Reverence

I learned reverence for life at a very young age.

We had three goldfish: Little Rock, Pat, and Tab, named for Rock Hudson, Pat Boone, and Tab Hunter. I remember their sparkling bowl, the marble-like pebbles at the bottom, and how strong the tiny flakes of fish food smelled.

Alas, we didn’t know fresh tap water would kill them, that you had to let it stand a day…and consequently, Little Rock, Pat, and Tab soon expired.

Did we flush them unceremoniously down the toilet?

“Not hardly.”

Mom and Granny fetched three tiny cardboard jewelry boxes—with cotton—and gently laid a departed goldfish in each one. I forget where we buried the boxes, likely somewhere in the back yard—under the gardenia bush or perhaps beneath the lime tree.

Each time Death has claimed a loved one—whether finned, feathered, furred, or human—with each passing, I learned to mourn. My family expressed its grief openly.

I’ve since performed rites for many a pet, and for wild things, too: a beautiful male cardinal, broken, something only the sun should ever have gotten near; deer bones laid to rest under the timbers in the village of Mayhill, New Mexico, near the Sacramento Mountains National Forest; countless doves, blue jays, mockingbirds, a young great blue heron covered with soil and rocks and leaves as I whispered, “I am so sorry. Go back to the earth. I honor you as the earth reclaims your form.”

Sadness, grief, mourning. I am less afraid of Death now. I can’t believe in the Other Side, the Rainbow Bridge, the Great Beyond, Heaven, Hell. Death is so unimportant, really, and those after-places, just silly, aren’t they?

What IS important is the pulse and pace of NOW, this sacred matrix of me and not-me/yet me, this bond, this living exchange: love, passion, empathy.

—Merry Ruthe Wilson

August 28, 2014

Thursday, 8:40 p.m.