Rainy Monday

The rain spatters mercilessly on the rooftops this morning and I hold hope in the coming week. I love the rain, the coolness of the falling droplets, the way it washes the streets out front clean, the way it replenishes the dry lawns, and feeds the lake behind our house.

Yesterday Sparkle Fairy played with her friend from next door. I was glad for that; there aren't any kids for her to play with in our neighborhood anymore, aside from our neighbors directly next door on one side. One of the issues we deal with as a family removed from our roots is that we lack the company of extended family. My daughter has cousins close to her age, but they live far north of us, in different states, and we don't see them often enough. I have to bite back envy of the people who grew up here, who have old friends to hang around with, and cousins to schedule play dates with, and laughter to fill the walls during holidays.

So, hello, rainy Monday. Let's see what we can do today.

Lonely in Paradise

I've been lonely lately. When I say this, I'm not referring to a sense of being completely alone, but, rather, lacking in feeling a sense of community. I have my little family, and I love them with all that I am and am grateful for them. Most of us need to feel a sense of community, though. Particularly for those of us living far away from our natural families, there exists a sense of needing people who share our values and accept us for who we are. We need people to chat with (drum with) around bonfires, to share laughs with in the back yard on summer nights, to commiserate with, and navigate life with. There are a few people I feel this closeness with here, and quite a few people I'd love to get to know better, but thus far I feel fairly isolated, and it's starting to get to me. Is it anybody else's fault that I feel this way? No. I pretty much take responsibility for where I'm at. Because some of my ideas stray from the mainstream it's easy for me to feel out of place in the mundane world. I try to spend time with people of like mind, and that always refreshes me and provides me with sense of not being crazy. It's difficult to get away sometimes though. I'm trying a little more to take time out to do activities that feed my soul, but it's a slow process. I'm trying to balance the different areas of my life where it isn't possible to integrate them. I still don't understand why being a free thinker has to offend some people so much. Why does weighing science with spirituality and acting accordingly have to make a person seem so odd to people who can't, won't, or simply don't have any interest in doing this? I believe in things unseen. I have witnessed the magic of nature and know that not everything that "is" can be neatly tucked between the pages of a text book. I also believe that there are workings of our planet which scientists have explained through many years of research, and while they might not necessarily point to a literal Garden of Eden, they do present a logical framework for the beginnings of life. There are still so many things we don't know, and scientists don't always get it right, but I don't think it's fair when someone looks at me with disgust and ridicule when I mention that there is no evidence to prove and much evidence to disprove in ideas such as dinosaurs and human beings co-existing.

I'm just venting a bit here. I know that I need to make some active changes in order for this hole that has been widening within me to be filled. I know, roughly, what I need to do. Sort of.

Of Chickens and girls

One of our hens passed away a couple of days ago, and last night, I crouched on the dock behind our house, near where she is buried, and softly sang a good-bye song to her. I've been missing her sweet, feathered presence terribly and feel awful that her sister, Molly, is now alone. I also worry for Molly's health, as chickens are sociable creatures and human company is not the same as the bird variety. I have a fierce affection for Molly that has been intensified since her sister's departure has brought forth the reminder of life's fleeting quality. I'm considering the introduction of another chicken to our modest homestead. However, the hubs is not particularly amenable to this idea. He has tired of caring for them (though, truthfully, I have been and am the main caretaker of all the animals who live at our house) and wasn't receptive when our daughter stated that Molly needs a friend and that we should get her one. I'll have to consider the next course of action carefully as I don't want to force another animal onto the Cajun plumber, but I also don't want Molly to suffer because she no longer has a buddy to strut around in the grass with all day.

I believe in the value of holding rituals for our departed animal companions. We had a family funeral for Zack the night we laid her down under the shelter of a floppy banana plant at the rear of our property and that was good. Last night as I walked through the backyard in the moonlight, a slight, pleasantly cool breeze teasing the hair back from my face, my eyes rested on the place where Zack's physical body is interred and I felt a need to reach out to her spirit. Being an artistic sort, the idea of singing her spirit to peace resonated with me and I found myself voicing the words of a song I've heard often at children's rituals and other places. Surprisingly, the lone duck who was trying to get some sleep on the dock as I made my way to the edge of it seemed undisturbed. Our German Shepherd crept tentatively toward me and seemed to sense that something special was taking place. An avid chaser of ducks, he made no move toward this one, and only stayed behind me offering nuzzles. As I sang quietly (sound carries well over water and my goal here was not to freak out the neighbors) into the night air I felt a sense of peace. Even though we've had an issue with over abundant mosquitoes this year, none were biting. Sitting on the dock in the dark with a bit of moon overhead, a Muscovy duck to my left, and my furry canine behind me offering his loving support, it felt as though we'd entered a magical space in time. In the sadness, there came a touch of wonder.

(The attached photo is Molly and I, taken this morning.)