Imbolc Valentine Moon
Could be the vision statement for Ancientrails:
Once you realize that the road is the goal, and that you are always on the road, not to reach a goal but to enjoy its beauty and its wisdom, life ceases to be a task and becomes natural and simple. In itself an ecstasy.
~ Nisargadatta Maharaj ~
Imbolc Valentine Moon
A bit jittery here on Shadow Mountain. Vega goes to the vet in about half an hour for her surgery, the amputation of her left front leg. It’s a drastic choice and it will change her life, but, we hope, also extend it. And, yes, it’s not cheap either.
When Kate and I married, now over 25 years ago, we brought my bed from my condo and have used it as a guest bed. At some point Vega found her way into the blue room we used for guests in Andover. She found the bed just right. It was hers from that point forward. If we forgot to close the door.
Last night I took my laundry downstairs and forgot to close the door to our Black Mountain Drive guest room. Sure enough, on her last night before surgery, there was Vega, sprawled out on the bed, very pleased with herself. I’m glad I forgot.
She’s been a special dog from the beginning. When we went to pick her and Rigel up from the breeders, Vega had a ten foot stick in her mouth. Her six littermates had their mouths on it, too, running around Junior’s backyard.
Vega is a lady of leisure, but she also has an iron discipline that demands certain things, like feeding schedules and going to bed, happen when they’re supposed to happen. That is, when Vega thinks they’re supposed to happen. She’s gentle about it, first chuffing, blowing air around her big cheeks, then barking softly. At some point she’ll sit, assume her most regal pose and stare. Then, bark again. Perhaps a bit more loud.
A sweetheart. A calm and gentle soul.
Imbolc Valentine Moon
Ruth and I went for a long walk yesterday at Meyer Ranch Open Space Park. Gertie, our wire haired German pointer, came with us. Along the way we talked about a possible erratic (“I know what an erratic is,” Ruth said.) because it’s top had jagged, thin sheets exposed. I wondered why it hadn’t eroded.
We saw huge Lodgepole pines that had recently been cut to protect power lines in an easement running up Doublehead Mountain. When I started to count the rings on one stump easily 3 feet wide, Ruth asked, “Are you going to count all of them?” Yes, I was. The tree was between 75 and 80 years old. We’d been alive for much of the same time.
The trail went took went through forest. Ruth picked up branches along the way to make rings. I told her I admired how she found things to make wherever she went. “It’s good to have projects.” “Yes,” she said, “I have two, three, maybe five projects at home.” Ruth paints, sews, does fashion design, builds robots and reads in a way that gives me a shock of recognition.
Meanwhile, Gertie pulled me along, straining to get to the smells along the side of the trail. We rarely walk our dogs since they have a fenced in yard to roam, so they’re leashed train only enough to get into the vet and out. When we got back to the Rav4, we were all tired.