Our Dearly Departed Cricky

"Seek real, practical life, but seek it in such a way that the spirit which lives in all things is not deadened for you."
---Rudolf Steiner

Many memories have wandered into my earthly gardens. For one thing, my dear Blackie is buried there but in my memories playing like a kitten in the trees. His stone is sinking comfortably into the earth as I imagine his spirit brightly flies elsewhere. Tending the flourishing gardens on this one very hot day, I came across another surprise resident of the other worlds, Cricky. That is what the very little stone says... Cricky the Cricket.

I asked about Cricky to some of the people I strongly suspected might know his story. I am told that he is, for one thing, definitely dead. The neighborhood youngsters found him that way and were saddened by his demise. For some reason, they felt compelled to honor this great Cricky for no lesser reason other than he was found dead in the garden. That is very personal. This became an event, apparently, in my absence, Cricky was placed in a box, lovingly lowered into a small hole in the ground, buried, and properly marked (for a bug) with a stick, a rock and a ribbon and now lies placed upon my garden path. Looking upon this sad but wonderful event as a stranger to Cricky's life, I can only say that this is a very sweet tribute.

I would like to say a few words about our dearly departed Cricky, newly deceased resident of the my living garden cycle. Cricky may not have been a teacher in this lifetime, but he eventually became one upon his death. Dead as a smaller size doornail, he is teaching about life and death displaying what is left of his firsthand experience. His life touched the lives of others mostly after it is over... as far as I can tell. Cricky surpasses the test of race and color, since the kids are not sure if the was actually a cricket or a grasshopper. For them, he has transcended these boundaries of being and besides that we did not compare photos and decide during this solemn time. He may have been the most popular grasshopper (or cricket) in the village, I don't really know. However, in his death he is remembered and visited by many... or at least a good handful. Cricky's untimely death in the middle of a grand and very hot summer has brought him more notice and small time fame than any other hometown grasshopper I know even when compared against the dead ones. I boldly say, especially so. There is a lot you can say about his death, even if you never knew him and have no clue about how he died. You certainly cannot say (for sure) that it is tragic. The gardens are bursting with life which passes and breaks down to become the new life. Cricky may not be with us as a grasshopper or whatever he might have really been any longer, but he will be with us everywhere and always.

Did he have a family? I am sure he had as much of a family as any grasshopper or somewhat unidentified insect of his status has ever had. And in his death, looking down from his heavenly abode from the great grasshopper or hopping creature Summerland, he and his friends must be saying, "Look at that Cricky!" He is beautiful dead as he probably was vibrant when alive. Now that we actually know our dear Cricky is gone, we will miss him dearly.

Cricky has touched my heart more than any other grasshopper or some kind of insect I have ever known... It is safe to say even more than any grasshoppers or unknown bug I have never known as well as him. In my gardening chores, as I pass the final resting place of what was once Cricky, I always stop to honor him for a moment. I wonder about my own tribute to Cricky and ponder the thought of placing a little drink umbrella there myself. The paper umbrella would symbolize the temporariness of our own time here which would be more apparent after the first rainstorm.

My heart goes out to Cricky and everyone and everything like him since as the living, we must face the same place where Cricky probably passed towards without so much of a thought of resistance. Rest in peace our dearest little hoppy one.

Click here to see our Cricky.

The Tar Book and the Briar Patch

Old Stubby Bear made a little sticky tar book to finally catch the little pesky Storyteller Bunny. He left it by the tree where Bunny passes every day.

Storyteller Bunny was supposed to be off doing stuff for other people, meditating, and doing other good deeds like reading stories to fluffy kittens. Instead, it was sure enough that Little S. Bunny became glued to the Tar Baby Book. Old Stubby Bear came on by but Bunny never looked up, still stuck to the book right by the nose. Stubby Bear finally had Bunny right by the tail where he wanted the darn hoppy little Storyteller.

"Now I have you! I am going to tape your eyes shut and make you meditate!" the Old Bear yelled.

"Make me meditate!" the little Bunny yelled back. "Make me meditate only don't throw me in that awful briar patch!"

"I am out of tape anyway," the Bear said tossing the end of his roll and thinking. He then continued with, "I will drop you in the wolf pit and make you practice martial arts!"

"OH STUBBY BEAR, MAKE ME PRACTICE MARTIAL ARTS... only don't throw me in the briar patch with those great masses of tangles, paths and snags!" Storyteller Bunny pleaded.

"The wolf pit is too far away and you aren't even worth the extra mileage on my toes," Old Stubby said half pondering what he should do. "But I will get you a nice fur cut and make you do good deeds for little old ladies until you smell like Jean Nate!" Stubby said smiling meanly at the wonderful idea.

"I will do good deeds for those nice smelling ladies with the blue fur until my insides smell like Chanel No. 5!" Bunny exclaimed. "But please don't throw me in that huge chaotic prickly briar patch where one never knows what one will run into at any turn!"

"Well, I might not be able to stand all that Chanel myself," Bear thought half out loud, "But I will drop you off at the homeless shelter and make you work the soup kitchen until your real mind grows so big that it busts right through your little fur suit."

"That I can do!" insisted Storyteller Bunny, "And I will even eat the government issue chicken noodle soup myself but you know I can't stand to be in the briar patch!"

"The shelter is all the way across this one horse wood town anyway," Bear said as he gave Storyteller Bunny a great surprise heave into the prickly berry patch.

Stubby Bear listened and listened and heard nothing for awhile. Then he saw Storyteller Bunny in the center of the great patch waving and smiling and with a strawberry mustache and a blueberry paw hopping around singing, "Born in the berry patch!" just like Spruce Springbean used to. Old Stubby Bear waved his great paw in anger at the bunny and hollered over the singing, "What do you Storytellers eat for breakfast anyway? Nuts?"

Storyteller Bunny just kept on singing and dancing about being born and raised in the briar patch and that everything was a story anyway and citing passages from the baby tar book until it was time to hop off to sleep. Stubby Bear growled and threw logs into the patch and hollered, but way down deep inside he smiled. He already knew this storyline well and had heaved at least three bunnies this week alone. He went back to his cave after a days work well done humming a Spruce Springbean tune himself.