In Memory of Peanut

It's been a couple of weeks now since I had to put her down. I haven't wanted to talk about it.

Peanut went completely blind not long after I posted about her. It was a special kind of terrible to watch her cautiously making her way around, testing the boundaries of the bed, the drop-off of the first stair to the basement, the edges of the rooms. My active kitty who was nimble and lithe as a girl was reduced to a fragile old woman, carefully navigating the steps up to my end table and bed.

I'm still not sure she was really ready to go. She slept most of the time, but she was eating and drinking to the last, laid there purring in the circle of my arms for an hour before I took her to the vet for the last time. But she was clearly in pain from her mouth and her eye, and there comes the time, that heartbreaking time when you realize she's not really living anymore. She's existing.

It's a nice urn.

It's still difficult to go to bed at night and look at the empty spot by my head where she used to lay. But I'd rather focus on some of the things I loved about her, and share that instead of the pain of her loss. She is gone. I'll miss her forever, and hope that we will meet again someday.

She loved this ledge. Used it as a shortcut from the kitchen, on the right, to the hallway and my bedroom, on the left, all the time. She was uncanny at predicting my return home every day, and about the time I'd be getting into my car, she'd perch on the edge of the ledge back there and wait. Then run down the ledge to greet me when I came in the door.

I was going to put the urn in my garden, but my roommate suggested leaving it here, and it's so perfectly, heart-wrenchingly appropriate, that I think I will.

Peanut loved milk and Club crackers. Her favorite places to sleep were my bed, the chair in the office, and on a blanket in the office closet. She was not one to enjoy being petted for long periods, but loved to tuck her head under my arm while I hugged her close and played the banjo across her ribs. She liked to get up on the high chest and keep an eye on things from up above. She would head-butt her way into the bathroom every time I went, and after every shower she'd clamor to be let in so she could jump in the tub and lick up all the water clinging to the sides. She liked to eat spiky plants and throw them up later.

These are all such trivial things. She lived in my home and followed me from room to room and offered me her love and companionship. I'll forever be grateful, and I'll forever miss her.

Goodbye, my sweet Peanut. Rest well.

The stars look very different today

David Bowie has died. It's dominated the news all day, and no wonder. He's one of those rare people who did exactly what he wanted, morphed into different personalities and was completely and utterly himself.

This is such a rare thing. We're all so constrained by expectations - of society, our parents, our spouses, our friends, ourselves. We grow under the weight of what others expect from us, and it shapes us all in ways that will conform to the standard.

'Coming out' as a pagan is still something I feel strangely about. There's the sense that I have betrayed the teachings of my youth - I grew up in a very devout, Catholic home, and I never did tell my mother (rest her soul) about the call I've felt from my earliest childhood to the pagan gods, the magic and mystery of the old ways. Even now, when it's (somewhat) more socially acceptable to not be Christian, I seldom talk about my beliefs in public or even with friends. There's the ones who think you're the deluded and the ones that fear for your soul and the ones who think you're very cute with your hipster New Age nonsense, and all of it serves to keep my mouth shut. Of course, if you follow me on Facebook you've seen my links and pictures shared from witchy and pagan websites, so I'm not hiding it - but this is the first I've talked about it openly.

The truth is, I love being a witch.

The power of plants, stones, symbols. The wisdom of the old gods, of the power of the earth and the elements, of the ancient cultures who have given us our modern civilization, have been speaking to me since I was a girl. Why fight it?

I've always been drawn to plants, flowers, gardening. I seem to get it from my grandmother, who tended dozens of plants. I don't remember her much - she passed away when I was seven - but I heard more than one tale of how she talked to her plants, and her mango trees gave fruit the size of softballs.

It must skip a generation, because my mother never had live plants. She'd always buy the silk ones (which are even nastier to dust and clean than the real thing, if you ask me), and wouldn't buy real plants even when I promised to be the one to look after them.

I myself have always had a green thumb. When I was in second grade, my father died, and my homeroom class gave me a plant in commemoration. It was a beautiful little philodendron and I had it for ten years, until it abruptly died one summer for no apparent reason.

In any case, it doesn't matter why. It just - is. The path I have trod has led me to this door, and having opened it, I am free.