When I sat down to work today the squirrel appeared again. When he stopped by my feet, I softly said "good morning". This was too much familiarity so he ran away. Several minutes later he came back. This time I kept quiet while he looked me over before he went on his way. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will bring a peanut. I think I am being trained.
A friend and I have been exploring a theme of sorts. It began with one of those widely forwarded emails that we all get. This one had to do with the death of a beloved family pet and a 6 year old child’s insight into why dogs don’t live as long as we do. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life - like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right? Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."
Is it possible that animals are here to help us evolve – to reach the state of presence that they are always in? In some simple but profound way are animals more connected, more aware of the oneness of consciousness than we are?
Clearly when a flock of birds suddenly flies up and begins creating crazy, daring whirling patterns in the sky or when a herd of horses gallops recklessly through a pasture without accidents they are connected to their flock or herd in a way that we don’t understand. They are touching something, some fabric that helps them move as one.
Having witnessed the passing of many of my four-legged friends I have begun to believe that animals also move into the afterlife more easily than we do. When they leave their bodies behind do they sense that they are simply merging with the fabric they have always known they were a part of? Does this ease their transition? Or does it make it not a transition at all – simply an act of discarding a tool (their body) that they are no longer going to use?
Does the example of the animals show us that there is much more to life than what our minds understand? Are these beings here in their animal bodies, their animal forms to help us evolve, to guide us on our way?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Writing for Posterity?
It begins. I will dedicate ten minutes every day to writing. It doesn’t matter what I write. It doesn’t matter how I write it. This is, in a sense, an online journal. A place to put whatever is on my mind. A place to record dreams. A place to put my feelings. A place to put the questions that may not have answers.
There is a squirrel sitting at my feet. He is looking up at me as though to ask a question. I suspect the question is about peanuts. But the appearance of a four-legged just now as I begin this, a wild creature only 2 feet from my space who is totally comfortable with my presence here, is a sign of sorts. A sign that I belong here. That this is my place. That I am doing what is natural for me.
I don’t know why it is hard for me to begin writing, to dedicate myself to it. I know that when I get in the “writers zone” it is something that I really enjoy doing. Sometimes my fingers can’t type fast enough to capture all my thoughts. And many times during my non-writing hours I think of things I might like to “put down” somewhere for further contemplation or just for posterity. What a funny thing to say – posterity. What IS posterity? Who is it? Why would we do anything for it? But it has such an important sound to it.
Maybe I am thinking that what I write is for future me. Is that posterity? Or for my children – because of course there is nothing they want more than to read their mother’s ramblings. Or is there, perhaps, some inner knowledge that tells us that by recording something, by focusing on it, by giving it a form in addition to thought we somehow make it more manifest? That we somehow make more of a contribution of this “thing” to the greater experience of the unmanifested. If we are here doing what we are doing to gather, to experience, to create, to manifest so that all that is can experience all that is perhaps that is what we really mean when we choose to do or say or write something for posterity.
There is a squirrel sitting at my feet. He is looking up at me as though to ask a question. I suspect the question is about peanuts. But the appearance of a four-legged just now as I begin this, a wild creature only 2 feet from my space who is totally comfortable with my presence here, is a sign of sorts. A sign that I belong here. That this is my place. That I am doing what is natural for me.
I don’t know why it is hard for me to begin writing, to dedicate myself to it. I know that when I get in the “writers zone” it is something that I really enjoy doing. Sometimes my fingers can’t type fast enough to capture all my thoughts. And many times during my non-writing hours I think of things I might like to “put down” somewhere for further contemplation or just for posterity. What a funny thing to say – posterity. What IS posterity? Who is it? Why would we do anything for it? But it has such an important sound to it.
Maybe I am thinking that what I write is for future me. Is that posterity? Or for my children – because of course there is nothing they want more than to read their mother’s ramblings. Or is there, perhaps, some inner knowledge that tells us that by recording something, by focusing on it, by giving it a form in addition to thought we somehow make it more manifest? That we somehow make more of a contribution of this “thing” to the greater experience of the unmanifested. If we are here doing what we are doing to gather, to experience, to create, to manifest so that all that is can experience all that is perhaps that is what we really mean when we choose to do or say or write something for posterity.
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