A Rainbow of Blue

“I am afraid of emotions,” Mack admitted… “I don’t like how they feel.

I’ve hurt others with them and I can’t trust them at all.

Did you create all of them or only the good ones?”…

“Mackenzie.” [spoke] Sarayu “…Emotions are the colors of the soul;

they are spectacular and incredible.

When you don’t feel,

the world becomes dull and colorless.“

~ The Shack ~

Color.  It lifts my spirits.  It reminds me that God is still present.  Still working.  Good in spite of the brokenness and trauma that surrounds me.

Red to yellow through orange
Yellow to blue through greens
Blue to red through violets
Nothingness to an array of blues

When we first moved to Oklahoma in 1992 I came without a job.  On days when my husband was in graduate seminars and I felt particularly down, I went to the fabric store.  I walked around isles and isles and bolts and bolts of colored cotton fabric.  I didn't know a soul in Norman and we had little money, but I immersed myself in color.

Immersed myself in good.

These past few weeks color has once again taken a prominent place in my life.  Color studies visit my life in art displays and projects, spoken words, written words and book covers.

Rainbows…
               Transitions…
                             Meaning…
                                            Beauty…
                                                          Sorrow…
                                                                      Grief…
                                                                                    Pain…

Recently our yoga instructor talked us through a mediation of sorts, a guided way to focus on stretching while breathing.  She asked us to visualize the color of the stretch and then while releasing to visualize the change to another color.

I pictured red-hot red and the transition to yellow through beautiful oranges.  I breathed… stretched… released… stretched and then released again.  I breathed.  Deep breaths.  Breath that reminded me of life.

I relaxed more and stretched once again.  This time my thoughts went from red to orange and stayed present with orange, comforted in orange.

While focusing on breathing my mind also centered on my dear friend who recently _____ her daughter to suicide.  I use a blank because no word seems to fit. Not “lost” to suicide because her daughter is still very much present in her thoughts.  Not “experienced” suicide.  Not past tense because the family still experiences the suicide and the loss of her physical presence every day.

When we visited recently we shared, we grieved, we paused in silence.  In grief and sorrow sometimes words came, but most of the time nothing graced our lips.  The thoughts and ache deep inside.  Red-hot red thoughts.  Red-hot red aches and sorrow.

In a loving grief inspired act, her daughter’s high school art class gave the family a painting her daughter helped create.  Her small group expressed their color wheel study through a celestial view like what Hubble would see.  The painting is stunning and the transitions around the color wheel seamless and timeless.  My friend received the framed painting several days after her daughter’s suicide and I couldn’t help but tear up while she looked at the painting.  I wondered about her thoughts and the rainbow of memories washing through her mind.

***

Not long ago while feeling especially fearful about our cross country move and my writing project I thought about the yoga meditation.  I ask myself what color fits the pain I feel.  Just when I think I’ll dive in and share my writings, the gremlins torment me.  I get excited one moment and in a flash it’s gone and I am overcome with fear.

What color fits this pain?

The feeling is cold. I’m clinched.

The feeling is terrified I will make a mistake; say something “unorthodox”.

This feeling says, “I don’t approve.”

It says, “Stop…no further. Too risky.”

It warns, “You are violating the rules. You’ve stepped out of the ‘good girl’ box.”

I visualize a drab gray, but honestly it feels like the absence of color.  All life drains away when I listen to the critics’ voices.  No blue, yellow or red undertones.  Death really.

As with the yoga meditation I visualize the stretch and pain of stepping out of the “good girl” box.  I choose the color blue, my least favorite color.  Instantly an array of beautiful comes to mind.

Sky Blue
               Storm Blue
                                 Deep Blue
                                                   Navy
                                                             Midnight Blue
                                                                                     Baby Blue
                                                                                                       Cobalt
                                                                                                                    Teal
                                                                                                                             Turquoise

Stepping through this rainbow and weaving though these words, ever so slightly I feel the tight grip release.  I don’t want to give into the critical voices and stop writing.  I don’t want them to win, but their voices are strong in my head.  I fear disconnection which is death to me.  A future fear not grounded in reality, but nonetheless in my present world being open and vulnerable seems a gateway to disconnection.

In her book Daring Greatly, Brené Brown speaks something that stirs my soul.  To be vulnerable is “to engage”, to be “all in”.   Vulnerability is “uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure”.  Brené is adamant that vulnerability is not weakness.

As I dance with the blues I choose to engage “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure” and to release my tight grip on mechanisms I've chosen to protect my heart from being hurt or disappointed. I choose to face my shame triggers, to name them and question their message.

***

I grieved with my friend.  The community grieved with my friend, her husband, and sons.  The church literally overflowing.  No standing room.  People waited outside.

At her home I held her face in my hands.

We’ve been through a lot together over the course of our friendship.  I met her six-months before her daughter was conceived.  Over these years we’ve talked a lot.  Walked through a lot.  Laughed a lot. Cried, grieved and prayed...a lot.  She taught me that absolutely nothing is beyond God’s ability to redeem; nothing too tragic, too scary, too ugly.

My friend’s daughter took her life by cutting off breath.  I thought of her today as my lungs fill with breath.  Oh sweet one!!!  Why?  I search for understanding in a situation that defies it.  Another friend said it well.  Depression…the monster…grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.

I want to believe that God is "in this" and that God has not left us.  I want to believe that all will turn out for good.  I’m supposed to believe “in all things God works for the good of those who love him,” a major tenet of my faith, but today it is difficult to accept from where I stand.  How on earth will losing a daughter to suicide turn out for good?  How can good come out of this; not tiny good, but huge good that explains why God did not step in and intervene.

I don’t understand why He didn’t.  This is the fear of my struggle.  I want to turn away in disappointment, but this color meditation points me back and reconnects me to God.  Color is my promise that I can dialog with God about my fears, my disappointments (unanswered prayers), my confusion (why did You not intervene), my anguish over my friend’s daughter’s death.

Most of these questions will remain unanswered, but I realize my grace is that I KNOW I can still speak my questions to God.  I know He will meet me, hold my hand and walk with me in the confusion.  I trust His character because He’s walked with me through many other circumstances.  I've faced fears and failures, rejection and loss.  Changed through them.   Learned His character.  Something new.  Something deeper.

I didn’t always believe this, but I now know deep in my bones that God is good.  Good whether the sun shines or not.  Good whether I am rich or poor or in sickness or in health.  Good whether I live or I die.  Good in tragedy or in peace.  Today my hope anchors and trusts that what the enemy meant for evil will eventually bring Life, in much the same way that Jesus’ death was an end; a stop ... but only for a time.  Life returned, transformed and redeemed.

I cling to hope that His ability to redeem anything will once again take flight.

***

As the weeks go by we are settling into our new life with new routines and new networks, most yet to be discovered.  New places.  New faces.  Yet all this newness is mixed with discomfort, instability, and loneliness.  My head spins up narratives that make the loneliness deeper.  My friend’s daughter’s death still troubling me.  My friend and her family’s grief is a billion times more complex, painful, and tragic than mine, but I speak this feeble prayer in the face of my fears.

I bring all this to You.  It is huge.  Too huge for a human to deal with without Your intervention which brings me to my fear.

I’m hurt and my faith wavers.  I still believe You are real and You are good.  I do believe both, but I have a wound of mistrust.  I don’t understand and not able to see why You didn’t step in and change the circumstances.

We prayed so much for her kids.  We prayed and prayed.  One constant prayer was for friends.  In the aftermath we see that she many.  For this I am grateful.

But…

Did we not pray the right prayers?
Did we not pray enough?
Did we not use the right words or
use the right tone or body posture?

I suppose when I start asking these I’ve fallen in a trap.  The trap says I can control and change people through my prayers.  An alluring trap.

What is my safe question to ask?  My insides in anguish.  I come back to a place of great sorrow and grief.  My heart weeps.  Please provide a support netting for my friend and her family to help them through this.

Even while writing I’m hesitant to ask.  It breaks my heart that I hesitate to enter Your embrace.  It’s not fear, but distrust and mistrust.  I don’t know what to do except to confess this.  Tears in my eyes and sorrow in my heart.  I love You and I don’t want to turn away, but I’m so disappointed.

I feel like we exhibited great faith and learned to cling to You hard and fast.  Maybe I thought this would carry to her children and You would protect them from all things.  It’s so complicated; so very complicated.

I’m really hurt and not sure where to turn…

…but still to You.  You are my Stability.  I am beloved and cherished.  I have chosen to walk with You and accept Your wide open call to be a disciple and to step into Your flow.

Yes, again today I speak that You are my God.   I will follow You even through this….even through this.

Strengthen my faith.  Grant me empathy in greater measure.  Empathy for those who struggle to believe You, trust you and to stay in spite of disappointment, loss and confusion.

You are my home.

***

While writing this prayer tears streamed down my face and angst in my cries.  My sweet dog, Gracie, walked over from across the room.  She knew I was upset and pestering me with her nose she anxiously jumped in my lap.  I buried my face in her fur and touched her dog tags.  They made me smile.  Her collar caught my eye among her black and white fur.

Turquoise.  I smiled.  Turquoise BLUE.

Embroidered in big letters is her name, “Grace”, followed by my husband’s cell phone number.   The juxtaposition washed over me.  Her name and our number necessary should she get lost.

I sent my friend a picture of Grace’s collar with these words:

Grace's collar with Brad's phone number reminds me

that grace will always point me back home.

Today I was able to confess to Father that I'm distrusting and mistrusting Him,

but I need home.

I need Him and I don't want to leave Him in my confusion, disappointment, grief, or sorrow.

I don't want to leave home, but my heart aches with confusion.

I'm trusting that Grace truly is my way back home.

Sending hugs to you my dear, dear friend and journey partner.

 

 

  

52 Pictures - Week 29 - Finley's View

Finley was my companion at Summer Breeze a few weeks ago and he had an absolute blast. 

 

Molly's Five Favorites

Molly's health took a turn about a month ago.   I suspect the issue (failing kidneys) has been slowly manifesting, but recently tipped the scales.  I keep thinking NOT NOW!  NOT THIS YEAR!  IT'S TOO, TOO MUCH.

With the gracious and expert care of our beloved Vet we've been given a reprieve and she's still with us.  Saline injections every other day, but she's still here.  She's skinny and still a creep at times (one of my nicknames for her).  My husband, B, reminds me that her feistiness is a good thing and likely means she's feeling better.  This is her normal.

A few days after she came home from the clinic.

It was a Wednesday evening when I took her to emergency care. The next morning B transferred her to our Vet Clinic where she stayed for a week. I visited her everyday except Sunday. They let me have a room and we got to talk and hug for awhile. Well maybe not hug since she's not really a huggy cat, but I know she was glad to see me and to hear me.  And I was glad to caress her, to put my head against hers, and to look into her beautiful eyes.

A friend recently wrote something on her Facebook page that I've decided to take to heart.  Several years ago her favorite vet spoke some advice when she was dealing with an aging pet.  The advice was to create "My Aging Pet's Top Five Favorites".  When these favorite things become impossible or no longer enjoyed, then it's probably time to make some decisions.  So she and her beloved dog sat down together and made their list.

Tonight Molly and I made her list.

I'll watch for when she's struggling.  I know it's not today, but today I need this list to help me cherish the time we still have and to minimize the pre-grief that steals today.  I know we're in the bonus round and we still have good days ahead for us.  Hopefully weeks and maybe a month or maybe months.

So, Molly, here are your favorites and I'm going to promise to enjoy them with you.

• Jumping on the kitchen table to eat TREATS with the dogs
• Sleeping right next to my computer 
• Batting at Grace on the opposite side of the baby gate 
• Stealing Calvin's better tasting food*
• Shredding paper while I'm trying to pay bills

*** 

* Item four is what inspired this post.  She hates her new KD food.  HATES, HATES, HATES!  We tried a new food yesterday and she liked it for about one and a half meals.  BUT she LOVES Calvin's food which is formulated exactly opposite of what she needs now.  We are hopefully going to try a new food tomorrow.  Hoping she'll like that one.  Not too many other options left.   If the choice is between starving her or Calvin's food which exacerbates her issues, I know what choice I'll make but gosh it's a shitty choice.  

Waiting for me...

When my husband calls from our home phone this is the image that displays on my phone.  It makes me smile.

When I leave in the morning I see a similar pose when I look back at the house.  This view breaks my heart, but the good news is I often see this pose when I pull into the driveway.  Usually she's sitting on the couch and then jumps up when she sees the lights of the car.

As soon as I open the front door her wiggly body makes it clear she's glad I'm home.

I'm glad, too.

Second Blessing

I hand wrote a blog entry about Abbie back in the spring of 2008 about 8 months after Alafair died.  I found it the other day and decided today seemed the perfect day.  :)

~*~

I've been wanting to post this story on my blog for awhile and today seems the perfect day.  Both B and I feel a lot of sadness over missing our Alafair.  Although we think of her daily, the tears are not as frequent.  For whatever reason we miss her very much today.

Earlier this year over New Year's weekend two of our nieces and my in-laws came for visit.  During a conversation with the 16 year old, she asked why we named our newest addition "Abbie".  

Our Abbie -
taken Jan 1, 2012

Abbie came to us named "Maggie", but one day shortly after we adopted her from Second Chance, I was hugging on her and talking to her.  I accidentally called her "Abbie" without even thinking.  After the words passed my lips tears unexpectedly welled up in my eyes.  The name seemed a perfect fit. 

I told my niece this story and she said the sweetest thing.  She had wondered if we named her Abbie because the name means "Blessing" and she saw Abbie as being a "second" blessing to us.

The thing is Abbie has been so good for us since the first day we adopted her just a few weeks before Alafair died.  When Alafair was so sick Abbie would do something to make us smile.  And after we said our goodbyes once again Abbie helped us get through those initial heart breaking days.

She loves us and we love her.  Abbie truly is a "second" blessing.

 ~*~

As I complete the finishing touches on the blog entry, my Abbie is sleeping right next to me on the couch with her head touching my thigh.  Yes, she is an Abbie.

Our Loyal Streak

I've been needing and wanting to write this blog entry since we said our last goodbyes to our faithful and devoted Streak.  It still hurts very much when I reflect on his last 7 months after we discovered he had lymphoma.  At the time he was still strong and had much life for a 13 year old.  He still wanted to be with us and none of us were ready to say goodbye.  But by the time of his last treatment 8 months later we knew it was time and Streak let us know as well.

A good friend of mine shared something that comforted me during Streak's last year.  She said Streak had a God appointed job to be with us.  His job was to be fearlessly loyal from the first day he came to us to his last and Streak did just that especially with Brad.  He was appointed to be Brad's guardian.  To bring Brad life and to bring him healing.  To be his companion and to demonstrate loyalty and devotion.

One of my favorite memories is seeing Streak and Brad as they walked up the stone path we laid in memory of our Alafair.  Streak would be right next to Brad as they walked to the house.  Another special memory is of Streak wanting to be with Brad after he finished breakfast.  After his last bite he would trot back to the bedroom and wait for me to open the bedroom door.  Up on the bed, he would jump and most times snuggle in next to Brad; always close and always there.

We called Streak "our sentry".  When we let him outside he took several laps around the yard, not playful but very deliberate and dutiful.  Once secured then it seemed he relaxed.  Streak is the first dog I ever saw smile (or that I realized smiled) ~ His eyes bright, ears high on his head, tongue visible with his cheeks pulled back to his ears.

Our last day with Streak was April 7.  It was a Thursday.  A week earlier we realized that an additional treatment would be too much for our little buddy.  Reconciling to that reality was hard, but we knew the time was coming.  His breathing seemed labored and his panting more frequent.  We could tell the pain in his eyes had intensified.  On Wednesday night we decided it was time and we would take him to the vet in the morning.  That night I slept at the foot of the bed with him.  I wanted to be close and to comfort him, pet him, and talk to him.

Without a doubt Streak completed his appointed purpose on this earth and in his death he gave us two gifts.  He gave us back our memories of Alafair and delivered us our sweet Grace.

July 2007 - Alafair, me, and Streak

In retrospect neither Brad nor I really worked through losing Alafair.  Her last days were so unexpected and so, so painful.  When we needed to put her down it was too painful and neither of us could be there.  Deep down I always felt I'd let her down.  I decided with Streak that no matter how painful that I would be with him through the end.  Brad and I both stayed with him and as it turns out it was peaceful, sacred, not scary.  I stayed a few moments alone with Streak.  I bent down, kissed his muzzle and then whispered in his ear to tell Alafair that I was so very, very sorry and that I loved her and missed her.  Tears rolled down my checks and I said goodbye.  The next morning for the first time since Alafair died in 2007, I looked at pictures of her and watched several videos.  Hearing her bark and watching her play with Streak was so tenderly sweet.

A week or so after Streak died Brad's Mom called and said her friend's daughter wanted to give us a Border Collie.  She heard about our Streak, never met him but knew how much he meant to us.  During the conversation my mother-in-law mentioned that if we didn't want the puppy that she might take it.  She'd been thinking about adding a dog to their family, too.  Brad and I talked about it but decided it was too soon.  So Brad called to say we would pass.  Turns out they were offering two puppies: one for Brad's Mom and Dad, and one for us.  At this point we knew it was meant to be.  Three weeks later we drove to Colorado to meet our new puppy.  We named her Grace.

So Streak knew better than we did.  He knew we needed Grace.  He knew the grief would be too much.  He knew we need not hang onto regrets and we needed to receive forgiveness.  He hung on through the treatments to the most perfect day when we all could say our earthly goodbyes and then soon would be able to welcome another bundle of puppy joy into our home.

Streak, thank you for loving us.

Thank you for your loyalty and devotion.

Thank you for being Brad's friend and companion.  

Thank you for getting us out to meet our neighbors

and teaching us to appreciate and enjoy the little things

especially puppy smiles.

We miss you dearly.

Sweet Comfort

Molly is sitting beside my computer.   She is very sweet and she's doing that semi-nap thing, e.g. eyes half closed, head dropped, just quiet.  Today she provides me comfort and reminds me that I am loved.  I am grateful for our animals' intuition.  (This is an old picture, but one of my favorite.)

Today I remember my childhood dog, Candy.  She was a collie and our beloved dog.  My memory was of a time when I was really sad.  I sat on the back porch and Candy came over.  She sidled up under my arm.  I cried and she licked my tears.  It's a precious memory for me.  

Molly's Carrier

I thought I would post another story about Molly. It is easy for me to share about her and I'm not sure why. She is such a great kitty. Well, all our animals are ... each one in their own special way. :)

I remember a story about her when I took both cats to the vet several years ago. I had a really hard time getting her in the carrier. Unfortunately, I got anxious and she sensed that. She growled and growled. Not happy at all. Finally sweet Calvin, Molly, and I drove out of the driveway and on to the vet.

Calvin easily made it through his checkup, but when it came time to get Molly out of her carrier, she would have none of it. The vet tech opened the little door and she hissed with that low growl and made it clearly known she was not coming out. I began wondering if I would have to reschedule the appointment.

Just then the vet tech (red-headed Marshall) started unscrewing the top half of the carrier from its base. When he removed the lid, Molly looked kinda shocked. I laughed a bit thinking Molly perhaps thought she got the better of them. Well, not that day. The vet completed the exam in the carrier. He didn't even try to pull her out. I was impressed.

I was struck by this whole experience. While eating lunch with my friend the next day, I shared about Molly's encounter with the Vet; his flexibility and the gentleness of his care. I thought about the times I am in such a tizzy and I just want to stay safe and captive in my cage. I realized how grateful I am that God is absolutely brilliant and will find an alternative way to meet and connect with me and will still listen to my wounded heart.

Kitties Love the Fall Sun

And so do I.

(Earlier in the day I moved the outer panel
out of the way for Calvin, but of course Molly
worked her way into the best spot.)

Our Sweet Alafair

Several weeks ago one of our beloved dogs died. She was with us for almost ten years and we miss her very much. Her name was Alafair, named after a character in one of my husband's favorite fiction series.

We adopted her in 1999 from Pets and People, a pet adoption organization up in the city. Several months before this wonderfully fateful trip, we talked back and forth about getting a buddy for our other dog, Streak. We both knew when we went, we would come home with a dog. One would grab our heart and we would bring it home.

My husband saw her in a crate with another dog. She was not feeling well, but her magic still worked on him. I was hesitant. The volunteers took her from the crate and I sat with her on the floor while B went to find out more information about her history. He was gone for at least 15 minutes. In that short time, Alafair stole my heart. She curled up in a tiny little ball very close to me as I sat on the floor. When B returned he bent down and told me about her history. She was about 18 months old, rescued from the animal shelter and was sick. He said we didn't have to take her, but with tears streaming down my cheeks, I said "I can't bare not to take her". That began our love affair with this little one.

When we got home she slept almost 24 hours straight. She ate only a little bit. Within a few days and a trip to the vet she was much better. Over the next few years her personality and confidence grew. When we first took her on walks, the sound of cars frightened her and she skittled cross the side walk. Over time walks became her most favorite thing (although she adored her buddy, Streak). In our house we couldn't use the word "walk" because she knew what that meant. We called them a "W" until we both were ready to actually go. Even putting on a pair of shoes would elicit high pitched yip, "Can we go? Can we go? Oh please, oh please".

We miss her very much and she will always have a special place in our hearts. She was gentle, devoted, and alive with life.

Adventure - an advent

I'm reading William Least Heat-Moon's book "Blue Highways: A journey into America". (It dawned on me the other night that it's a 1980s travel blog.) He said something that struck a cord when I read the words last night. In this entry he talked about traveling from New Tazewell to Morristown TN where he hit road construction through the Clinch Mountains. It must have been quite a harrowing trip.

The crossing became a grim misadventure, and I wasn't prepared for it. I tried to think of other things. Helen Keller, who never drove the Clinch Mountains, said life is a daring adventure or it is nothing. Adventure - an advent. But no coming without a going. Death and rebirth. Antithetical notions lying next to each other, as on a globe the three-hundred-sixtieth degree does to the first. Past and future. (p. 37)

I'm wondering if sometimes roads we travel are under construction and quite treacherous, but nonetheless it's the way out. Death and rebirth. Adventure - an advent. It speaks hope to me.

My Beloved Cooking Dog!!

Cats in Backpacks

You know how cats love boxes and bags. Well here's a new one. They love backpacks, too. Miss Molly's at it again. What a goof!

Dog Goggles

Visual Voice posted this on her website the other day and it just made my day. Makes me smile when I think about my dogs wearing goggles though I don't think they'd stay on for very long. Very funny and kinda sweet.

This is an exhibit in the American History Museum memorializing the first cross-country road trip in 1903. Mr. H. Nelson Jackson brought his dog along on the trek, outfitting him with goggles to protect his delicate eyes from dust and flying bug debris.

Sleeping Cats

There is something very calming for me to watch sleeping cats. As I write this entry one of my cats, Molly, is laying just above the keyboard asleep on my desk. She does this quite often when I'm working on the computer. Occasionally, she will s-t-r-e-t-c-h out and then immediately fall back asleep. I'm not really sure why I like to watch my pets sleep. Something about it brings something good to my heart.

Here is a pic of Molly fully stretched on our futon.

Tickled

Today is my birthday. B and I went to our favorite place for our favorite drink. (Yes, it's Starbucks). Anyway, as we enjoyed our morning coffee I watched several birds out the window. Two in particular walked across the patio on an apparent mission. I've never paid much attention to birds walking. Their feet are completely unfurled when they walk, several appendages (?) pointing forward and one pointing backward. They seem remarkably stable. At one point one bird broke into a run and then just like that he was standing atop some monkey grass. The blades didn't even move. For some reason this scene just tickled me.

A Tear of Joy

I was planning to replace my last entry with rewritten text, but something within my soul said, "No. Keep writing. Don't sensor." So here is the replacement text, but as a new entry.

* * *

Sometimes when I look at my animals a tear forms in my heart and every so often it makes its way down my cheek. Not a tear of sorrow, but a tear of joy. Joy that my cats, my dogs and their humans (three species no less) live peaceable under the same roof...well most of the time.

Frederick Buechner talks about this "tear of joy" in his book The Longing for Home. He recounts an experience with his wife and daughter when they "caught a glimpse of the Peaceable Kingdom". The experience that elicited their tears was at Sea World (of all places). He describes it this way:

The way the show began was that at a given signal they released into the tank five or six killer whales... [They] went racing around and around in circles. What with the dazzle of sky and sun, the beautiful young people on the platform, the soft southern air, and the crowds all around us watching the performance with a delight matched only by what seemed the delight of the performing whales, it was as if the whole creation -- men and women and beasts and sun and water and earth and sky and, for all I know, God himself -- was caught up in one great, jubilant dance of unimaginable beauty.

For a few moments we had seen and been part of the great dance that goes on at the heart of creation. We shed tears because we were given a glimpse of the way life was created to be and is not. We had seen why it was that "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy" when the world was first made. (Buechner 1996, 126-127).

I, too, have gazed upon this dance between human and killer whale, and quite unexpectedly my eyes filled with tears in the same way Buechner describes. At the time I didn't ponder the meaning, but drank the goodness of the moment. It was a glimpse of something delicate and beautiful, something good.

Home

As I think about what to post today I think of Miss Molly, my 6 month old tabby cat. She is curled up on my lap. Sometimes when I look at my animals a tear forms in my heart and every so often it makes its way to my eye. Not a tear of sorrow but a tear of joy. Joy that my sweet cats and dogs seek my presence and desire my love and affection. Our home is a place of safety and comfort for them. Our home is a place of safety and comfort for me, too.