I'll never forget the morning my cat appeared to me in a dream when she died... She told me a lot of things of which I only remember that 'We'll be friends forever." I found her body later in the backyard.
Cats are special..
Have you noticed how fast the time is passing? What seems like only 6 hours is a whole day.. getting behinder and behinder. This 'older' author, Sean Patrick Bloomfield, is all of 27 years old!
deexxoo
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The Power That Preserves - June 10, 2006
an article by Sean Patrick Bloomfield
an article by Sean Patrick Bloomfield
?Do not forget, little child, that your life is as passing as a flower.? ?Our Lady of Medjugorje
As I get older, time seems to be gaining velocity. I try to catch moments but they quickly become part of the past. Sometimes?for fleeting instants?I can envision life from end to end, from infancy to old age. In that one powerful notion I am a baby cradled in my mother?s arms, seeing everything new and glistening, and I am a grey old man taking my last glimpse at a tired, foggy world, cradled in a woman?s arms once again, but this time they are my wife?s.
This vision is just imagination, not memory or premonition. Still, I often wonder if memory is to be restored at the moment of death, so that we might experience our lives from end to end.
I can only remember some facets of my life. Events both intense and mundane stand out. Stealing an antique key from a 2nd grade classroom, not because it might open something but because it was beautiful. Waking early to watch the sunrise with my grandfather. Kissing Lisa, who would become my wife, on a rickety dock as a hot wind gusted off the river. My first Confession in Medjugorje and how I felt as light as air afterwards.
I know little of death?but death, more than anything, has made a heavy impression on me.
After my first cat, Creole, died of a cancerous tumor that had swelled to the size of a fist, my father let me say goodbye one last time. I was seven years old. As I kissed Creole?s head, I was shocked to hear a strange, guttural wisp as if he was still breathing. I felt certain that Creole was alive, but my father told me it was only air escaping the lungs.
It was how things died, he said.
I watched dirt pile onto Creole?s rigid body as my father buried him in our backyard. The next morning, and on most mornings after that, I would wake to find a starkly white cat?one I had never seen before?sitting like a miniature lion on Creole?s gravesite. This went on for days, and then one morning the cat was gone and I never saw it again.
The logical part of my brain tells me that the mysterious cat was just a stray, albeit a beautiful one, who was only interested in the waning scent of death below. My heart, however, wants to believe that Creole was saying goodbye.
Regardless, Creole?s death would have likely faded from my memory by now had it not contained what to me, as a child, seemed a holy and mystical experience. Perhaps seeing God in something is what makes it truly last.
Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz wrote: ?What power preserves what once was, if memory does not last? For I remember little. I remember so very little.?
Like Milosz, I remember little. But I do know a so-called power that preserves. I?ve experienced quite a lot in my twenty-seven years on this planet, and I?ve been blessed with a mission that fulfills me: spreading the messages of the Virgin Mary at Medjugorje. These messages are given to a world that is breaking apart?both figuratively and literally?and to a misguided mankind that is plummeting away from God as fast as a falling angel.
Time is gaining velocity. Something bigger and more powerful than we can comprehend is about to happen. And I feel those poignant words of our Blessed Mother in my heart: ?Your life is as passing as a flower.?
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