Dust to Dust

We got a call yesterday from the vet's office letting us know that James' ashes were ready to be picked up.  It's been quite a while since James shuffled off this mortal coil. While Herself felt no burning hurry to be in possession of his cremains, she thought it would be respectful to him to bring them home just the same.

There were a few other people waiting in line to speak with the veterinarian's assistant, and Herself felt slightly self-conscious about asking for James' ashes: public awareness of one's status as Mourning Pet Owner is tricky, for it may elicit the kind of quiet sympathy from pet-owning strangers that releases unexpected ninja-like tears of forgotten grief.  Yet, it was fine.  She took the tiny tin and escaped unobtrusively out of the clinic's door, composed and just a tiny bit sad.

Rest in peace, James.

Simple

Fewer things are more delightful than coming across some small thing that one knows a particular person will enjoy, and presenting it to them.  Humble items, perhaps inconsequential to all but the receiver: a ceramic paring knife; an uncommon color of nail polish; a T-shirt naming an unusual band; a roll of shiny duct tape; a fuzzy bee; a flavor of ice cream. The delight of such tiny moments brings joy to the heart.

I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all. - Laura Ingalls Wilder

Respite Care

It has been a great concern to Herself that she is the only one in the family who is trained to give ottoman-shaped dog his insulin shots. She has worried, and felt alternatively oppressed, guilty, annoyed, and dutiful. Faithful good dog Thorbert, a beloved millstone around Herself's neck, requiring her presence at regular intervals no more than 12 hours apart. What could Herself do?

She has at long last found a pet sitter who is comfortable giving Thorbert his insulin. Bonus one: she's a warm and kind woman, and Thorbert prefers the ladies. Bonus two: her name was familiar  because she's the mother of some of Offspring the Third's classmates from grade school.  Herself remembers her from then as being smart, trustworthy and professional.  Excellent.  And Bonus three:  she's a scientist - a woman after Herself's own heart. 

SUCCESS.

Herself is delighted: she is incredibly relieved that respite has been found; that should she need to be away for a day or two, Thorbert's needs can still be met; and that she does not have to strongarm any of the squeamish family members into handling injections for the dog.

It reminds her a tiny bit of Days Of Yore, when the Offspring were nursing infants.  It was stressful to be the sole source of food for a small human being.  What a relief, when they were big and old enough finally to begin cereals and fruits and veggies.  All those tiny jars of organic, minimally processed, painfully wholesome pureed items were carefully arranged in the cabinet, and Herself would look at them fondly, well aware of their marvelous role as supplemental food for the Offspring. She could worry just a little less. It was good.

Comfy, Thorbert? I'm glad.

Guardian

Note: extremely serious topic today. Pregnant women and women with infants should consider reading elsewhere.

Today is Nicholas day.

Fourteen years ago, a young woman very close to Herself's heart delivered her firstborn, Nicholas.  Nicholas was stillborn: an umbilical cord accident -- a knot -- took him from this world before he was ever able to draw breath.  Herself, five months pregnant with Offspring the Third at the time, remembers that day with a vividness that will never dissipate.  She was exhausted from several weeks of medical care and related travel for Offspring the First, who had required surgery to correct a congenital problem, and had been trying to nap in the afternoon.  The phone rang; her Beloved Husband answered and spoke briefly, and then came to the bedroom.  He said:  something wrong with the baby, they had been told. A crisis in the night, they had said.  And Nicholas was gone, and Herself's heart-sister had to deliver his silent tiny form and say goodbye. Unimaginable sorrow.

Nicholas' birthdate is still in Herself's calendar, and every year, she speaks with her friend about him. She calls him by name and pays her respects to the memory of him. His time was a blink of an eye, but his presence is forever, for he is a reminder of the fragility of life, of the inscrubability of why terrible things sometimes happen, of our own inevitable mortality. 

He is also more. 

When Herself was in labor with Offspring the Third and he was in distress (we have mentioned his fraught delivery before, here and here), Herself thought of Nicholas.  She asked in her heart for Nicholas to look after Offspring the Third, whatever might happen.  And when Offspring the Third arrived well, Herself knew that his guardian angel would evermore be Nicholas.

Once, when Offspring the Third was a tiny tot, Herself tucked him in at bedtime and he looked at her and -- without context or any previous similar conversation -- said, "When we die, are we born again and see through someone else's eyes?"  Ah, child.  The Universe has always spoken to you in mysterious ways.  Herself likes to think that perhaps Offspring the Third and Nicholas have already met, somewhere, somehow.  It's possible.  And perhaps, someday, they will meet again once more.

Thank you, Nicholas.  We remember you always.

In the Right Light

Slightly adult theme today. You have been warned!

You have no doubt noted from various posts here and there that Herself -- like most women her age -- struggles a fair amount with body-image issues.  She knows she'll never be a tall svelte creature like those that populate all of the (heavily-photoshopped) fashion magazines.  She recognizes that she'll never again have the flat abdomen of her youth.  She understands that the marks left by the three consecutive nine-pound Offspring will always remain, and that she can do nothing about the dozen surgical scars except be grateful that they're mostly small and faded. She will likely always be a few pounds heavier than she'd like to be.  Such is life. It could be worse.

Still, it could be better, too.  She wishes.  Why? It should not matter. Yet you and I know that somehow, it does.

Even so, every now and then, she has a Good Day:  a day on which she gets up and deliberately stands nude in the muted dawn before the full-length mirror that she normally carefully avoids, and looks, and thinks, "All things considered, maybe it's not so bad."  She's not glamorous and she's not thin, but she is warm and pink and perhaps curved in certain places in a relatively acceptable manner.  And that will do, for today. 

Half A Year

Six months ago, ottoman-shaped dog was diagnosed with diabetes.  He is doing remarkably well.  Though the insulin shots are not much easier, either for Herself or for him, they get through them as they must.  And he has had six months of extra time to lie in his bed, to bark at the door, to gallop about when it is dinnertime, to go camping and hiking, and to sniff new things and dig in new places and lie in the dirt.

Good boy, Thorbert.

Because the Night

Herself prefers twilight and nighttime; the harsh sun of this desert land burns and withers. She enjoys early dawn, too, though she is not often awake to experience it.  The phasing from day to night, and from night to day, are always full of promise. And frequently, watching over the changes is the dispassionate eye of the moon.

The past few nights, the crescent moon has slowly waxed, and it was particularly noteworthy Saturday night.  Herself and the Menfolk were all watching a manly movie (Gladiator), when she stepped outside briefly with the wee little dog.  As the door closed behind her, the battle sounds of the film were muffled, and the yard was surprisingly quiet. Herself looked over the back fence by the right-hand tree and found the lunar orb, dark except for the sliver of silver at the bottom. Beautiful.  

Though the moon is silent, it oftentimes reminds Herself of music.  Right now, the moon evokes Because The Night (Patty Smith).  We must add this to the iPod.

This beautiful moon was photographed by Rob Kaufman

and can be found at http://the-moon.wikispaces.com/Earthshine.