Grieving

When it comes to the question, “What happens after death?” I tend to break it into two parts. First, there is the spiritual/religious aspect: Where does the soul (presuming a soul exists) go? I’ve heard countless answers. There are the traditional concepts of Heaven and Hell, which I’ve never found particularly attractive. Someone once explained to me that your last waking (living) moment stretches out infinitely, and you’re left with the eternal experience of the peaceful turning-point of death. Then there’s reincarnation, which is an appealing thought and no more ludicrous or provable than any other theory. Still, the question, with its completely unknowable answer, is enough for me to turn back to my stanch agnosticism, throw my hands up, and say that I neither know nor truly care. Might as well argue how many angels can fit on the head of a pin, for all that.

But when it comes to the physical side of things, the reality is much more definite. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, indeed, but it’s much more beautiful and vibrant than that. Decay and synthesis. It’s Elton John’s Circle of Life all over again. Yes…and isn’t that a beautiful concept?

One thing: grass and grasshopper. One thing: grasshopper and sparrow. One thing: sparrow and fox. One thing: fox and vulture. One thing, Jared, and its name is fire, burning today as a stalk in the field, tomorrow as a rabbit in its burrow, and the next day as an eleven-year-old girl named Shirin.

The vulture is fox; the fox, grasshopper; the grasshopper, rabbit; the rabbit, girl; the girl, grass. All together, we’re the life of this place, indistinguishable from one another, intermingling in the flow of fire, and the fire is god—not God with a capital G, but rather one of the gods with a little g. Not the creator of the universe but the animator of this single place. To each of us is given its moment in the blaze, Jared, its spark to be surrendered to another when it’s sent, so that the blaze may go on. None may deny its spark to the general blaze and live forever—not any at all. Certainly not me, for all my giant intellect. Each—each!—is sent to another someday. You are sent, Jared—Louis. You’re on your way, both of you. I too am sent. To the wolf or the cougar or the vulture or the beetles or the grasses, I am sent. I’m sent and I thank you all, grasses in all your forms—fire in all your forms—sparrows and rabbits and mosquitoes and butterflies and salmon and rattlesnakes, for sharing yourselves with me for this time, and I’m bringing it all back, every last atom, paid in full, and I appreciate the loan.

My death will be the life of another, Jared—I swear that to you. And you watch, you come find me, because I’ll be standing again in these grasses and you’ll see me looking through the eyes of the fox and taking the air with the eagle and running in the track of the deer.

--Daniel Quinn


I’m torn in my grief. On the one hand, I think it’s silly. Shorty was, after all, just a horse. Just a horse in the sense that I am just a girl, and really neither of us is particularly significant in the general scheme of things. Really, I must be grieving more for myself and what I have lost (memories, namely), and if this is the most traumatic loss that’s occurred in my life, perhaps I need to get out more and see what it’s like to have a child or best friend die.

But on the other hand, I know there’s far more to it than that. All people are wired in different ways, and, well, I’m wired towards horses. It’s my make-up, my career path, my calling in life. I can’t change it, and I certainly shouldn’t be ashamed of it. And even at that, I suspect I feel the grief less acutely than others might. I’m lucky or cursed enough to have some capacity of emotional detachment.

But for an animal that saw me through years of adolescent angst, who helped to solidify my future goals, who served as a catalyst for my current lifestyle, who was always quiet, always patient, always kindhearted and willing, who won me money and took care of me, who loved peppermints and Twizzlers more than anything else in the world, who was wrapped in an adorable jet black package, who served simultaneously as teacher and pupil, whom I rode at least 2,000 times, if I had to count (and that might be a low estimate), who was faithful, and calm, and athletic, and a good partner and friend—what else can I say? The loss is huge, but life will go on. Already it's getting easier.

The little nondescript grave doesn't look like much. Just a raised area of gray dirt that's packed down hard by the weight of the tractor and scarred by broad tire marks in red clay. No marker adorns the spot as of yet, and no radiant angel stands guard to mark its holy significance and command all passers-by to stop, kneel, and pray. It's shaded in the morning beneath a copse of tall persimmon trees, but in the evening it faces the sunset at the base of a rolling green hill that serves as our hay pasture. Microbes and carrion-eaters have already moved in; the carcass will decompose, disintegrate, turn to earth, and from this earth will spring shoots that grow leafy and heavy with sugars, and this will be harvested, and baled, and utilized as nutrients by the hungry herd that remains.

Yes, and that will suffice.



The wind bids me leave you.
Less hasty am I than the wind, yet I must go.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
Even while the earth sleeps we travel.
We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.
Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken.
But should my voice fade in your ears, and my love vanish in your memory, then I will come again,
And with a richer heart and lips more yielding to the spirit will I speak.
Yea, I shall return with the tide,
And though death may hide me, and the greater silence enfold me, yet again will I seek your understanding.
And not in vain will I seek.
If aught I have said is truth, that truth shall reveal itself in a clearer voice, and in words more kin to your thoughts.
I go with the wind, but not down into emptiness;
And if this day is not a fulfillment of your needs and my love, then let it be a promise till another day. Know therefore, that from the greater silence I shall return.
The mist that drifts away at dawn, leaving but dew in the fields, shall rise and gather into a cloud and then fall down in rain.
And not unlike the mist have I been.

.…
This day has ended.
It is closing upon us even as the water-lily upon its own tomorrow.
What was given us here we shall keep,
And if it suffices not, then again must we come together and together stretch our hands unto the giver.
Forget not that I shall come back to you.
A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body.
A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.
Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you.
It was but yesterday we met in a dream.
You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky.
But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn.
The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part.
If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.
And if our hands should meet in another dream, we shall build another tower in the sky.

--Kahlil Gibran

Requiem for a Black Horse

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
The plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to

Yesterday morning I had to make the call that every animal owner dreads. Shorty was down, uninterested in food, feverish, and miserable. After a six-month battle with cancer (and after being told he wouldn’t live to see the end of January), it was finally his time. Nobody wants to play God and make the decision to end a loved one’s life, but in times like this, you’ve just got to do the best you know how. So I gave the boy a few pats and hugged his neck and shared some tears with my mom, then I dialed the vet.

By the time she arrived, Shorty was standing, but his breathing was labored and his appetite still very diminished. The bute he had been given had brought his temperature down somewhat, but not enough, and he was hot to the touch. My mom sponged him off with cool water and we offered him all the treats he would take. The vet checked his vitals, then turned to us for the go-ahead. We all agreed there was no point in carrying on. Even if by some miracle we were able to nurse him through this bout as we have the previous two flare-ups, the cancer was certain to rebound again in the near future—perhaps at the hottest time of the day, or in the middle of the night, when no one was around to help him. No, as difficult as it was, it had to be done.

We led him from his stall to the place we had decided he would be buried. At first he was reluctant to move, and we feared we’d have to euthanize him in his stall and then drag him a quarter mile with the tractor to reach the grave. Once we got outside, however, he seemed to liven up. He wanted a drink of water, which we gladly provided, and red clover, which we picked in handfuls and fed to him. Seeing him like that, rallied, was almost enough to make us second-guess our decision. But Shorty has always been a stoic horse, and we knew he was suffering. His eyes were tired. Always the good boy, he walked along obediently, oblivious.

We found a shady spot in the back pasture, and decided that this was the right place, if there can ever be a right place for something like that. My mom said her final goodbyes and left, but I elected to stay, for whatever reason I don’t know. The vet tech held his head while the vet injected a sedative. He drooped and grew limp. I bawled and stroked his muzzle. Then the IV was attached and the lethal cocktail was administered. Halfway through the dose, he crumpled and fell. His eyes rolled and glazed. We all three knelt over him and rubbed him, while the vet spoke comforting words. And then, a few violent but unconscious spasms later, he was gone.

Won't you look down upon me, Jesus
You've got to help me make a stand
You've just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way

We walked back slowly and silently. The vet had cut a lock of his braided tail, which she discretely slipped to me. I hid it from my mom. A man with a backhoe was summoned, a hole was dug, and that was the end of that. So anticlimactic.

I cried off and on all morning, but I’d already expended so much grief over the past six months of trials that I didn’t have a whole lot left. I was just glad that he didn’t have to suffer; that he went easily, that we wouldn’t have to worry anymore. But just the previous midnight (24 hours before me typing this now) he had felt fine. We had been out to see him, and he was grazing contentedly in the light of the waning moon. Ten hours later, and he was dead. That’s life. Things change in an instant.

While Shorty was cheated out of time he should have had (at 15, he was only halfway through his life expectancy), at least he had the best retirement a horse could ever hope for. He was pampered and spoiled. He had free reign of the barn and could come and go from his stall at will. He was given all the most delicious and expensive treats, and he was checked multiple times a day to make sure he felt well, was eating, and did not have a fever. I gave him all the drugs the vet ordered and bought him all the time we could. Most of the time throughout his ordeal, I think, he actually felt pretty good, if tired. He was living the good life—the one we all deserve.

Been walking my mind to an easy time, my back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground

But I make it sound as though Shorty was lucky to have us. While that is true as far as it goes, we were the lucky ones to have him in our lives. He was my first horse, and I got him eight years ago this month. He taught me so much, and tolerated my novice whip-jerk-kick horsemanship. He won me innumerable ribbons, trophies, plaques, halters, saddles, checks, and prizes, besides. Even last year he was still winning pole bendings without even trying. He took care of me in my youthful foolishness, and when I outgrew him, he proved to be a faithful and steady trail horse for my mom. Unflappable, kind-hearted, and quiet, he was lazy as could be with a beginner rider on his back, but a wild spitfire whenever I asked him to run. He knew the difference, and he knew how to deliver exactly what his rider needed. A horse like that—who is simultaneously an athlete and a babysitter—is hard to come by. Shorty truly was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of horse on so many levels. He was a good, good boy.

And there’s more than that, too. Shorty came during a transition period in my life, and he saw me through all seven of my years at Central as I grew and changed completely, throughout adolescence and the upheavals of the teenage years. And he changed the course of my life, too, for he indirectly started me on the path of Veterinary Medicine, and he taught me how to ride and train, and he’s the reason that I now live on 31 gorgeous acres in the country. That’s a big influence for such a little horse. But you can’t measure that unseen quality: heart.

Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

--James Taylor


For the most part, my mom (who loves the horse even more than I do) and I have been handling the grief as well as can be expected. I only lost it when Buddy started crying for Shorty. Bud came here seven weeks ago as a loaner for me since all of my other horses are, for whatever reason, out of commission (it’s been a really bad year). From the first night of his arrival, he immediately latched onto Shorty, who has always been solitary by nature. Buddy wouldn’t leave his side, however, and whenever another horse came too near, he’d run it off and herd Shorty away from the perceived threat. I’m not one to look for deeper meanings in things or believe in spiritual sentimentalism, but it was almost as though Buddy came as a guardian angel during Shorty’s time of need.

Anyway, as we were leading Shorty to his final resting place, I caught up Bud and put him in Shorty’s stall so he wouldn’t get too nosey or upset. But he just watched out his window and called loudly to his friend as he walked away. And, hours later, when we turned them all out for the night, the first thing Buddy did was run to the spot where he had last seen Shorty, neighing all the while, looking around, ears pricked, distressed, concerned. I hate to anthropomorphize, but it was quite clear what was going on. Anyone who says animals don’t experience emotions and attachment is cold and deluded. The same goes for anyone who claims that, if there is such a thing as a “soul,” only people possess it. Again, that’s sheer arrogance, as far as I’m concerned.

Eventually Buddy quieted and calmed down, although he’d still periodically lift his head and look around for his pal. Yes, Shorty, you’ll be sorely missed. Godspeed, little buddy. And thank you.

Things That Go Chomp in the Night

I found this mysterious flying monstrosity in the barn, flapping around the lights and crash diving into the floor. I only had a chance to snap one picture before one of the dogs discovered it and promptly ate its wings and one of its legs. I threw it outside before she swallowed it whole. Anyone want to hazard a guess to what it is? It looked like a flying mole cricket. Do they fly? (According to Google Images, they do. Huh. Learn something new every day.)

The cricket, of course, was accompanied by a multitude of moths, a bevy of beetles, a congregation of creepy-crawlies (so maybe I’m grasping at straws for alliteration here). Tiny black bugs cover the ground underneath every light source, and fat bloated toads sit in the middle of a swarm, overwhelmed and overfed. You can’t walk outside without getting bombarded by flying insects that tangle in the hair and find their way underneath clothing, winding up smashed and itching.

And there are other nocturnal critters out there, too. Going out to check on the horses at half past midnight, armed with a high beam flashlight (unnecessary with the almost full moon), I spooked up a few meadowlarks settled in the tall grass before my feet. Sweeping my light around, I noticed bright reflecting eyes staring back at me. A chorus of coyotes and a barred owl started up in the distance, adding to the symphony of singing, grinding, and scraping performed by frogs and bugs.

And then Chi-Chi, my dachshund companion, took off barking, hot on the hunt. I aimed my light at her and saw her on the heels of a gray animal about her size. She was yapping and nipping and having a grand old time, while the armadillo (for that’s what it turned out to be) jumped and hopped and tried to scurry away in its haphazard, awkward, and most inefficient manner. I pulled the dog off (much to her offended chagrin) and followed the ‘dillo. It appeared to be mostly blind and mostly stupid, and when I got up close, I simply reached down, grabbed it by the tail, and hauled it into the air. From here, I examined its bumpy pink underbelly (covered in coarse bristly hairs), its thick, plated tail (through which I could feel its terrified pulse), its powerful digging feet (armed with sharp claws but not unlike cloven hooves), its armored back (wet with Chi-Chi’s spit), and its triangular, mouse-eared, pig-eyed head. Not knowing what else to do, I set it back down and it ambled off.

Then I came in and washed my hands, for I’ve heard that armadillos can carry leprosy, in addition to other nasty diseases.

I Concur

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d’oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress’d head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

--Walt Whitman


The simple fact that anything exists at all in the void of Infinity is astounding and mind-boggling, when one really starts thinking about it. Add to that conundrum the complexity and miracle of life, and the whole thing is beyond comprehension or explanation. Not that we don’t try, of course. In a few of my classes last year, I was taught about the structure and diversity of plants and invertebrate animals. I learned, for example, that Queen Anne’s Lace is nothing less than wild carrot. Pull a plant up from the ground and the bitter conical root emerges. Or how about the bdelloid rotifer, which is a multicellular aquatic animal capable of producing copies of itself without need for sexual reproduction? In some species, males have never been discovered, yet females continue to produce eggs which in turn hatch new, fully functioning rotifers. Fascinating. Tidbits such as these greatly increased my already-considerable appreciation for the world at large, and made me once again revert to childhood habits of kneeling in the mud by the creek, digging for signs of writhing nematode worms or tiny side-swimming crustaceans.

They fit together perfectly, you know, their parts. Throughout the eons they have evolved from that initial spark in the primeval soup or mandate of God or what-have-you. And those parts, the chomping mandibles, snapping pinchers, clicking legs, and beating hearts, are in turn composed of carbohydrates and lipids and proteins, long strands of amino acids, rows of nitrogen, oxygen, carbon. And within each molecule atoms, and within each atom whizzing electrons, the fat, torpid neutrons, pulsating protons, and so many particles we have neither named nor seen. And in them, what? Bits of sonic string squirming as frantically as the nematodes, as quantum physics would have it? Unimaginable energy forces? Divinity?

The second we think we’re at the brink of unearthing the final hidden secret of the universe, we’ve discovered the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, we’re at the brink of understanding all the clockwork of Creation, the proverbial rug is pulled out from beneath our feet and we find that, once again, we know nothing. Things don’t add up. Space, apparently, doesn’t play nice and behave in an orderly fashion. The old laws of physics don’t apply anymore. If there’s a unifying law of science, we’ve yet to find it. Well didst thou speak, indeed, Athena’s wisest son.

And so, with the knowledge we so desperately crave held maddeningly beyond our reach (like the Queen Anne's root on a stick, I suppose), we can choose either to chase it, or perhaps instead to simply sit and bask in its overwhelming beauty. Not that the two are mutually exclusive, of course, but for me I’ll leave physics to the physicists and mathematicians. Biology is interesting, important, and life-saving, but when push comes to shove, I think I’m on Walt’s side. Yessir, let’s all stop for a moment, turn over a pebble, and admire the ants and pillbugs as they scurry away in all their invertebrate glory.

The Metamorphosis

Now I don’t intend to write about Ovid’s or Kafka’s takes on the subject (I have read the latter, but not the former). Rather, I’d prefer to mull over the little miracles I’ve been personally witnessing over the past few weeks. It started with the single spotting of an abandoned cicada nymph casing. The result of a molt to adulthood, the ugly pinchered skin was left behind, while the newly reborn adult began its aboveground life after more than a decade of blindly burrowing, feeding, and growing under the earth. Split at the top, brittle, hollow, but still completely and perfectly formed, its empty legs clung to the trunk of a tree. I plucked it from its perch, examined it, then discarded it thoughtlessly. Then, over the course of the next few days, I found more and more and more of the molted remnants of immature insects. They were everywhere—I didn’t have to actively search for them. I would stumble upon them stupidly, or they would suddenly appear before me as I went about my day, and I pictured the deluge of cicada nymphs digging their way out of the soil, clawing up a branch, shedding, emerging, drying, and droning off to begin the summer song. Fantastic.

And then there were the tadpoles swimming thickly in every puddle, every pond, every stock tank. In addition to the big fat lethargic resident toads, I’ve been seeing smaller specimens hopping around light sources, looking for bugs attracted to the brightness. Then I put two and two together. Huh.

The birdhouses, too, are full of young’uns. While their transformation may not be quite so dramatic, it’s still miraculous to think about the whole process of fertilization, which leads to an embryo in an egg, which hatches to reveal a hideous pink monstrosity that wobbles and cries through its gaping mouth and then, somehow, sprouts feathers and takes gracefully to the air. One set of fledglings was in the process of leaving the nest. I caught one when it clumsily flew into the garage and took it outside to rescue it from the dogs. It struggled and squirmed in my hand, alert, ready to spread its wings. How?

Change. Metamorphosis. Evolution—in the most literal sense of the word, as well as in the most hated Darwinian terms. But isn’t there something immensely beautiful about the whole thing? Something ugly because something magnificent; pieces are made whole; improvements are achieved. And this is not to play into the whole evolution-is-climbing-towards-the-ultimate-pinnacle (namely, mankind), because I don’t believe that at all. But, still, the drumbeats of progress create extraordinary things. Isn’t a butterfly more stunning than a caterpillar, or, to turn it around, doesn’t the butterfly’s glory make the caterpillar’s life that much more exceptional? Perhaps one completes the other—the yin and the yang.

Growth, anyway. Coming to fruition. Realizing one’s potential. Why are we so afraid of change?

The Curious Adventures of Jade the Tortoise

The other day, while returning from a jaunt in the pasture, I edged along the dog fence and caught sight of something curious. The three hounds were sniffing and pawing at a round object that I at first glance took to be a buffalo chip with the word DADDY written on it (the mind is a curious thing, you know). A closer observation showed that the lump was in fact the shell of a box turtle, branded in large white letters with JADE. I wondered if Jade’s darling pet had gotten loose, but then realized that Jade was probably the turtle’s name. Huh. The dachshund was beginning to gnaw on the edge of the shell, so I hopped the fence to rescue the poor creature. I picked it up to have a better look, noting that its shell was also adorned with glitter nail polish. When I turned it around to face me, the hinge opened a peep and two indignant, glaring red eyes stared back. Then the hinge slammed back shut, and that was that. In that short instant, though, I had noticed that the coloration on the tortoise’s head and feet pointed to the likelihood of its being male. Poor Jade. I hope he’s secure in his masculinity.

Well, I carried Jade safely away from the prying jaws of the dogs and set him down gingerly in the pasture. He seemed bound and determined to stay tightly clamped in his shell, but when I returned later, he was long gone off somewhere—on a new adventure, no doubt. I rather pictured him slowly and determinedly crawling, crawling, crawling back to his home and the little girl who named him, à la The Incredible Journey. Heh.

But I had to wonder exactly where he had been in his travels. The nearest house with children is the better part of a mile away, and they don’t seem like the type who would decorate a pet tortoise and set him free. So where had ol’ Jade come from? And where was he headed off to? I read online that box turtles can live for 40 years or more. That’s a long time for little nondescript reptile. I bet he’s traveled the country; I bet he’s enjoyed the freedom of the open road; I bet he’s sired hundreds of turtle babies (turtlets?) that hatched from their eggs and stumbled out to meet the bright, fast world. By now Jadey-boy’s probably halfway to Arkansas, where he’s meeting up with some long-lost amigos for a Kerouac-style adventure.

I would have snapped a picture of his brief detour and visit, but alas! my digital camera broke and I’m most forlorn. Damn.

Leapin' and Hoppin'

The other night, as it were, I had the opportunity, or perhaps obligation, to ride late at night. Never before had I taken advantage of the brightness of the full moon to enjoy the relative coolness of murky summer nights. The preparation was simple enough—I walked out through the pasture, found and captured a belligerent Brandy, bridled her, and scrambled up bareback. The lights from the house, barn, and telephone pole were distracting, so I turned the mare off towards the blackness of the woods.

And if I ever lose my mouth
All my teeth, north and south
Oh, if I ever lose my mouth
I won’t have to talk no more

She was understandably reluctant and less than thrilled about the midnight excursion, and I soon found that horses’ night vision is not all it’s cracked up to be. Brandy has slightly limited sight in one eye due to an old injury, but that surely couldn’t have accounted for all her stumbling, or the tree she very nearly collided with head-on before I averted disaster and pulled her off to the side. Still, it was a peaceful ride, with the nearly-full moon shining so brilliantly as to make the stars as faint as in the city.

And if I ever lose my eyes
All my colors all run dry
Oh, if I ever lose my eyes
I won’t have to cry no more

Riding back through the treeline, I noticed how once we were fully enclosed in the woods, we were immersed in utter blackness. Yet, looking through the upper limbs or around the bend, I could see the silver light playing on branches, bark, and the rustling grass. The striated ground beneath my horse’s hooves—my God!—moonshadows. And with that realization, the Cat Stevens song started running through my head.

And if I ever lose my hands
Lose my plow, lose my land
Oh, if I ever lose my hands
I won’t have to work no more

From time to time, I would hear the dull pounding of hooves on mud rapidly approaching. Sawyer. He couldn’t bear to let Brandy stray too far away, and whenever she disappeared from his view, he’d call frantically and charge up to make sure she hadn’t, say, fallen into a bottomless pit or been eaten by a rabid tiger. Thus reassured, he would show off by jumping the ditch, tossing his mane with its luxurious blond braids, loping circles, and behaving like a typical lovestruck teen.

And if I ever lose my legs
I won’t moan, and I won’t beg
Oh, if I ever lose my legs
I won’t have to walk no more

And I rode on—a few laps through the pasture, weaving persimmons in the woods, around the arena and roundpen…and that was it. I brushed the horse, turned her out, went inside to take a shower, and went to bed, whereupon I promptly forgot the exhilaration of living purely for the experientialist moment.

I’m being followed by a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin’ and hoppin’ on a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow

Did it take you long to find me?
I ask the faithful light
Oh, did it take you long to find me?
And are you going to stay the night?

Letting Go

Allow me to recall and retell a story I first heard when I was nine years old. It has stayed with me since then, and the refrain will at times run through my head inexplicably. I’m not so certain what the moral is, but there’s certainly a lesson here.

An elderly Greek man lay dying after a long and fulfilling life. He looked around at his devoted family assembled together at his bedside, then he gazed out across the beautiful scenery that characterized his home and all that he had known and loved throughout his many years. What wonderful memories he had accumulated, what experiences, what untold things he had learned! This was the island where his ancestors had lived and died. This was the place where he had spent his boyhood, met his true love, married, and raised his family. In that sea had he worked as a fisherman; through those mountains had he walked and pondered and grown old. He sighed with contentment and resignation, and with a final effort he let his right hand fall to the ground beside his bed. “This is Crete,” he thought, “and I love Crete, and I can never let it go.” So saying, he scooped up a handful of the cool earth and, pulling his clenched fist up to his breast, breathed his last.

And then he was standing at the gates of Heaven. Ornate and gilded, they marked the entrance to a kingdom no mortal has ever known. Upon them was the inscription, “Leave behind all traces of your former life, and then ye may enter into the realm of Everlasting Paradise.” The man moved to step forward, but the gates remained fixed and solid. Then realization dawned upon him, and he looked down at the clay still clutched in his hand. “No,” said he. “This is Crete, and I love Crete, and I will never let it go.”

And then the gates opened, and Saint Peter stepped through. “You have been a good man,” he told the Greek, “and you have well deserved your place in Heaven. But the laws are such that you must cast aside all earthly things before you are allowed to enter through this portal to Eternal Life. Now, free the contents of your hand and join me here.”

“No,” said the man. “If I cannot take it with me, then I will wait outside forever. For this is Crete, and I love Crete, and I will never let it go.”

But then a small boy slipped out from behind Saint Peter’s robe. The old man’s eyes widened in recognition, and then filled with tears. The child was the man’s grandson, who had died when he was only five years old. “Please, Papa,” he spoke. “Won’t you throw away that dirt and come inside to play with me?”

And the man loosened the grip in his fingers and the dust of Crete fell through, and the gates swung wide open, and there was a terrible and awesome light.

And when the man had stepped through and his eyes had adjusted, lo and behold, the island of Crete lay stretched out before him.

The Least of My People

From time to time hummingbirds fly into our barn by mistake and, disoriented, become trapped despite the wide open doors and windows. They fly higher and higher, frantically beating at the rafters because they instinctively sense that upwards is the way to freedom. The white underside of the roof mimics the pale tones of the sky and further confuses them and they zip back and forth, buzzing pitifully, until they eventually discover the escape route.

An unlucky few, however, don’t find an opening until they collapse from utter exhaustion, literally unable to move and as helpless as a victim of diabetic shock. They crumple to the ground, weak and paralyzed. On several occasions last year we found the fallen birds and, recalling a long-ago presentation at a local nature center, attempted to resuscitate them with sugar water. The task fell to me once, and the hummingbird feeder was brought down. The miniscule creature was cradled in the palm of my hand. It would open its eyes for a moment, then close them again in a pathetic display of hopelessness. I forced its beak into the opening in the middle of the plastic flower and it lay motionless in that position for a few seconds, before withdrawing its head violently. We repeated this procedure a few times, and it soon became clear that the bird was not only drinking, but regaining strength visibly. It puffed itself up and squeaked a few times, then fed on its own. Then it shook, stood up straighter, and whizzed off into the wild blue yonder. It was a beautiful moment.*

I’ve been thinking lately that maybe what we need in our lives is a little compassion. Take the time, reach out, offer a little help or just live and let live. While I’m certainly wont to grasp too hard for a metaphor, the helpless hummingbird could certainly be compared to anyone and everyone we meet on the street, or really any other divine spark of life.

Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, that you do unto me.

--Matthew 25:40

Can we somehow find personal fulfillment through our own kindnesses and good deeds? Religion and prophets would say so. By acts of compassion, we help not only the objects of our kindness, but also ourselves and our souls, if you’ll allow me to get a bit metaphysical here.

(I don’t really know what I’m talking about. Part of it is summer musings, part of it is parroting what I’ve been taught in philosophy books and religion classes. But it’s something to think about, anyway…)

Of course, this is coming from the person who will slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a butterfly.

*The first two paragraphs are a result of what happens when I try to compose a blog post at one in the morning. Melodramatic with pompous, unintelligible diction much?

Utopia

In the future that we used to imagine
The one they pictured in those old magazines
Their tomorrow-land is so old fashioned
A delusion of the modern dream
But they had a skyway to the city towers
And we're still rocking over stones and tar
I've been crawling down the freeway for hours
I want my fusion-powered flying car
This ain't the modern world that I remember
The one they promised all us boys and girls
This ain't the vision that the artist rendered
What happened to my modern world?
They said my leisure time was gonna be bitchin’
I'd have my holographic TV phone
And we'd be cooking in our One Button kitchen
In our aluminum dymaxion home
With the enlightened ones leading the nations
Bringing peace around the world at last
A utopia of cooperation
Where injustice is a thing of the past
It's just a bunch of big baby boomers
Trying to snatch the last cookie and run
It's such a comfort to the guilty consumer
If Armageddon had already begun
'Cause if the world's a box of chocolate cherries
Then they can use it up and toss it away
They make it post-apocalyptic and scary
To even dream about the future today


--David Wilcox



I’ve had this stuck in my head on and off for months now—ever since I first heard it on the radio. I don’t know much about David Wilcox, but I love this song.