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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, sugarcrumbs.
Between Two Worlds 06-May-2006
There is enough bitterness in this big old world to fill the Grand Canyon a few dozen times. Or maybe more—I'll have to check. It's a lot of bitterness, though; I know that for sure. And I don't want to add to it. I swear to the real god who seems to be hiding behind an impossibly fat redwood tree, I don't want to add to it.
I love this world. Sometimes I think perhaps if I'd been born someplace other than where I was born, I might hold the opposite opinion. I don't know. All I know is I love it despite the fact that I have felt out of place here all my life. Like a wallflower, standing awkwardly near the punchbowl at a party where everyone else has memorized their lines and dance steps and has fallen into place so perfectly. I have grown a thousand times more sensitive than I was back in 1973, which seemed impossible enough, but who's keeping track? No one. God is behind the redwood counting fallen leaves.
My cat Sidney died, and I have been lingering between two worlds ever since. It's strange how grief can pull you halfway out of the physical world. I miss my beautiful friend. Seventeen years is a long time to share a friendship. I was 21 when she came into my life; she was six weeks old. She had these semi-gynormous ears that gave her a bat-like appearance, a look that followed her through her life in spite of the fact that she grew into those ears within the first year. At parties when asked, "Will the real Batgirl please come forward?" it was Sid who stepped up time after time. We just discovered late last year that she wore batty boots on her front paws, and I don't mind telling you they were positively smashing on her.
I am certain the rudeness of death would be substantially minimized if we were to receive at least a postcard from our dearly departed, letting us know they are safe and happy where they are. Nothing in me will allow me to believe there is zilch beyond this; it makes no sense to me to believe that. But even if you feel you have proof or a sensation of some vast forever in the night sky and the stars you've memorized, there is doubt. It is part of being human. We doubt what we cannot experience with our five physical senses. The sixth sense is right there, but the other five obstruct our access to it much of the time.
I had a dove fly at me and practically land on my head the other night. It was the middle of the night—just when you expect to see a dove flying at your head. I was out there with the stars, crying quietly, while through my headphones Rickie Lee Jones was singing "Company," a song that has this deliberate way of tearing holes in my heart. I was thinking about my Sid, how much I love her, how it aches that I can no longer watch over her and keep her safe, and how I wish with every inch of my soul that I knew she was OK. I felt the physical world fall away as it often does with grief, and found myself in the middle of this colourless space of sadness. And then I saw the fluttering of wings and the eye looking at me. The bird was flying right for me, as if he hadn't yet received the memo that people are scary and to be entirely avoided unless they happen to have bits of bread to share, and even then you keep your bloody distance.
Instinctively, I stepped aside so he could land on the ground, which he did, about three feet from where I stood. He looked at me again. This was a young dove, not a baby but not yet fully grown. About three-fourths of the way, I'd estimate. I had removed my headphones by this point, but all I could do was stand there, stunned and frozen in place. I heard myself whispering breathlessly, repeatedly, "OK." I don't know if I was saying it to the dove or to myself. It might just be what I say when I can't believe the beautiful and unusual event that has just taken place in my life when I least expected it or anything like it. He flew away a few moments later, leaving me with the sky and the stars and an overflowing heart.
There is real magic in this world. You can explain it away, but it will remain intact and authentic beneath your mundane description. I began to doubt this magic the moment the bird flew away. But even that doubt couldn't squelch the gratitude I felt for having received that stunning "postcard" straight from who-knows-where, out there under the night sky.
I wish you plenty of magic and a lack of desire to try to explain it away. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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