Candy Pants was my dad’s hunting dog, retired to California, endured four dogs’ worth of veterinary crises, and healed me—not exactly in that order.
Mira’s beautiful post from this morning about winter struck a nerve with me.
I marvel at her ability to celebrate rebirth, welcome surprises, and plan to keep molding her lump of clay. I usually feel that way myself—I’m having a great life, and I’m looking forward to seeing how the rest of it plays out. But today I find myself wanting to bake my lump of clay hard, in this lovely shape it has today not wanting surprises.
I know she’s right. That’s not how this lifetime works, and I need to go on molding and rolling with the surprises.
So this is a kaddish for a lump of clay.
I’ve been thinking about rebirth a lot, lately and wondering why. All that rebirth stuff — I’ve always thought of it as merely wishful thinking, codified into religious precepts, to ease the mind regarding inescapable misery. Rebirth, opiate of the masses. Or something like that. Rebirth, the place we put our hopes and dreams. Next…
It’s your seven-year cycle,” she said. “You’re coming up on the next seven, so that’s why you feel that something’s about to change.” And I thought, well what a load of crap. And then I thought about it. And then I started reading. And then I thought about it some more. I always liked Rudolf…