For bloggers, this naturalist ribbon links one to the other and gives rise to community.  Part of that community lives in blog carnivals, regular celebrations of nature in its many forms.  Over the next several months I will host several of these carnivals, and I am working with Amber of Birder’s Lounge to launch a new blog carnival in an area of nature that we think deserves more attention.

Many moons ago I posted regular carnival roundups that linked to all the recent celebrations of nature.  I even participated in more than a few of them.  Then life fell on me, other obligations took center stage, and I stopped following them, let alone linking to them.  My growing desire to share nature with others has reversed that trend.

So beginning now I will return to my habit of posting a weekly summary of the blog carnivals I feel are worthy of mention.  Should there be none for a particular week, well, it seems obvious there will be no such post.  And to kick things off, here are the recent carnivals of interest:

• Festival of the Trees 42: seven billion new trees

• Circus of the Spineless #45

• I and the Bird #114

• The Moth and Me #8

• Friday Ark #272 (as always, this carnival grows throughout the weekend)

More than worth your time, whether you’re only interested in eye candy or science or art or discovery or simply getting out of the house virtually by visiting places near and far and seeing through the eyes of others, these nature parties circle the globe and cover the world in ways you can scarcely imagine.

— — — — — — — — — —

I will be hosting I and the Bird on December 17.  (If you know why that date is important to me, please don’t say so publicly lest you spoil the theme of the carnival.)  Following that, I will host Festival of the Trees on January 1, 2010, The Moth and Me on March 15, 2010, and Circus of the Spineless on April 1, 2010.  Should our plans work the way we hope they do, Amber and I will conspire to launch a new blog carnival in January, after which I will host that one as well (perhaps in February or March), though the first edition will be a joint venture hosted at the carnival’s home site.

When I told The Kids we would host I and the Bird in a few weeks, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a common visage.

Though that shows only Vazra, that same look of intent interest is duplicated on five other feline faces, each of whom wants to welcome the incoming birds with open claws jaws paws.  But since they’re inside cats, they’ll have to be satisfied with looking at the pictures instead.

al-Zill might look sweet and cuddly, and knowing he has brain damage from a pre-rescue coyote attack might lull one into a false sense of pity, but he’s a little terrorist.

Sure, he’ll lie in my lap and look tender and adorable, but then he’ll turn around and bite me for no reason.

Sure, he’ll stand and groom one of his siblings with all the affection he can muster, but then he’ll lean back and smack ‘em upside the head just when they’re thinking the world couldn’t get any better.

Sure, he’ll give kisses for just about any reason, but then he’ll keep giving them until he’s worn the tissue down to the bone.

Sure, he’ll sit by my feet and soak up all the petting he can get, but then he’ll randomly bite a toe or sink his claws into my ankle.

Sure, he’ll curl up under the covers with me when it’s time to go to bed, but then he’ll attack me the first time I move.

Sure, he’ll dash to the water and food bowls so he can sit beside one of the other cats while they eat or drink, but then he’ll pounce on them once their head is down.

Sure, he’ll go to sleep nearby, but then he’ll suddenly attack me or one of the other cats and send all of us careening out of bed.

Sure, he’s a little terrorist.  And I love him just the way he is.

scarcely of the twilight in summer’s breath
you walk unmoving above nowhere

and I, hardly the old youth of your gaze,
see the sound of autumn’s valley
where you do not stand

over the brow of winter’s hill
silence brightly listens for the scent of your voice,
when your vanishes enormously sing alone
—yet only as perfection is alone

in beginnings end the blossoms of wishes
while endings writhe in withering leaves,
so blooms dying darkly rest upon lonely nights

afar off in unfelt thoughts not forgotten
toward us the ghost of you whispers

[for and of Larenti, whose absence weighs heavily on me today for reasons I cannot explain, an old wound freshly torn open]

Meanwhile, Vazra has taken station in front of the fireplace where he sits atop a box of computer supplies I temporarily pulled from its hiding place.  He watches me closely waiting for me to notice him and give him what he wants: some attention.

So I slip the smaller lens onto the camera, twist it into the bayonet mount until it locks into place, set the camera back in my lap and pin it down with my hand while I put the telephoto lens in its carrying case.

That’s when the shutter snaps.  Oops, I left the camera turned on…

I can’t imagine ever capturing a better mistake.  That the camera was level is miracle enough, but that it focused on Vazra and had settings adequate to capture his visage in a dark room surprised the bejeesus out of me.

Maybe I should try this technique more often.

Kako resting on one of the cat trees as sunset’s dim light reaches across two rooms to embrace her.

I remember thunderstorms with torrential rain.  Would he be okay?

A wet cat speaking to me from outside the fence, a feline begging for shelter, for comfort, for assurance that all would be well.

I welcomed him to the patio, to protection from the tempest.

I remember chastising him for hunting rabbits, for bringing them to my doorstep as though meant as a gift.

A wild cat, a feral soul falling prey to companionship.

I let him leave the creatures so I could quickly scoop them up and rush them to safety.

I remember the first time he let me touch him, his thick fur resting warmly against my hand, his eyes watchful yet trusting, his purr sudden and powerful.

A lonely cat seeking that which we all seek: belonging and friendship.

I gave only as much as he would allow, sought to be welcoming so he could take the next step.

I remember the day he moved in, met his new roommates, explored his new home, found happiness.

A loving cat, a spirit divine yet frightened who wanted only to belong.

I let him belong, made him welcome.

I remember that night not too long ago, that fateful evening when so much emotion came crashing down under the weight of ending.

A beautiful cat, a giant who cowered before shadows and needed love as much as air.

I lamented then what was lost.

And I remember…

[introduction paraphrased from the beginning of the first chapter in Clive Barker's Cabal]

As Vazra and Loki demonstrate, that usually entails ample time in the lounging position.

Yet something sees him, something large and traveling in a pack, something powerful and hungry.

The cat slinks across grass wet with dew, his movement silent, his steps meticulously planned and executed.

And still the coyotes look on, watch closely, coordinate their attack with whispers and glances few could notice.

Sans warning, a blur of dark coats move with suddenness that ensnares the feline in a trap, encircles him with fangs bared, surrounds him with snarls and growls.

There is nowhere to run.  Still he tries.

Then it’s done.  Held in the mouth of a canine, his skull and neck pierced, his jaw dislocated, the cat fights back with all the means at his disposal.

Claws stab the coyote’s face from all sides, blades kicking and scratching with a fierceness the large animal had not anticipated, could not foresee.

In a stroke of luck, pain overcomes the hunting instinct and the powerful jaws relax just enough for the cat to escape, to flee, to run up the nearest arboreal refuge where coyotes cannot follow.

But the damage is done…

Fiction?  Perhaps, at least to a small degree, although not entirely.

A fractured skull.  A jaw that doesn’t quite fit together.  A hairless scar above the shoulders.  A mind separated from body when it matters most.  And sometimes when it doesn’t matter at all.

al-Zill fights every moment in often feeble attempts to will his form into submission.

More often than not, he asks for that which his frame cannot provide.  Chasing his tail means smacking his head against the wall or falling off furniture.  Walking across the room can be successful…or not.  Even standing can prove difficult: he falls sometimes.  Not just falls, though.  Collapses.

Entwined with the innocence and mischief of youth, he gets up and keeps going.  His purr never wavers.  His ebullience never wanes.  And his spirit never gives up.

I see the battle in his face, at least from time to time.

Mostly I see an indomitable feline making the most of his life irrespective of the setbacks and failures.

A home with some of the children gone.  That’s how it feels.  I keep stepping over him when he’s not there, hearing his voice when it doesn’t exist, feeling his fur under my fingers as I drift off to sleep.  Fantasies of a wounded heart.

Time’s altar is a fierce place to exist.  It takes at will, sacrifices on whims we cannot understand.  It rests stained with the blood of all who have been lost.

He nuzzles my hand, reaches out and grabs it with his paw to let me know I’m not done petting him.  He says as much as he looks at me directly and lets me lose myself in that jeweled, peridot universe defined by his eyes.

Or at least it seems to me, but in truth that was last week.  Now only his memory remains.

I sit on the couch and wait.  I will wait forever for that which is expected: Larenti rushing to my side, leaping atop the cushions to join me.  From anywhere in the house, he always knew when I sat down there, and he would always run to the living room and jump up to take his place on my lap or by my side.

But no more.

The rest of The Kids still share the couch with me at every opportunity, and they vie for my lap and to get somehow in contact with me as Larenti always did, yet the absence remains unbearable, a blade cutting deep with every moment.

I lie on the floor next to the bed and look up as I await his usual reaction.  Await is all I can do now, for Larenti’s face will never greet me by peering over the edge of the blankets with a half-questioning, half-delighted visage painted with beautiful earthen hues.  He enjoyed quality time along with the other cats, yet he never seemed sure about this particular game.  I always loved his curiosity in response to my being on the floor beneath him; equally, I loved that he knew it would always lead to blizzards of love between us.

Yet his face will never again peek over the edge of the bed.

The rest of The Kids still engage in Quality Time with the utmost interest and joy, and they try their best to sweep away the loss with kisses, touches, purring, play, and all manner of passion, though the emptiness they seek to fill is not theirs to fill.

I awake and climb from beneath the covers anticipating the morning ritual.  Anticipate is now all that will happen, for Larenti’s voice will not fill the dark room with greetings and requests for affection, his form will not sit on the edge of the bed as I kneel next to it and shower him with soft words and petting, and his formidable purr will no longer bring joy to my heart as he demonstrates his love and contentment.

The morning ritual is forever changed.

The rest of The Kids remain steadfast in taking and receiving adoration in those early morning hours just as they have always done, yet a vacuous chasm now exists that can never be bridged.

I grab the cat food or treats, and then I look and listen as the horde descends upon me with much meowing and jockeying for position, although now that one face in the background will never offer up the plaintive cries that always made me remember the skittish one who would stay back, stay out of the fray, but who nonetheless joined the restless herd in pretending they were all starving to death.  While I never let the food bowl grow empty, the sound of the bag meant tripping over cats eager to get something fresher than yesterday’s offerings, and tapping on the top of a can of treats or shaking a bag of treats would bring them all running.  Larenti stayed out of the commotion as much as possible, always lagged behind while still showing the same devotion to goodies—or even just a refill of the bowl.  His eyes wide as he watched me closely, he would offer up his sorrowful yet beguiling voice as part of the feline chorus that defined such times.  Only now his face will be missing, his voice silent, his stunning and wide eyes only a memory of what was.

Food and treat time now bears a fresh scar that will never fully heal.

The rest of The Kids continue creating loud, boisterous obstacles under my feet whenever they hear the food bag or treat containers; however, I keep wishing for that seventh song and hoping for a sighting of the lion, neither of which will ever caress my soul again.

I grab the camera as afternoon sun fills the bedroom with warm light and pools of sunshine where The Kids gather.  I will never have another chance to see how such moments brought out the stunning colors and contrasts in Larenti’s face.  His large green eyes would catch the light like diamonds even has his beige tabby coat glowed like a fire on the beach.  His beauty was undeniable, yet at such moments it became a cause for celebration that the universe itself could not ignore.  I loved to feel his gaze resting upon me, his eyes devouring in great sweeps all that could be seen, his jovial spirit spilling from them when finally they touched me directly.

Only now the camera will never capture his magic again.

The rest of The Kids still offer their magnificence when the light is just right, still congregate in the bedroom where a wall of glass proffers afternoon pools of sunshine where they can bathe and nap and gather the warmth unto their bosoms; the pain of one missing, however, screams like an unhealing wound.

Larenti: November 2002 – March 2009