkness of the Abyss.

What ensued, on all accounts, was a gracious, waveless series of events culminating in the uncomplicated, compassionate end of my beautiful friend. How do I thank the gods for this?

Correction. Reflection. Devotion.

Correction.

I came here to make a correction, but in hindsight I realize that it is not necessary. Apparently, sometimes I have foresight. Or something. On October 23, 2012, I wrote this about you: 

"I find comfort in small dependabilities & gifts-in-hand... The cat will crap on the bathroom floor every night. In the morning I will curse him & amid my irritation, remember my love for him. An old gift-in-hand."

I didn't think I had the audacity or forethought to say it, but in rereading, I guess I did:

"...For now I can find comfort in knowing that things will go on until they don't & I will remain thankful for my precious gifts-in-hand. You know who you are."

"...until they don't..."

Until you don't.

Sure wish I could unravel the Web & make a correction in your Fate.

I miss you.

Reflection.

In the night, the voice of the cat-you-left-behind is caterwauling.

Not even the compassion of opiates will let me sleep through this.

I am glad I danced with you that final evening. 
Rubbing heads, 
I think my bones knew things my heart & mind could not handle.

We have traveled long & far together. 
You are in my bones.


The nature of Nature: no one is special,
But for whatever it is worth, you are to me.

Some events in life will bring us to our knees.
It is during times like this that I find no comfort --
No comfort in the spirits, 
or from the gods, 
or in other beings.
I find my comfort in a humble & ambivalent return
to the dark folds of His musky Abyss,

where I can hear the silent hoof-beat heartbeat of the starry Void
& feel the equanimity of the Nothing that is Everything.


Devotion.

I cannot avoid vacuuming indefinitely, 
nor can I indulge in protracted, crippling heartache,
but 
I can allow your scent to linger along the edges of the upholstery,
I can leave your blanket by the window for you,
I can carry your soft tufts close to the wreckage of my heart,
I can walk with you in my bones
& I can love you, forever.

I will brace myself to receive your ashen remains
& I will tell them,
as I told your unmoving, no longer serviceable form,
I love you. Forever.

We will travel long & far together.
You are in my bones.

I love you. Forever,
April 21, 2001 - January 30, 2013.

Wandering: We Are Not Ready.

We are not ready...

Afternoon at Westchester Lagoon, Anchorage, Alaska.

September 28, 2011, I took the photograph used in the post: Wandering: Procession

September 29, 2012, I took the photograph shown above.

Today the temperatures hovered in the mid 30's. Snow fell on the evening of the 28th & continues to linger... We are not ready. 

On this day, frozen fingers pawed away the frosty blanket in search of salvageable lingonberries, 
while tragic mycophiles flopped about in the snow & soggy leaf litter seeking survivors of the fungal variety.
Passers by looked askance. Some even stopped to ask (or advise)... Are you ready?

They willfully cling to Autumn's colours
even as the snow encroaches... how I love them!

Gah! Who invited Santa this early?
We're not ready!

We. Are. Not. Ready.

Wandering: Delicate Decomposition II

We go 'round & 'round. Last year I wrote these words. This year, I repeat them. I expect the same will occur again next year.

Spinellus fusiger.

Spinellus fusiger

ever wonder,
who decomposes the decomposer?

while wandering,
i met some of the emissaries of decay --
tiny silken fibres,
sprinkled with salt and pepper spider's eyes.
so beautiful and strange, 
feeding off the fruit of another.
there are no words
for how much i loved them.

Rain, Death, Love. (Insights from Lady Moon's Poet.)

Yesterday, another bout of melancholia swept through my being.
Rain again. (What is with this place, this summer?) 
Pain again. (Just enough to make me un-forget what I wish to wish away.) 
Then, via the casual internet: the man who walks past our desert house every evening, the man of one thousand warm smiles, has died. Presumably, by his own hand.

Detached & afar, my immediate reaction was to begin planning, requesting & assembling offerings to the psychopomp(s). Fire? No, water. Piles of Alaskan wildflowers & fungi set afloat on the sea…

Then, I had to ask myself, 'Is this about gratitude for the Guides, or is this about me?' At day's end, no pomp for the psychopomps (or myself). I went to sleep still asking the question.

This morning, rain again. 
Rain & rain & rain, but this day, no pain.
Then, stumbling casually across the internet: in the most unexpected of places, I fell in love. This new love evoked, renewed, rekindled all my loves. It whispered, love them now.

Now is the time to say, "I love you." Now is the time, because today they are walking past your house, passing you the coffee, pocket-dialing your cell, talking while you are not listening. Tomorrow, you may recognize your neglect & start planning your recompenses.

Don't wait for the psychopomp.

Image from
www.johnsiddique.co.uk

About my newest love: Among many other projects, poet John Siddique has been creating a series of thirteen animated films based on a series from his book, Recital -- An Almanac. "The poems are based on the Full Moons of the year and the Celtic mythology which names each moon after a letter in the ancient tree alphabet." (Quote found here.)

I am not prone to dedications. Except for now. Today, this rainy day. This is for all my loves, each & every one of you, kith & kin, old & new... the many of you, the plenty of you (& if you are reading this, it is most likely you are among them).


The Hawthorne Moon, by John Siddique "Isn't It Time We…"

Finally, this shamanic poem is for the psychopomps & the Spirit who walked past our house & kept walking. May he find Freedom & Love at the end of that journey. 


Elder Moon, by John Siddique "Freedom or comfort which would you choose?"

Poetry for the Esbat: Migration Moon 2012 (It's personal.)

The Moon, XVII
from the Tarot of the Animal Lords

My past full Moon devotionals -- as I have taken to calling them -- have generally been more academic than this one will be. I am feeling a bit more personal in this time of upheaval & fluctuation. This time, it will be different. No baking, libations or rural luxuries for us this Moon... but we shall blow her kisses as She passes over the City of Sin. Twenty-four hours later, we shall find ourselves in the land of the Midnight Sun. 


So, this is goodbye. Goodbye to our Lady Moon (as far as our eyes are concerned), goodbye to the Darkness, the Night Altar & it's Delegates (some of them are back -- strange, one with the loveliest pale grey calf I have ever seen... not unlike the colour of the Moon). This is goodbye to Breakfast Canyon & our high desert homestead. It is goodbye to this house; my haven, my hermitage. 


This Moon, I do not care to prattle on about the Full Moon's various names & the cultural/historical origins thereof. Perhaps I will get to that next year. For the curious, some of that background information can be found here: Farmers' Almanac, WWUP, NASA, FAandPP & SPACE. In lieu of all the various historical & folk names, I think I shall call Her Last Moon Before the Midnight Sun. Or perhaps the Migration Moon. Or maybe, the Goodbye Moon. All of them work.


But it's not the Strawberry Moon this time.


I had selected a Moon card from a very different deck several weeks ago, but things change, moods change, people change... just like the Moon. We are bound up in cycles & rhythms, most of which we fail to notice -- unless of course, we find them inconvenient or taxing. Last night, as I considered the portions remaining to be completed of this monumental task we call migration, I thought about the image on this card from the Tarot of the Animal Lords. Like the deck for May's Flower Moon, The Fairy Tarot, the Tarot of the Animal Lords is published by Lo Scarabeo in Torino, Italy. 


This particular card speaks to me on so many levels right now. Just look at that cat. That cat is going somewhere -- going with intent. That cat is a traveller, an explorer, a gypsy. Like me. Like us. That cat is accompanied by an owl. I have not yet been able to document all that has happened with the owls in the past few months, but I feel they are trying to get a message through to me. However, I cannot seem to figure out how to listen. The cat's walking stick is adorned with a crab. The crab is closely associated with the astrological sign Cancer. This is something of a double entendre for me, one half of which involves Cancer's associations with safety, security & the home, the other half of which you will have to glean for yourself. The cat's potion bottles uncannily resemble certain organs... but the robin outside is reminding me this is not the time.

The poem I chose this time might be considered by some to be an unconventional choice for a Lunar devotional. I care not. There are so many superb poems written for Our Lady Moon that I have many, many more years to be conventional. This year it is about sentimentality. The poem below is a childhood favourite. When I read it, my mind uses Burl Ives's voice. Beloved by my mother (whose birthday is in June... Goodbye (again) Momme), this delightfully affectionate poetic tale is about love & travel. It is an apt reflection of where I am right now, or rather, where I will be once I say goodbye -- traveling away with my love, under the light of the Moon.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
by Edward Lear

I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
         You are,
         You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
   But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
             His nose,
             His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;   
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
             The moon,
             The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Wandering: Delicate Decomposition

Spinellus fusiger

Spinellus fusiger

ever wonder,
who decomposes the decomposer?

while wandering,
i met some of the emissaries of decay --
tiny silken fibres,
sprinkled with salt and pepper spider's eyes.
so beautiful and strange,
feeding off the fruit of another.
there are no words
for how much i loved them.

Destination: Downhill

I am not an urban creature. I am generally uncomfortable with cities & their common attributes: people (in numbers), noise, refuse & traffic (most notably the driving therein). Until now, our lifestyle has afforded us the rare gift of living in two beautiful, uncity-like environs: a remote, rural desert town & the forested fringes of a medium-sized city. Soon however, we will be obligated to remove ourselves from the latter dwelling & set up camp in the belly of the city. 
Every day that passes brings us closer to our departure from this hill top haven, my Nature's nest. Every day my heart breaks a little more. I have taken for granted so many days, weeks, months spent walking in these forests. Blessed I am to wake to horses in the yard, trees in droves, no neighbors in sight. Spoiled I am to complain as this time & place of solitude comes to an end.
Ultimately, I know I will need to look at this as an opportunity to search out & find the Nature that is everywhere, even hidden among the concrete slabs & asphalt wastes. I will need to seek to understand the greater purpose of this upheaval. For now though, I will savor my last days on the hill & brood, just a little, over saying goodbye.