Smells

Weekend before last on my Sunday jaunt with the dogs, I got to thinking about the smells of each season. This was precipitated by the smell of duff and pine that the heat of the morning sun activated. I thought about how each season has a smell, from the smell of decaying leaves and crispness in the fall to the sharp, cold, sometimes smoke-layered smell of winter, which is also the time when I smell muskiness from different animals. Early spring often smells to me of rain and dirt, and green—hard to define those smells. “Friend Charlie” expressed smell quite succinctly in a quirky little watercolor on exhibit in our Russell gallery: All Who Know Me Respect Me. Since the piece is on loan, I cannot attach its image here, though one can come to the Historical Society to see it. I will attach a hint at the subject, which many of us with dogs know all too well.

Birds and Flight

I am captivated by the flight of birds, especially when they are soaring and appear to be playing as they swoop and circle, dive and swing back up on currents of air. Their movement seems playful and joyful.

Years ago, I lived in Boulder, Colorado, and would watch gliders moving in a similar pattern, though magnified in size and less agile, but still that look of suspension in the air, supported by the 
unseeable. To think of the weight of human body and glider supported by the invisible…

My mind and the weight of thoughts and emotions is supported by the infinite, undefinable, holding me up nonetheless.

Traditional beliefs have it that birds travel between heaven and earth. Are these soaring birds waiting for a message, or to carry a lost soul forth? I’ve lost a good friend, and trust he is riding the wind until his soul is soothed enough to move on.

A Single Bullet

A single bullet, a cancer cell, a COVID infection, a misplaced word. It takes so little to remove so much—the life of a loved one, a hole bigger than the trajectory of a bullet.

This is not meant to be a downer, but a reminder to care about each other. To tell our friends and family how much they mean to us—it is rare that we know our own end, so every moment is precious. The kindness we extend may save a life.

We could not save my friend and co-worker—he could not save himself, until he could end his pain. But we could and did tell him we loved him.

It was not from lack of trying on my friend’s part—he fought a heroic battle—depression is an eater of the soul—my friend’s life was lost before the bullet ended his physical self, his pain ended there. For us remaining, one can hope that healing will begin, my friend is no longer suffering, the hole torn in me is still very raw.