“Better than a thousand hollow words, is one word that brings peace.” – Buddha quote
Sensing the pups were a little ‘too’ quiet, I rounded the bottom of the stairs just in time to catch Yazhi with a pair of underpants on her head, turning the cats water dish into an instant waterfall down the stairs. She tosses the bowl, sending it splashing into a puddle at my feet. Not to be outdone – Bjarki races from the bedroom after her with a pillow from my bed trying to wallop Yazhi and ends up doing a half-ass pillow surf through the water, slipping, and sliding down the stairs plowing into me. Unfazed he continues to drag the now soaked pillow through the house after Yazhi, who can barely see through a leg of the underwear on her head – ricocheting off furniture and walls. I shake my head starring after them in stunned silence.
Crazy chaotic is the name of the game with two pups in residence, frantic, boundless energy that multiplies in on itself from early morning, into frenzy hyperactivity by evening. I ride the momentum through the day with enthusiasm. For today at least, the pendulum swings in my favor toward a liberated reprieve from my anarchic summer disdain. The kid in me gives chase after two unruly pups. Robust laughter amid puppy yips of excitement reverberates through the house.
In these moments, the guilt trip takes a back seat and I don’t think about moving forward too fast, getting over my loss at break neck speed. Maybe because on some level I realize my pain is always with me, not on the surface but ground into bone - hijacking my words. This is an uneasy truce to breathe life into each day, giving me a depth of balance.
I found a burnished brown butterfly with white markings, half hidden in fallen leaves. The pups would have munched down on the colorful wings in a heartbeat. A gentle flutter let me know it was still alive and I gently sat the butterfly down on a low tree branch, not sure, how badly damaged the delicate insect had been or if it could fly. I can’t say why the fate of the butterfly tormented me so much – but it did.
A few days later, a butterfly with the same coloring floated around me, wing dancing on the air. Yazhi pranced and twisted in circles, trying to catch our new friend. I can’t say whether it was the same butterfly – my heart says yes. Little things, small degrees of life making the bigger things…bearable.
Pickles was my muse (her picture is in the sidebar) and honestly, my words have felt hollow since she died. She’s still there between pulsing blood vessels, enmeshed in my chest, keeping my heart pumping. So are the words.
There is a misconception that writers are a lodestone of words. What people don't comprehend is the words are nothing without life. There isn’t a single day I’m not reminded of that lesson.