Kate is somewhere northwest of here. Studying with some other ministers about the hot sociological and theological topics of the day. It's snowing where she is. In the mountains of Virginia/West Virginia/Maryland. Out that way. Yonder.
Here (hither) it was very clear last night when Kooper and I went for our late night romp through the streets of Old Town. And brisk, too. I tried to keep Kooper moving beyond his typical stop and sniff saunter. Just so I could keep a bit warm. He would have none of that. Fur is a great insulator I guess. Humanity's loss. But Kooper's slow gait meant at last I lifted my head up to look at the clear sky. And the stars. Very clear and dark and crisp. A very starry night. Not the kind of darkness and starriness you get in north central Pennsylvania or in the Adirondack Mountains, but plenty dark enough to see more than the usual bright constellations.
It just so happens that at one of Kooper's especially long ground snuffling spots as I was looking up I saw the briefest flare of a shooting star. Glowing ever brighter for the fleetest of moments and then flaring out just as quickly. On a straight path from somewhere to nowhere. To oblivion. Galaxy dust.
It reminds me of the words the priests say on Ash Wednesday during the Catholic ritual of marking people's foreheads with ashes made from last year's Palm Sunday palms. "Remember that you are dust. And unto dust you shall return."
Not a bad thing to remember once in awhile. As Cat Stevens sang, we're "only dancing on this earth for a short while." Objects in space. Like a shooting star.
