Friday, October 30, 2009
Looking through some old photos, I came across this one which I had originally planned to delete. I am so glad that I didn't, as it features our now departed Timmy, perched high in a large craggy tree that is also now gone. A big storm one day took the big old tree down. There is an ethereal quality to this photograph, and the effect with the sun shining down almost directly onto Tim was totally unplanned. It took me aback when I saw it again after so many years - almost like the future, in the past - how he is now. That may not make much sense, but maybe some of you might know what I mean. Click on the picture for a really good look.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Victorian author Matthew Arnold said it best. He spoke of the "turbid ebb and flow of human misery" and recognized the "eternal note of sadness." The poem Dover Beach says it all, and basically speaks to the very heart of my being each and every day. From the first day I read it for a university class, stunned that someone could so exquisitely and perfectly express "where I live", it never ceases to move me, though years may pass between readings.
Alex was big, and strong, seemingly indestructible. He chased and challenged death many times and escaped, but finally it all caught up with him. You are right, Knatolee, when you say, "in many ways, humans are very strong but in others, we break easily. Life can change so much at any given moment. It's important to enjoy today." But why can't I seem to get that last part?
Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
"Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room,
I am the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die."
By Mary Frye of Baltimore, Maryland in 1932
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
It snowed this morning, just a few flakes and no accumulation, but it's sign that winter is coming, and I feel cold, through and through. Little Angel has been inconsolable since the passing of our Tim. They had a special relationship and she knew him since her first days with us as very very small "in-the-palm-of-your-hand" kitten. I often found them together like in the photo. She now knows something is wrong - she seems to be looking for him, and every now and then she peers at little Chesney as if trying to make sure it's not really Tim. No, not Tim, but as little Ches grows week after week - near glimpses of Tim will be inevitable. But not for Angel - she knows he is gone, she is very quiet, and she sleeps a lot. I wish I could do the same...
Friday, October 02, 2009
Thursday, October 01, 2009
In my soul
My blood and my bones
I have wrapped your cold bodies around me
The face on you
The smell of you
Will always be with me
I wish could get music to embed like at JC's. I can't get a link to work here. Just Google Three Babies by Sinead O'Connor - it is such a haunting song - I first played it for the passing of my Popeye, so many years ago. This song moves me to my core, especially when she sings the lines, "the face on you, the smell of you".
Thank you so very much to all of you wonderful people who stopped by to give sympathy - I have been very touched - profoundly. A special thanks to JC, who started it all - bless you. Soon I'll post pictures of Tim - for the moment, it is too difficult to look at them, especially those I took just a few days before he left us.