The Patron Saint of the Animal World

The shaft of light coming from the opening door, pierced the darkness that my eyes had become accustomed to. The door creaked as it slowly closed on its own and I felt her presence move in my direction. I took a slow step into the corner where I might not be noticed.

I was sure that the damp, musty smell of the chapel was immediately transformed by the scent of her perfume, or maybe it was just a lotion she was wearing. The smell was so subtle and yet so sweet against the dank aroma of old upholstery and moldy carpeting. She walked cautiously as her eyes, unlike mine, had not yet adjusted to the lack of light. And although with an unsure gate, she seemed to move with a specific destination in mind.

Had she sat in that pew before? The second row from the front on the left side. Had she bowed her head in this place like she was now? Her shoulders seemed to slump and I listened for a sound coming from her. Any sound. But I heard nothing but the low whining of an aged air conditioner struggling to do its job.

I feared she would sense my presence. I steadied myself against the wall so as not to disturb her. She sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity and then raised her head appearing to gaze toward the altar. I didn't remember turning on an alter light, but suddenly there it was - a soft ray falling against the wooden cross that had hung there forever in my memory.

She walked up to the alter, placed a kiss on her hand, and then held it to the cross for a moment. As she turned to walk away, I saw the shadow of her face for the first time. I recognized her. I saw the tears on her cheeks.  She had been here before. Many times. Always sitting in the same row. Always placing a kiss on the hand-carved cross. I knew her story. The cross had been carved by her friend. Her "Pops" as he was called, had passed on years before, but not before saying one last time, "If no one has told you today, God loves you and I love you too."

She paused for a moment before she opened the door to leave. I thought I heard her crying. Or was it just my imagination. I wanted to step out of the darkness to offer her comfort but I intuitively knew she had found the comfort and peace she had come looking for. I knew this because I, too, had come to this place many times before - to cry, to heal, to find peace - just as she had.

"Letting Go" even when you don't want to.

I say, 'Good riddance, 2012.' 

It was a year of letting go. It was a time of saying farewell to belongings, both emotional and physical and each encounter brought a feeling of loss and sometimes, freedom. It's odd how such diverse feelings can coexist.

My beloved cat, Simon, disappeared one night and we never saw him again. I searched for months, and even today, as I'm driving, I find myself scanning the neighborhood for a chance sighting of his beautiful face and bright, blue eyes. The continual attempt to let go of my buddy of 13 years has been, and remains painful.

Most parents will tell you that there is no deeper emotion than the love for their child. Physically letting go of a daughter or son takes adjustment, but emotional separation is bewildering. For me, the angst of an estrangement, the questioning of the cause, and praying for a solution,  made accepting the change in the relationship, and letting go, an almost impossible endeavor. Unwelcomed and uninvited, 2012 unceremoniously brought this gift to me.

I found myself trying to let go of a house where memories had been piling up for 10 years. And with that move, decluttering and downsizing meant letting go of furniture, trinkets, and memorabilia that I'd been moving around with me for the last 30 years. I did not let go of these items with willingness or grace. Discarding each one, regardless of how small or monetarily worthless, felt like giving away a piece of myself.

Then there was Dad's road atlas - the large Rand McNally version. I had lost track of how many different times it had been packed and unpacked during my travels. Wishing to see, once again, my dad's handwriting, I had often looked through it to see if Dad had made any notations.  I never found any. As I looked at it once again trying to decide whether it was a keeper or destined for the 'not keeping it' pile, my partner commented on the atlas's date. It was printed in 2006. My father died in 2002. 

We laughed at my delusion. I felt silly, but relieved, that letting go, of at least this one treasure, that had turned out to not be a treasure after all, would find a home in the donation box, with no pain or remorse. 

I'm determined to let go of last year. It was not kind. 2012 will be bestowed to some thrift shop. So, if you spot it  while you're out buying your own treasures, my recommendation to you, my friend, is don't let go of your wallet and keep on walking.

later between the lines,

A belated happy new year to you!