In one of the stars, I shall be living. In one of them, I shall be laughing.
And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing when you look at the sky at night. . . .
—Antoine de Saint Exupéry, The Little Prince
The losses pile up as we grow older. Having said goodbye to two beautiful dogs who grounded our home in a comforting grandmother energy, as well as goodbye to human family, friends, and acquaintances last year, I feel the nature of impermanence more than ever.
Each day, each hour, each second brings its own version of impermanence, and we get to practice over the years: the seasons dying one into the other, small creatures around us living out their short lives who then return again to earth. A little brood of baby praying mantises adorned my plants, but didn’t survive the winter. Every time I bury a bird or a mole, I feel the sorrow that physical death brings. But there’s a silver lining, for in our consciousness of death, we’re also made more grateful of the precious, transient quality of life.
I often stand in the bracing air of dawn, the sky afire with morning’s sunrise and think: every new sunrise is a miracle; every sunset, a spectacle. The animals and the plants don’t need to be told not to waste their time on earth. They live in perfect harmony the way they were meant—at least if wild and not imprisoned in laboratories or industrial farms.
To glimpse impermanence, we need only glance at old newspapers, or history books, or the daffodil. Just as to glimpse eternity we look ahead to the flower who blooms again in spring.
My dogs don’t need to be instructed that impermanence is the nature of all life. Without that knowledge, the little hounds still live their lives fully. They throw their all into the task at hand, whether it is hunting for rabbits or hunting for hidden treats in the house. Yet, without that knowledge, I wonder if humans would squander time.
Two snowstorms in quick succession have made our world feel like winter once again. I rejoice in shortened days, bare tree branches, and starlit skies so silent and pure they stop us in humbled awe. And on a warming planet, I welcome winter’s chill, if only because it allows us to feel we’ve earned a soft spring evening. The silence of a winter snow gives the gift of inwardness that speaks of log fires, books, and time.
And yet I know the snow will melt, transforming its icy crust over which Sparkle and Stash must now navigate with difficulty, into a mushy slush that feeds the earth. Winter into spring, spring into summer, each sacred second grasped more intensely because of its fleeting nature. Each second sacred.
I hear the lulling lap of tongue as Sparkle licks Stash like once she did for Isabelle and Sasha. As the sun rises, it casts pastel sparkles upon the quilt of white. Stash says she’s not going out in sub-freezing weather when there’s a warm bed with blankets. But Sparkle leaps up and I watch her light frame trot across the hardened coating as a thousand diamonds shine around her as if beckoning to their namesake. Later, as the sun rises higher, a twittering, tweeting flock of starlings drops down to feast upon the scattered seed—their chorus fills the silent air—then in one upward lift are gone.
The night before when the falling snow turned to ice, we sat listening to it tap upon the windows and I thought of Joyce’s last paragraph in The Dead as I almost always do when snow falls softly. Even though Joyce is gone, and Michael Furey and those he represents are gone, Joyce’s words live on.
For many years I felt that if I could just hold onto the good moments and remember how they felt, they would be with me forever, a constant by which the rest of life’s experiences could all be measured. I know now that these moments, while a part of us always, are inherently unattainable if willed to come forth. Compassion, humility, and wisdom are not gifts we gain then retain forever, but something we practice, something we work hard remembering, living day in and day out.
We pass through the darkness, those moments whose pain is deep, only to emerge into sunlight once more. Each time we do the hardship is lessened and we realize that this, like all things, shall pass, for joy doesn’t lie in the depths of pleasure but in something much softer. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
Some days, I feel those who’ve moved on are with me still. And while I would give most anything to gaze upon them one more time, I know I cannot, except in memory, and I welcome this transient existence as it touches something eternal, morphing impermanence into timelessness. On other days, the longing hits in one quick wave, only to be followed by its timeworn antidote: deep gratitude as I remember what long and beautiful lives they lived, surrounded by love, and that I was granted my wish: that they each die held in my arms in peace.
This particular day comes to its own death but not before first dazzling us with a burnished show. As the sun sets and casts its glow, the white snow is transformed into a rosy fantasy land of glossy cotton candy.
From contemplating death, I return to the beautiful, mundane, everyday things of life. I cook for the dogs free-range local chicken with a few raw necks thrown in. Spoiled weasels that they are, they had tripe last night. I feed them in separate bowls and watch their simple joy as they devour the food in seconds. After they finish, I place the skillet on the floor and let them share, lapping it clean. And I laugh as I think of two little backwoods hunting beagles licking clean my copper Dehillerin skillet. There’s perfection in the moment even as I know that it, too, like the little dogs one day, will pass. But for right now, they are here, and all is right with this beautiful, miraculous world.
The sky afire with morning’s sunrise.
Stash imitates a rabbit as she and Sparkle frolic in snow.
Sparkle walking on water (frozen) behind the Luxembourg Gardens chair.
Baby praying mantises.
Warm and cozy inside.
The gift of sunset to end a perfect day.
