Day: December 25, 2012

Voltaire said “It is not precisely known where angels dwell – whether in the air, the void, or the planets. It has not been God’s pleasure that we should be informed of their abode”

It is my belief that angels have been driven or moved to hide by the nature of our world. I believe angels dwell all around me, and they appear when I am open to them. Some angels have appeared in the form of dogs, others as donkeys. I know an angel who is a spiritual counselor, another who is a shaman, one more a man who is a gentle healer who preaches trust and dignity. For me, it is quite simple. Angels appear when one believes in them, closes his or her eyes to doubt and skepticism and confusion and accepts them, as some people do Gods and mystics and prophets.

I did not believe in angels even a few years ago, and my world was barren and lonely. And one day I was sitting alone in the big barn at Bedlam Farm, my heart weeping with loneliness and pain, and a voice appeared from a beam of light coming through a hole in the barn wall. “Why is your heart broken?,” the gentle voice whispered, and I did not ask her who she was or where she came from, I said, “I am looking for love.”

And I heard this laughter, this quiet whispering, this soft wind in my year, and she said, all you have to do is walk across the street. And I did, and love was there, waiting for me, not a stone’s throw from where I had been sitting despairing of ever finding it. You are an angel, aren’t you?, I asked, but she was gone already, or at least out of sight. I think she came to wedding and danced over our heads, I heard the wind that day.

Anger and fear and violence and greed and judgment and conflict make the angels hide, and love and faith and open hearts draw them like bees to pollen. Angels dwell in our hearts and souls, and like love, you never have to look for them, they will find you when you are ready.

Animals are adaptable, and on a farm, around a barn, they learn to live with one another over time. Minnie and the chickens love the back porch because it gets direct sun and has no snow. They squabbled for position at first, but then Minnie found her pot and the chickens found their mat, and there they are afternoon, soaking up the rays. Strut patrols in front.

Simon had a good Christmas. Apples, carrots, oat and molasses cookies. I am beginning work on my book about Simon, and history includes Rocky and Red. I am thinking of telling the story through two narrators, Simon and. I will write every other chapter in my voice, the alternate chapters from Simon’s point-of-view, telling the story as I think Simon might have experienced it. I wrote “Rose In A Storm” from the dog’s point of view, but I didn’t get her a voice. I think I will give Simon a voice and we will tell history from two points of view – the donkey and the human, split down the middle. It will be fascinating for me to imagine Simon’s perception of his being taken from his farm, brought to Bedlam Farm and of his now famous and painful confrontation with Rocky, a blind Appaloosa pony.

Simon also was present for the arrival of Red, and I would like to write about their complicated relationship. I need to give Simon a voice.

I like this approach, telling one story from these two different perspectives.

Minnie, our barn cat, had a good Christmas Day. She got extra canned food, some cat treats, and she did her usual amazing job of tracking the sun and staying with it. She loves this empty flower pot, and soaked up some afternoon rays. Barn cats always know where the sun it and ride with it.

A morning filled with bittersweet wonder, a Christmas morning. Ghosts of families past, people lost. Feeding our animals, celebrating them. Giving gifts to one another, drinking hot tea, staying late in bed, talking about our lives, our pasts, our futures. Hard in this world to cut Christmas morning off from the rest of the frantic and anxious universe. But important. Reading, doing puzzles, visiting friends. Last night we streamed “White Christmas,” that easy, hokey, simple tale from another time. We tried streaming other things, but Netflix was struggling on Christmas Eve. We sat before the fire, laptops in our laps.

This afternoon, visiting friends – George Forss, Jenna Woginrich, Donna Wynbrandt, others – celebrating the meaning of animals in our lives. I’ll call my daughter, my brother, my sister. A bittersweet morning, as it life. Feeling the effects of my soul retrieval, something I never imagined I would do. Those are the best gifts, aren’t they? The things you thought you would never do. That you do.