One year ago, tomorrow, I said a very difficult goodbye to Nettie.  She's come to mind so much lately - though not so much with sadness about how very hard that day was a year ago, but with gratitude for what she taught me, and continues to teach me, about the ongoingness of love. 

Nettie arrived as a wee little thing having been plucked from a cold Virginia autumn into safety by some dear friends.  Just a few weeks old and with every known kitten malady, she blossomed quickly and made her way straight into my heart so fast it made my head spin.   

Every animal that comes into our life arrives with a special lesson to to share.  They help us to  give expression to a part of ourselves that would otherwise be dormant.  Some cats come to teach us about joy, some about accessing our peace, some about how to have fun, some about the gifts that accrue to our hearts if we mimic them in their ability to sit in stillness and remain gently attentive and interested in everything in the world, no matter how small or seemingly ordinary.  

Nettie taught me that it's possible to love an animal deeply and still survive after they're "gone." Oh yes - I miss her antics, her snuggles, having her sleep on my heart every night, her sparkling green eyes . . . and I miss having a being in my life that saw straight past any masks I wore right into my heart and was willing to stick around anyway.  

Last summer I took her ashes and spread them in Montana at one of the most precious and holy places I know.  I'd left Duke's ashes there the year before.  I love to think of them there, on that sacred ground.  

Thank you, Nettie.  You're loved always, and in All Ways.   

Yesterday, with help from our wonderful vet, we said goodbye to the beautiful form that our Nettie the Wondercat occupied for close to sixteen years.  I'll offer some of what I sent to family and friends yesterday:

I wanted to share this news so that you might remember now, especially today, tonight, and in the coming few days, to join in celebrating the Light for her, with her.  To ease the movement of her spirit cleanly into wherever it is she goes. 

I loved her, and continue to love her, profoundly. And as deeply sad as I am, my number one job here is to remember the Light.  To be that light, remember that the light is Love that fuels creation, so that I can play my part in helping this beautiful being relax into that light, trusting it fully.

So? If you would?  I'd ask you to do whatever it is which is most appropriate for you that might be part of that.  Light a candle.  Say a prayer. Or just take a deep breath, close your eyes, and know and see your own light. Know it's joined with hers, and with everyone you've ever loved.  And everyone they have ever loved.  And on and on.  Don't put a limit on it!  

I wanted to read this just before the euthanasia, but composure was elusive, and I didn't want the words read through a tentative, broken voice.  I wanted the words read with strength, with conviction.  My husband, bless him, read this for us all:  

Remember the clear light, the pure clear white light from which everything in the universe comes, to which everything in the universe returns; the original nature of your own mind. The natural state of the universe unmanifest. Let go into the clear light, trust it, merge with it. It is your own true nature, it is home.

Godspeed little girl.  Godspeed.