Life is an emergency, part deux. . .

pages upon pages of letters . . .yes, kids, letters.

Last night, I was tucked into the corner of the sofa in my living room, blanket wrapped around my legs, reading Black Elk Speaks . . .  the radio was playing softly from the kitchen; so softly, I hardly noticed it, other than to stop reading now and then, thinking, hmmmm, undertones of that song seem to reverberate through my very being—curious—though kinda annoying, when I'm trying to read, dammit . . . not annoying enough to stop me from my reading (which is a monumental breakthrough in my "progress," you may or may not appreciate, dear peeps . . . concentration and focus, among countless other things, have not been part of my everyday life, for quite some time—say a good three years, perhaps? But who's counting? Oh yeah, only me.)

Anyhooooo (pun and foreshadowing intended), eventually, the feeling became so pervasive, I put my book down, went into the kitchen and turned off the intrusive sound, marveling that a song on the damn radio could induce such a deep sensation. I stood in the still, dark kitchen for a moment, and suddenly, sans radio, the feeling coursed through my being again. I strained to listen/feel, and was almost immediately met with silence, two, three, four . . . then, again, it started, and I suddenly recognized the deep tremolo of a great horned owl vibrating through the bones of the house, up through the marrow of my very own bones. If you've never had the honor to hear—no, make that feel—a great horned owl hooting at night, you might not appreciate that you will likely sense its call before you hear it. I wasn't sure where it was coming from—when I stood in the kitchen, it sounded as though it were coming from the giant oak just outside the patio door. But when I walked into the living room, the soothing, resonant hooting enveloped the entire room, as though the owl's calls originated from deep within the walls. . . in the bedroom, it could have as easily been coming from the taller, leaner oak just outside the window, as it could have, from the furnishings, and I suddenly became aware of the sensation of being enveloped with comfort, peace, protection, wisdom . . . I walked from room to room, wrapped in thick, rich, throaty hoots, vibrating through every cell of my every being . . .

I texted my mom, "for the past half hour, a great horned owl has been hooting outside. So peaceful, so comforting . . ." to which she responded, "Oh! Your very own sentinel, keeping watch over you and Rocco!" to which I responded, "Indeed!' and she replied, "That's quite a lovely scene, having an unexpected guest show up with a little night music . . . "

After nearly an hour, I decided, with all this lovely albiet exhausting, reverberating philosophical, spiritual knowledge dumped on me in such a short period, it was time to go to bed. I let Rocco out on last time, brushed my teeth, donned jammies, and climbed into bed, lulled to sleep by the lullaby of a great horned owl.

A day or two later, I suddenly remembered that I had meant to explain the "life is an emergency" on my last post, but got kind of swept up in the emotions of the original post, as well as with subsequent recent events in life, and such and never did get back to explaining that phrase . . . which has been made even more urgent (emergent? to me, anyhow), since last night . . .

So kids, gather 'round for another rambling story, as told by Great Auntie Jen . . . you see, way back when, before the advent of desktop computers in every home, waaaaayyyy before the internet, and soooooo waaaaaayyyyy before cellphones—when text messaging wasn't even a glimmer in your daddy's eye—back in the dark ages, in other words, Bob and I used to write letters. Yes, kids, letters—see, through a series of conscious and subconscious commands dictated by our brains, fired through nerves down the arm and executed by wrist/hand/finger, we would place the tips of long, thin instruments called pens onto something called paper and with the application of pressure, were able to, seemingly miraculously, produce a substance called ink, which resulted in something called, long story short, letters . . . I have four thick three-ring binders of such letters that Bob and I wrote (yes, wrote, with our very own hands—full sentences, proper capitalizations, punctuation, and an acute knowledge of the differences between their, there, they're, its and it's, its . . .). Bob and I shared endless things on these pages, but one message that I always thought he should have trademarked was, Life is an emergency! Always written with that exclamation point, as he always signed his signature . . .

So tonight, I dug out these 4 ring binders, hoping to find the letters that Bob signed, life is an emergency! but I couldn't get past the first several pages of letters, because most of which were signed, "I'm always near you." As I flipped through the pages and pages of letters, over and over, I encountered countless pages, signed in his fluid, breathtaking flourish, "I'm always near you."