Let It Be

peaches

In the dream I’m at a big box store. I have finished shopping, and the lines at checkout are long. I finally reach the register where a cheerful woman begins removing items from my cart. Her name is Nikki. It’s embroidered on her denim shirt just above the pocket that covers her left breast.

“I’d say you got seven-hundred and fifty bucks worth of stuff in this cart.” She picks up a three pack of Dawn dish-washing soap secured by heavy-duty shrink wrap that is going to take a pair of scissors and some swearing to undo when I get home. She smiles. “Sure you need all this?”

I don’t and feel stupid when her forearms strain to remove a wedge of Gouda the size of my head from the cart. I point to the cheese. “I certainly don’t need that.”

I stand back to survey what I have done and begin to sort items. When I finish, there is a cart filled with things I don’t need. My total in ninety dollars and seventy-two cents. Nikki and I are waiting on a price check for two white t-shirts. She holds up the shirts. “What do think?”

“They’re non-negotiable. I need them,” I say, though I have no idea why.

Nikki shrugs, and we wait for the kid who said he’d be back lickety-split with a price on the shirts.

The guy behind me doesn’t seem to mind the delay. He points to the case of Sierra Nevada I bought for my husband. “I could go for one of those,” he says.

I look around the store. Customers and employees alike are bustling about. It feels like the holidays, but I’m not sure what time of year it is.

Nikki has a t-shirt turned inside out looking for a barcode or something to enter into the register. She sticks both shirts in a bag and winks. “I’ll tell the kid you decided you didn’t want them.”

“Are you sure? I can wait.”

The kid materializes out of thin air. “They’re five bucks a piece,” he shouts over my head, then disappears into the crowd.

Nikki rings up the shirts and says, “We almost got away with it,” and we both laugh.

I push my cart toward the door. While passing the food court, I wake up and whisper, “What an ordinary dream.”

My dreams are vivid, often prophetic in nature. I wake teasing out their meanings, while I frantically write them down before they dissolve into the ether. I lay on my back confused.  Ordinary. The word danced around the room waiting for my conscious self to rouse before worming its way back inside me, where it dissolved into an over-whelming sense of melancholy.

Thank God, for Nikki, the guy standing behind me in line, and the kid who ran to do a price check. They didn’t know. None of us knew. It was an ordinary day before the pandemic hijacked our global consciousness, leaving everyone on the planet acutely aware that an invisible monster lurks among us, waiting to infect its next victim.

I got up like I do every morning with a long to-do list in my head. Fruit flies had found the plums I stored in a paper bag to ripen. The bag was on the kitchen counter. I placed it up on a shelf with canning supplies so that I would remember to make jam. The residue of the dream was still stuck to my skin, and the motion of putting the plums on the shelf got me wondering. What other ordinary things had I put on a shelf since March 13, the day Trump declared a state of emergency after nearly two months of denial.

Ron and I watched the news and remarked on our good fortune as we witnessed people emptying grocery store shelves of toilet paper and bottled water. We live in the middle of nowhere with enough supplies to last us months. With our closest neighbor a mile away, social-distancing, and stay-at-home orders are things we practice every day. A two-week quarantine? Not a problem.

I planted a garden and in no time, we were picking zucchini. Peaches and plums came on, and I made cobbler with homemade ice cream. We cooked steaks on the grill and had Sunday dinners here at the ranch with friends who were also following New Mexico Governor Michelle Lujan Grisham’s stay-at-home orders. Ron and I celebrated his birthday in the Chiricahua Mountains by dipping our bare feet in Cave Creek. I even met a friend to go hiking. Do we dare hug? In the end, we did, and I realized how much I had missed our easy conversations and her thoughtful insights.

All these ordinary things were going on while simultaneously the embers of isolation, despair, and longing for my old life occasionally flared. I pitched a fit while looking for my binoculars after my husband had used them. I cleaned the house until my fingernails split and my hands bled. I swore I would run away from home when Ron’s shoulder surgery was rescheduled, and I had to cancel my trip to Wisconsin to see family for the second time since the virus struck.

kaboodlesWe said goodbye to our beloved cat Kaboodles. Our veterinarian put a hand on my shoulder as I held my little, three-legged darling and sobbed. “Okay, that’s enough,” he whispered, and maybe he was right. Doctors in hospitals around the world watched in horror as their patients died from Covid-19. Giving in to suffering was risky business, so I put my grief on a shelf.

Ron’s dear mother, Natalie, passed in May, and I shelved my pain again. The threat of coronavirus stripped us of traditional customs for burying a loved one. We called the state health department hoping for guidelines to plan a funeral. The information was vague at best. In the end, we honored Natalie in a Zoom memorial with family and friends and buried her on a hillside facing the rising sun, a small group of us standing around unsure of our roles absent a priest or funeral director to guide us.2009-05 Animas Natalie

BabyThen it happened. Ron and I woke to the sound of our Blue Heeler, Baby, struggling to stand up on the hardwood floor next to our bed. She was having a seizure. I lay down next to her and waited for a miracle. When it was clear my prayers had gone unanswered, I ran outside and shouted to God in heaven, “I want my old life back!”

There was no more room on the shelf for my heartache. Every ordinary thing I had done in the last three months had acted as a thin veil concealing the extraordinary. The things I had taken for granted and deemed certain in my life were gone. And now, I would lose this precious girl, too. “Let it Be” by The Beatles echoed in my head as we drove three hours to the veterinarian’s office with Baby in the backseat, my despair gaining traction as her health declined.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me,                          Speaking words of wisdom, let it be                                                                                                 And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me,                                              Speaking workings of wisdom, let it be

Maker:0x4c,Date:2017-11-23,Ver:4,Lens:Kan03,Act:Lar01,E-YClouds rolled in, bringing welcomed relief after days of 100-degree temperatures. I finally went through the bag of plums and was making jam when the rain came. I turned off the stove and ran outside. Our Border Collie, Hank, darted between trees in the orchard while I got soaked chasing after him. Baby was afraid of thunder and for a moment, I wondered if she was safe inside the house. With my concern came grief when I remembered she was gone, and I cried. I miss her.

I miss so much.

We are all mourning the lives we were forced to abandon. The loss is profound, but each of us has a paper bag of plums on a shelf that needs our attention. Roll up your sleeves and dig in. It is the blessed ordinary things in our lives that heal our hearts, reminding us of who we are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saying Goodbye

 I found Sydney wandering with her mom when she was four weeks old. I didn’t want another dog, but there was an instant connection that lasted nearly thirteen years. Though we were very close, it wasn’t until she ran away during a thunderstorm several years ago that our relationship morphed from dog owner and dog into something I still struggle to define. A neighbor had told me he had seen Sydney running down the road toward the river about a mile from our house. I scouted the area for hours calling her name until she finally emerged from the tall grass. She ran toward the sound of my voice and without hesitation jumped into the river where she sunk like a stone. The water was deep, and I jumped in to pull her to shore. We lay together wet and cold on the bank in the mud staring at one another. “I will never leave you,” I said. She was dazed and panting but managed to raise a paw and rest it on my shoulder. A cosmic transcendence between species opened a new kind of relationship. I belonged to her and she belonged to me.

Over the years people often commented on our relationship. When we were home, we were never out of each other’s sight. When I traveled, my husband would report Sydney appeared anxious awaiting my return. I called her the love of my life much to my husband’s chagrin, but he also understood it to be the truth. I prayed that day while looking for her. I would not survive the uncertainty of not knowing where she was and begged God to return her to me. While I had God on the phone, I promised to be Sydney’s faithful guardian. I spent months after our reunion worried that some unforeseen event would take her from me: a car accident, a snake bite, valley fever. Time passed and the signs of old age and illness crept into our lives. It started with a chronic runny nose. There were tests, medications, X-rays, and even a CT scan. Meanwhile Sydney and I remained loyal to one another. Nature was taking her slowly from me while God granted me time to come to terms with what was to come.

In the end my prayers were answered. I had been granted the gift of letting go slowly. I shared this story with a friend who said he knew someone who worked in hospice. My friend had asked him how he would want to go knowing this man had seen a great deal of death in his profession. His answer? Cancer. He said that was the way to go. He said it’s best for the person dying and family and friends. As cancer is eating away at a person’s body, her mind, emotions, and spirit are still intact. This gives patients and their loved ones time to come to grips with what is to come. We hear of an old many having a heart attack or someone getting hit by a bus and we say, “That’s the way I want to go.”  Is it? The last fifteen months with Sydney were painful as I watched her body and mind change. But I had time to grieve and to let go. I cried countless tears fearing the worst, so when it was time to say goodbye, I could be with her, to hold her as she passed on to the next realm.

I find myself reaching down at my side scratching the ear that is no longer there or running to her aid when a crack of thunder ascends on the house. I am still grieving, but not in the ways I imagined. I did the best I could for her and her for me. In the end, that is all anyone can ask for.

 

Cats in the Cradle

catWe lost our barn cat yesterday. I found her sprawled out on the concrete just a few feet away from the cat door we have out in the barn. It looked like she may have died from a head injury, probably attacked by a coyote. I didn’t know this cat well. Occasionally she would dart through the barn to a proven hiding place when I entered to leave food and water. Last week she came around the house and even got into our back room where she drove our indoor cats crazy with her carrying on. I’d mentioned to my husband, Ron, that she was probably in heat. Our neutered, grey tabby, Fast Eddie, kept us up for three nights, some primal residual egging him on to mate. The sound was low and sorrowful, like he understood what we had done to him; what he’d missed out on.

I’d been out on a walk when I noticed the cat. After putting the dogs up in the house, I grabbed a garbage bag and a pair of gloves. I’ve had to do this kind of thing before: the kitten that was half-eaten by a coyote; birds, lizards, and mice that lost their lives to cats and other predators; the Great Horned Owls that perished atop a faulty electrical transformer; song birds that chased their reflection right into our living room window. Each animal I’ve stumbled upon has caused a catch in my throat.

The barn cat was brown and white. She was young and had six toes on her front feet like my nineteen-year-old house cat, Little Miss Molly. Seeing those paws, I fell to my knees and sobbed. You don’t belong here, Beth, rose from somewhere deep inside me. There is no taming this wild place. I either play by nature’s rules or pack my bags and get out. Last week it snowed, followed by three days of brutal, frigid wind. Today it’s seventy degrees. The trees in our orchard are confused. The plum trees have blossomed in tandem. The peach trees are giving it another go after the buds froze in the last storm. Songbirds are fighting for space on the feeders, and the bees, so heavy with pollen, are buzzing around like they’ve had too much to drink. All this was going on yesterday while I walked back to the house with the barn cat cradled in my arms. I cried when I placed her on a table in the garage where she wouldn’t be disturbed until Ron could bury her. I cried while I poured a glass of wine and got dinner started. I was still crying when I went outside to feed the dogs. By then I had convinced myself I didn’t belong here. That I would be better off in a small house in town where my life would be manageable, a place where I’d have some peace of mind for God’s sake.

Then I looked up from the dog dishes and caught the sun setting behind the Chiricahua Mountains, leaving in its path a crimson sky; a slice of cornflower blue cut through the middle exposing a glimpse of heaven. I wiped my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “For now, I’ll stay.”

Let it Bee (Whisper Words of Wisdom)

squash blossomThe couple who stayed in the bunkhouse this week were  both PhD students. The woman is studying bees, She was delighted to discover squash bees in our garden working diligently deep in the centers of squash blossoms. Her partner’s focus is insects. I lack the inclination and discipline necessary to be a scientist, but I marvel at folks who have the propensity to hone in on something as specific as bees.

I am hardwired to linger in the grey areas of life. While driving or taking a shower, I ponder the words we use and the context in which we use them. Kismet feels fun on the tongue. It’s Arabic for divide and was adopted into Turkish to mean fate, as in the way we use the word in English. I wonder if the Muslim faith believes in fate and how this word that once meant divide came to mean something that in the end, brings us, the universe, and our faiths together. Looking into a dog’s eyes, I see the reflection of my best self and worry that science and politics has whittled away so completely at the natural world that perhaps I have lost bits of tenderness and intuition along the way. This is how my brain works. The edges are fuzzy and bleed into one another. In short, I’d make a terrible scientist. That said, if I wasn’t deathly allergic, I may have committed myself to the lives of bees as they answer the philosophical, religious, cultural, and political questions that have plagued humans since the dawn of our existence.Inkedbee_LI

On our morning walk down the runway, Ron and I came to the conclusion that honey bees would have been wiped from the planet long ago if the little buggers didn’t sting. Hives would have been robbed clean by cave dwellers and nomadic folks if bees acted more like puppies or butterflies. Their sting reminds us nothing worth a lick is given up freely. I’d never even heard of a squash bee or the 20,000 other species of bees that inhabit the planet until our guests arrived. The honey bees we have here at the ranch are perfectly happy living in cramped, warm quarters of 15,000 to 60,000 whereas squash bees are solitary creatures who nest in the ground. In human terms, I imagine it’s like our small community of say 500 versus the 8.5 million people that make up New York City.

By some metrics, I have the home range of a female black bear. I need 3 to 10 square miles of open space to feel at peace. Some folks I know live in apartment buildings akin to marmot burrows. Whatever the case may be, humans fall somewhere on the home range continuum. How close is too close? We don’t have a great deal of crime out our way, no shootings this year that I know of. Chicago, on the other hand, has had over 1,400 shootings since the first of the year. Does having people crammed into such close proximity increase the likelihood of crime? I have no idea, but I do know this: if bees are in harmony whether living on top of one another or nestled alone in the ground, why is it so difficult for us?

Double Blind Peer Review (By an Owl)

2017-07-23 08.27.53A biologist friend told us not to become attached to the three baby Great Horned Owls that hatched this April. He explained the owls have brains the size of peas and that their sole purpose is to hunt. This isn’t our first rodeo; we’ve had baby owls before, but I didn’t mention it.

It’s hard to be objective when Ron and I watched the mother owl sit on her nest for thirty-seven days without so much as flying to a nearby branch high up in the pine tree from where she nested. We were thrilled when the first baby poked its head up from under its mother’s wing and were in awe when we counted heads again a few days later to find the mother was willing to share her nest with three rambunctious babies. All the while, the father brought food to keep his brood alive.

In mid-June, when Ron found one of the fledglings on the ground out by the windmill with a broken wing, we made calls and found Dennis who works for Gila Wildlife Rescue in Silver City. Two days later, we found out the owl had an infection and needed to be euthanized. I was sad but told myself its part of nature’s plan. “We still had two babies left,” I said, when a friend asked how I was doing.

One evening in late June, a wind storm came through sending dog dishes and lawn furniture skittering across the lawn. The next morning, we found a second baby owl under a pine tree. We called Dennis, and Ron and I agreed to keep an eye on it. A day went by. The owl was able to fly short distances but continued to return to his place under the pine tree. We took the owl in to be examined where it was decided it had been electrocuted. It died shortly afterwards. Devastated, I followed the third baby with my binoculars praying nothing would happen to it. As the monsoon season approached, I secretly hoped the wind and rain would remain at bay until the baby was strong enough to withstand the punishing storms. In these parts, where every drop of rain counts, this was an act of treason for which I harbored no guilt.

My interest in the baby owl, which bordered on obsession, grew into something that now resembles friendship. Each morning, I am greeted with screeching when I take the dogs outside. At night, after chores are done and the animals are in for the evening, I step out into the yard beyond the lights and call for her. Sometimes she answers from a nearby tree, but now that she is getting bigger and hunts on her own, I hear her faint screech from a half mile away. When I return home after being gone for a few days, she will greet me from an outlying branch where she bounces and shrieks as though saying, “Look at me! I’ve missed you!”

Like many kids, I took my first biology class in eighth grade where, with trembling hands, I dissected a frog that had spent its post-life in formaldehyde. It was in that class that I was introduced to the scientific method:

  1. Make an observation
  2. Pose a question
  3. Form a hypothesis
  4. Conduct an experiment
  5. Analyze the data and draw a conclusion

At no point was I asked to share my feelings about the dead frog that lay on the metal tray in front of me spread eagle with pins sticking out of it to keep it from sliding onto the floor. If given the chance, I would have asked to go home where I would have gone to bed, pulled a blanket over my head, and cried until my mom said it was time for supper.

Like some of the other kids in my class, our friend the biologist was cut from a different cloth. I imagine examining the internal workings of a frog or a sheep’s heart may have provided a sense of order in his world as he studied systems and learned about the taxonomy of animals. And by spending a career steeped in the scientific method, he learned to avoid the obvious: Great Horned Owls are capable of forming relationships.

As so often happens, I didn’t have a rebuttal when he said, with professional authority, owls were designed to hunt. That’s all. Period. But if I had been prepared, or at least wittier than I generally am, here is what I would have presented to him in terms he would have understood:

  1. Make an observation- The baby owl seems to notice me more than it does other people.
  2. Pose a question- I wonder if the baby owl has formed an attachment to me?
  3. Form a hypothesis- If the baby owl has formed an attachment to me, it should react to me in some distinct fashion.
  4. Conduct an experiment- Each time I go outside, I will screech and see if the baby owl screeches back in response. Control Group: Ron will also screech when he goes  outside to elicit a reaction from the owl.
  5.  Analyze the data and draw a conclusion- The baby owl reacts differently to me than to other people. Proof: Ron comes in and says, “You need to go outside. Your owl is calling for you.” Conclusion: Great Horned Owls are capable of discerning their attachments toward humans.

My own conclusion? I care deeply for the baby owl who continues to defy the monsoon storms that have arrived in full force. I delight in her antics and feel a connection when she calls out to me. I can’t predict what nature has in store for her and will have to deal with the loss, god forbid, something happens. What I have learned in observing the owl is that the things that matter most like friendship, feelings, and love cannot be accurately measured using the scientific method. I guess for now, the owl and I will stick to what we know, and let science ponder questions that don’t concern us.