This will be a quick post, I have a number of clients today and I always do an hour or two of study in the morning, on whatever herbal program I'm doing at any given time. I also swing by Facebook, and do research on things like - well, recently a condition that used to be called LarPar (Laryngeal Paralysis) and now is known as GOLPP (Geriatric Onset Laryngeal Paralysis Polyneuropathy)...quite a mouthful, that.
The reason for the herb study is, I share Susun Weed's belief that it takes lifetimes to become a true master of herbal medicine, so I need to do all I can in this one to "get the hang of it". Or, as Pablo Casals put it when asked why, in his 90s, he still practised 4 hours a day, "I think I'm starting to see some progress".
Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. I learn every single day about herbal medicine. I love it and am eager for this time every day, especially in the darker months where it's me and a candle and the screen (and my very old fashioned Materia Medica, where I take notes).
I visit Facebook for the sense of community, to see what's up with Friends, and to check my professional Page and groups. I like Facebook. I know that's an increasingly unpopular stance but I do. And right now, visiting FB means giving voice to the deeply spiritual and incredibly difficult passage I am moving through with Daniel,as each day he grows older and each week or so we see changes. Last time I wrote I was sure he had CCD. As of now, I'm not sure that he has NO cognitive issues, but - without formal veterinary diagnosis - I am very sure he has GOLPP.
I am going to compile my research and experience into a blog article soon, so (if anyone reads THIS blog, which I doubt!) please check The Possible Canine. This is a personal blog, so here, I am just going to talk about loss, anticipatory grief, coming to terms (or trying to) with the hardest reality of all - that all things must pass. No matter how beautiful, how cherished, how pure. All.things.must.pass.
I am deep into a sense of timelessness accompanied by an omnipresent feeling of finitude - odd combination, really. And in this jumble of emotion and anxiety and prayer, I find myself, again and again, reflecting on the beauty and sadness of "the last times".
Last picture of my comfrey stand, from our last summer....how I loved that garden.
There are so many "last times" I never knew, as they happened, would be the last; so it goes for every life. I think of the sit spots Dan and I had all over the land around our home - the heart shaped rock, I always wondered if my grandmother saw it when she lived in Rupert, when she walked the same trails as a young girl. The mossy "thrones" I gifted with crystals and sat on, daily, while Dan rooted around and investigated the area. The last time we walked up Montcrieff, into the "cathedral" as I called it...or took the other fork in the road and visited Lac Mahon - when was that? The last time we drove down Shouldice road to get supplies in the village, but stopped on the way home to gather some mullein...the last time we ran down the big hill out behind the little forest?
A magical Beech that marked a special place in one of the woods. When I saw it the last time, I would never have guessed.....
When, exactly, which day, and how strange it is we would have had no idea, that we were saying goodbye.
The last time Dan ran up the stairs ahead of me, turned around and planted a big sunny kiss on my face (which he did multiple times a day). I loved that sweetness - when was the last time?
Not this time - he was only about 4:
But today, as I stand here mired in sorrow, for the imminent loss of him, and for all we had and shared and lost, I think of everything I do as maybe the last time - I baked his "magic mushroom" cookies today - the medicinal treats I've made for the past 4 years - maybe the last time?
Later we will toodle around the yard, just to get a bit of air and visit the trees - hopefully not the last time, but any time could be. All the freedom we had is gone - we cannot go for walks or drives at all, he is entering the final phase of his life, I am crippled with spinal fractures and disc disease; we stay inside, I work, bake, I feed him, we rest. It is a huge, wide open life narrowed to a very small one, but I love it as fiercely, as powerfully, because it is us, together.
The wide open fields are gone, the stream in spring is gone, the stair kisses - gone. But the love remains. And I treasure every single moment, of every single day.
Every "last time" will stay in my heart forever.
