Into and Out of the Field


Image Source: (Owl Whimsical Collage by Amy Carruth Drum)

On Sunday I visited one of my favorite stores in the area, the Masonville General Store and Crescent Wrench Cafe

Graceous owner Kindall always has a kind word for shoppers, buyers and wanderers on their way in and out, up and down state.

Over a Guayusa tea in a cup of one of her grandmother’s sets, the conversation turned to how nature provides everything if we allow it.

I explained to Kindall how in the seemingly cruel cat-and-mouse game, the mouse releases hormones that are equivalent to shots of morphine. If you have ever seen cats and mice at their game, you can eventually see the mouse “playing dead” then speed off, and eventually just tripping. This is nature’s way of ensuring the mouse won’t have to suffer through an agonizing death when in fact it’s fate is sealed, and before the cat is ready for the kill. Both animals are aware of the continuation of the life force, even after it leaves one body and feeds another.

If only we took the time to explore this more, have reverence for all life forms, including plants that btw also are intelligent, communicate, bleed, and pass on their life force into our bodies when we eat, smell, drink or otherwise ingest them. If only we explored this more, much suffering could be prevented.

This chat prompted Kindell to share this poem. Thank you, Kindell ♡ It hits home on so many levels!

“White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field”

Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.


In Love & Service,


Image source:



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s