Sidd & Francis

My seven-year-old neighbor put an arm around the small statue in the corner of a raised bed in my backyard. 

"Do you love him?"

"Francis?" I answered. "Yes, I like him."

The Francis in this case, the one from Assisi. He of kinship with Brother Sun and Sister Moon, lover of birds and animals, the tamer of the Wolf of Gubbio, and official patron saint of ecology (so deemed in 1979).

Note the downward cast of his eyes. Yes, perhaps Francis is checking the water basin he holds. Perhaps humility is the order of the day, along with a life of poverty.

By the way, members of the Franciscan order are friars, not monks. Friars. Did you think of Friar Tuck?

Yesterday morning I chanced upon a dead mockingbird just outside my fence. The wings--I do not know if it was Brother or Sister bird--the wings were neatly folded along its body, no obvious sign of a mortal wound apparent. No loose feathers about either. 

I scooped the bird up with a shovel and took it to an ever-growing pile of dirt and dead plants and pruning debris. I dug a shallow grave, knowing full well its fate--the carcass, at least. 

Returning the shovel to its storage box, I passed the other small statue in my yard, Siddhartha, sitting in the shade of crape myrtles, back to a tea olive. My youngest neighbors last year placed a robin's nest in his lap, and later in the summer replaced it with a mockingbird's nest. 

This particular pose is known as Calling the Earth to Witness, or Earth Touching. 

For me, a grounding comes as I walk about tending plants and trees, seeding this season's vegetables, setting fresh water out for my dog. And, I have much time for sky-watching. From out there, sun and moon and stars and clouds, to beneath my feet.  

I do not mind a bit the notion I will end as ashes scattered to the wind or cast into the ocean, carbon infused, infusing the carbon chain of being. I make no pretense of any philosophical purity, but I do believe myself part of the whole. 

At the very least, Sidd and Francis would understand.