Last April, mom took this photograph of Whatcom Creek, just down our greening forest path, on her birthday to celebrate living here.
Next month when April rolls around this will no longer be our home and we do not yet know where home will be. Perhaps we'll linger here a bit, but we no longer belong here and do not feel settled, safe or secure knowing the place will be up for sale. Home, to us, means a cozy nest in which to melt as worries of the day fade into guinea pig laughter and a big, soft blanket full of cuddle time with mom.
In memory of water, we all agreed to relax and flow wherever nature takes us; nestling in gratefully once our destination is reached, for just being together makes us a family on the inside, and that's what makes any house a home: the oinkers! usn's! us and mom. and snacks. and a starry night sky filled with meteor showers that make even the worldliest of pigs go "wow." Yes, the meteor shower is the thing.
Thus, we embark upon the "Way of the Guinea Pig: Flow of Not Knowing" and will be updating you, dear reader, as our delightful journey unfolds. No doubt twists and turns will create drama and mom will spend long hours lying on the floor wondering about carpet cleaning; but this will also be the journey where we inhale Faith and exhale Fear. Because meteor showers won't come out unless guinea pigs feel peaceful inside.
Love to you all, especially the salmon babies in Whatcom Creek, where this photo was taken. Their life's journey is far more dangerous and full of challenge than ours, and we wish them godspeed into the deep, dark waters of the Pacific ocean where they will grow into big, strong salmon, only to swim home again, spawn, then die in the waters where they were born.
May we all be returned safely to our True Homes! So Sing! Meteors like that.
Good night, readers.
Good night, baby salmon.
Good night, flowing water.
Good night, stars, sleep well, one and all.
PANDAPIG's BEDTIME: OUT!
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