trying to catch up with my invisible soul in the i: soulsearchingJuly 4 2006: I cannot define what soul is or spirit for that matter to my own satisfaction, let alone another's. I know what I feel/think, but that gets into the realm of metaphors that cloud men's minds. This morning I went to N and B's to let the dogs out. There was no food, so I couldn't follow the feeding directions. I searched the cabinets for dog food. Nada. In the hallway to the porch there was an empty bag of dry dog food. In the sink an empty can. I found part of a dog bisquit and brought it out where pup pup sniffed the pieces and eventually ate them. Loupe went out barked, left the deck, took care of business, ignored me, lay down at the farthest reach. The pup frisked an leapt and insisted I pet her. I did. I sat there with them until the little one brought me a large pit and barked directions. I was to try to get it past her. She should be in the world cup. I decided to go home and get some dog food. The pup accompanied me to the car and I remembered I hadn't brought in the bag of dog food I bought yesterday. I filled a frisby and returned to the empty bowls. I divided the food and went into the house and filled the empty can half way with hot water and poured it on the dry food. I brought it out; the pup sniffed it and returned to the stone/pit and told me to resume trying to score a goal on her. Eventually Loupay came over, wagged her tail, waited for me to pet her and then she went to the bowls. She sniffed, then lapped the liquid, then finished first one bowl then the other. Meanwhile the pup continued to shut me out.
I sat in the quiet watching the cat birds? swoop to the feeder. There off the deck the trees are tall and straight and responsive to any breeze. I think of the other day when B went to great lengths to rescue a frog from the pool at B's . I remember his curiousity when we kayaked up untraveled creeks and tributaries to the river. I remember stopping to move turtles out of the road, and remember hearing that he rescued fallen baby birds. I see the women who love to garden. Just now on the way to the barn, Phebe's derriere as she peers at some emerging green. I remember Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at
Tinker's creek and Wendell Berry's reverent writing about farming in the hill country. I think of
Pig Earth, The fire Next Time, Ceremony , Tracks. I think of some music, many poems, some blogs of son and friends. I am grateful for the chance to live in the country, to breathe air cleansed by the many trees she has planted and the many that have planted themselves. I think beyond the tons of junk floating in space, and the poisoned food that agri business gives us. I say way to go to Grannies for peace as they sit in Jail: Sonia Sanchez and Mrs Wetherbee-I'm sorry I forget your name. And I say Happy 4 of July. Let America be the America of Whitman, of Lincoln, of Woody Guthrie, of Pete Seeger, of John Tisa and the countless, nameless ordinary people who strive to live in harmony with their inner voices and all living things.
