[Two] Week[s] (with apologies to Barenaked Ladies)

A wild bit of synchronicity/magic this morning:  rewinding to when I uploaded last night's blog post, then found a poem I liked better and switched it to the new one.  Went to bed and, as always, when I wake up, I fix a cup of coffee and meander out to the balcony for an hour-ish, whereupon I sip the aforementioned caffeine, crank out all my NYT puzzles (Wordle, Connections, mini-crossword, Spelling Bee, and Letter Boxed)... then read their e-newsletter.  

In the midst of all that, I observed motion out of the corner of my eye, and saw a bird flying straight at me.  Fortunately my balcony is screened-in, so I was more fascinated than fearful.  It landed on the railing trim that surrounds the screen, swiveled its head around to look straight at me, and I realized... it was an owl... a gray owl.  What?!?  Then it flew back to wherever it came from.  It happened too fast for me to pull up the camera on my phone to document the experience.

I have mentioned previously that our Wild Kingdom backyard is replete with Muscovy ducks, herons, bluejays, wood storks, ibises, Egyptian geese, mockingbirds, Quaker parrots... and *never*, in our 5 1/2 years living here, *never* have I seen an owl, much less an up-close-and-personal visitation.  Hi, Eric.  Please come back soon... 🦉

Oh, and here's last night's poem, repeated:

Mother and Son by James Crews

Though you’re gone now,

my body still remembers

being held by you that evening,

wearing my blue fleece pajamas

with a white owl on the front,

and you saying, “Who, who,”

over and over, both of us laughing

as you explained that’s the sound

owls make when they need

to find each other in the darkness 

before sleep, a way of saying:

I can’t see you, but I know 

you must be there.

"Many Native American tribes believe Owl is the spirit of a deceased ancestor or other spirit," says Kathy Harmon-Luber, a certified reiki & sound therapy practitioner and author of Suffering to Thriving. Owls are believed to serve as a bridge between worlds—life and the afterlife."  Goosebumps.... 😮

I had lots of errands to run today, and it felt weird, on the two-week anniversary of Eric's death, to be out and about with people who didn't have a clue I had lost my son... when I really just want to be screaming it from every corner of the world.  How dare everyone be normal?  Right?

And then I swung by Cynthia's to drop off some items, and she asked if I was ready to collect the hugs she'd been saving for me, and I surprised myself by saying yes.  And she gave me some Calm Tea and some Happy Heart Tea and told me about a holistic medicine she'd like to share with me when everyone goes home next week.  Another yes please... 😴

And I had two weeks worth of compost, so I swung by the farm (oh Hope Garden, I've missed you!) to dump that, as well as walk up and down our row and reacquaint myself with everything.  Obviously this coming weekend is full, so I will get back in the groove the following Saturday.  Breathe In/Breathe Out...

And my dear friend Michele and I had scheduled a phone chat, which (for various reasons:  my errands ran long, my phone needed charging, etc.) I kept rolling over from 2 p.m., to 3... and then finally at 4 we were voice-to-voice... for a most lovely and wrenching two hours.  M and her family have known E since he was 6 or 7, I think.  Good times (major understatement)... 🎉

SONG:  [Two] Week[s] (with apologies to Barenaked Ladies)

BOOK:  Little Owl Lost by Chris Haughton (Author, Illustrator)

POEM:  First Light by Susan Moorhead 

I know this sound, first birds of morning.

As a child, I waited for hours for the drape

of night to roll up again. Leaning into the first

hint of the fresh day, the fragile lace of hesitant

light, the receding darkness dappled with bird song,

able at last to close my eyes.

I know this sound, some kind of redemption,

waking me from scattered sleep, a healing fragment

even as the work of the previous day marks my bones

in notches. Night leaves its small fur as the dawn

pushes, as the birds persist, and morning unfurls

like a promise you hoped someone would keep.

QUOTE:  “It is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.” ~ Mary Oliver