They were here this morning,
the young pileated woodpecker
and his mother,
chipping away at the old stump,
foraging for sustenance,
for grubs, worms and borers,
foraging for what would be soon
no longer alive.
Today, we will say goodbye to our
old dog, whose weary heart
is failing. So much of
life shared together,
memories etched into our
very hearts.
How difficult to let him go.
We will place him
in the hedgerow,
his body to nourish the
young trees and shrubs that will
sustain the wild ones who come.
"Important work happens within us
when we stop and allow
ourselves to be open." *
And so, may I be open to
the deepening
that comes with the
chosen acceptance
of grief.
* The Pilgrim Spirit, Andrea Skevington, pg. 20
If this morning were the first morning,
the first dawn of the world's awakening,
to what would I be drawn?
Would I pay more attention to what have become
the common, expected happenings of early June...
the red-winged blackbird's squeaky song
and the complicated warbles of the house wren,
the tiny chipmunk's indefatigable energy
as he bounds around the barn,
startling a pair of chipping sparrows with his
boisterous antics?
Would I gaze in greater wonder at the sight
of ruby-throats on the
blue salvia, meticulously working each flower
or the exquisite colors of the
fuchsia hanging on my front porch?
Would I delight in the ghostly,
back-lit appearance of gnats in flight,
or the single strand of a spider's silk glinting in the sun,
or dewdrops sparkling on the still grasses
in the field across the road?
Would I smile at the ash's swaying branches,
or the breezes on my cheek,
the bluebirds' soft whistles
and the catbirds' persistent chatter?
Were it the first morning, I would not need to turn
to these gifts for solace,
for refuge in times
of the fear and anger and sadness
that had not yet come into the world.
And yet, in our day,
these common, expected happenings
of early June
have become just that.
Thanks be to God.
