Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Morning light on Yom Kippur.
Jake died exactly three months ago. Some days it feels like years since I had to say goodbye to him. Sometimes, it feels like he should still be here, curled up in his overstuffed rocker. Death is incomprehensible, to me at least.
The journeys I took this summer, the friends I re-connected with, the changes of scenery and routine were intensely healing and in some way created a sense of increased distance from all the emotions stirred up on that sad day. Though I can access the grief that lay so heavy on my heart all summer (from before he died, even), it is no longer acute. The passage of time/space really does heal all wounds!
Last night for the first time I dreamed of Jake. There was nothing fancy about the dream. I found his leash and got some plastic bags, took him for a walk. We had another dog with us but the focus in the dream was on Jake, his soft gold fur and beautiful brown eyes. It was not a lucid dream, but I kept thinking, "It's so good to see Jake!" as if I knew in the dream we had been separated. He seemed rather nonchalant about our reunion. Oh well. It was a sweet dream, reassuring in an autumnal, melancholy way.
What is remembered, lives.
There are threads of old sound heard over and over
phrases of Shakespeare or Mozart the slender
wands of the auroras playing out from them
into dark time the passing of a few
migrants high in the night far from the ancient flocks
far from the rest of the words far from the instruments
God's crepuscular ray outfit shortly before sunset on Yom Kippur.