Samain and the Holiseason Moon
Thursday gratefuls: Hawai’i. New Moon. Rosh Chodesh. Mercury. The Planets. The Stars. The Galaxy, our Milky Way. All the Galaxies. So many. On the edge of the spiral arm, our home, Earth. Mayans. Nahuatl. Ute. Apache. Ojibwe. Lakota. All of us, people of the Earth.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: What is the purpose of life? To live.
Tarot: The Wheel, #10 of the Major Arcana
Rigel. That little lopsided grin. Then. A sharp bark. A whine. The grin. Tail wagging. She wants. Now she wants. To go back downstairs and go inside. Where I tried to have her go a half an hour ago. But, nooooo. She knows how to get me to do something. She waits, barks. Waits. Barks. And, yes, I’ve “trained” her to do this, or, I suppose you could say she’s trained me. But she only cajoles me this way when she wants something. Her volition. Back in a moment.
All righty then. Rigel is in the house.
Blessed. To have dogs to feed. Dogs to take to the vet. Dogs to sleep with, cuddle with. Dogs who greet me, wagging tails. Dogs who nag me, who are reluctant to get up in the morning. Dogs who eat with vigor. Sometimes. Dogs that chew up hats and ostrich feather dusters. Dogs. Rigel and Kep. And all those who came before. Here: Gertie, Vega.
Of course, Kate. Always Kate. Been thinking about a conversation we had about death. Not long before her final decline, maybe a day, she had decided to use Colorado’s death with dignity law.
She wanted she said, a diaphanous dress. And, David. David Olson, her first husband. She wanted him there. He was part of my history. And, Brahms.
Another memory. When Kenton, the respiratory tech, had finished taking her arterial blood gas draw, which involves sticking a needle deep into the wrist to tap an artery, painful, she said as he left, “Kenton, good job on the ABD.”
She was Kate right up to, and I would guess after, the end.
No, grieving does not end. But it softens, puts away its claws. Tugs at the heart rather than shocking it. Still tears, yes. Still sadness, yes. But as a part of memory, consolatory memory. She’s still important. I still remember. May I never lose the soft grief.
Like those occasional times when I sit with my mom at the ice cream shop where she treated me for my grades. Or, riding with her in the car to Ball State when she was finishing her degree. Or, when that garden spider wove its web outside the kitchen window.
The Hermit. In the Hermitage. With a very non hermity neon sign announcing same. Decided yesterday to forego the background and the word. Just the neon hermit. Why am I doing this? For fun.
The fourth phase. Formal and early informal Education. Over. Marriage and Career. Over. Retirement and Marriage. Over. Family persists. The House. Life. But no cultural tether, no expectations. No name. This time is the time before the end. Not everybody gets a fourth phase. Kate didn’t. And, her life was no less for not having it.
But. Here I am. A wanderer on the last ancientrail. The one that leads to the grave. Satisfied to be here. All of my attention. At work. Alert. Ah. Summer and the Rain. Rigel’s bark. A baby’s cry. Max. Golden Aspen leaves. Quiet. Calm. At peace. No more Mountains to climb. Oh, wait. No, not that.
I am. Nothing more. But, and this hear well, nothing less. This last, fourth phase. Going inside more. Staying alone. More. Loving. More. Reading. More. Embracing absurdity and purpose at the same time. Embracing loving and isolation at the same time. Embracing learning for no reason.
Have to work out. Cardio. Still no HIIT plan. Working on it. Harder to put together than I thought. Next week for sure. No reason to walk the fourth phase ancientrail without strong legs, a sound heart, and a clear mind.
This card synchs tightly with what I just wrote.
“The Message: You can see the patterns in your life and the wider pattern in the cycles of birth, life, death, and rebirth. Harvesting the seeds of destiny, you continue to sow seeds of love.
Meaning: Trusting in the process of life. Wisdom comes when we no longer behave reactively but are aware of the themes woven through our lives.” DCB