As promised, I am posting a second time today–such is the excitement and awe around here.
With sweetness and gratitude,
7 am and we are ready to get going. The plan is simply to get Ari to the back door, maybe feed him halfway, on the new rug in the kitchen.
The sun isn’t even up yet, and I’m dressed, filling a container with kibble. J and Ari are coming down the hall, all the way to the back door, and out they go. I grab my coat and follow.
The air is fresh and chilly. Even with the porch light on, it’s darkness everywhere for me. I hear Ari scrambling on the wooden deck, hear J’s quiet, reassuring, “Come on, come on” across the way.
Fear starts slyly seeping into my thoughts. I imagine Ari tumbling down the steps to the grass and rolling down the hill. Or, J lunging to catch him and falling into the shadowy abyss.
“We’ve already come farther than we planned,” I remind him.
“Come on, you can do it.”
We have come so far, I tell myself. So far this week, so far over the years. Yes, Love is everywhere.
And I remember our tent in South Dakota in 1993, the way it seemed to breathe in and out as the storm approached, the darkness and uncertainty, the four young children whose courage I wanted to inspire, and how we all moved fearlessly to safety despite the rain and thunder, the collapsing tent, the tornado winds. And I remember the brightness of that long ago sunrise.
“I need some apple for incentive, ” J says as he opens the door and moves into the house.
Silence closes in. I cling to Love Divine. Then I hear scrambling on the wooden deck, more scrambling, more silence.
“Ari’s moving,” I call through the door.
J dashes past me.
“He’s in the yard. Good boy, good boy, Ari!”
They both scramble up the steps and we all go inside, laughing and hugging, and loving the day.