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Last night was fraught with conflicting emotion.
My geriatric cat, Madeline, never came home. I am almost invariably greeted, albeit reservedly, by the portly grey fuzz-ball upon coming home from work. I am not sure if it is because she essentially missed me during the day, or if she is waiting to remind me that it is past time for her supper, and could you hurry it up a bit, thank you very much. Come to think of it, in the past two years since we brought her down to the house from the farm, she’s never once missed a meal.
My tenuous expectation is that she is gone. Mind you, if she is, it is not a surprise. She is over 20 years old and we brought her down to the house so that she could live out her remaining time in relative comfort, without having to deal with the pecking order and scrabbling of farm life. She’s been reveling in the lap of luxury and has turned into an archetypical gumbie cat. (See T.S. Elliot’s The Old Gumbie Cat.)
If she has passed, it is a natural part of life and I am glad that we were able to provide comfort and companionship in her last few years. Needless to say, I would at least like to know. Every time Duff came through the cat flap last night I looked up to see if it was Madeline. I got up out of bed twice because the porch motion light went on… nothing was there…
On a more joyful note…
Duff, Glenn’s cat is not much of a hunter. Every once in a while Glenn will shame her into bringing home some sort of catch. (I actually caught him asking her the other day why she does not “provide” for him!) Usually she brings home a grasshopper or cabbage moth. She seems enthralled with bugs.
Last night she came in, proud as a peacock with her quarterly offering. Much larger than her usual catch but recognizing that the color was odd, I thought she had a piece of fabric or trash, until Glenn leapt up with an “oh, kitty, let me have that!”
Lunar moth! Amazingly beautiful, it fluttered apoplectically for a bit before settling in Glenn’s hands for a quick picture. She was truly miraculous to see – enormous, vivid and a bit mysterious. I took her out to the forsythia bush and released her – I’m hoping that the cat did not injure her too much. It is still early for lunar moths; we expect that she hadn’t been out of the chrysalis for more than 24 hours. I looked, but there was no trace of her this morning, gone like a fleeting dream…
But it was a beautiful reminder of the balance of Nature. Life and death, light and dark, elation and grief; they are all integral to the cycle of life. I find it interesting because that equilibrium has been on the brain a lot lately. Glenn & I have been writing the Midsummer ritual for the Concord UU’s Earth Centered Spirituality Group and we are definitely playing up the battle of the Oak King (representing the waxing, sunlight half of the year) and the Holly King (representing the waning, shadowed half of the year)….
Despite the fact that I accept the cycle, (and even revel in it as one of the most basic precepts of my spirituality) there is definitely a piece of me that wishes my kitty would just come home…
Looking around, I find that a lot of the practicing Pagans that I know celebrate ritual a mere 8 times a year. When a Sabbat comes around candles and incense are lit, circles are cast and chants are mumbled most solemnly. A smaller group of practitioners also turn out for Esbats, some for Full Moons 13 times a year, and those that could be considered more “die hard” that hold ritual on the 13 New Moons as well. This means that people are celebrating the divine 8 or 21 or 34 times a year.
I wonder how others view this, for in my mind it is not spiritually fulfilling to connect to the Earth only a handful of times a year. My belief has always been that there is divinity in all things; hence my goal is to find a way to commune daily with my sacred path. How does one go about becoming a daily spiritual practitioner without creating some sort of every day ritual that runs the risk of becoming both routine and mundane?
I expect that the conduit to daily spirituality need not be full of complex mantras, smudging and energy intensive circle casting. The idea in and of itself is both daunting and exhausting. When I think of the amount of self, careful thought and deliberate energy that I put into merely creating Esbat or Sabbat rituals, I recognize that it is impossible to expect the same for a daily communion. (Not to mention the energy required to perform said ceremonies!)
I am aware that simple is that way to go. However, I also feel that variety is indispensable. I remember as a kid at Catholic school each morning we recited, in perfect angelic unison the Lord’s Prayer. Pounded repeatedly into my head, I still remember the words… Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name… In Catholicism, this is supposed to be the most profound expression of devotion. Yet after delivering the prayer morning after morning, the words soon lost their meaning to me. The risk of losing significance to repetition is very real and I refuse to fall into that pitfall.
Lately I have been trying to make time each day to “say hello” to the divine and ground myself. I create for myself a moment of timelessness and let my heart say whatever it needs to (thereby escaping the danger of meaningless rote prayers). It is a little hard to explain, but I allow myself to slip between, and in that space it is easy to allow the commonplace to slide away. I have no routine, no special time of day or specific place, those things are unimportant… usually I just know that now is the time.
Needless to say, I am finding that this daily interaction is becoming a critical part of my existence. It is so meaningful to me, that I wonder if those other Pagans who practice only a few times a year are doing it as well. Perhaps they do not define this type of spiritual union as “ritual.” I however, do. Ritual does not have to be so specifically defined with circles and quarter calls. Once again in the Pagan theology things are defined by intent.
My intent is daily joy and meaning. What’s yours?
We are entering the last weekend in May. There is a distinct buzz of life as Spring unfolds most majestically in New England. New growth prevails to the point that even the air looks green. The heavy scent of lilac perfumes the air, the crab apples are diaphanous clouds of cotton candy blossoms, and the treetops are finally whispering to each other as the breeze rustles full leaf canopies. Everywhere I look, gardens are a riot of color – blue hyacinths, cheery yellow daffodils, and proud tulips in every color under the sun.
My garden has reseeded itself in perfect reminder of harmonious, natural cycles, unimpeded by man. There is enough lettuce coming up that I do not have to make a spring planting; Red Leaf and crisp May Queen are several inches tall and thriving. There is dill and cilantro making a presence as well, and the perennials (thyme, chive and lemon balm) are nearing harvestable size.
In the greenhouse life is flourishing as well. The snow peas absolutely have to be in the ground this weekend as some of the plants are a towering 5 inches tall. The broccoli and cauliflower are standing proud and barely indistinguishable from blades of new grass, the onions are flourishing and sets should be ready to plant in the ground within a week or so. Even more exciting, all the melons have sprouted (in MAY no less) and hubby is ecstatic that his exotic Tiger melon is making a strong showing.
Yes, things are green and growing in New England. However, aside from the philanthropic feeling of flourishing new life, there is still a bit of unpredictable, unstoppable Nature power being felt. We cannot be lulled by a false sense of benignity. Yesterday, an abrupt, violent wind storm toppled a strong, healthy maple tree just outside my office window. The power of the gust was unfathomable and humbling. This morning, as I slipped into sandals and a T-shirt, I heard the report that the Mt. Washington access road (a mere 76 miles from my house) was closed due to snow!
Is it any wonder that I love New England? The true, breathtaking power of Nature is felt overwhelmingly here and it is easy to feel connected to the divinity of the Earth… I for one am looking forward to spending a long and joyful weekend, barefooted and dirty, reconnecting to the world around me!
Despite the snowflakes I saw yesterday afternoon, Beltaine is a time of emerging life and fertility. The world around us is covered over in a veil of green and all around us new beginnings are taking root. Most of us think of Beltaine as a time where the Divine touches the world waking the plants and quickening the womb. Everywhere we look the trees are putting forth little green buds, the bravest flowers are poking through our sleepy gardens, the birds are courting and life is a buzz with prolific energy.
However, I believe we should recognize that there is more to it than that. This is also the season of new beginnings that are somewhat less tangible. Blessed be those that are starting some great new adventure. Sacred are the burgeoning ideas and fledgling plans. Hallowed be the new relationships -unprecedented friendshipsand tentative romance.
Hence it is not merely the glory of new life that we celebrate today, but we can focus on the new and revel in change. For what is growth, but change? Spring is a dramatic metamorphosis from Winter; and every first timer will tell you that becoming a parent is the most drastic, amazing transformation one can experience.
Hold your hands out in front of you. Perhaps your thumbs are not green and there are no dirty diapers in your foreseeable future, but that does not mean that Beltaine is not for you. What you see in front of you are the vehicle of change – take a chance today and grab onto change and celebrate this season of New!
Joyous Beltaine to you all…
