Hard

This morning I failed to explain what I wanted to convey by saying that dying is hard. And on my walk, shortened due to a roaring chill wind (stabbing my throat), I remembered Mojo during his last days. He was ready to curl down into  dying, but he was acutely aware of it not being quite time. I would let him out, watch him head toward the river, stop and stand as if weighing the wind and his heart. Or perhaps he was noting the stiffness in his bones, his failing kidneys. He would pause in a frozen stance for minutes; on several occasions I went out to encourage him home. But on his last day determination and time matched. He went straight for the path to the river, slowly - but with no pause. Later that day walking with friends, we found him in the warm sun, nested in leaves by the creek in the warmest section of the steep ravine. He even followed us down to the river ever so slowly. I knew he wouldn't make it back to the house as I walked with my friends home. This is what I mean by "hard." Hard because we are in flesh that is pulled into the living; and strong as the spirit may call at us, the tug of the sinew of flesh is strong. We are attached. Hard doesn't necessitate pain,

dark or misery, it just means awareness of the process. Hard is struggle and stress, not without smile. In Ethiopia, a 116 old neighbor, visits, led by a child.