The Little Deaths

I when I lost my dear Miss Roo, this short poem/paragraph poured straight from my heart. I put in on Facebook a few years ago and it touched many people’s hearts. It rings even more true with the loss of Henrietta. Here is is again for you.

Henrietta and I are holding hands. There is nothing like the feeling of closeness when one holds hands with a chicken.

Little Deaths

So what do we do about the little deaths?  The ones very few notice?  The mole dragged from its tunnel by a voracious cat?  Blue eggs tossed to crack on the sidewalk, the cicada interrupted in her mating quest by a too full watering can, a butterfly dragging her tattered wings to the acceptable host plant where she can deposit eggs with the last of her strength? 

The little deaths: one lone cat run down on a country road, one sleeping owner whose side is suddenly cold and empty, one golden hen sporting a jester’s cap comb and a musical trill realizing she cannot make it one day to the feed bowl, or trill, or flap her wings, and stands surprised and stunned.  One master’s joy and lifelong companion who one day cannot rise from her bed. 

These small ones, the ones whose lives do not seem to matter, are yet an integral part of life’s majestic dance until the final curtain falls.

Why should we mourn these small ones?  The spark that is too soon extinguished is the selfsame spark that powers us, who seem beyond, exempt, as if we are the lucky winners of a divine lottery — until we realize that in noticing these little ones, these sweet interludes and endings which wrench our hearts open, we are participating in Love’s creation of itself and the indwelling of the Divine in all creation.

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