Cricket Gifts

Do I post? Do I not post?

Why would I post? 

To give voice. To release it into 'the field.' Because I know others experience deep grief and isolation; though we feel alone, we are not alone. (I'm thinking mainly of folks who live with a long-term illness or disability.)

Why would I not? 

How will others categorize me, under which denigrating labels, reducing my humanity to a simplistic judgment?  A grief-ridden, needy, attention-seeking, disabled, hopeless, old woman who must be stupid because she keeps going through this grieving process. 

If she'd just turn back to God and the Bible or get out more or think positive or (fill-in-the-blank-with-your-favorite-panacea) she could get well...

 

~*~*~*~*

August 19, 2025

That kind of grief where, after the weeping, one finds herself sitting in physical darkness, eyes downcast blankly staring at the floor, dumbed with silence, feeling nothing, no thoughts, no words...

Until at some point, an intervention of sorts, gently taps the soul...

Not to stop the process, but to acknowledge it, allow it, give it space and openness for what it needs...

*~*

Last week, I pushed to get out of the house for appointments on Monday, Thursday, and Friday.

Tuesday the house cleaners were here. I'm thankful for them, but it's another day when my fatigued brain-and-body must accommodate other humans in my energy space.

I totally get why children cry when they're tired.

With the exhaustion of fatigue, sometimes all one can do is cry.

Saturday, I wept and wept and wept...

Holding on through the fatigue-grief deluge...

Why am I still alive? 

What is the point?

No one needs me for anything anymore.

I'm too broken.

That night, I sit alone in the living room, in the wingback armchair inherited from Mom.

The armchair where our dog companions once sat so they could look out the bay window.

I sit in the physical darkness, withdrawn, blankly staring at the floor.

The tears have stopped.

Now the nothingness.

And then I hear a lone cricket who is somewhere in an adjoining room.

I wonder how long he's been singing without me noticing.

I listen.

I listen.

To this indoor melody as Cricket makes himself known.

I whisper in my heart, "I hear you. You are seen. Yes Carol, the crickets still sing."

I feel comfort from Cricket's company.

The grief has settled for the time being.

My downcast face lifts a bit.

With eyes closed, I bow my head in gratitude.

I am not alone.

~*~

As life-spontaneities would have it, crickets had recently been on my mind...

Just a few days before this nighttime soloist serenade, I called 3 Crickateers and spoke with Chad, one of the owners.

Chad and his wife Claire founded the Minnesota company in 2017. They sustainably raise crickets and include the crickets in their food products and snacks. They offer cricket powder as a nutritional food supplement; and for an organic, chemical-free fertilizer and pest deterrent, one can purchase cricket frass (that is, cricket poop) for the health of soil and plants. 

This was my first time contacting 3 Cricketeers. I'd called to offer a poem I'd written in 2007 while hiking a section of a previous route of the Appalachian Trail in Virginia, not far from where I purchased my first 3 Crickateers snack in June 2025. If Chad wants to use the poem, it's free. 

(Brian, a poet friend at the time of the poem's birth, is a Celtic-knot artist. Brian and I had cowritten a few poems together. And again, Brian collaborates, but instead of the written word, he draws a beautiful Celtic-knot art piece illustrating the cricket in my poem. Brian's mother-in-law then sewed a replica of Brian's Celtic-knot cricket onto a quilt. I still feel so very humbled and honored.)

Chad and I chat for a few minutes, and he gives me an unexpected discount on my first online order. I send Chad a link that contains the poem and images of Brian's and his mother-in-law's artworks; Chad responds with gratitude.

~*~

Thank you to my inside-the-house, lone Cricket for serenading me and reminding me of his importance, and mine.

That has been the only night I've heard him inside.

Nature again heard my cries and offered Her gift...

~*~

The Cricket

 

A cricket sat upon

My golden glasses rim

He looked me in the eye

And I looked back at him

His eyes were big and round

One eyelid blinked a wink

I gazed at him and asked

"What is it that you think?"

He bobbed his head, stroked his wings

Playing a solemn tune

Then he answered wisely

Beneath the silver moon

"My life it may be short

Yet I work day and night

My melodies I play

With great purpose and delight

For those in wood and town

The two-legged creatures great

Reminding them that if I cease

They'll know it is too late."

He hopped right off my glasses

And sauntered to the trees

At night now when I hear him

I bow upon my knees

 

September 15, 2oo7 

Carol Welch 

~*~*~

An image of Brian's art piece, "The Cricket Knot," based on the poem.

Click here to view: the artful phases of The Cricket Knot. 

An image of the quilt....

 

"Behold!"

Carol, just write...

How do you feel?

I feel brain rot...

Again...

Like there is a lack of substance in my gray matter.

Why? How? 

What can I do about it?

I've spent too much time this week with the machine.

The little palm-sized digital screen.

I scroll.

Political news, cultural news, nature news.

Opinions, opinions, opinions.

But I seldom engage.

I know why I get sucked in.

I spend most my days alone. 

Inside my brick-and-mortar dwelling.

I can't get out like I once did.

My body and brain are fatigued.

Pain is a daily companion.

Along with cognitive static. 

But Carol, you got out this past Thursday.

You visited your beloved Mountains.

You witnessed Nature's majesty. 

Her messages, Her breezes.

You communed with trees and rocks.

And you talked with other Humans.

From Florida, Ohio, Massachusetts, North Carolina.

And you hiked that short quarter-mile section of Tanawha Trail.

At the Rough Ridge Overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway near Grandfather Mountain.

You weighed the risks and went for it.

You were amazed you were able to do it.

To hike the half-mile round trip with its belly-sized rocks.

It was hard.

It was technical.

But you did it, Carol.

You did it!

Though I wasn't rock climbing...

I had to hike it with a rock climber's precision.

Trusting my Vibram-soled hiking shoes.

Placing my feet strategically, checking for any slick spots on the rocks.

Trusting my trekking poles.

Checking the stability of the ground to make sure it wasn't soft peat. 

Weight-bearing trekking poles push through peat.

A recipe for a fall.

Yes, you long to hike the entire 13.5-mile trail.

But you didn't discover this trail.

Until after the poisoning.

Until after the injury.

Until after the disability.

Accept, accept, accept...

Adapt, adapt, adapt...

Like premature aging...

It goes on and on and on...

Until, one day, it will be done.

Grieve the losses...

Embrace the memories...

Recall the many, oh-so-many, stories...

Feel gratitude for what you still can do...

Be open for what might be possible.

Grief and gratitude...

Each is a necessity...

But I refuse anymore to gloss over the grief.

I wonder, How long I will heed that refusal?

And you walked the short, level trail from Yonahlossee Overlook. 

A pleasant walk that parallels the Blue Ridge Parkway.

And leads to the underside of Linn Cove Viaduct. 

And there, in the distance...

A gigantic, white, fluffy cloud standing above the mile-high mountain tops...

Like a giant, friendly ghost with a long, flowing white robe... 

His right hand extending out over the mountain peaks...

Saying, "Behold!" 

And that I did...

And I wondered...

Is Benton Mckay in that cloud?

Grandma Gatewood, and Hugh Morton?

Dad, and my friends Joy and Susan?

And others who have loved these mountains...

Who have passed from this physical life.

Do I believe the dead are alive?

I'm open to the idea.

If so, do the living-dead speak to us in signs and dreams?

Whether or not it is so... 

Messages still come through...

If we listen, if we look...

If we take the time to see.

One thing for sure...

These mountains... 

They live on and on and on and on...

In Cherokee Tanawha means Fabulous Hawk or Eagle.

Yonahlossee means Trail of the Bear.

"Behold!"

(PS: Oh! It looks like I may have found a way to post pictures on my blog without allowing the engines access to my photos on my computer.  I copied and pasted the image from my eX-Twitter account where I posted the pic from my smartphone.) 

Held in the deep...

The Deep 

(6/27/25 meditation with some context...)

With about 20 minutes left in my appointment Michele asks, "How do you feel about investigating the dark, bottomless hole?"

I nod my head yes saying, "I'd like to try."

  

It's only been within the last eighteen months that I've been able to clearly identify where in my body I feel this deep, deep, deep sadness...

Upon this identification, I realize I've felt this on-and-off for decades... 

It is a deep, deep, deep mourning down a dark, bottomless hole in my solar plexus area....  

Sometimes I wail... 

Sometimes there is nothingness, pointlessness, paralysis... 

Sometimes I just sit with it, feel it, inhale, exhale, and repeat...

But never have I entered, until now...

I slowly arise from my chair and make my way to the table. 

I climb up, lie down, adjust the knee and neck pillows, and close my eyes. 

I inhale and exhale slowly, settling myself as I prepare to enter this deep, dark, bottomless pit.

~*~

The hollow pit is cylindrical in shape.

But instead of barren red dirt walls, I see raw rock.

Cliffs all the way down to the bottomless bottom.

I wear my headlamp to maneuver through the dark.

I feel Nanna's presence, but I do not know where she is; there is no visible image. 

Just the feeling of her presence. 

Equipped with my climbing gear, I begin the descent.

But I immediately hear that it is not bottomless. 

I hear water flowing beneath me far, far, far away.

I express this verbally to Michele.

She responds, "Where there is water, there is life."

I make a mental note to remember that.

Back in the hole I continue my descent.

I don't make it very far, only about 20 feet.

I anchor my ridgeline cord to the rocky cliff.

I securely attach both ends of my hammock to the cord.

I crawl in and relax trusting the anchors to hold me and my hammock.

I turn my headlamp to red; it's much softer than the bright white light.

I lie totally relaxed, admiring Nature's sculptures.

My ears attuned to the echo of the bubbling spring from deep below.

After 12 or so minutes, I am ready to end this session into my solar plexus.

~*~

Over the following weeks I enter, again and again.

I am getting deeper.

At times, the rocks have wept with me.

Salty rock tears. 

Nanna is a young girl between 6 and 8 years old, with a downcast countenance, feeling unworthy, unable to measure up. 

She is barefoot, wearing a tattered dress.

I first met this image, whom I named Nanna, in October 2008, three years after leaving The Way.

At that time, I penned a poem about her with the following context: 

"I am an expert at self-blame. That's not a good thing, btw. In identifying this core belief that has been central to my life for decades, I had to identify my scapegoat. In searching my heart and psyche, at first, I pictured a goat. But that didn't resonate. I looked up the word 'scapegoat' in a thesaurus and found the word 'cat's paw.' That didn't work either.

With this on my mind I went to bed for the evening. First thing upon waking the next morning, my mind was met with an image of a child. Could it be?"

~*~*~

Held: a prayer...

(7/20/25 meditation without context...)

May I tap into flow

May I float weightlessly

May I drift slowly

images

sounds

scents

Possibilities

no clocks

no dings

no rings

Only the breeze upon my nakedness

May I trust

May I rest

May I...

I am surrounded by Beauty

She pumps life though my cells

Like a bubbling spring Who brings life to all She touches

Feel the object that holds you at this moment

That cradles you

That keeps you from falling

May I trust

May I rest

May I...