Nothing Lasts Forever


April 12, 2014   flower_spring_flowers_purple

I miss the dog – her soft snoring as she slept beside my desk when I worked at the computer, the twitchy “running” dreams of her last days when her legs no longer followed her commands while awake, even the slobbering kisses as I buried my face in her neck or scratched behind her ears, knowing it was her way of saying, I love you, too.

I am relieved she’s no longer in pain from weary joints and wasted muscles. I don’t know that her consciousness survives death any more than I know that mine will, but it does comfort me to think that she has “crossed over the rainbow bridge” and now runs freely, again.

And with that comfort, I’ve put her things away, tucked her safely to sleep in my memory and turned my mind and affections back to Little, the cat, to the arrival of spring (which is quite lovely right now) and to all the chores it portends around the house and garden.

The cat relishes the extra attention, the yard needs it and the garden, of course, won’t survive and thrive without it.

The ornamental pear trees are blooming up and down the street, as are the red buds. The dogwood can’t be far behind.  The cardinals have begun
singing again after their winter silence, while the little black birds have returned to bob for grass seeds across the lawn.

My maples have budded and begun to leaf; the daffodils have come and gone; green grass has begun to cover the leaves and trash that collected in the corners of the yard through the winter. Time to rake the leaves and bag the trash.

The early vegetables, especially the peas, have begun to make their way through the straw covering their garden plot. Yesterday I planted some potatoes and onions and finished potting the seeds for tomatoes, peppers, squash, cucumbers, melons and okra to transplant in May.

Tomorrow and Monday, we’ll have some rain – followed by a cooler day or two – a good time to finish spring cleaning around the house.

If I’m lucky, the rest of next week can be spent catching up around the yard.

We live in a world without guarantees. I am at an age where tomorrow isn’t a sure bet (though I suppose it never is, for any of us). The economy could go through another collapse any time, now. Energy supplies are ever more expensive as we move past peak oil and supplies dwindle. Climate change continues to work its ravages around the world. The Great Powers play their dangerous games in an attempt to continue business as usual just a little longer.

We  can do little to avert the disasters that are ahead of us other than to prepare as best we can. Just as we could do little to avert those we’ve already passed through.

There are about a million “preppers” here in the US; no one knows how many, worldwide. Prepping for disaster is always a good idea – we humans seem to bring them upon ourselves with alarming regularity. But prepping is not a guarantee of survival any more than complexity is a guarantee of progress.

Spring is just nature’s way of telling us that we need to stop and smell the roses along the way.

It’s a time to clean up the mess left by winter, plant our seeds, work with our neighbors and live our lives with every ounce of joy we can wring out of them.

Nothing lasts forever.  Nothing should last forever.  We shake our fists at the universe and yell, “It can’t be so.”  The universe sends us spring to remind us that it is.

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10 Responses to Nothing Lasts Forever

  1. Silvia TIC says:

    Wisdom and love…thanks for your blog, for your words and for just being there. Living in the “now”, with no guarantees, letting go our “need” for control…something we have forgotten long ago

    • theozarker says:

      And something we sometimes have to learn over and over. I had to with the dog. She would have tried as long as I kept asking it of her. Hard to let go, sometimes.

  2. Nope. No lack of wishing for some degree of control on those most out-of-control days, but then sanity intervenes and I know I’m not in charge. Silly, foolish human that I am. Love your writing.

  3. graveday says:

    I know you know this, but always nice this time of year to read it again.

  4. Schwerpunkt International says:

    That’s tough. Sorry to hear.

    • theozarker says:

      Hi Dave, thank you. I enjoyed your taxi ride story. Reminded me of when I moved from Tulsa to Chicago – back in the early seventies, when I was a young hayseed.

  5. Wendy Manson says:

    Oh Linda, I am so sorry about your dog. Somehow I missed this earlier. (((((Linda))))). As someone once said, “Dogs are the best people I know”. It sounds like she had a marvellous life and no doubt slipped away peacefully. It’s always our hearts which break isn’t it? Like you, as I get older, I have come more to accept the seasons of my life.

    You write beautifully as always.

    On Joy and Sorrow

    Kahlil Gibran
    Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
    And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
    And how else can it be?
    The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
    Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
    And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
    When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
    When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

    Some of you say, “Joy is greater thar sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
    But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
    Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

    Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
    Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
    When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

    • theozarker says:

      Hi, Wendy. Thanks for the hug. Dogs are the best people, aren’t they? I sure do miss her. And thank you for the poem. I like Gibran and Rumi. We need not to be so afraid of death and sorrows.
      Hugs, and thank you, again.

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