Ana can tie her own shoes…double knots and all.  I guess at this point I really do have one foot in the grave (tongue in cheek).  The daily drive to make oneself obsolete in parenting does seem a strange paradox sometimes.

Yesterday on my morning walk, I passed a dead dog in the road.  I came upon it suddenly because it was wrapped in the odd metallic blanket that looked sort of like a huge sheet of tinfoil.  A few steps later, I passed a squirrel who had also met his maker.  Fall was in high dudgeon this morning all cloudy and misty.  There is death all around and it reeks of rotting leaves.  Strangely enough, I like that smell.

I see the squirrels ferreting away their nuts driven by some unseen force to prepare for winter in the hope of seeing another spring.  And even though we may be dying by degrees every day, we hope and make our own preparations, expecting to see another spring.  And should we not, the squirrels will go on gathering their nuts every fall, and little children will continue to learn how to be grown ups.  It never stops, this strange thing we call life.

I read this poem by e.e. cummings the other day as part of a journal entry from Father Alexander Schmemman.  I really like it.  I hope you do too.

wherelings whenlings
(daughters of ifbut offspring of hopefear
sons of unless and children of almost)
never shall guess the dimension of
him whose
each
foot likes the
here of this earth
whose both
eyes
love
this now of the sky
-endlings of isn’t
shall never
begin
to begin to
imagine how(only are shall be were
dawn dark rain snow rain
-bow &
a
moon
’s whis-
per
in sunset
or thrushes toward dusk among whippoorwills or
tree field rock hollyrock forest brook chickadee
mountain. Mountain)
whycoloured worlds of because do
not stand against yes which is built by
forever & sunsmell
(sometimes a wonder
of wild roses
sometimes)
with north
over
the barn

As the Baptists used to sing (and I hope they still do) God be with you till we meet again!