The spirit of ravens...part 2

 This story is about my other encounter with a raven 

which I wrote a few months ago.

In reference to Spirit of the West, it is a Canadian folk rock band who had just lost their lead singer 

John Mann. 

He was a powerhouse of a performer with energy which permeated a room of 10 

or a stadium of thousands. 

He died from complications due to early onset dementia.

He was 57. The same age as myself.

On a day when we lost a part of Spirit of the West, I was  a quiet witness to another spirit of the west passing. 

On a deserted lakeside trail, my uncle and I and 3 dogs  ambled up through firs and arbutus to a peaceful lake in the highlands.

We walked amongst  the  bountiful mushroom crop, best in years….giant white gills emerging, orange flat caps, slimy, skeleton like,  curled up hands, reaching out from the mossy graves.

The smallest dog caught the scent of something more interesting though. 

And as if he knew to be gentle other than the crazed terrier on the scent of something to hunt, he nudged his nose towards it. 

The feathered black body lay off to the side of our footpath.

The Raven. Still alive. Resting on his side. 

We thought at first that he was injured.

Should we save him?

Take him to the wildlife rescue centre?

My Uncle took all three dogs away and left me with him.

I stroked his feathered back…he looked at me calmly from a black, glass bead of an eye. 

 The top of his head slightly ruffled in proud raven fashion.

The beak…the long, strong confident power of it.

And then I looked at his leg, relaxed under the large wing.

 It was calloused at the knee joint like old burled maple. Dry, no fresh flesh of a wound. His foot had similar aged markings. Years of wear. Of battles. Of old wounds. Maybe arthritis had set in.

I think he had chosen to lay down his sword.

To rest on the bed of fallen leaves .

His satin black form against the brown blanket of an all too familiar autumn floor.

How old are you I wondered?

I wanted to go home and rip open one of my own down quilts and bring a bag of feathers back to him. 

Cover him with warmth on this frosty night.

Lay with him so he was not alone.

But he was not alone.

While I sat there, a congress of  ravens , cackled and looped their songs above this senior member.

 They circled a hundred feet above him, sat vigilantly in treetops but they were not that far away in spirit to the one who lay dying on the forest floor.

He could hear their words of goodbyes and well wishes.

I offered him my own words of comfort in a language he wouldn’t understand  but perhaps through my tone  and touch he would grasp my encouragement of love and light on his journey to the next world.

I thought of the things in my own life that are dying.

How acceptance is not an easy thing for mortals.

Today, once again, I am learning from the world beyond words and human things.

Keep to the quiet paths.

Listen to the swans trumpet.

Stop to watch the sun rise through a frosted, dying seed head.

The tall, tawny coloured high grasses will keep you company on an early morning walk.

And always…listen for the silence in between it all.

Good bye to a blog friend...

Today I heard the sad news that a friend in the blog community has passed away.

Nancy from  http://highplainsfootprints.blogspot.ca/ lost a battle with cancer yesterday.

It is strange how I never met Nancy in person but felt I knew a little bit about her and the things that gave her joy...knitting (she was an amazing one at that!), nature, sunsets, 

riding in the mountains, her family. 

At one time she spent a week in Port Angeles and I could almost wave to her from across the ocean on Vancouver Island!

 I feel like the blogging community has made the world a smaller and more friendly place where kindred spirits can find one another and share their lives even though we have never met face to face. Nancy always had such kind compliments and comments on my blog.

A friend of hers took the time to go through Nancy's comments to find those who

followed her and to let us know about Nancy's illness and subsequent passing.

I want to thank this person for being so kind in her actions.

Sometimes I will see a blogger who hasn't posted in a long time

and I wonder what happened...in this case it was not the answer I had hoped for.

I know that Nancy posted photos of the mountains and sunsets in Wyoming 

where she lived and 

so these photos from my world are for Nancy...rest in peace.

Just a little note to my sister...

It's been 4 years today that we lost Tracy.

If I could tell her anything it would be this:

Be proud of your girls.

They are growing up to be such wonderful and lovely people.

They have your beauty, yours and Steve's sense of humour, your love of animals

and your taste for adventure.

Most of all they share a love for family which you always had.

Don't ever worry, Steve takes such good care of them and 

we do what we can whenever we can.

We miss you every day.

Wordless Wednesday...found in a coat pocket

Of old haunts and habits...

I guess there's a reason for the term 'old haunt'.

A place often visited in the past.

A place where memories were made...

It doesn't seem to imply a frightening place...just a place of ghosts...good ghosts...

...echoes of laughter, footsteps, faint dog barks. The shaking off of water and a jingling collar...

And so it is with me these days that in my passage to get through grief,

I have been walking these same footsteps that I used to with Griffin.

The clock inside me knows around what time it was to 'go out'.

I find myself stopping projects instinctively around 2 in the afternoon...

It's a bit of therapy just to try and get out and walk and talk and remember.

This morning trusting sidekick Rosie and her lady Regina and I

went out to the lighthouse in Shirley...

We four spent many a beautiful morning wandering these fields and grounds.

It's an empty feeling getting in the van for an adventure without

my main ingredient, Griffin.

A friend said the other night when I mentioned that emptiness,

"yeah, it's not like you had a Chihuahua".

Indeed Griffin was a big boy who took up a lot of real estate,

and not just physically but his character was just as large.

So we made our way down the trail with the spirits of Griff floating alongside.

The spring will come and go again and this rawness will ebb and flow...

At home it's the same.

Big spaces, empty beds.

He was always made comfy with a bed in several places around the place.

I haven't quite come to clearing them all away.

I need to process it and slowly find  the right time to 'put things away'.

It's an awfully long time, 12 years,  to have that big black muzzle hanging about my shoulder,

reminding me of 5 o'clock suppers, coming home to the muffled "woof" from inside

the house if I had been somewhere sans dog.

Or if he was outside he would come bounding down to greet me.

So I will not 'get over it' but instead 'go through it'

I'll come out on the other side having known the truth of love and companionship.

(thanks for another session Rosie and Regina)

Comes a time...

There comes a time when a decision is made that you know will change your life.

That was the day I got Griffin.

Picked from a litter of 13 puppies sprawling about on a lawn, 12 years ago.

My choice to wait to have a dog again was a very conscious one.

The last dog I owned I had to give up due to work schedule and basically bad timing.

It was very difficult for me but more difficult was that it broke my 8 year old daughters heart.

The dog ended up in a beautiful home in the country and was well loved for the rest of her life but then and there I decided that I would never again take on a dog unless I had the time and the space.
Forward 12 years later...  here I sit looking at my poor Griff who now has lung cancer.

The most difficult part of having a true animal companion is saying goodbye.
This comes with the territory.
It's the price you pay for the tremendous joy they give you.
But nothing can prepare you for such a passage.

My world has evolved around this black, scruffy dog.

My days are timed for his walks, his meals and his many idiosyncrasies.

Although sometimes it has felt like an inconvenience, it has filled my life with purpose.
And meaning.
And adventure.
And friendship.

 

And so many hours of deep, meaningful, silent communication with him.

Love.
So many miles of rambles, scrambles, climbs and strolls.
He never was the kind to run off ahead, always sticking close by not
out of fear but out of the bond we shared.
Never one to complain.

Friend to all.

Water was his element.

I am his.
He is mine.
A shadow to each other.

Walking in each others footsteps.
There are times when he looks at me through wise, dog eyes for long moments.
What I would give to know the thoughts inside that lovely soul.

But I think I can tell some of them.
He is full of love. That simple.
An unconditional kind that we humans can never know.

His sensitivities run deep.
There was a time here when we were burying one of our goats and Tom had dug a
fairly big hole. He had worked at it for hours. After we put the goat in the hole the two
of us started to shovel back in the dirt that was piled up in several small piles
around the edge. And there in the silence of that process Griffin started to nose his
own small pile into the hole, helping us fill the grave.
If anyone ever says something like
"it's just a dog"... don't even bother responding.
If you've ever had a companion like I do...you know different.


P.S
This was written about a week before Griffin passed away.
After a very rough night he spent the day laying in the spring sun.
His battle with lung cancer was done and the vet came and we put him to rest on the couch.
I hope his dreams were full of swims in the river, snowy treks on old logging roads,
long rambles in the woods, runs on sandy beaches, big breakfasts and steak dinners.
But mostly that we were the last faces he saw before he closed his eyes.
His people who loved him well.
Sweet dreams my bud.

pps...
(a special wag to Frank and Irma...faithful companions of the road, trespassers extraordinaire)