I was only half serious when I said before that babies and young (and insects) seem to be my niche. It's remained a pattern this summer though. Last week my youngest daughter was stung by a honey bee who had expired quite some time before my daugher (aptly nicknamed "Bee") ever touched her. But that's a story for another time. Today I performed the funerary rites and burial service of a sweet little baby boy squirrel who I'd found in my path on our morning pilgrimage/nature walk. I didn't see him on the way to our destination, but there he was, plain as day, on our way back. We sent him on his way with thirteen black walnuts, water, and a lullabye-- "Rock-a-bye Baby". He had curled all ouroboros-style in the ochre red terracotta dish that held his body during the rites. The girls picked some flowers from the waning garden to mark his grave where it rests among the web of roots that spreads beneath Mother Maple.
And lest you think my silence on this blog has meant an idle summer for me and mine, I'll leave you with this:
Yes, that's my poor, broken garden trowel.
