Posted by owner on January 2nd, 2012 — in Memories
Less than a mile from home I drove around a corner and nearly swerved into the most startling sight, a woman walking a llama with a poodle cut on a leash. At least I thought it was a llama. Tom did some nosing around and discovered that one of the neighbors rescued two llamas and two alpacas, one of which was the creature I saw on the road. Several heads taller than the woman, the alpaca was muzzled and following her lead. The middle of the animal’s body was shaved clean leaving little balls of hair on its head, legs and tail. The unusual sight thoroughly delighted me and I wore Tom’s ear off talking about it for days. My encounter with the big horn sheep in the mountains was a wonder but the shaved alpaca on a leash was pure fun!
Adjusting to life in Gold Canyon has not exactly been a challenge rather it’s been more of a surprise. After two years living in the isolation of the canyon, I anticipated my re-entry into civilization would be harsh on the senses but fortunately I find myself nestled in the foothills of the Superstitions, a place halfway between rural life and city life. Each morning I leash up the three dogs and within five minutes we are picking our way through jojobas and brittle bush in the Sonoran Desert. In the month I have been here I have hiked the Hieroglyphic Trail twice, climbed the Huff N Puff Trail of Silly Mountain and scampered up washes and mountains with Tom and the dogs several times. It satisfies my need to stretch my legs and my appreciation for the beauty of this land increases with each step I take. But there is no surprise in that, the blue sky of the Arizona desert and red rock of the mountains has become part of my soul. Rather it is the city part of this life that catches me off guard, tickles my funny bone and sparks childlike wonder.
So what else besides the alpaca has made me giggle and smile?
1. Trains spooling round and round an elaborate layout in a neighbor’s yard in honor of the Christmas holiday.
2. Cacti with Styrofoam cups on their heads to protect them from an unexpected freeze.
3. A St. Bernard dog wearing hiking boots on the Hieroglyphic Trail.
4. A double rainbow spanning the Mountain at the end of a stormy day.
5. Yellow and white roses in full bloom on the side of the house.
6. Texting, something I couldn’t do at Aravaipa due to a lack of connection.
7. Decorating a tree and baking holiday cookies for the first time in years and celebrating the holiday with my kids.
8. Building a fort in the sand with Tom’s grandchildren.
One of these days I will figure out a gracious way to meet the owner of the alpacas. I have also considered getting our dog Hank a little coat to keep him warm on the cold mornings during our walk, although I highly doubt he would want to wear it. For now I think I’ll simply grab a magic marker and go out and draw funny faces on the Styrofoam cups.
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Posted by owner on December 19th, 2011 — in Memories
Checking the time on my cell phone I knew I had been hiking close to an hour. The trail to Hieroglyphic Canyon grew steeper with each step and jojobas on either side narrowed the trail so only one person could pass. Despite the steady incline from the start, as I looked forward it seemed I would never reach the mountains until I took a sharp left and suddenly the desert dropped below me on the right and angular rock rose on my left. Stopping I did a slow turn. At last I was in – really in! — the Superstition Mountains and although I knew thousands of feet, both human and animal, had passed this way before I had the feeling I was the first to see this land, at least through my eyes.
Clouds dulled the sky. I should have hurried along but I didn’t, preferring instead to savor each step and look at the landscape with wide eyes. The trail wended through larger and larger rocks and as I climbed around yet another turn I nearly slipped in amazement. Forty yards up the mountain six bighorn sheep pawed anxiously, unnerved by my presence. One ram and three ewes tightened a protective circle around two young lambs. The young ones, curious about the two legged creature that ventured so near, poked their heads between the legs of the adults only to be quickly nosed back into the circle by their mothers. Their brown bodies melted into the mountainside and I might have walked right past if it weren’t for the creamy white flash of their tails. I didn’t move. I barely breathed. The ram stood in profile positioning himself between me and the herd. His horns were magnificent, the curve a perfect crown for his kingly head.
Aravaipa, where I recently lived, is bighorn sheep country. At the beginning of the hunting season it was reported that the herd was close to two hundred strong and sheep were spotted on both sides of the creek throughout the Galiuro Mountains. Guests to the ranch were always excited whenever they spotted the sheep high on the mountain or making their way down to the creek to drink. Sightings, though exhilarating, were routine except for me. Only once did I come across a ram and once he spied me he turned tail and ran, leaping delicately up the mountain. On moving day, I drove slowly on the ten miles of Aravaipa Road hoping against hope that I might spy one of these magical animals on my way out of the canyon but they remained hidden from my view. And now here I stood, in the middle of the Superstitions, under the watchful eye of this regal ram and his flock.
Slowly I raised my hands to waist height and formed the symbols for distant Reiki. Holding my palms out toward the flock I expressed my intent to send a wave of peace to the animals. The energy flowed softly, so softly I thought the sheep might not receive it until the ram turned. Locking eyes with me he held his head high and stood facing me without threat. One by one the other sheep turned to face me as well, allowing the little ones to move into line next to their mothers. Six pairs of eyes stared and rooted me to my spot but my connection was with the ram, his energy overwhelmed me and drew me into his circle.
Perhaps a butterfly or bird flew close by, I’ll never know what exactly distracted the lamb but curious it turned with excitement as any youngster would do and it was enough to break the connection. The ram signaled the mothers and they began to move off heading up an unseen trail deep into the rocks. I watched them for a time then resumed my own trek to the hieroglyphics. After spending time exploring and viewing the sacred rock art the darkening sky prompted me to begin my return down the trail. For once I had my cell phone with me, a habit I am trying to cultivate now that I am back in civilization. About halfway down my signal kicked in and I excitedly sent Tom a text message telling him about my encounter.
“Wow! You’re kidding! No one has seen sheep in the Supers for years and certainly not at that elevation.”
My sense of wonder grew exponentially at that response. Did the sheep form a welcoming party for me? Silly, of course, but I’d like to think so. At least this I know: our encounter made me feel at home.
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Posted by owner on November 23rd, 2011 — in Memories
With a sigh I picked up the rake and began smoothing out the gopher mounds. Top dressing Tom calls it but to me it simply signals my defeat at the paws of the pocket gophers. When I arrived at the ranch two years ago the yard in front of the house consisted of dirt and weeds. A Midwestern girl at heart I envisioned ranch guests romping on a sweep of green grass, throwing Frisbees and playing croquet. Xeroscaping may be the norm here in Arizona but Aravaipa Canyon is a riparian ecosystem supporting groves of pecan trees and cottonwoods and all manner of flora. If ever there was a place for a green lawn, this was it.
The first year I spent on my hands and knees tediously pulling weeds out by hand. Grit covered my knees, dirt crusted my fingernails and the sun baked me to a crisp but I persevered. As the ranch is only yards away from the creek the water table is shallow and I hesitated to use any chemicals that might leech into the ecosystem. Wild tobacco, goatheads, horse nettles and many more plants than I can’t name flourished in the yard but between the invasives was the promise of hardy Bermuda grass. If I could manage to yank the weeds and water the Bermuda, a lawn would be born. Day after day I worked on the soon-to-be lawn section by section, foot by foot pulling and raking. At night I watered and to my amazement my strategy worked! The Bermuda happily soaked up the H2O, spread its runners and reseeded itself into a lawn that would make any Midwesterner proud. It also created a four star restaurant and quite quickly the pocket gophers tunneled in to enjoy the fruits of my labor.
I battled those little critters all year. Most of my neighbors recommended using traps so I decided to give that a try until I discovered what was involved. First you have to find a fresh gopher mound and determine which way the dirt fans out. At the point of the fan is the supposed gopher hole. Once you figure out which way the dirt is flying you take a shovel and dig down to find the entrance to the tunnel. It rankled me no end to have to dig up the grass I worked so hard to grow but it was brought to my attention that one has to find the tunnel no matter what strategy is employed so dig I did.
Gophers are crafty critters that do not believe in the value of straight lines. Once you find the tunnel you have to clear it and stick your hand in to find out which way the tunnel actually goes and it never goes the way you think. Gopher traps are vicious things that you have to set and carefully place down in the tunnel. When the gopher crosses it, the trap springs and impales the gopher right through the throat killing it immediately. Pulling up a trap with a dead gopher on it should bring a sense of victory but not for me. Dealing with dead gophers is not my idea of a good time and getting them out of the trap is no easy task. The first catch I called my neighbor to help and she brought her dog Brandy. Brandy whipped that gopher off in seconds flat! I tried to teach my dog Oro how to do that too but Oro looked at me like I was crazy and backed away faster than I did. When I nabbed my second gopher fortunately my friend Guati happened by and dealt with the gruesome task for me. Two dead gophers plus the sheer number of fresh mounds that littered the lawn was all it took for me to decide another strategy was in order.
Rodent bombs, muriatic acid, and poison pellets didn’t really work. Well, they worked in so far as they encouraged the gophers to move to another section of lawn. By now it was a toss-up as to who dug the most holes, me or the gophers, but the battle was on and I was determined to save the lawn. Each morning I walked the grounds looking for fresh mounds and those gophers never disappointed. In fact during one day’s reconnaissance a gopher had the nerve to poke his nose out of his hole and smile at me! Cheeky bastard but I had the last laugh as summer rolled around and the snakes came out. I cannot be sure which species did the trick, rattlesnake or gopher snake or perhaps both. It didn’t matter to me as they decimated the gopher population quite nicely and the lawn was saved.
Autumn is in the air and the snakes are holing up for the winter which means the gophers have made their way back to their favorite restaurant. With dismay I survey the dozens of gopher mounds but my days here at the ranch are numbered. Right after Thanksgiving I am leaving the ranch and moving to the next step in my life. The book I came here to write is done and after spending the summer polishing it up it will soon be sent off to the publisher. The summer also brought Tom into my world and soon we will begin a new life together. Even the return of the gophers cannot diminish my excitement at this turn of events and so, much to their delight, I concede victory to the critters. Go for it you gophers. Go for it.
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Posted by owner on July 14th, 2011 — in Memories
I joined a new meditation group this week and tomorrow is the first session. The opportunity to meet new people is exciting and as always with it comes a touch of anxiety. Who are these people? Will they like me? Will I like them? What will the session be like and, of course, the big one: I hope I don’t embarrass myself. The group leader, bless his heart, threw out a question to the group in advance so at least I have a glimmer of an idea of what to expect. What would an ideal world look like, not a perfect world, but ideal?
Hmmm, no war, no hunger, unconditional love, all the easy answers came to my mind. I am grateful the leader put this out in advance for my brain does not work at warp speed. Instead of thinking on my feet I tend to think on my belly like an alligator latching on to what comes my way then rolling it over and over before tucking it into the mud of my mind to let it get soft and juicy before nosing into it. Poking at the question the word reincarnation popped up as well as my belief that every soul is here in this life to learn a lesson that will allow the soul to move up the ladder towards enlightenment. There are no free passes. If you don’t learn your lesson it will be repeated in a new form the next time around.
Now for me this is very liberating as it neutralizes everything. There is no good or bad in any situation, incident, or emotion if one can accept that it is nothing more than a lesson. Knowing that, truly knowing that, brings peace to any moment no matter how challenging. Personally it gives me the strength to get through whatever life throws at me, to find the purpose in all my experiences. Every soul is at its own stage of development and therefore faced with its own set of obstacles to conquer. The soul faces challenges that are appropriate and specific to the soul’s lesson at hand so, no matter how horrific, each challenge is ideal for the soul’s work.
Standing back, at first glance, the world is a mess. Young soldiers are maimed and killed in questionable wars. Substance abuse and disease run rampant. Children are ripped out of innocent lives and placed in the hands of evil. My heart breaks when I hear the stories of young women like Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard and yet, when I see them on TV they are luminous! Despite the atrocities they endured both are filled with purpose, grace and spirit. I cannot begin to understand why their lives took such twisting paths, but they did, they lived through it and I am humbled by their resulting light. Yet there are others who crumble, the majority of us do, when faced with adversity. My heart breaks even more for those who are crushed by the inhumanity of the world. It doesn’t seem fair but deep in my soul I have to believe that there is a purpose in that too.
Which brings me back to the question of an ideal world: what would it be like? I am grateful to the group leader who threw this question my way. Pondering it gave me some clarity. Messy as the world is my answer is it would be exactly like our world right now, today, at this moment. Reality is ideal. It’s all we have and if we spend time focusing on the “what ifs” or wishing for anything other than what we have, we miss the now. We miss the opportunity to live presently, to be open and to fully embrace life. Even if I don’t completely grasp the why and what of it, this world is ideal for all our purposes and I accept that all is as it should be and someday, when I have learned my lesson, I will understand it more fully.
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Posted by owner on June 24th, 2011 — in Memories
110 degrees. It doesn’t matter what you wear or how you fix your hair. Sweat, not perspiration, but dripping, drenching sweat is the great equalizer. Everyone and everything is bedraggled and miserable. Oro, my dog, refuses to go outside. And when she does the sand is too hot for her bare feet. She tears across the road to the shade of the nearest pecan tree or patch of dried grass then turns and looks at me accusingly. How could you make me come out here? I wish Keen or Merrill would invent doggie sandals but even if she had a pair she probably would still refuse to go out. Kitty wouldn’t blame her. She slinks around looking for a cool spot too typically lazing under the bed in the dark.
I fling hoses around the garden flooding it daily and still the plants wilt. The tarantula hawks love it though, dive bombing me as I work in the garden. There must be a hundred of them, I kid you not. Big black buggers, they’re resemble mutant wasps, twice as big, twice as thick with fierce stingers, some with black wings and some with bright orange wings. A twelve year old boy explained the difference to me: orange for males and black for females. It figures the males would be flashy, the females monotone. It really doesn’t matter though as they whir by giving me an early warning to duck. I don’t mind them much except for one thing. Predators follow prey and the tarantula hawks favorite prey is the tarantula. As I walk through the garden are tarantulas lurking among the squash? When I peek under a leaf to pluck a tomato will one be staring back at me with those kaleidoscope eyes?
Now I step on scorpions without hesitation as I haven’t quite forgiven them for stinging me not once but twice last spring at a time I was already crippled from a horse stomping. But tarantulas are a different matter entirely. The Hell’s Angels of the arachnid world, they are big, bearded and brawny, which gives them a leg up in the creepy category. Their steely hair and bulky thick legs makes me wonder, if I were to step on one, would it be like stepping on a stuffed animal or a satisfying crunch? I’m not about to try it since they look like they bench press at least a hundred times their weight. So I step lightly.
When you think something you call it in. So it was no surprise this morning as I swept the porch there in the corner sat a tarantula. Tentatively I touched him with the broom and he immediately rolled into a ball.
Hah! You’re not so tough.
I nudged him again and he rolled onto his back all fluffed out, a tactic I’m sure that was meant to throw me off. To make me think he was cute and cuddly. But I wasn’t buying it. I whisked him off the porch next to the lantana. He plopped onto the fresh, wet earth, popped out his legs and strode out of the sun under a leaf. Then he turned and looked at me. Our eyes locked. A shiver went up my spine.
Hey babe, you won this round but it ain’t over yet. Sleep tight tonight. Heh, heh, heh.
Ohmigod.
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Posted by owner on May 7th, 2011 — in Memories
Nothing is happening….except the next breath
Then the next and the next
And it is enough
To trust in Spirit
That all is as it should be
Sweet release of the clutter of the mind
Openings…to everything, to nothing
To whatever comes.
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Posted by owner on May 7th, 2011 — in Memories
“Seen any rattlesnakes Kathy?”
When Guati’s family spent Easter weekend on the ranch last year, all the men teased me mercilessly about my fear of snakes, especially rattlesnakes. This year when Sonny asked me I told him no although I had been seeing little squiggles in the dust of the road every morning for weeks. I knew they were around. I watched for them but wasn’t afraid. One rattlesnake in particular took up residence behind the old milk house last summer. Actually, he probably had been living there for years before I came along. A mature snake he was a ridge nosed rattler, brown in color with at least 8 or 9 rattles although I never heard him use them. Our paths would cross from time to time but after our first encounter – and you may think this is silly – I offered him an agreement. I told the rattler that I meant him no harm and that whenever I came into his territory to trim weeds it was only so I could better see him. And if I could see him then I could simply admire him from a distance and stay out of his way. He seemed to accept and agree to this for he was as respectful of me as I was of him. Usually he would spot me first then slowly meander away but in such a way to make me aware of his presence. He knew I would stand back and admire him because he was quite beautiful with his patterned back and striping just above his rattles. I always thanked him for his courtesy. I think he liked that.
The wood pile by the equipment barn needed organizing. David, the owner of the ranch, and I had been consolidating the wood racks from the barn and the shop. I sorted the lumber by size and handed it to him for placement on the new rack. We finished organizing and storing the pile of redwood and were working on the pine boards. Only a few pieces were left on the ground and I, feeling in a “macho” mood, hefted two boards at a time then jumped back and gave out a yell. “SNAKE”
It was my rattler perfectly coiled in the cool shade of the lumber. He wasn’t intimidated or threatened. For the twenty or so minutes we worked on the woodpile he had to have been bothered by the racket but he never once rattled and he didn’t rattle now. He remembered our agreement. Gently I moved the final boards away from him then picked up a one by two length of wood and without touching him carefully guided him out of our way.
“There you go Snake. Not that way, head over here.”
He slipped under the horse trailer, twirled himself into a knot and seemed to go to sleep. He was out of the sun but still within my sight. It was comforting to know where he was and that he was not threatened by our presence. David usually relocates rattlesnakes but said he would rather not deal with him and I was glad. Like some people, some snakes have a mean streak and can be aggressive but not my guy. Confident and calm he kept a respectful distance and knew I appreciated his efforts to keep the rodent population under control. Surprisingly I found that I liked my rattler.
We finished up our project and I walked back down to the creek where Guati’s family was enjoying the day. I spotted Sonny and called out.
“Sonny! I just saw the first rattlesnake of the year.”
“Where?” His eyes gleamed.
I hedged. “Oh, he’s up there somewhere.” I vaguely pointed towards the equipment barn then turned elsewhere. About ten minutes later Sonny swaggered up dangling a dead body.
“I got ‘im for ya.”
There was my rattler, head chopped off and flopping in Sonny’s fist. A wave of nausea surged through me, not because of the gruesome sight so much as the gruesome sight was my rattler friend. He was about to be skinned, thrown into a cooler and become Sonny’s rattlesnake stew. Our agreement was broken. I promised him I would let him be but then made the mistake of telling Sonny. I had let my rattler down and felt tears.
I am watchful again for I know a new snake, sensing open territory, will move in and take up residence here soon. Maybe one has already come. I want to find him, check him out and get a sense of his personality. I hope he won’t be the aggressive type, rattling and ready to strike at anything that moves. I hope he will be like my former friend. I hope we can come to an agreement.
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Posted by owner on March 23rd, 2011 — in Memories
It’s not that I live in the wilderness, I live with the wilderness and the wilderness has the upper hand most of the time. It’s not enough that I experience the wilderness outside my door. Field mice, ground squirrels, scorpions, and even some sort of alien like centipede creature have all from time to time squirmed their way into the singlewide. Critters manage to find holes that I can’t even see let alone spray. I keep things under control for the most part. After a year of living here I’ve been through the seasonal cycles and know when and where to put out the appropriate traps and don’t have too many critter issues. Mice are a problem from time to time but I have a secret weapon, my Arizona Wildcat, Kitty.
Kitty took on the job of mouse catcher soon after we moved here, astonishing since she, like me, is a city slicker. Back in Chicago Kitty got bored easily and as any cat owner can tell you a bored cat is a troublemaker. She’d knock things off the shelves, scratch the furniture, cry to go out on the balcony and in general demand my attention every single second of the day. I purchased every cat toy on the store shelves, rolled catnip balls for her, turned on the nature channel so she could watch the birds, and moved her food around so she’d have to hunt for it but nothing worked. She was bored. Then we moved to Arizona.
If there is ever a rodeo for cats Kitty would win the mouse wrangling category hands down. I always know we’re in for a wild night when I come across Kitty staring fixedly under a cabinet or at a closet. Like a rodeo roper in the chute waiting for the little doggie to be released, Kitty waits patiently for the mouse to chance a run across the floor and then she flies! Hot in pursuit she never gives up until she catches her prey, batting it around until the mouse dies from fright or exhaustion whichever comes first. She’s got her timing down and can nail a mouse in seconds flat. I am proud of Kitty and how well she does her job. Sometimes it gets annoying, like the time Kitty brought her catch up on to the bed, but over all she’s better than any mousetrap. But every once in awhile some mouse comes along and gives her a run for her money. This week a particularly fat mouse gave Kitty her biggest challenge yet. I have never seen such a fat mouse before and assumed the worst.
“Get that mouse Kitty! Before it has babies!”
We both sprang into action. When the mouse ran behind the sofa I shoved it away from the wall. When it ran behind a waste basket I picked up the basket. When it ran under the bed I ran to the other side to flush it out the other way. I did everything I could to give Kitty a clear path to her prey. Through it all Kitty was quick but fat mouse was quicker.
“Are you really going to let that fat mouse get the better of you?” I yelled.
Kitty ignored me too wrapped up in the chase. This went on for three days. Each morning I’d wake up; look on the floor before putting on my slippers but no mouse. All was quiet and I assumed either I’d come across the dead mouse somewhere or maybe it finally decided to look for safer quarters. But then when I’d least expect it all hell would break loose.
”Haven’t you caught that mouse yet? What the hell is taking so long?” Kitty yawned in response showing her fangs, her way of saying “All in due time my dear.”
This morning as I walked out the door to attend to ranch responsibilities, all was quiet in the singlewide. I went about my business not giving much thought to the status of fat mouse. This evening I realized as I came back home that I had waited a tad too long and urgently needed to pee. I ran up the steps, threw open the door, and made a beeline for the bathroom. Quickly I unzipped my jeans and sat down. You know how you always look at what’s in the toilet after you’ve done your thing? I’m not sure why we do that. I think it must be some holdover from potty training when we proclaimed ourselves to be big girls and boys proudly showing off a full toilet bowl to our moms who always responded with wild applause and M&M’s. Imagine my surprise when this time as I turned, looked and hit the lever in one quick motion I saw one dead fat mouse drowning in a sea of urine.
“EEEAAAYA! OOOOHHHHH! EWWWWW!”
I screamed every vowel in the alphabet while jumping back from the porcelain vessel of death. My skin crawled with goose flesh. I couldn’t get my jeans up fast enough. My second instinct was to stop the flush….impossible to do once set in motion.
“Damn! Don’t you plug up the plumbing you fat mouse!”
In response fat mouse swirled around and around and finally went down. The bowl filled with fresh clean, clear water.
I am quite certain Kitty had a hand, or rather, a paw in this. I imagine her chasing fat mouse and cornering her in the bathroom. Fat mouse must have been exhausted when she somehow managed to get on top of the toilet. Little did she know Kitty can jump much greater heights than a mere toilet bowl. I’m not sure if Kitty actually pushed fat mouse into her watery grave or if fat mouse simply fell in while trying to escape. I imagine Kitty sitting on the rim casually combing her ears while watching fat mouse struggle desperately for air. Once again the Arizona Wildcat won. It was a gruesome end I’m sure. Our moms always admonished us to go before you go but I’d like to update that. Go before you go and look before you pee.
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Posted by owner on March 5th, 2011 — in Memories
Desert lavender under snowy tents
Snug in silvery green sleeping bags
Until the sun washes their faces, urging them to stretch
Purple petals to the sky
Feathery lupines peek from behind a curtain
Of cast off leaves and dried grass
And finding the stage set in every color of green
Step out to wild applause
Poppies lurk under waking fields
Waiting to pop open yellow umbrellas
Tiny sun shades for mice and crickets and
All manner of crawling things who like to dine al fresco
On the seeds of spring
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Posted by owner on February 2nd, 2011 — in Memories
I am not sure how long he had been here but his weakened state told me it had been awhile. How long can a bird go without water? How long before captivity takes its toll? Does a day feel like a year to a little bird? The garden is 100% enclosed with chicken wire but the cardinal managed to find a way in lured by the seeds of lettuces and strawberry plants. His plumage blazed fiery red yet his wings lacked the strength to carry him for more than a short burst of flight interspersed with hops along the ground. I wanted to help him.
I opened the garden gate wide and walked to the far end where the little bird huddled in a corner. My strategy was to get behind him and encourage him to move to the gate and freedom. He was not the first bird to become trapped in the garden and I had used this approach successfully before but this bird didn’t understand the program. My looming presence terrified him as he struggled his way along the fence edging to the gate until he hit the corner which confused him. He reacted as if boxed in on all sides until I gently nudged him with the toe of my shoe towards the open door. A brief burst of flight carried him past the door without going through and he found himself in another corner.
I walked over to give it another try and he took off flying back into the center of the garden. We went around and around a few times and for some reason he kept missing the open gate. I could see his efforts drained him and I began to worry that his little heart might burst from sheer fright. Finding himself once again in the corner, this giant human standing over him, he became frantic punching his head against and through the wire, harming and blooding himself.
“Let me help you little one.” I slipped on my garden gloves and gently scooped him up in my hands. I might have been holding the wind his body was that light but the weight of another life was heavy on my heart.
“I’ll set you outside the gate.” I whispered to my open hands and with the energy of those words his wings launched his fragile body into the air and through the gate. Emotion swept over me. Watching the spread of those tiny wings lifting up and out of my hands, it was as if I had given birth. “I saved a life.´ I thought but that wasn’t it. I was aware of life in that miraculous instant.
This happened a few days ago and while there are numerous cardinals, finches, and doves living outside my door, I can’t know if any one of them is my cardinal. He left me behind but the image of his courageous flight stays with me. He taught me a profound lesson. I know releasing fear is necessary to move forward in life but what if that isn’t working? What if, no matter how hard you try, you keep banging your head against a fence becoming bruised and bloody, compounding your fears until you can no longer think? Let life help you find a new way. Let Spirit help you fly leaving those fears behind.
Like my cornered cardinal I find myself at a crossroads these days. I thought I would be here on the ranch for a year. A year has come and gone, business continues and I go along with the flow. I am not bruised or bloody but there is a knowing that something else is coming and along with that comes the fear of more change. It occurs to me that the ranch has been my own enclosed garden of sorts, isolating me from the rest of the world. Oh, I get out now and then, drive into town for supplies, meet with my writing group, have dinner with friends but when it comes down to it, nestled at the foot of the mountain the events of the world have no relevance here. I am shut away, opening my garden gate when visitors come, ushering them around the beauty of this place and then closing the gate when they leave. The isolation lulls me and also makes me itch. And I ask myself, what do I want?
I want to give birth…birth to the book I am writing. I want a publisher to notice my work and like it. I want to be encouraged to polish it up, get it done and up and out by the end of this year. I want to be a published author, the kind of published author that is sold in book stores. I want to hold my book in my hands and say I did this. I want people to read my story and know that even though I stumbled, sometimes horrifically, I managed to find my way to living a spirited life. I want people to read my story and know that the love of Spirit is unconditional. I want to live a spirited life. By that I mean a life infused with spirit in each waking and sleeping moment, a life of deep intuition, guided by that inner voice so that every thought, word, and action flows with light and purpose for the good of self and others.
My vision tells me that there is a person right now out there reading my blog, a person who can help me, and a person who may or may not be able to help me personally but knows someone who can and will take the time to introduce us. My vision sees a book advance coming my way, one that will help relieve my debt and free me from financial burdens so I can focus on writing. My vision sees a man entering my life sometime this year. This man is good and kind, attractive to me as I am to him, and supports me in my creative endeavors. I have always pictured a small white house with a lovely yard and a wide front porch with a swing. The organic garden in the back smells sweetly of lilacs and tomatoes, and there is plenty of room for the dog and cat to play. A room with lace curtains at the window wafting in the gentle breeze as I sit at my desk and write. The supportive man comes in with a cup of chamomile tea, kisses the top of my head and asks how it’s going. And I say…
Good. Very good.
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