Feast Day Of Saint Imina

The tenacity of the remaining leaves at our farm was finally bested by Saturday night’s wind and rain. The limbs are now mostly bare, and the leaves are piled in ankle-high drifts, as if the sky deposited beige origami figures during the hours of darkness. The little suncatchers, who labored so faithfully for the trunk and limbs, have fulfilled their purpose and have died and returned to the earth to fertilize the same trunk and limbs. And in the spring, when the sun swings round again in its power, the trunk will push power into the limbs and the limbs will be dotted with green popcorn exploding on the tips, unfolding like sails to catch the solar winds, winds that blow as surely as the ones on Saturday’s rainy night.

Someone at my job said something to a coworker that was so stupid, so thoughtless, so self-absorbed, I caught myself staring without seeing, a brutal little vignette playing out behind my eyes. When I came to myself, my right hand was spasmodically gripping and loosening. I know this atavistic reflex well. It is not the desire to punch; it is the hunger for a sword hilt. In the moments when rage or outrage impels me to think of vengeance, I never think of shooting the other person, and rarely of striking him. What my flesh cries out for is to swing a long blade. My years of studying both Western fencing and Japanese kendo and iaido have conditioned me to see the sword as a natural extension of not just my arm but of who I am. These little isolated moments always lead me to meditate on my beliefs about violence. Do I accept the Christian teaching of nonviolence because I truly believe in it, or because I am submissive to ancient doctrine, or because I want to appear to be holy and pious? I suspect it is a combination of the latter two. Perhaps 30-70, respectively. The idea that violence is de facto wrong is one that I have never inwardly accepted.

After work this evening, I filled the bird feeders and then opened the back gate to climb into the woods and visit Bonnie’s grave. The wet leaves muffled my steps, and I was almost to the grave when I saw the doe’s head come up in alarm. She and her fawn were standing almost on top of Bonnie’s grave. I went completely still, and the two deer stared at me, and then I began backing away as slowly as I could. The doe snorted and she and her fawn turned and bounded away, but they only went twenty or thirty yards, behind a tangle of grape vines. I continued backing down the hill because I didn’t want to force them to jump the fence at the back end of the woods. A few days before, I had noticed signs that deer are bedding down at night near where Bonnie rests, and the thought gave me the deep, warm pleasure of a candle flame.

When I got to the gate, I whispered, “Sorry I didn’t talk with you tonight, girl. I know you understand.”

And I know she does. Perhaps the saints don’t hear me. I am convinced that Bonnie does. I will continue talking to her, because to do so calms my turbulent heart.

~ S.K. Orr