I was in a spiritual frame of mind this morning, spirits of the dead had just departed, leaving their messages for me, and were riding in on this powerful beam of light, they were talking to me. Sometimes i am not in a spiritual frame of mind, I am, like Fate, distractable. But this morning, we came out into the pasture, and the light just exploded suddenly over the hills and lit up my world. It was not in the place where the sun usually rises, that is clear from all of my photos. I thought my camera might melt.
And the light was so beautiful and powerful, it seemed the world had come to a stop. Fate froze, the sheep stood with their heads lowered, the donkeys rushed to the barn, the pony seemed frozen in place.
Fate was mesmerized by the light, we both caught the almost supernatural glow of the birdbath, filled with water from the storm last night. It was brighter than I have ever seen it, it seemed to be on fire. So it was an angel, I thought, who came to dance in the birdbath, to twirl in the sunlight, to let loose a fireball of light and color over the farm. Perhaps she painted with the pencils and sketchbook she always carries. And thus made it real, perhaps I was looking at a canvas of my life, not my life itself.
You cannot photograph an angel, but you can photograph their light, I have learned this the hard way.
The angel came from the moon, I think, or maybe she slept on one of those giant storm clouds. Perhaps she was a tour guide angel bringing these ghosts from my past down to the farm, showing them the way, making sure they got back when the sun rose and the frost melted away and the sky turned pale and cloudy. The dead can visit,I think, but they can never stay.
Fate froze in place, uncertain and I saw the angel – my angel, I think – twirling, like an Olympic skater. She was small, ordinary looking, not glamorous or trim, there were no wings, she was singing to me, “you see, you see, the joy of existence. The heart is right to cry even when the smallest drop of light is taken away, whenever love dies.”
I see, I see, I tried to shout back, I’ve cried plenty for lost light and love, I’m done with that, but my throat was weak, my voice stillborn in my throat. And then, of course, she was gone. Fate moved, the sheep ran to the feeder, time caught it’s breath. My world returned.
Life is made of moments, and good lives are bounded by special moments. Life with a dog is also filled with moments, moments when the relationship comes to life, really works and connects, moments of love and trust and comfort and understanding. Fate is an intensely active dog, she lives a high-speed life in a world that is always slower than she is and more easily tired. She is loving and sweet, but like all great working dogs, rarely has the time to show it.
I sometimes fear for her, she burns at such a high temperature, I don’t see how she doesn’t implode sometimes.
She is too busy, too curious, moving too fast to explore every sound, movement, human being or sheep. We love Fate very much, and Fate loves everyone and everything in her life (she kissed one of the sheep on the nose this morning). But this morning she showed it in a different way, one of those bonding moments.
This morning, we had the sweetest moment with Fate. (Red shows it every day.) She was sleeping in her crate upstairs and Maria, on impulse, let her out of the crate at 5 a.m. She hopped up onto the bed, still groggy, she licked Maria on the nose, licked me on the nose (she loves to chew on my nose) and then suddenly wiggled forwardd and burrowed down between us, her head on Maria’s chest, her paws wrapped around my arm.
It was the most beautiful tableau, Fate curled up in the crook of Maria’s nest, both of them asleep. There was no room for me on that side of the bed. I quietly disentangled my arm and sat up in the bed to watch them, it was such a beautiful and touching and loving sight. The dog who never rests was totally at peace, the woman who always wakes up didn’t. It was a picture of total trust and connection.
I wished I could have taken a photo of it, but I very rarely take photos of life inside of the farmhouse, we share our lives but not all of our lives. It is good to say that many things are not shared, and this was one of them, it was too private, too intimate. Sometimes you wish life could remain like that forever, it was a still life that I treasured. Just before 6:30, an hour and a half later, as the sun was coming up, I stood up. I believe it was the longest time I have ever seen Fate be still like that, it was bridge crossed, something different. Fate is changing. She woke up and hopped off the bed, she jumped on an ever-patient Red, got him up and headed to the door, which she nosed open and rushed down to the back door, and beyond, the days’ work.
I call them the Choir Invisible, after George Eliot’s beautiful poem. They sing to me sometimes, they come in out of the sun, they ride on the breeze.
Sometimes, I am rewarded when I get up early and catch the morning light breaking over the hills and onto the farm and the pasture. It s holy light to me, and this morning, I heard from the dead, the Choir Invisible. I talk to the dead fairly often, sometimes I don’t even realize it. They come and they go here, but for me, they come riding in with the morning light with my angels, they touch my hear, whisper in my ear, light my soul from within.
There is nothing spooky about them, I realize it is the restless souls who come to talk to me, those with unfinished business, who want the last word, or who want to tell me something they couldn’t tell me when they lived in this world.
I heard from my father this morning, I never talked to him much when he was alive, we were not close. But he seems curious about me now, perhaps eager to try to make up for lost time. He was a good many in many ways, but not a reflective one. Perhaps he has time now. He wanted to talk baseball, as he always did, and politics, as he always did. Dad, I said, I can’t talk baseball and I hate to talk politics, it is sour and dispiriting thing. Oh, he said, but Emma is a Senior Editor at Sports Illustrated, he said, she is in charge of their baseball coverage. My father could never accept what I said, he always thought it was wrong or misguided.
Yes, I know, I said, but I don’t talk baseball with her much either, she is too smart to fool or patronize. We talk movies and music.
I avoided talking to my father my whole life, I hated his incessant lectures, but somehow, here on the farm, with Maria in the farmhouse, it seems all right. I hope you are well, Dad, I said, sorry we weren’t better to each other. I know, he said, I’m sorry too, I did the best I could, he said, we are all crippled sometimes in our own day.
My friend Paul spoke with me this morning also, he committed suicide a few months ago and I wasn’t sure I would speak to him again or what I might say. Hey, he said, you look good. How are you? Good, I said, how about you? What can I say?, he said, rather sadly? You don’t have to say anything, I said. You don’t owe me a thing.
Well, we have to talk about it sometime, he said. That would be nice, I said. Do you mind if I hang out with the donkeys a bit?, he asked. I loved standing with them when I visited last time, they are peaceful and healing creatures. Not healing enough, I thought, then chastised myself. Anytime, I said. Lots of people come by to heal with the donkeys.
I didn’t speak with Paul again but I felt his presence, he hung around for a bit, and I’m sure he noticed I was wearing his sweater, which Pamela gave me a month ago. I talked with my Uncle Harry, who got me interested in writing. You were the only one who encouraged me in this way, I said. Yes, he answered, I know. It worked. I never imagined blogs, he said. I’d love to have published one. Maria seems lovely. I’m glad you ignored the advice of all the old women in the family, who told you never to marry a gentile. Of course, they never knew what they were talking about.
My mother was sitting over in the Adirondack chair, crushed by a falling tree. I love Maria, she said. You did well. I always wanted to be an artist, she said…but your father. I know, Mom, I said, we don’t need to do this again. No one has ever loved you more than I did, she said. I don’t know if that’s true, Mom, but it doesn’t matter to me now. Life goes on, right? She nodded, tears in her eyes. You always had a life of regrets, I said, you could never be happy with what you had. No, she said, that is true. Are you happy? Yes, I said, I am. I am glad, she said. I see you don’t necessary get happy in the afterlife, you don’t necessarily change or let go. I’ve noticed this before.
Sometimes dead dogs come by in the morning, I see Rose running the sheep in the pasture, watching Fate or Red. Rose is never rueful or sorrowful, always professional, curious, eager to get to work. She is checking up on me, watching my back. Mother the barn cat appeared, she still chases mice in the meadow, and Simon loves Chloe, he sometimes hangs around with her. Watch it, I tell him, she will kick you in your head just like Lulu and Fanny did.
I am older now, one day I may come back here, a member of the Invisible Choir, I will still get to see Maria and begin the day with our morning chores.
It doesn’t seem strange to me any longer that I talk to the dead when the light breaks over the pasture, it seems quite natural. I believe the prophets who say people never really die, they live on in us and our children forever. I think that is true. I appreciate my time, talking to the Invisible Choir.
Chloe has only been with us for a few months, but we love her, she is a Bedlam creature, easy going, independent, affectionate and intensely curious. She loves Maria, she greets both of us each morning with some ground-shaking whinnying. I love the shadow on these two, she is an integral part of the beginning to our day. She makes sure to check my pockets each morning for carrots or apples. She is not pleased if I don’t have something.
As long as we have been together, Maria and I have begun every day of our lives in the same way. We get up together, just before sunrise, we get dressed and go out to the pasture to feed the animals and spent some time with them. We do this every day, cold or hot, storming or sunny. The animals are always waiting for us at the pasture gate, Maria brings carrots or apples or leftover food. She brushes the donkeys, walks with Chloe, grooms her. She might make a video and I take some pictures. Every day I put up a new photo of the day as it is, a visual journal of our lives.
We bring out hay, fill the water tanks, eyeball everyone’s hooves and eyes and gums. We have always taken good care of our animals, they have almost always been in excellent health. Each one comes up to me, to greet me, check for apples, hope for a hug. I am more detached than Maria, I am often standing back, watching, taking things in, taking photos. Maria’s great love for the animals frees me to stand back a bit, where I am most comfortable.
It takes about a half hour for us to start the day in this way. The rule of any good farm is that the animals eat first, and that is the rule here.When we come into the house, I make breakfast, we sit in the room and talk. The animals are out the window eating their hay, the dogs are tired out from the work and are usually sleeping, even the tireless Fate.
This beginning of the day brings us to nature, to the natural world, to our animals. We see them, talk to them, listen to them. It is grounding, spiritual. I would hate to simply leave the house and drive somewhere to my work, although I respect the people who do that. They make the world go around. It would be hard for me to begin the day in any other way, we have done this for years now, it is an organic and instinctive part of our lives. We never need to talk about it, we just do it.
The dogs get to work the sheep every day of their lives, usually more than once. It opens me up, grounds me, sets the tone for the day and for our work. That relaxes me, I drink my tea or milk, light my candles, and go to work. Red comes into my study, Fate goes off to Maria’s studio. It feels so comfortable.
Maria asked me this morning if I ever thought I would start the day in this way, and I said, not, I did not, but I always wished I could. Sometimes, the syrupy people at Disney are right. Sometimes, dreams do come true, if you believe in them and do not let anything or anyone cause you to let go.
