I love the quiet. I am reading a book called Quiet by Susan Cain. In brief, she delves into the nature of quiet, introverted people. Devon told me she had read the book and it helped her understand that some of her behaviors she was not comfortable with had become behaviors she now not only accepts, but embraces. Cain quotes Proust as calling those special moments of unity between writer and reader as "that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude." It is miraculous when we step forward toward more fully accepting ourselves and loving ourselves unconditionally. It is perhaps a process without end. I felt that way this weekend while listening to Ramanand. Nearly all of what he said resonated within me with full understanding. For me, nothing esoteric, just basic truths most of us of age (or not) have come to know through painful experiences, hard learned lessons of life, plumbing the depths of ourselves, peeling away layers in our oftentimes compelling and urgent journey towards truth of self, of life, of relationships.
Today is Memorial Day which I understand to be a day for remembering all those men and women who fought in wars. For decades now I have kept the bronze star awarded to my father for his service during World War II in my night stand drawer. Long past his death, I finally came to understand and love him, and I wept for him. Severely traumatized, alcoholic, abusive, hard core workaholic, gambler, womanizer, an absent father. When we understand, we forgive. With forgiveness we are free to love, and I don't think it is ever too late.
After 39 years, Dale and I got "married" in Taos on Wednesday, May 14. The ceremony was sweet, simple, quiet, and meaningful. I didn't think a piece of paper would mean much of anything, but the ritual, the ceremony, the sacredness of it does spin one towards looking at things from a different perspective, a view with more appreciation, perhaps a renewal. It snowed, the moon was full, the old but modernized adobe enveloped us with warmth and hospitality. We took our dog, Mikio, along with us.
This past Friday I had my cat Pepe euthanized. He had alimentary (intestinal) small cell lymphoma. His symptoms began long ago, and I think that by the time he was diagnosed, the cancer was quite advanced. He did not respond to prednisone, nor to two different chemotherapy treatments. It is always a hard thing to do. I observed his slow decline, his change in behavior, felt him daily as the muscle tissue melted away leaving him nearly emaciated. Along the journey of dealing with his illness, there were a multitude of decisions to make. We did everything we could, and more, and I can only hope we didn't do too much. When I instinctually knew it was time, I had to battle with my mind for several hours. During this time, I somehow heard about a book entitled Blink, learning how to think without thinking, meaning to listen to our intuition, our gut. The book is on my wish list.
It is growing dark outside, and there is the distant roar of thunder. My dog stays close as he fears stormy weather. The house is quiet, the cats sleeping, Dale in his room probably reading, listening to music, or online. It is intensely green outside in infinite hues. Pepe is peacefully sleeping forever under a stand of oaks alongside Adam, Sam, Kit Kat, Pewter, and Ralph. The rain last night nourished the trees and grasses, filling the air with the smell of organic earth. My burn pile is now all ashes, the fire long gone. The wind which has been blowing daily is at the moment sitting still.
Today is Memorial Day which I understand to be a day for remembering all those men and women who fought in wars. For decades now I have kept the bronze star awarded to my father for his service during World War II in my night stand drawer. Long past his death, I finally came to understand and love him, and I wept for him. Severely traumatized, alcoholic, abusive, hard core workaholic, gambler, womanizer, an absent father. When we understand, we forgive. With forgiveness we are free to love, and I don't think it is ever too late.
After 39 years, Dale and I got "married" in Taos on Wednesday, May 14. The ceremony was sweet, simple, quiet, and meaningful. I didn't think a piece of paper would mean much of anything, but the ritual, the ceremony, the sacredness of it does spin one towards looking at things from a different perspective, a view with more appreciation, perhaps a renewal. It snowed, the moon was full, the old but modernized adobe enveloped us with warmth and hospitality. We took our dog, Mikio, along with us.
This past Friday I had my cat Pepe euthanized. He had alimentary (intestinal) small cell lymphoma. His symptoms began long ago, and I think that by the time he was diagnosed, the cancer was quite advanced. He did not respond to prednisone, nor to two different chemotherapy treatments. It is always a hard thing to do. I observed his slow decline, his change in behavior, felt him daily as the muscle tissue melted away leaving him nearly emaciated. Along the journey of dealing with his illness, there were a multitude of decisions to make. We did everything we could, and more, and I can only hope we didn't do too much. When I instinctually knew it was time, I had to battle with my mind for several hours. During this time, I somehow heard about a book entitled Blink, learning how to think without thinking, meaning to listen to our intuition, our gut. The book is on my wish list.
It is growing dark outside, and there is the distant roar of thunder. My dog stays close as he fears stormy weather. The house is quiet, the cats sleeping, Dale in his room probably reading, listening to music, or online. It is intensely green outside in infinite hues. Pepe is peacefully sleeping forever under a stand of oaks alongside Adam, Sam, Kit Kat, Pewter, and Ralph. The rain last night nourished the trees and grasses, filling the air with the smell of organic earth. My burn pile is now all ashes, the fire long gone. The wind which has been blowing daily is at the moment sitting still.
