All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.
Hafiz’s Poem 25:
Dear Hafiz
Drink up Be a free soul Make merry But don’t make the Qur’an Bait for hypocrisy As others have done
Some thoughts:
Is it so wrong to “Eat, drink, and be merry?” Some religious people act as though being spiritual or loving God means having to be a stick in the mud and forego all fun. Hafiz is addressing this poem to himself as a reminder that he has the freedom to enjoy the abundance the world has to offer. He is not restricted and litigious about his beliefs. But on the other hand, freedom with grace is not license to debauchery either. There is a balance that must be walked like a tightrope if one is to maintain a life of love and spiritual connection.
His belief in freedom must not be taken to excess, which could make his faith seem like a farse. There must be some level of respect for the holiness of the prescribed religious doctrines and those who adhere to them meticulously. There is no need to flaunt the merry making in the face of someone who is weeping. Finding a path that respects personal spiritual autonomy and still honors the traditions and beliefs of the ancestors is not always easy. But being in community means grappling with these truths and finding a balance that works.
My Poem 25:
I think dusting intentionally can be meditative, spiritual, removing the layers of past ancestors to reveal a shiny surface uncluttered by so much static noise.
Dimming the lights and lighting a candle, watering a plant, petting a cat.
I’ve yet to wipe my dog’s weeping eye and feel nothing because she stares into my soul, communing, as if with the source of love.
Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.
Image created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompt using AI on Gencraft.
Silence has become the standard by which I judge all things. People who talk too much or too loudly, chew food in a way that amplifies the crunch, have loud ringers on their phones, or wear hard soled shoes that clomp across the floor…well, let’s just say I don’t let them into my inner circle. So, when a mewling kitten showed up in the drainage ditch near my house, I was reluctant to take it in. The incessant screeching forced me to rescue it, if for no other reason than to try to stop the sound.
She needed to be bottle fed, not an easy feat for a person with no sense of time. I am a book scout and read all day for a living. I will sometimes read for six or seven hours straight if I’ve got enough material, only taking quick restroom breaks and snacking while I read. I set alarms for my alarms because I also sometimes fall asleep while I read, my brain giving out without notice. And they aren’t supposed to be held like human babies. They have to be on their bellies and knead something like they would on their mother’s teat. I look all of this up so I would do it right, including stimulating her anus with a wet cotton swab to imitate the attentions her mother would naturally provide.
Phoebe is an ugly kitten. Her face is squished, not in a cute way; what little hair she has is a non-descript greyish-brown. Her mother probably abandoned her because her front paws have something wrong with them. The four fingers and one thumb on each seem to be fused together and the paws twist inward slightly. Even worse, she’s loud. Her back paws seem fine.
My small rental is situated on a cul-de-sac near an elementary school. The plan is to advertise as close to the school as I can once Phoebe is old enough to wean. Children are suckers and their parents are even worse. A disabled kitty will have a home in no time. I just have to make it another month.
We’ve settled into a routine, Phoebe and I. She cries, I respond to stop the horrific noise with whatever I think she needs most right then, she falls asleep, and I get some work done. The longest stretch of silence we have achieved is 2 hours. In all honesty, it might have gone longer, but I got worried and jiggled her to make sure she was alive. She awoke with a vengeance and ate until her belly nearly burst.
It’s a ridiculously silly comparison, I know, but this experience has made me appreciate my mother more. When I was born, she had no one to help her and worked long hours to provide for us. My stepdad came into the picture when I was nine, but for years it was just us. All on her own, she kept me alive – the nighttime feedings and diaper changes, the cooking and cleaning. The woman deserves an award. I can’t wait until this kitten can eat solid food and I can find her a home. I’m worn out.
She likes to sleep in the hood of my hoodie and makes a great neck warmer. It gets chilly in the alcove where I like to work, looking out at a pecan tree growing in the neighbor’s yard. The branches hang down over the privacy fence that connects our back yards and pecans spill onto my property. I don’t mind at all because I take them all every year and make pecan pies for the holidays. This year I’m planning to make praline. Last year some of the pies went to waste because I have no one to share them with other than my parents.
I decide to take a walk to the mailbox at the end of my street with Phoebe curled up in my hood. Movement doesn’t seem to wake her, only hunger, but it is about time for a feeding and she has begun to wiggle and squeak. On the way back home, she begins climbing the cloth of her makeshift bed with her tiny claws and I fear she might fall out of my hood. In my haste to grab her I drop my mail rather dramatically. A man raking leaves in his yard stops mid-rake and waves; I pretend not to notice, busy with my mail. He doesn’t take the hint and assumes my lack of eye-contact requires a verbal interaction.
“Hey!” he says, tilting the rake he is holding away from himself and adjusting his baseball cap with his free hand. He could be on the cover of a men’s health or fitness magazine. His every movement draws my eyes, the unabashed grin demanding my attention. I stop, say hello, and even force a smile. He seems genuine in his attempt to be friendly, but as he starts to walk toward me a compulsion to bolt wells up. I squelch it because he is really cute.
“Can I see?” His hazel eyes light up and the corners crinkle the way I find sexy in men of that age. I am confused for a second, but then realize he is talking about Phoebe. He gathers all of my mail for me. I find gentlemanly manners quite sexy, as well.
“My turn,” he says, and offers a trade, the mail for the kitten. A wave of overprotective fear grips me. No one else can hold my baby kitten. He might not do it right. What if he drops her? I push back the irrational panic and gently place Phoebe in his big hand. She looks so vulnerable it makes me want to cry.
We chat amiably about kittens and how much work they are. He tells me he is new to the area, having moved here to be closer to his 11-year-old daughter and in a home where he can have her over every other weekend. I can see I may have found a home for Phoebe already.
I warm up a little and decide to offer some neighborly advice. “If you’ve never eaten at the Thai restaurant on Main, you have to check it out. Their lunch specials are really cheap and the food is authentic.”
“I love Thai,” he says. “How about tomorrow at noon?”
I smile and nod, then realize he is asking me to join him and I freeze. I guess I started it. I might have even sounded like I was angling for a date. “I wasn’t trying to ask you out,” I fumble. “I was just trying to tell you about some good places around here.”
“I know,” he says, the twinkle in his eye giving away amusement at my back peddling.
I decide to be brave. It’s just lunch.
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Styling my shoulder-length thick brown hair into some semblance of order proves impossible. A messy bun with a few loose curls hanging here and there will have to do. Phoebe is wiggling around in the bathroom sink where she was curled up in a hand towel sleeping only a moment ago. I imagine she can sense my excitement and is nervous about being left home alone. I begin to worry that this was a bad idea. What if she cries so hard that she stops breathing and dies? What if, in her panic, she escapes her box and gets trapped inside the couch and can’t be rescued? I almost cancel my lunch date, then scoop Phoebe into a snuggle, willing myself some of her spunky courage. She is my little good luck charm. She begins to scream because she’s learned that is what gets her a bottle. I sigh and roll my eyes, knowing her pathetic cries are fake.
“Little drama queen, I already fed you,” I tease before putting her into the box on the bathroom floor. I check my mascara in the mirror, take a deep breath, and head out. When I am almost to the front door, her cries intensify and I run back to the bathroom. I decide to set the box in the bathtub as an added safety measure.
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Phoebe stretches out between us, one paw across Mitchell’s forehead. Her intermittent purring blends with Mitchell’s rhythmic soft snore, but all I hear is silence. My sweet lover bought me custom molded shooting earplugs that hunters use to block out the loud sounds of weapons blasting next to ears.
I moved into his place because it made sense, but we brought most of my furniture because his consisted of bean bags and futons. His back yard has a wide oak that shades the patio and there is a pecan tree in the front. He loves to work outside and keeps the lawn pristine. I hate the sound of the lawn mower revving up, knowing I’ll have to put in my earplugs to get any of my own work done. I do occasionally miss the silence of my manless sanctuary, but then I take in the stunning view – not of the trees, of him muscling things into place along the fence or digging a hole for who-knows-what-reason men dig holes. And for the adorable way he clangs and bangs and slams tools around outside, then slips off his boots at the door and wears socks in the house so I don’t hear footfalls.
Things are a little more raucous when Mitchell’s daughter comes over for a weekend, but I’ve found I can tolerate joyful exuberance more than I realized. And it is worth it to see how happy it makes Mitchell when she’s sprawled on our couch watching movies with us while scrolling through her phone. They make fun of me by doing fake sign language and whispering dramatically when I’m in the room. When they are at work and school and I have the house to myself, I revel in the quiet – absolute peace for me to dig into my books.
I obviously never tried to find Phoebe another home. After a few months of never leaving my side, I couldn’t bear to part with her. She nestled her way right into my heart. And the only time she puts up a fuss is when I am taking too long to feed her and she thinks I deserve a scolding. She walks just fine, though her paws curve in, so she looks a little like she’s walking on the wrists of her front legs. She doesn’t climb well, but can jump really high because her back legs are quite powerful. She rarely needs help doing anything. She likes to curl up on my lap, and every once in a while, when I’ve had my fill of silence, I’ll take out my ear plugs and listen to her purr while I read.
We got a new Husky puppy. She is a mess! We are her 5th home in 5 months, poor baby. She seems terrified of my grandfather and barks hysterically when she sees him, which makes me wonder if she was mistreated by an older man. She is horribly food insecure/struggles with food scarcity fear. She attacks her food bowl the second the food is presented and scarfs it down so quickly that she makes herself sick. That makes me think she had to fight for her food and eat it fast if she was to get any in her past. She begs for food constantly and acts very anxious around mealtimes. We hope that over time she will develop a sense of security and comfort around food with our consistent feeding schedule and plenty of food, so she does not experience hunger.
She has had a few fights with our other dog Kenji (who is twice her size.) She is fearless. If she thinks he is getting a treat that she is not, she is ready to battle to the death. And her behavior is making his food insecurities resurface that were laid to rest over a year ago. He also came to us hungry and terrified that he wouldn’t get enough. But he finally got to the point that he would leave his food in his bowl until he felt like eating it. Now he is back to running to his bowl and scarfing it down the way he used to and getting goaded into fighting with the new girl.
We named her Saki. I heard the name on a Japanese show we were watching and I liked it. We probably don’t pronounce it right, but we say “Saw-kee” as the pronunciation. She already knows it is her name and has learned sit and stay. She is super affectionate and wants to give kisses all throughout the day. She will go play for a while and then come check in with me for attention, kisses, pets, and reassurance. Then she runs outside and plays some more. She and Kenji are having fun together. I can tell he is happy to have a playmate again. He misses Aiko (who passed away recently.)
Two Huskies are a lot of energy. They wrestle and horseplay quite a bit. They run around the yard and tear up anything left laying around. Saki thinks everything is meant for her to chew on, especially David’s shoes, her harness, and anything stuffed. She’s a good girl and I can tell she is going to be a loyal, wonderful dog for our family. But it is going to be a slow challenge to get her there.
Saki after playing in the mud.Kenji and his new little sister Saki.
This winter, my cat Chika died. She wandered out to a far corner of our property to meet her maker. She did as cats are wont to do, sparing her beloved humans the trouble of witnessing their passing. My granddaughter found her and Facetimed me, distraught, tears streaming down her 10-year-old face. She had been missing for a week, and I assumed the worst. A once fat cat, her weight rapidly declined over the preceding month. She had been sickly all eight years of her life with constant upper respiratory infections, allergies, and asthma. Because of her, I now know what cat sneezes and coughs sound like. I became attuned to her different variations of wheezing, knew which ones were minor and which ones warranted a vet visit. Nothing we can do. Another steroid shot might help. A round of antibiotics. Let her live her best life.
I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. I don’t think it was a pleasant existence for a cat, but the vet did not think she was in so much discomfort that she should be put down. Her purring during the exam, passing their breathing tests, and fat physique reassured them that she was as ok as a sick cat could be.
She was afraid of the outside for the first two years of her life. The other cats would encourage her to join them on a jaunt around the yard, but she would sit and watch through the glass door. One day, we left the door propped open with a chair and let them come and go freely for a few hours. They had the best time entering and exiting at will, no need for humans to open anything. The two older cats decided it was high time that the younger, less experienced of the pack join them. They spoke the magic language of cats, convincing her it was safe, then one or the other of them sat by her side as she took her first tentative steps onto the porch. However far she felt comfortable venturing, one of them was right by her side for a good 30 minutes or so. It was heartwarming to watch.
Chika probably had pica. She loved to lick plastic shopping bags if she could get her paws on one, and another cat owner told us it was like a drug addiction to the chemicals on the bag, that it would give her a bit of a buzz. I was unable to find research to back up that claim, however. More likely, she liked the texture, and her brain told her it was something to put in her mouth. Whatever the reason, we had to be careful with plastic bags and make sure none were left out anywhere that Chika could access them. She also sucked or chewed on soft blankets as she was kneading them with her little cat claws.
She hated to be brushed. She wasn’t much on cat treats or fancy wet cat food or even human food. She preferred her dry food, and keep it coming, thank you very much. She expected the bowl to always be full, so she could eat when she felt like it. She was not really a big fan of other animals and took her sweet time getting used to any new ones who entered our home. Even after years of knowing a “new” animal, she might hiss at them if they ventured too close. She decided the dogs were tolerable because she could sleep with them, and they were warm. She liked the sleeping in a pile at night snuggling with others, but by day, she wanted her space.
Chika was hot or cold with affection. She mostly permitted pets when she was in the mood. She liked a warm lap, but the lucky person was selected by her, and the chosen one had no say in the matter. She jumped up, settled in, and waited expectantly for pets. It did not matter if you liked cats, wanted a cat in your lap, or preferred to be left alone. Once she decided you were going to pet her, you might as well get it over with because she would not leave you alone until you did your job. She would look at you with the most severe expression that made you feel at once judged and found unworthy. Hers was a stern cat face. She couldn’t help it. It was just her face, but her countenance gave the impression that everything and everyone were somehow annoying her by their mere existence.
I think she might have killed a bird once in her younger days, but mostly she watched them in the trees, inspiring dive-bombing mothers and cacophonies of threatening bird chatter. She sat under trees where squirrels fussed at her just because she knew it annoyed them. Though she did not have the energy to chase them, she loved that her presence could affect them so.
My heart hurts knowing she has left this plane of reality, though I am comforted by the knowledge that she no longer has to labor to breathe. I never have to trick her into taking medicine again or pin her down so I can attempt to give her a breathing treatment (not an easy accomplishment.) No more late-night searches through the house to make sure she is inside and safe before we lock up. Still, it is hard to say goodbye to someone with whom you’ve spent the last eight years of your life. My tears are selfish. I’m the one who will miss her grumpy, sick, uncomfortable, curmudgeonly, snotty presence. I have a feeling she was relieved to finally bid us all ado. Yes, my girl Chika is gone. May she finally rest in peace.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Beauty became a surrogate mom when we adopted Chika. From left to right, Sassy, Chika, Beauty.
Sleeping with Aiko and Kenji for warmth.
Tolerating Julian’s love.
Too scared to go outside with Charlotte.
On the threshold, stepping out, encouragement to be brave, looking back for reassurance.
Chika stayed by Grandad’s side in the weeks after my Mema’s passing. It seemed like she knew he needed comfort. The other image is her at her fattest, living her best fat cat life (before we had to start a little bit of a healthier diet.)
My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.
My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.
Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.
Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.
When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.
@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)
Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.
Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:
Our sweet girl fell asleep for the last time yesterday. She was our timekeeper, door alarm, friend, snack stealer, companion, guard who would play with any trespasser, reluctant auntie to many small animals including kittens, a puppy, hamsters, and a possum, our deer chaser, pond swimmer, pack leader, bossy lady, fluffy fluffer, treat eater, snow lover, couch layer, baby protector, Charlotte’s sister, smart girly, whose faithful, consistent, steady, sincere, gentle, easy- going, curious, loyal, loving nature made our family a stronger pack and we will be forever grateful for the love she gave so generously every day.
Aiko is survived by Kenji, Chika, Cotton Eyed Joe, and Kylo from her fur pack and was especially close to Charlotte and Julian, who were honorary members of her pack because they were children during her lifetime. Charlotte and Aiko were born the same year and grew up together.
My pocket elephant is adorable; I don’t leave home without her. She sleeps all snuggled in her little pouch until snack time, when she munches contentedly on tiny slices of jackfruit, banana, bamboo, and tree bark. Sometimes, she grows restless if I haven’t pet her enough, or she has the zoomies. Then I let her roam until she wears herself out and wants to climb back in my pocket. I pour little capfuls of water for her to drink, and give her back scratches upon demand. In turn, she loves me and trumpets her concern if she senses me getting too stressed. She’s my sweet, sweet girl, my dearest companion, and has my whole heart. My only complaint is how much she poops and often without warning.
@Home Studio on 10/26/24 @ 10:41pm – 289th poem of the year
Beauty & Aiko in all their regal gorgeousness. They know they rule the kingdom.
To be without Beauty feels plain and bare, lacking in something. A presence at once regal and understated has gone missing, and in its place is an ache, a pang, maybe a twinge of listless longing for some undefined touch of elegance that is both gracious and aloof, familiar and unknowable.
@Home Studio – 248th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Losing Beauty photos to accompany my poem:
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1. Beauty & Kage on guard duty. 2. Chika, Beauty, & Cotton Eyed Joe snuggling. 3. Beauty & Chika sharing my chair. 4. Beauty holding hands with Kenji. 5. The last picture I ever took of Beauty—Beauty & Aiko holding hands.
Making the call to end a life weighs heavily on the spirit, even if the conclusion is an act of mercy for the beloved by relieving pain and suffering. Only those who have spent years with another in close proximity, shared their lives intimately, and were tasked with taking the initiative to usher in the end know the reluctance with which the decision is made and how heavy the heart to speak the truth that life has become a burden rather than a blessing.
@Home Studio – 247th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Making the Call photos to accompany my poem:
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