Although, Dart had some symptoms of lethargy before we left,  Dodge had barely started demonstrating a low appetite.  She’d been out hunting in the sunshine and seemed fine.  I thought perhaps she’d eaten a mouse that was moving through her system slowly. Dart had been lethargic (for him), but he was jumping up on the bed with ease and showed no points of pain. His robust purr was in good working order whenever I handled him.  I noted the lump and decided I’d take him to the vet when we returned.  Neither cat seemed critical enough to warrant a pre-trip vet visit. Their feral natures have always made vet visits very stressful.

Fortunately, Pet Emergency Center in Mount Vernon, Washington, is open 24/7 including Sundays. So adding insult to the cat’s miseries, I got them into carriers and off we went.  I knew matters were serious just by how little they fought being placed in the carriers.

Blood work demonstratead immediately that Dodge was in advanced renal failure.  Dr. Jane Reynolds was frank.  “If this were my cat, I wouldn’t treat. The values are extreme. In attempting to get the blood test, it was apparent that her veins are breaking down.”  Euthanasia was the only option. I spent quite a few minutes with Dodge, soothing her and holding her.  It was obvious she was ready. She passed very peacefully with her head in my hands. We’ll never know for sure why she declined so rapidly at the age of 13.  When you allow your cats the freedom of the great outdoors, there are always risks of exposure to many unknowns – some of them toxic.

Dart could not be effectively examined without sedation. The presumption was that the lump was an abscess. His white count was extremely high. Dr. Reynolds suggested we go home and she would call post-surgically.  Unfortunately, the surgery demonstrated the lump was the tip of an extremely large tumor.  With Dart’s white count as high as it was, Dr. Reynolds doubted if he would survive the invasive surgery that would have been necessary to remove the tumor.  Unfortunately, we had no opportunity to say goodbye.  There was no point it bringing him out of anesthetic before euthanizing him as well.  I always worried about Dart’s love of traversing the railroad ties that support our ivy.  Even though most of the creosote was weathered off the tops,  I can’t help but wonder if exposure to those toxins played a role in the development of the tumor. We won’t get more cats until we have an opportunity to replace the ties. Cats are notorious for going where they want to go, not where you want them to go.

There are now two piles of rocks under a large cedar which I can see out the kitchen window.  My wonderful friends now lie in repose where they once frolicked and lived life fully.  My heart is broken, but I’m doing okay.  Part of pet ownership always includes taking the responsibility of not allowing them to suffer.  Losing both in one day is almost too much for the emotions to grasp.  The house is quiet.  I spent quite a bit of time yesterday, clearing cat dishes, bedding, toys and other reminders from the house.  It’ll be some time before we’re ready to start again.  In the meantime, it seems easiest to not be looking at the memories daily.

I am not religious but I have strong non-religious spiritual beliefs. Loss gets no easier, but my confidence in some variety of continuity grows stronger with each passing year.  There may be no guarantees about what happens after death, but certainly suffering is relieved and profound love continues to comfort those of us who must grieve.  I like to think death is the beginning of new adventures, I have strong confidence in the benevolence of that grand and final uncertainty.

Dart

 

Goodbye, my freinds.  Thank you for enriching my life. May your new adventures bring you as much joy as you  brought to me during our brief time together.

Dodge

“Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!” CANON HENRY SCOTT HOLLAND (1847-1918)   

 quotation via The Solitary Walker

Of course, it’s a good idea to have enough social moxie to get dressed and be civil when you make that run for groceries, collect the mail, or transact whatever business is necessary to maintain yourself and your independence.  A standard presentation of conformity at the right times keeps the SHOULD ADDICTS from getting curious or feeling obliged to come take a look – to rescue you or your soul.

It is hazardous to get so comfortable in your solitude that you forget about the should addicts. Difference is quite scary to should addicts. Mostly, they’ll think you should be more social;  because if you’re more social, they’ll know what you’re up to. And it’s their fear of the unknown that will send them after you – for whatever reason. So take a shower, wear clean clothes and a pair of shoes when you go to town. Don’t growl at the clerks and bureaucrats (too much). Small prices to pay to maintain the illusion that you understand what you should be doing – whether you’re doing it routinely or not.

If you’re lucky, your friends and relatives (especially adult children) will come to accept your hermitic idiosyncrasy. Maintaining at least some level of ongoing dialog nurtures this acceptance.  Presume when they voice their concerns about your situation (alone off in the woods or wherever) it is an expression of love not just curiosity about how you’re using their inheritance. Check in now and then so they know you’re okay and that you still care about them. Eventually they’ll accept you as that rarely-seen character of family lore.

But there is one SHOULD of solitude which I consider a rather important courtesy. Do some emergency back-up planning. Let some trusted other know where to find the keys, passwords, important personal paperwork and mechanical instructions for the property. Avoid burdening your kids or friends with an unexpected, long-distance rescue if something happens. At least try to grease the skids a little in case you exit the scene unexpectedly – whether temporarily or permanently.

It helps to strive for simplicity around the hermitage; but even if you can’t do that, at least finish up that “estate planning” paperwork you’ve been putting off and make sure whoever needs to find it, can find it.

Live the way you want, but try not to leave a big mess. It’s just rude.

My birthday means my sun sign is not simply Libra.  Having been born near the change date from one sun sign to the next, I’m actually a Libra-Scorpio Cusp.  According to my suitor (way back then):  “Libra-Scorpio Cusps are well-balanced sex maniacs.”

My reply:  “If one is going to be a sex maniac, it’s probably best to be well-balanced about it.”  Whether this fellow and I further explored this interesting label is none of your business, and whatever happened was billions of years ago anyway.

My online research today was a quick check to see if there is any astrological basis at all for the sex-maniac comment.  (I’ve long been aware of the Libran balance part of the equation.) Here’s Astrology.com’s initial paragraph about Libra-Scorpio Cusps:

Libra is the seventh sign of the zodiac; Scorpio is the eighth. After Libra’s intellectual exploration of other people, Scorpio’s interest is in discovering other people’s emotions and how they respond to the world around them. Scorpio is the sign of sex and death, the beginning and ending, and they explore these ideas from an emotional standpoint. Libra/Scorpios strive to create balance and harmony between self and other through investigation and probing. They are often strongly intuitive and penetrating. They have a need to be liked.

So since Scorpio is the sign of sex and death, and Libra goes for balance and harmony, there is some astrological legitimacy to my date’s synopsis.  Of course, I might be a well-balanced death maniac – but that was less relevant to my date’s objective.  No, I do not remember what his astrological sign was, so who knows if we were astrologically compatible – which probably didn’t really matter to either of us. I also don’t remember his name – take that little nugget of information off to wherever you wish.

Like most healthy human beings, there was a phase of my youth in which hormones and curiosity combined to rank sex quite high on the motivational priority scale of my life.  I don’t think I was ever particularly maniacal in its pursuit, though.  I think my sexual philosophy was then and is still quite well-balanced:

1. Best when pursued within the context of a caring emotional bond, though not without its merits as an emotional-bond initiator and cultivator.
2. Enjoy fully (both physically and emotionally). Sex is a celebration of life. If you aren’t incorporating a fair amout of smiling and laughing  (well, at least giggling) into the exchange, you may be taking sex (and possibly life) too seriously.
3. Not worth risking your life over.

I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly maniacal about anything really:  not sex, death, money, love, politics. I lean toward the well-balanced side of the cusp – which is undoubtedly astrologically verified by the fact that my birthday’s on the Libra side of the cusp not the Scorpio.

Astrology.com”s “need to be liked” sentence seems a little off. Sure, I like to be liked, but I think my love of solitude takes me at least one rung down from NEED.

Ah-hah!  Maybe I’m maniacal about solitude?

Nah – I’m even a balanced hybrid in the hermit arena.

My wanderings into astrology today confirmed that the descriptions are general enough to apply to (and flatter) almost anyone who’s curious enough to follow the path – a worthy choice for an hour’s entertainment.  I am not passing judgment on those who are serious astrology buffs. I realize there is much more to the whole deal than simple sun signs and birthdays. If that’s where your interest takes you – go for it.

An interesting curiosity surfaced though: one of the most astrologically compatible mates for a Libra-Scorpio cusp is a Sagittarius-Capricorn cusp.

Coincidentally, my true-love, Griz, is a Sagittarius-Capricorn cusp. How about that? Worth a ponder…

“In the magical universe, there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.” – William S. Burroughs

]]> http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/10/25/life-on-the-cusp-the-well-balanced-maniac/feed/ 0 http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/10/03/fine-art-by-kathy-kimball-company/ http://blogfromahermit.com/2009/10/03/fine-art-by-kathy-kimball-company/#comments Sun, 04 Oct 2009 03:04:01 +0000 Trish http://blogfromahermit.com/?p=2491

"Discovery Park" by Kathy Kimball

When including a link to my friend, Kathy Kimball, in that last post, I made a conscious choice to link to her page at The Carrot Revolution Art Company site, rather than to one of her faculty profile pages at the University of Washington.  I’m sure there are people who work with Kathy every day who don’t even know she is an artist.  She teaches in the Department of Education – not Art.

I think the above oil on canvas is a great reflection of Kathy’s potential as an artist. I’m no expert, I just like what I like – but I think anyone who has been to Seattle’s Discovery Park in autumn will recognize Kathy’s gift.

One of the reasons I like to pressure Kathy to reevaluate her schedule is I’d love to see what happens when she starts giving the artist a bit more time. To quote Robert Heinlein:

“Creativity demands leisure.”

The poem’s still imperfect and will remain so eternally – unfinished like life and good friendships. But posting the poem allows me to sneak in another opportunity to pressure Kathy into reevaluating her schedule.

Friendship never really fits
Inside a purchased card.
Cards may brush the truth
With quips and clever punch
But cards’ unexpanded tales
Miss friendship’s mortal soul -
The bond beyond the quip,
Unique between two friends.

She’s short and voluptuous
To my tall and not very
And we both love our walks
In nature and not
So we value our knees and our legs.
But when walking as two,
Her innate shorter stride
Hurries quick-time to mine.
Though she never falls back
And not once has complained
Burns more calories perhaps
Something always worthwhile
For carrot cake fests
And sticky bun loves
Dependent on chocolate
For solace.
When walking and laughing,
And walking and crying,
And walking and laughing again.

We first walked as neighbors
Near daily patrol
The banks of Shilshole Bay
A life aboard sailboats,
Sailors soldiering through
Feisty elements marine
On long laundry hauls
And facility showers.
Jelling friendship with
Walking and laughing
And walking and crying
And walking and laughing again.

How perplexed we could be
Over confounding, alien ways
Of our logical, linear men
Who’d unwittingly retreat
To their logical lines
And offer them up to us mates
Who most needed their hugs
And not logic, of course.
So as friends we would hug
In sorry console,
Sharing a bottle of wine or two,
A fine mug of grog and a dinghy ride.
“What do you do
with a drunken sailor?”
You laugh,
You laugh,
You cry from time to time
And then you laugh again.

Both loved as children,
A particular cross
In this culture of the good excuse.
But our fine childhoods’ grew,
Another bond from our roots
Common libraries of family songs,
Old tunes and carols
Serendipitously sprout out
In spontaneous duets
On some of our walks -
Surprising each other
And any audience about
(‘Cause we’re not very good).
But granting to us
Another reason to laugh,
Walking and laughing,
And walking and singing,
And crying from time to time,
And walking and laughing again.

But have I told her often or lately
How much I admire
Her grit and resilience
Through passionate loves
And deep, deep loss.
Her ceaseless momentum,
Education devotion.
(She taught on her knees once
In pain’s compensation.)

How appreciative I am,
That she scours her schedule
Fitting adventures with me in the mix
Sidelining striving enough
So I’m privileged to be
With this woman at rest,
In her natural state
Doing goofy and giggly
Like they matter most.

Not enough time for herself,
Her life’s tightly-packed,
Bulky, day-timer ruled,
Which is baffling to
Someone like me
Who does time at arms length
Keeping calendars blank,
Clocks often unwatched,
Something baffling to her
I know.

She endures all my jibes
When I tease about stress
And she rarely jibes me back.
But it’s with affection deep-felt
I remind her again:
“That third chapter starts NOW
Retire and paint.
Let the goof rule your day.
Every day.”

No longer neighbors,
Our circles disparate
An hour or more apart
Our bond never hits that
Old, always-there thing.
But we both know it could
And without pause it would
If the need ever surfaced again.

So now, frequently weeks,
And often some months,
And one time even some years
Vanish between our meets
But we jump right back in
Where we last left off,
The dialog never ends.
For now when we walk,
Our good union includes
This long tale to review,
Depth-filled with laughter and tears
Where fears of the world,
And aging and change,
Are allayed by the joys
Of true wisdom and worth
Of fine transits well made.
Walking and laughing,
And walking and laughing,
And walking and crying at times,
And returning to laughter again.

This routine thinning partially accounts for the western red’s success at growing big – less wind resistance over the winter. It may also be a factor in the cedar’s slower growth rate (compared to our region’s commercially-favored timber crops – western hemlock and Douglas fir). My experience suggests that when high winds do overpower the cedars, they are more likely than the others to relinquish only their tops (15 to 25 percent of the tree) rather than fall down. (Although even one-quarter of a large tree can wreak a bit of havoc in its flight path.)

Western red cedars, though not as large as California’s redwoods, were the giants of the old-growth forests in our region. They are called “the tree of life” by Northwest coast indigenous tribes who traditionally used them for lodges, canoes, totem poles and many other utilitarian, artistic and spiritual purposes.

Perhaps it’s my anthropological knowledge of their spiritual tradition, perhaps it’s just their quiet majesty, but I have something of a love affair with our big cedars, many of them 60 to 75 years old. It is impossible for me to stand beneath one and not appreciate its connectedness, timelessness, and endurance.

There is a certain innate wisdom in a giant tree. At this time of year, our western red cedars remind us to comfortably give in to nature’s flow – to routinely practice shedding the unnecessary (foliage, stuff, outdated ideas, bad habits, toxic relationships) as a path to reduce stress, promote health and prepare ourselves for the next round of buffeting winds.

Of course, we still have the cell phones. As a female who logs a fair number of rural highway miles alone, I’m particularly fond of the safety aspect. But we don’t often give out our mobile numbers; and in spite of our overall high-tech-ness, we are consistently resistant to smart phones and texting. We have the services available, but we prize our disconnectedness too much to bother.  After all, the more avenues with which you connect to others, the more avenues with which they connect right back. It always comes back to that solitude thing.

Griz and I use our cell phones most frequently to talk with each other – not only when we’re miles apart, but for pings from opposite ends of the property. As I’ve said before, we allow each other a great deal of alone time, even when we’re in relative proximity.

Other programmed numbers are almost exclusively close friends and family. At night, I set my cell phone to vibrate and place it beside the bed. If there’s a loved-one emergency, that’s the number they’ll use. I’m a high-quality, but fairly light sleeper. I hear the vibration – more than that is just too jarring.

But every so often, especially after a flourish of social activity and demands (like this August into September), I go through a phase of unconsciously leaving my cell phone by the bed throughout the day. This week I’ve missed several important (though not time-critical) calls as a result of this unconscious, don’t-call-me behavior. If you’re a person that values or needs solitude, you probably understand this. If you’re one of those never-misses-anything, well-connected types, such an oversight probably seems totally irresponsible.

Us hermits find ways to keep the cord cut. Our internal peace is dependent on it. If for some reason we’re not circumstantially allowed our ration of solitude – we find ways, consciously or unconsciously, to get it back. When we crave our solitude, we forget our cell phones, we “accidentally” leave the land line off the hook, we cancel appointments, miss meetings, and we just don’t show up for that party we said we “definitely” wouldn’t miss. Our friends learn tolerance.

I always know when I’ve deprived myself of my allotment of solitude:  there’s my cell phone, sleeping-in at bedside, vibrating away to itself.

I apologize for my extended blogging absence.  I thought I’d get back to blogging with more zeal once the August frenzy subsided. But the frenzy was more intense than anticipated and it actually extended into the first of week of September. I’m recovering now. With the cell phone sleeping in, we’ve had a very quiet week. I’ve reconnected with my trees and my Self.  I’ll try to be a better blogger.

I am continually impressed with the profound beauty and depth of his posts (and pages). I highly recommend his blog to anyone with a contemplative streak, with or without religious affiliation.

Whether you are true eremite (like Mike), or more of a half-time hermit (like me), I think Mike’s reflections on the value of solitude and integral practice will resonate with spiritual truth.

I actually did quit my job (though I never did wear live [or dead] animals on my head).   Griz and I took off on one of our periodic sailing-into-the-wilderness adventures aboard S/V WaterBrother. By the time we returned, Griz had a new nickname and appeared to be wearing animals on his head.

And here we are “gone native” after a few months – a status-report postcard we sent to friends from Vancouver Island’s west coast.

(Original photo of Nuu-Chah-Nulth couple:  ”Canoe in Boston Cove” by photographer Edward S. Curtis, The North American Indian, 1914.)

“But even after a thousand times, 10,000 times, each day on the water is a thing special, a day important, a day which restores life into a sailor.

We must have it. Or we die. We die anyway.

But at least this way when we eventually come to our end we will have followed a compass of our own devising; the only compass which we know how to follow.”