Well, it's almost 12. Sleep has taken my beloved, and eluded me , leaving me far behind . Sometimes enough new things , or old things, come to mind or emotion during the day that , if not properly honored and unwound , ends up, with you, far from home- at bedtime. And you know you just need to relax and slowly walk them back home.
So I am, as you sometimes might be, despite mindful walks or chewable GABA or Theanine or a little meditation or exercise or calm stuff before bed, just trying to help out- let things come in for a landing for the night.
I'm bringing ,first Shiva, who finally is 17, outside to stand and inhale and relish the cold cold air. And pee and snuffle and then catch a whiff of something, and just enjoy with her entire being lifting her whitened muzzle slightly, catching a scent neither you not I could ever detect.
A few years ago, all this was her terrain, as an alpha dog, and she'd stand all tough , pee, and then rip rip up the land behind her , signaling for any and all to see , her domain; her dominance.
But now , older and asleep much of the time, needing herbs and massage and topical things
for achey joints and some pain, she is set upon another track: immersed in another season we hear so much about, if we listen and learn from elders who travel through that land.
We stand out, me in my polar fleece and wool socks on the hard cold ground, as the air smells and feels and looks like snow.
Suddenly we have a teaser of a few small flakes - but that's all. And we return our gaze to the moonless night , with a wild delicious wind whipping through the well acclimated forest that surrounds us.
A few days ago, the woods finally cleared enough that , from the back stoop, you see lights twinkling from Northampton , across the river. Soon, in day or night , the view will be 240•, with only the hulking range looming behind us.
I say a little prayer for the small wooly caterpillar that has been out and about , feeding around this back door - and wanders about all winter long! Under the leaves, on the frozen soil, feeding and then going a bit torpid ; waking and meandering and feeding before falling into slumber again.I'm hoping none of us steps upon them, busy with their fall ways .
Finally Shiva tires, and I swap her out for the pup, who must come second in all things, to prevent him from even thinking of pushing the old one around.
He is less confident ; more skittish, dumb modern day Shepherd genes. A wind whips up, brandishing swaying garden plants , and he turns about with concern- but not fear , for I'm there, whispering to him that all's well and does he hear the beautiful wind.
Often in the evening or the night, he leaps up, barking, alarmed. But I'm teaching him the word 'Coyote', and sit with him by the darkened windows , telling him of his neighbors, that this too is their home. More and more, if I mutter. 'Dante, Coyote!', he placates me , and lies back down again .
It says it's 39•, but I swear it's not true. Yet, if I were no chicken and had a good sleeping bag? Why, I'd be out here in a heartbeat- my back on the ground, my sight filled with vague clouds racing by, and the multitude of unknown far away suns that we forget and call stars, blinking overhead. To be feeling and drinking in the smell and feel of the brisk magic wind , so delicious to inhale , I can hardly leave it behind.
But I am not my friend with the four dogs, who at times sleeps out alone with them, no tent, in some nearby state park.
I'm not my friend from the past , who would kayak out into the ocean, in Maine, to an island. And sleep over. To awaken to an ocean sunrise on the lulling waves. Awaken and make a campfire and eat and then kayak home.
I have climbed mountains, my beloved Mt . Washington several times, and most probably, never again.
Though last time, I left behind on the summit, deep between two boulders, one of two earrings my youngest gave to me. He was not happy, but I explained why.
I have the other, and I take hold of it, sometimes, and reach out to feel the one that remains up there, anchoring a part of me to the wild wild mountain .
In Maui for my older son's wedding , our the wedding party went- on a huge sailboat that had been jn the America's Cup. We slid sideways, half the boat underwater, while I grinned, in heaven, and happily hung on.
Hours out into the ocean, as we prepared to turn about , I pulled from my pocket a small smooth piece of Basalt rock, from our mountain range, and let it fall from my fingers into the fast water below, imagining it as it sank slowly to the seabed for who knows how long . Sometimes in meditation, I pull the stone to me , in those depths , far away.
I won't be kayaking to islands for overnights , nor sleeping out in the forest alone.
But I love what I have done. My heart is full; delighted. And I love what others have done , and continue to do.
Somehow, that connection , to our own past , and the experiences of others , to me is a peaceful rich taste of our immortality .
I pull the reticent pup in from the cold , his fur fragrant with the night. Into the cozy dark kitchen I go, closing up the house, tucking the day into the night ; and head sleepily for bed.
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