She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly. ~Rainer Maria Rilke from “Black Cat”
Bobbi arrived on the farm 14 years ago after living a life of luxury in town. She couldn’t accompany her owner to life in the big city so moved in complete with a van full of her own cat furniture, a personal chair, toys, and special cuisine. When she strode out of her cat carrier, took a look around and climbed into the nearest tree, she never looked back at the accoutrements of her former full time indoor life. She became queen of the farm, undisputed and regal, watching the goings-on from a carefully calculated and royal distance, never interacting with her subjects unless it was absolutely necessary.
She tolerated other cats, but barely. They scattered when she came in view. She thought dogs were a waste of fur covering empty skulls, but when they met her needs, like on a chilly night, she would happily bunk down with them. They were astonished but grateful for her royal blessing when she decided to sleep among them: a two-dog and one-cat night.
She chose only one person to be subject to: our daughter-in-law Tomomi. On Tomomi’s first visit from Japan, Bobbi approached her and decided then and there they were meant for each other. During Tomomi’s annual summer visits, Bobbi brought her mice on the welcome mat and followed her like a puppy, coming only when Tomomi called, and deigned to allow her to touch her calico coat.
Earlier this year, nearly 16 years old, Bobbi took over the front porch bench when our black cat Jose died. She liked to stay a bit closer to us, but seemed thinner and less disdainful. When two kittens arrived to live in the barn this summer and within a week formed a coup and took over the front porch, Bobbi retreated again to her other quarters on the farm. I worried a bit that she had given in too easily with no yowls or flying fur.
Yesterday morning she lay still on the grassy slope out front – she was never one to take her naps where her subjects could see her. I knew her long life was over.
Long live Queen Bobbi. May you forever reign in our hearts.
A writer must reflect and interpret his society, his world;
he must also provide inspiration and guidance and challenge.
Much writing today strikes me as deprecating, destructive, and angry.
There are good reasons for anger, and I have nothing against anger.
But I think some writers have lost their sense of proportion,
their sense of humor, and their sense of appreciation.
I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad:
and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer
if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle,
to accept the warming rays of the sun,
and to report them, whenever,
and if ever, they happen to strike me. ~E.B. White (on writing)
It becomes tiresome always feeling angry about what it is happening in the world,
to read and write nothing but words of frustration,
to rail against the meanness that surrounds us,
to push back the bully and seek a balance of perspective and insight.
When I need to feel something other than mad,
I walk as far as I can go,
look up, revel in the light and bask in its warmth.
I seek to accept what the sun has to offer
and tell about it
and my anger drains away,
flushed down a pipe
never to be seen again.
“Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead! Is everything sad going to come untrue?” ~J.R.R. Tolkien as Samwise Gamgee wakes to find his friends all around him in The Lord of the Rings
“The answer is yes. And the answer of the Bible is yes. If the resurrection is true, then the answer is yes. Everything sad is going to come untrue.” ~Pastor Tim Keller’s response in a sermon given in an ecumenical prayer service memorial in Lower Manhattan on the fifth anniversary of Sept. 11.
In our minds, we want to rewind and replay the sad events of a tragedy in a way that would prevent it from happening in the first place.
We want those in a broken relationship to come back together, hug and forgive. The devastating diagnosis would be proven an error, only a mere transient illness. When a mass casualty event happens, we want the dead and injured to rise up again. The destructive earthquake becomes a mere tremor, the flooding tsunami is only one foot, not over thirty feet tall, the hijackers are prevented from ever boarding a plane, the shooter changes his mind at the last minute and lays down his arms, the terrorist disables his suicide bombs and walks away from his training and misguided mission.
We want so badly for it all to be untrue. The bitter reality of horrendous suffering and sadness daily all over the earth is too much for us to absorb. We plead for relief and beg for a better day.
Our minds may play mental tricks like this, but God does not play tricks. He knows and feels what we do. He too wants to see it rewound and replayed differently. He has known grief and sadness, He has wept, He has suffered, He too has died. And because of this, because of a God who came to dwell with us, was broken, died and then rose again whole and holy, we are assured, in His time, everything sad is going to come untrue.
Our tears will be dried, our grief turned to joy, our pain nonexistent, not even a memory. It will be a new day, a better day–as it is written, trustworthy and true.
May it come.
He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true. Revelation 21: 4-5
Near dusk, near a path, near a brook, we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay for the suffering of someone I loved, the doe in her always incipient alarm.
All that moved was her pivoting ear the reddening sun was shining through transformed to a color I’d only seen in a photo of a new child in a womb.
Nothing else stirred, not a leaf, not the air, but she startled and bolted away from me into the crackling brush.
The part of my pain which sometimes releases me from it fled with her, the rest, in the rake of the late light, stayed. ~C. K. Williams “The Doe”
Oh little one
to have been born this week in June
thirty four years ago~
but lost too soon
gone as swiftly in a clot of red
as a doe disappearing in a thicket:
a memory that makes me question
if you were real,
but you were
and you are
I’ll know you when I see you
and curious about who I am,
you won’t flee,
but stay to find out.
…when he looked at the ocean,
he caught a glimpse of the One he was praying to. Maybe what made him weep was
how vast and overwhelming it was and yet at the same time as near
as the breath of it in his nostrils,
as salty as his own tears. ~Frederick Buechner writing about Paul Tillich in Beyond Words
The cure for anything is salt water–sweat, tears or the sea. ~Isak Dinesen
I grew up an easy crier. Actually growing up hasn’t cured it, nor has middle age. I’m still an easy crier – a hard thing to admit especially when my tears flow at an inopportune time in a public place.
It might have had something to do with being a middle child, bombarded from both directions by siblings who recognized how little aggravation it took to make me cry, or it may have been my hypersensitive feelings about …. everything. I felt really alone in my tearful travails until my formidable grandmother, another easy weepy, explained that my strong/tall/tough/nothing-rocks-him former WWII Marine father had been a very weepy little boy. She despaired that he would ever get past being awash in tears at every turn. His alcoholic father tormented him about it, wondering if he would ever learn to “man up.”
So this is a congenital condition and that’s my excuse.
A few years ago I read a fascinating article about how different kinds of tears (tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of grief, tears of frustration, tears of irritated eyes, tears of onion cutting) all look different and remarkably apt, when dried and pictured under the microscope. This is more than mere salt water leaking from our eyes — this is our heart and soul and hormonal barometer streaming down our faces – a visible litmus test of our deepest feelings.
I witness many tears every day in my office, and not tears of joy. These are tears borne of pain and loss and rejection and failure, of hopelessness and helplessness, loneliness and anguish. Often my patients will describe having a “break down” by which they mean uncontrollable crying. It is one of the first-mentioned symptoms they want relief from.
Tears do come less frequently as depression lifts and anxiety lessens but I let my patients know (and remind myself) that tears are a transparent palette for painting the desires and concerns of our heart. Dry up the tears and one dries up emotions that express who we are and who we strive to be.
When I’m able, I celebrate the salt water squeezing from my eyes, knowing it means I’m so fully human that I leak my humanity everywhere I go. Even God wept while dwelling among us on earth, and what’s good enough for Him is certainly good enough for me.
Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning…
…Not here Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
~T. S Eliot from Burnt Norton (1936) part of Four Quartets
Eliot didn’t have birds or future tweets of the 21st century in mind when he wrote Burnt Norton in 1936. He was far more concerned about the concept of time and redemption, using the analogies of a garden, a graveyard, and most disturbingly, a subway train of empty-souled people traveling under London in the dark. Only the present matters as the past cannot be changed and the future remains unknown, trusting the reassurance and salvation of Logos, the source of the natural and creative order of all things. Only God Himself remains outside of the constraints of time and place.
Perhaps Eliot predicted the unknowable future. It now is a “twittering world” in a way that Eliot, critical of dehumanizing technology of his time, somehow was prescient enough to foresee.
When birdsong begins on our farm in mid-June at 4 AM in the apple, cherry, chestnut, and walnut trees outside our bedroom windows, I am brought face to face, eyes and ears wide open, with the immediate present, distracted from the distraction of my dreams by the distraction of wakening to music of the created order among the branches, amid dew-laden blooms and cool morning air.
Once the birds settle into routine conversation after twenty minutes of their loudly tweeted greetings of the day, I sit down bleary-eyed at my computer to enter the twittering world of technology, too often filled with fancies, or meanness, or completely empty of meaning.
Yet, I’m determined. Not here will darkness be found on this page, if I can keep it at bay.