Yes

"Say yes to difficulties; they are not obstacles on the path; they are the path."
- Ezra Bayda

I frequently say that the Buddha dog is my teacher. Through example he teaches me acceptance, joy, and love.

Somehow I have failed to give teaching credentials to Ms. Kitty. Until now. Ms. Kitty, who turned 20 in March, is a master teacher and I am just now realizing that.

I don't know if Buddha harmed Ms. Kitty Saturday night. There were no witnesses. Buddha has been known to suddenly decide that he's the herder, lunging at a kitty that he thinks needs to be going a different direction, but he's never hurt her. Saturday night, there was a sound. I don't know what the sound was. I do know that Ms. Kitty's hind end didn't look quite right afterward. She was already getting weaker in the hind end and she suddenly looked worse. She wouldn't climb up into her favorite chair - the one she sleeps on 22/7.

Since then, Ms. Kitty has taken to sleeping on a rug in Mr. Carol For Peace's office. This is new. She knows that she can no longer get on her chair and she's not even trying to do it anymore.

Still, she purrs anytime we get near her or hold her.

She NEVER complains about anything. NEVER.

She is pure love, sweetness and acceptance.

She knows no obstacles. When the hind end fails, sleep on the rug on the floor. No comment, just do what's there.

She is melting.

And so is my heart.

The sudden death of our neighbor, the deterioration of my dad's mind and health, Kitty melting away. My heart is not only melting, it's breaking.

And this is the path. None of it is an obstacle. Walking right into it and seeing how natural, how beautiful - it is ALL the path.

I'm so grateful to be here for this.

Don't get sick and don't get old

That's a quote my next-door neighbor would say as we shared our shoulder ailments with each other. He was a wonderful nurse at a local hospital who had a very good - and dry - sense of humor. Today he died. He didn't get sick and he didn't get old. He followed his own advice.

J was in his 50s. He was in excellent shape. Every year, he rode the Ride the Rockies race - a six day, 300+ mile bicycle ride through the mountains. He worked nights helping really sick people, slept mornings, and in the afternoons he was out working in his yard before he fixed dinner for his wife and mother-in-law.

Even though he slept during the day, he always kept the phone turned on. I woke him up one day, thinking that his phone would be off and I would just be leaving a message. After I apologized profusely, he let me know that he wasn't bothered; after all, he could go back to sleep. He said that he wanted to be able to answer the phone if his college-aged offspring ever needed him.

Yesterday, riding alone down the road on Lookout Mountain, with its steep, hairpin curves, his front tire blew and he crashed.

Death is so strange. Well, it's probably really not strange. I mean, it's one of the most normal things there is. My mind, though, has a hard time wrapping itself around a sudden death like this. I don't think that all of me believes it yet. J and I just waved from our backyards the day before he died. We will do that again soon, right?

Mr. Carol For Peace and I were planning to have J and his wife over for dinner this summer. We didn't - and now it won't happen. At least not the way it would have.

A part of me wants to say "Cherish every moment." "Don't put off having friends over for dinner, because you never know..." "Make the phone calls." "Say 'I love you.'"

But you know what??? We all do what we can. We can't do everything and take care of everybody. We can't control the world. (Obviously)

It truly is what it is.

For some reason tonight, more than ever before, I know that I - or Mr. Carol For Peace - could walk out the door tomorrow and never come back. Wow...