This is not a very pretty story, because I suppose it is a story that carries the theme of the coming of winter -- about the change we call "loss", about the way we process it, called "mourning", and about the darkness that is that great stretch of unfathomableness just beyond our immediate perceptions. We didn't know what to do for this now-shivering little friend whose porcelain-like beak seemed to be gasping for breath. Avella wanted me to call the vet. To get a shoe box. To call an ambulance. Anything! I considered all options and grasped for more. The rational mind sought the most logical solution. I found myself grabbing a muslin towel from the kitchen. And returning outside I very carefully scooped up the little hurt bird into the towel and held it in my cupped hands, hoping to warm it. That's when I noticed the blood on the concrete. And the eye that didn't seem quite right. And to Avella's pleas for an end to the bird's pain, I could then just say, "There is nothing we can do. Only be with it."
For twenty seconds, we huddled around the dying bird. For twenty seconds, I felt its pounding heartbeat in the palm of my hand. And as we watched, she gave a sudden last frantic flutter of her wings, and then she was still. With the same gentle tone of voice that I used to declare our helplessness, I observed that our friend had flown away. To a place we could no longer see. The surrendered feathers were now limp and warm in my hands, and I could observe: how beautiful the glow of peace around a form newly left for other realms. We set about to dig a grave for the trappings left behind, and talked about what beautiful astral skies she must now be soaring through. It was a miniature lesson in loss.
I share it because it came to mind in wanting to acknowledge what Mr. Gebeau expressed at our last meeting about the Marckx family moving away. And wanting to acknowledge perhaps what we all might be feeling, at least in part. I hadn't really thought about it this way until he said the word "death". That it was like a death for him, to experience the loss of such friends who have been such a huge part of our Sanderling family. And perhaps more difficult because so unexpected. A flutter of cloth from the corner of the eye, and suddenly someone so close is no longer part of the daily rhythm. This way of learning, teaching, and being, weaves things together. The moments of the day are woven into rhythms, song is woven into lessons, one subject is woven into another, fingers weave in knitting, bodies weave in Eurythmy, and day by day the children are woven into a family. So when one leaves, a hole is made. It is felt, and it is difficult. But what remains -- the glow of memories that still live in every member of the community, that still influence and nurture each soul to greater growth. And the knowing that the one who no longer occupies this space, is flying in skies just as bright, if not brighter -- seeing, experiencing, learning new things. Things we are sure to hear about.
And of course, the good news is that this Kiki-bird is sure to fly back for visits now and then. Yes, it is difficult when things change and we are helpless to stop them -- no shoeboxes or ambulances to swoop in with a quick fix. But there are also the new opportunities that are created. Avella has a new pen pal. And we all have a new place to visit. :) And there is the ever-open possibility of welcoming new ones into this beautiful life-weaving. So this winter we can practice what we have been watching our children do in their festivals. Acknowledge the darkness (of our shrinking days), sit with the loss (of our precious sun), but out of it bring forth our own sparks of tenacious light.
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