Friday eve 29th October 2010...

It has been a wild and windy evening, the autumnal leaves sashaying and swirling from one place to the next, making unique patterns lasting moments, nothing seemed to settle for long. As I wandered up the hill navigating my own path through the twilight I collected leaves from the woodland floor. Before reaching the place I had chosen I'd ducked under branches and lost my footing into the mud. She would be padding about following scents here and there, occasionally lifting her head to listen. I set my bag to one side and began the process of making a small nature alter on a stone next to the stream.


I called in the spirits and ancestors from the four corners and welcomed father sky and mother earth to our ceremony this night. By now the twilight had deepened into darkness. Leaves were cascading down from the surrounding trees, some gently glancing my shoulders. I nestled the container holding Becky's ashes into the mossy rocks of the dryer raised section of the stream secluded under the wooden bridge. She would be sat nearby, scanning the horizon, in no hurry.


By the light of a torch I read aloud as best I could a beautiful Mary Oliver poem that sums up everything I could possibly say in words from my heart.

Her Grave*
She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile -
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and
her cunning elbow,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming
perfect arch of her neck.
~
It took one to carry her ashes into the woods.
I did not think of music,
anyway, the wind rustling
the leaves echoed my every step.
~
Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.
~
Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you're lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your house, but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you
know almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?
~
She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is scattered in the stream and round the trees.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.

Through the trees there is the sound of the winds, palavering.

The smell of the pines needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her resting place.
~
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.



I moved to scatter Becky's ashes in the flowing waters of the stream, in the breath of the winds and in a circle around the trees. I sat a while, eyes closed, in complete gratitude and true amazement of our ten years in physical form together. What a blessed adventure. The best teacher ever, bar none! Long may it continue. We thanked the ancestors and spirits who came this night, father sky and mother earth. Not without getting a little directionally dyslexic on the way, still so much to learn and yet even now there is always a smile to be had. Last of all we left a small token for the woodland and all its creatures, an apple was placed in the centre of the nature alter. We then made our way through the darkness, slowly picking out a pathway back down the hill.

I'm reminded it is Samhain. In a couple of days, the eve of all hallows ... a magical time for the Celts who acknowledge it is the ending and beginning of their yearly cycle. Now we affirm rebirth in the midst of death and darkness. The dark is not to be feared, it is important to take time to rest, to journey, dream, explore the mysteries, communicate with our ancestors, seek our inner wisdom, incubate the seeds of our ideas and future potentials. Out of the darkness comes renewal and rebirth. This cycle means their are always new opportunities to start again. Embrace the light and the dark, accept they are both a much needed part of what makes us whole.#


* Apologies to Mary Oliver afficionados for the few words that have been changed to fit the occasion.
# From Glennie Kindred, The Earth Cycles of Celebration.