From Ashes to Ashes

Today is Ash Wednesday. The first ten years of my life, I grew up in Bloomington, Indiana, home of Indiana University. We attended church at Fairview United Methodist Church. Being so close to the school, we benefited from many amazing musicians. I remember sitting with my grandparents, looking up at the pipes for the organ in awe and listening to the chorus.

Then my dad decided to take us to North Central Church of Christ. The loss of music, incense, candles, alienated me. I liked those symbols. The austere building, the loss of an actual altar and the loss of children's church confused me. People around me talked about those symbols as if they were bad. No wonder I love the ritual of Wicca. Or that I delight in my current Episcopalian home.

So today Cameron stayed home with contractors and I used my comp time to get off work early for services. Oddly enough, both religious experiences seemed to come together today. Of course, the priests still wore robes. But there was no chorus. A silence, a kind of peace, filled the church today. I found the service powerful.

As the priest smeared the ash on my forehead, he said, "From dust you were made and to dust you will return." Dust. Mortality. Death. My own death. It brings a solemn hush. Three clients were in my office at different times this morning speaking of death. A mother dying of cancer. A brother dead 21 years ago of Down's Syndrome. A cousin dead of a motorcycle accident a week shy of his 19th birthday. But always we spoke of someone else's death. Grief. Bereavement. Those things no one but a counselor will talk about. A place of sacredness only equaled by birth.

Of course, Christian faith centers on resurrection and judgement day. I tend to keep my rather heretical thoughts to myself, because I do believe in reincarnation. This very interesting site explores such thoughts: Christian Reincarnation: The Long Forgotten Doctrine. Nevertheless, death has walked with Cameron and me these last few weeks, as seen my previous blog. So the service touched me deeply as I reflected on Walt and our family dealing with suicide.

I called Cameron on the way to the service to talk about why we have Lent. Cameron pointed out a great many people see it as a time to recognize what Christ went through for us and to offer our own kind of solidarity by fasting or giving something up. Indeed, a co-worker had posted on her Facebook this morning, "What should I give up?" Cameron offered an interesting column entitled: Don't Get Caught In The Lent Trap. Father Mike talked about the things that distance us from God, and about how giving things up isn't always the answer. Some people choose to add something to their spiritual life. Now, this makes sense to me.

I must have channeled Walt Monday when we went to visit Jazzman. It's not usual for me to drive to a hospital on the other side of two towns over to visit a stranger. That is, however, the person I want to be. And I kept thinking about the things Walt did that mattered. Moreover, a bible verse keeps playing over and over in my head:

'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ (Matthew 25:35-36).

There were no flowers in Jazzman's room. There were no cards and no visitors when we were there. And in that moment of compassion we met a good man. With an intestine on the wrong side of his belly, Jazzman was able to laugh and cry with me as we talked of differences and similarities. Of dreams and wrongs. A man who, like me, was caught by the descending arc of the IT world and after the last job, ran through savings accounts, the 401k, and ran the unemployment out and lost, or has nearly lost, everything. Funny, intelligent, well-read, and able to keep me on my toes regarding politics and philosophy, and culturally completely different from this lily-white-assed northern transplant. I found a brother. Family of choice because we all need tribe.

Safely tucked into my warm bed with a job to go to tomorrow, I ask, "What is the point of the day?" The point is, I think, I am on to something. The next step of my own spiritual development and growth is this service to others. I carry with me a renewed awareness of my own mortality. I turned 50 in September. Even if I live to my great-grandma's age of 92, I'mg more than half done. As I watched the predominately gray-headed crowd move toward the altar for communion, I was reminded of the lack of kindness to the body that aging brings. The drooping shoulder, the walkers, the canes and the damage of the years wearing on each face. Mortality. So what do I want to do with this time I have, however much the Spinner of Destiny allows?

Hmmm...I've already answered that question, haven't I?

More Grief: In Memory of Thor

Thor, a powerful name for such a shy cat, found me ten years ago on a hot fall day as I headed into Pet's Mart. Nestled into the palms a pregnant woman's hands, she was desperately seeking a home for him. His feral mother had the kittens in the bumper of an old Edsel. When Momma cat was hit by a car, the young woman went looking for the kittens. She was too late for all but Thor. Dehydrated and starving, she nursed him back to health for several days. Crying because she loved him and crying because she couldn't keep him, she was seeking a home for the tiny charcoal grey ball of fluff. Her baby was due in a couple of days and the apartment had a no pet rule.

I told her that if no one took him before I came out of the store then I would. I had had Toulouse for two years. I had just adopted/rescued Dickens, Starshine and Firedancer. I didn't need another. I no sooner made it into the store than my decision was made. Pivoting on my heel, I went out and claimed my kitten. Terrified, he rode home between the truck door and the seat. He remained a shy, reclusive cat all of his life. He just never lived up to the towering thunder of his name. Yet he was a loving cat that grew into a beautiful Tom. Huge paws told the story of a cat who should have been much bigger, much heavier. But he was never ill a day of his life.

"Thor hugs!" was the word I would croon to him as I nestled him against my chest. He would wrap his paws around my arm, cuddling under my chin in happiness. He loved to drink water straight from the facet, and I would leave it running for him while brushing my teeth or showering. When he'd get too reclusive, hiding behind the dryer or in the shower, I would spend a few days "wagging" him. Soon, he'd be sleeping on Cameron's chest at night again.

This weekend we realized the extent of the fleas in our pets. Fairly broke, we purchased Hartz flea protection, which I have used previously with success. This morning Thor didn't drink much water when I was getting ready for church. This afternoon I realized we had a problem. Before I could get Cameron on the phone, he had two seizures. I thought he was dead after the second, but he revived. Cameron met me at the door, abandoning a buggy of cat food and cat sand at Wal-Mart, to rush us to the emergency vet. Negotiating cost, horrified at prices, we compromised, put off bills, made hard decisions. They wanted to bathe him first, finishing getting the flea debris off him. He didn't make it through his bath. Another seizure and he was almost gone. Sobbing, whispering to him to go ahead and cross the Rainbow Bridge, we asked the vet to finish the process, to not let him suffer. He was gone before the syringe emptied. Tonight Cameron has buried him next to Bubbles.

The vet told us that he had probably had a previously undiagnosed condition. He was underweight--we assured her this was good compared to what he's often been at. Indeed, as a kitten, I had to create a growth spell because the vet worried he wasn't going to make it in those early days and months. He lived a loving and happy life of ten years. Not bad for a cat that needed magic to live.

And so Toulouse died two years ago, as did the first Starshine. My familiar Bastet died four years ago. Gimli and Jason died the first year I lived here (the vet begged us to take them after they had been abandoned at his office for months). Firedancer has gone, as has Butter Cup and Brom. Butterscotch and Champagne were adopted out. Persephone the First died right after I moved here (a rescue, she never gained adult size). I once had 20 cats brought from Atlanta in another lifetime. Bridget died last summer along with her mate Bandit. Maya (born of Bridget and Baulder) only weighed three pounds and stopped growning. She lived to be three. Bubbles died this weekend and Marco died earlier this summer. By dog Brittany died four years ago at the age of 12. All came to me in time when I lived as a heterosexual woman. A time when my children still lived with me -- a time before the oldest stopped talking to me, or denied me my grandchildren. I still have Tannis, Dickens, Lotus, Xian, Silvermoon, Tully and Temptation.

The grief of loosing furbabies is profound. We've had so many of them along the way. While people often express shock or disapproval of our large number of cats, we have loved each. Indeed, when I lived in Atlanta each was fixed, got yearly shots, frequent vet visits. When my income became a quarter of what it once was, the vet visits decreased, but my love did not. Losing them is like loosing a piece of my heart.

In Memory of Bubbles

Today we grieve. Bubbles, beloved furbaby, kitten of Bridget and Baulder, died early this morning. She was found curled up in neighbor's driveway, as if she had fallen asleep and simply stepped out of her body. She was 9 years old.

Bubbles had one litter of kittens and developed complications. She was not spayed, but never had another heat. She loved being out of doors, only sleeping in at night when we could convince her to do so. She was vocal, loving, and always greeted us when the car pulled into the driveway.

She adopted me by shear force of will. When I would go to Luna and Cameron's home for a visit, years ago while living in Atlanta, she would greet me at the door and stay in my lap until I left. Eventually, I gave in and took her home with me. Later, when I bought my trailer, after having lived at Luna and Cameron's for six months, she stayed with me but insisted on going outside. She soon learned to convince the neighborhood she would starve if not fed. She was a car slut, hopping into any car door open. Cameron frequently had to stop her from going home with anyone else. I made sure she was tagged just to keep anyone else from adopting her! Cameron often leaves her car window down, and Bubbles loved sleeping in the car. The only thing she appreciated more was finding an unopened bag of cat food. Often Cameron would go to get the cat food, only to find one corner torn open from Bubbles having had a snack. Blessed child of Bastet, you will be missed. We love you, baby girl.

Death Comes in Threes

About a month ago we lost our beloved dog Ewok. Cameron has spoken extensively about that loss and the many years they shared. A week ago we were preparing to attend Truth Teller's funeral. Then last night the neighbor knocked on the door. They had found our "grey boy" Marco beside their house. He looked like he had fallen asleep -- no sign of trauma or poisoning. But he had crossed the rainbow bridge.

The term "grey boy" refers to several generations of kittens that came from Cameron and Luna's home. The mother cats Bridget, Frya, or Wee Bit produced them, and Baldor fatheed them all. As kittens were often more closely together, and hidden until one of the human found them, not to mention co-paretned, Cameron and Luna were never certain of parentage. With so many rescues in the house, and unable to make it to the vet before the next litter was born, Cameron and Luna had a number of inbred grey and white cats over a period of several years. None were very bright, but what they lacked in intelligence they made up for with affection. Indeed, they were some of the most affectionate cats I have ever met.

Marco adopted me seven years ago when I moved to South Carolina to get back on my feet. I moved in with Cameron and Luna temporarily. We had much drama in those years. When Cameron moved in with me a year later, we made a no-drama, we are monogamous commitment.

During those months, I lived in Cameron's studio. It was a small bedroom dominated by a concrete and 2x4 bookcase and a map table. I had a single bed, six inches in a closet, and enough room for three stacking crates. Yet somehow, I made it work.

Because the space was so small, I decided I did not want any cats in the bedroom. Marco, however, decided to adopt me. He cried piteously outside my door, and lurked nearby to run in every time the door opened. Once he convinced me that he was sleeping in my room, word got around. I can just imagine the conversation he had with litter mate Little John, "Hey man, it's the best room in the house and you only have to share her with me!"

When I moved out, Marco came with me. Nine months later, Cameron moved in. Around that time, Marco escaped out the door. Occasionally he came home, obviously having been adopted

by a second family who had put a flea color on him. He always arrived sleek and healthy, and after about three days he would make it past us and out the door. After disappearing for an even longer time than usual, I gave up on him coming home, although Cameron remained optimistic.

Almost a year after his last disappearance, I opened the door and there stood a filthy, near starved, glazed donut faced cat. The snot covered his nose, cheeks and mouth. Only the white mark on his hip told me that Marco had come home. Grieving, almost certain my cat was going to die, we cleaned him up and took him to the vet the next morning.

Dr P didn't think he was going to make it. But he sent Cameron home with IV fluids, needles and special stinky cat food. Within 48 hours, I knew my cat would live. Two weeks later, with a bit of an occasional sneeze and two rounds of antibiotics later, Marco was reintegrated with the household.

Initially he was content to be an indoor cat. However, as the weather warmed the spring, he began getting out past us again. He loved to lead us on frantic chases, staying just out of reach and usually at a time that critical for us to be somewhere else! Cameron at last learned that if she sat and waited he would come home quicker, disappointed that she wasn't participating in his play.

Last Saturday night he sat side by side with his brother Legba (Marco's the cat on the right) playing vulture kitty. They were watching Christian Mystic getting settled to sleep on our love seat. The next morning he got out, and I never saw him alive again.

Loosing a furbaby is like loosing a small child. They depend upon us, and in exchange, offer a great deal of love. Marco adored laying on my shoulder and having his ears scratched. He was a traditional "grey boy," meaning he was extraordinarily affectionate.

Indeed, I take my role as a servant of Bastet very seriously. We have a total of 21 cats today. I love each one deeply, knowing their stories, their histories and their preferences. So the loss of even one strikes deeply. The scripture in the bible about the shepherd who seeks out even one lost sheep, and does not rest until the sheep is within the fold, describes exactly how I feel about our furbabies. To lose one, especially so unexpectedly, is more difficult than I can possibly put into word.

Until I cross the rainbow bridge and am surrounded by all my furchildren who crossed before me, I shall miss you Marco. Your memory is precious. I grieve you deeply.

Gifts of the Dark Goddess

As I move closer to the time of TruthTellers funeral (pagan life celebration will happen closer to Samhain) my thoughts turn to the dark. I have come to believe that death is sacred.

Cameron and I walked with death last fall. She had been maried to Gentle Soul for ten years before a blond beauty rocked her world and catapolted her into the lesbian abyss. Gentle Soul had muscular dystrophe, and in his final years, we convinced him to move a few miles from us so we could keep an eye on him. His body gradually became debilitated.

A call came, saying Gentle Soul was in the hospital. Soon it become apparent that Gentle Soul would not be going home. It became even more apparent that an aunt and uncle, overwhelmed with responsibilities to his mother who had broken her hip and just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and his aunt who also has Alzheimers,were ill equiped to deal with his situation.

Gentle Soul had watched his father die by inches in a nursing from the same disability. He had been clear from his first date with Cameron that he did not want life saving measures that trapped him in a useless body without an quality of life. His aunt and uncle had not made his wishes known. The hospital telling them still took days to sink in. Even as we sat with the pallative care nurse, his aunt and uncle spoke of continuing the ventalation and finding a nursing home.

Ever the diplomat, Cameron finally prevailed. She had never divorced Gentle Soul and the final decision lay between them. Thank Hekate for the doctors who were patient enough to listen as he struggled to communicate.

By Wenesday of that week it was decided. The visible shift the suffering man was apparent. He began to rally, doing his best to welcome those who came to say goodbye. Cameron found everyone she could after this many years, and they came.

The energy of the room shifted. With my third eye I could see the door standing cracked, a glowing "angel" for lack of a better word, biding his time and waiting for Gentle Soul. He was brave at the end. Determined to the ventilator out, as Cameron argued with doctors because the aunt and uncle had not given permission and did not come, it was Gentle Soul who reached out to me. As the tears rolled down my face, he touched my cheek and patted my hand. He was ready.

Pulling a ventalator is horrific. Cameron was too busy holding him in her arms as he struggled during the procedure to watch. But I sat at the foot and I saw his body convulse. I knew his heart, a muscle affected by the muscular dystrophe, could not take it. The nurses knew as well. They stepped away, only coming to shut down the obnoxious beeping when it became apparent he was going into failure. He held our hands and looked into Cameron's eyes, relief apparent.

With my third eye, I could see the room brighten, then dim. Gentle Soul and his escourt left with a gentle slam of the door. No regrets. No unfinished business. It was done. And it was one of the most sacred experiences of my life.

The Last Spiral

The cycle of birth, death and rebirth is at the heart of paganism. Tonight Truth Teller stands on that spiral path that leads to the summerlands. Stories of Inanna, Persephone and Demeter, Lugh’s Crossing, Ishtar and Tammuz, Venus and Adonis, Isis and Osiris remind us of this eternal pattern. The wheel of the year, the Holly King and the Greenman all speak to that sacred space we call death. Like the labyrinth, the only way out is through the center.

Tonight Truth Teller walks the spiral ever inward. He leaves behind his body, destroyed by diabetes. He leaves behind this physical reality and the demands of the living. He takes with him the love of his wife, the love of his friends, and his higher self.

I carry away my memories of a man who could patiently wait for me to learn that not all men are scum. I will remember a man who was a safe friend. I carry the memory of man who had honor and love to offer his friends. A memory of man handfasting a woman he loved more than his own life. When I needed money to care for a puppy, he was there. When I needed to hear what I wanted to deny, he was there.

With this light, may Truth Teller find his way to the Summerlands. Tonight we cannot walk with him. It is a journey for Truth Teller alone and whatever concept of Deity he has come to know. May he know that he goes in perfect love and perfect trust. As all must go in our time, we release Truth Teller to go in your own time into the Summerlands.

So mote it be.

A Followup on the Dream

The dreaded call came this afternoon. Just before I was to have supervision at our clinic, Cameron called me to say she had talked to Priestess. As I stood in that lonely upstairs room, darkened by threatening storm clouds, Cameron said she had just gotten off the phone with Priestess. Determined to hold herself together, and to be strong for me, Cameron said that Priestess was about to meet with the palliative care/hospice team to determine best care for Truth Teller.

This once strong, beautiful man with graceful fingers and keen insight lies in a hospital bed, dependent on dialysis. He is missing seven fingers. Gangrene proceeds its way up his leg. Emaciated because his body cannot digest food, he is in agony and drugged to the point of having hallucinations. No wonder he could spirit walk.

Two years ago Cameron and I witnessed his second handfasting with Priestess. Knowing he would not live out a normal life expectancy, they promised to find each other again, vowing: "Around the wheel and down through the years." Tears came to my eyes.

Later, Cameron, Hermit and I witnessed Priestess' croning. Priestess asked to break with tradition and have her husband there. But he couldn't come because Truth Teller was ill that night. Other circles, other nights, other joys and other pains. Priestess and Truth Teller always had a place on the back porch for friends.

When I was so wounded that I decided all men were scum, Truth Teller's presence offered a safe friend. When I needed to learn to reconnect with men who had honor and love to offer their friends, he was there. When I needed a camera to take to my son's wedding, he had one. When I needed money to care for a puppy, he was there. When I needed to hear what I wanted to deny, he was there.

Tonight I will gather earth from garden. I'll draw a spiral in the earth and I place a lit candle in the center. May Truth Teller follow his path home to the summerlands. May he know we all honor him with perfect love and perfect trust.

So mote it be.

The Call

We got the call from Priestess last night. The doctors say that barring a miracle, Truth Teller is not expected to leave the hospital. I grieve a remarkable man who had so much wisdom and kindness.

Truth Teller preferred to worship the Holy Motherboard most of his life. I've heard that his faith system has shifted a bit over the last couple of years. Nevertheless, I do not want to superimpose my belief system onto him.

May Truth Teller be remembered for the wisdom he brought not just to my life, but also to the coven where he served as an Elder. May his path to the place where all souls return be blessed, and he blessed us.

Truth Teller, you have often spoken in my dreams. Feel free to visit me even as you leave the material behind.

Dream: The Truth Teller

Truth Teller is one of those difficult people you can’t do without. I have only eaten out with him a few times because he is so picky about what he will eat and where. None of his food can touch. His toys and money belong to him and are kept completely separate and apart from his wife’s toys and money. While he did not begin his pagan path believing in Deity, he does worship the Holy Motherboard. Moreover, any computer will sit, beg or roll over to please him.

When Cameron and I were coming back from my eldest son’s marriage a few years ago, we were victims of trauma. A mother dog and her pups had gotten on the interstate and stopped traffic. I did not know why we were stopped, and inching forward, I hit a pup. Her back paw was broken. Alarmed, we found an emergency vet. Calling Truth Teller for help, he offered to cover up to $400 in vet bills. We had Bronte examined, and made the heart breaking decision to have her put down rather risk thousands in vet bills and future arthritis – the damage was that bad. My heart has never recovered from the loss of my puppy of four hours. I tear just writing about her. Truth Teller knew full well it would be years before we could pay him back.

Cameron and I broke up for an extremely painful six months, during our courtship, while she made decisions regarding her former wife. During that time, chaos happened and I found myself unemployed. That same week, Cameron and I began talking again. We met at Priestess' and Truth Teller's home, talking out the past and possibilities for the future. When Cameron left to tell her wife it was over, because her wife had made some unconscionable decisions, Truth Teller warned me that she might not be back. Such cautions over the years had mostly proved right, especially when I didn’t want to hear him. Indeed, that was the only time he was wrong. Because Truth Teller always spoke what needed saying, rather than I want to hear, he has become an archetype of my dream language. That is why I call him Truth Teller.

I had a dream several years ago in which I was driving on winding roads when I got a flat tire. I dreamed that I called Truth Teller, who came to get me. My car had been overfilled with books, which he helped me to got back to retrieve. Truth Teller had helped me recapture my own inner wisdom.

Today Truth Teller lies in a hospital bed with diabetes taking his life one body part at a time. Most of his fingers are gone. Now they are decided if they are going to remove a gangrene foot.

Last night I dreamed of Truth Teller. Cameron and I could not close a lower dresser drawer. We had tried for weeks, and I was entirely frustrated. Cats were sleeping on my work clothes. At last she mentioned it to Truth Teller, who offered to take a look. I was trying to sleep, but Cameron had put a cat in the bedroom who was crying, so I woke. In the dream, I was dozing in the bed when he came into the room and removed all the clothing, refolded it, and put it back. The drawer worked perfectly. He started to leave when I realized he had been there. Afraid he would get away before I could say anything, I ran through the kitchen and outside. He was driving Priestess’ old car, Mobie. He had started to back out of the driveway, and the headlights of the car caught my figure as I came out the door. I made a hugging motion with my arms and blew him a kiss. Truth Teller pulled back into the driveway and I ran to the car. I could his voice as clear as a bell as I thanked him for fixing the dresser drawer. Truth Teller hugged me and said good bye.

I do not have the gift of prophesy, but this dream is alarming.