I remember it with both joy and melancholy.
I was finally preparing to leave. Everything was just about packed up. The house was already taking on that empty feeling. It was getting down to the wire, just days before saying goodbye to this place that I dearly loved but felt I had to leave.
I don’t know what made me look out just then.
I went deliberately to the window, and gazed out, the field stretching away to the west. And there she was, so close I could almost have touched her.
The fox stood still outside my window. There was a profound aura of peace and magic about this elusive, beautiful animal. I knew she was there on purpose. I knew we were connected somehow. Then, as if satisfied that her work was done, she disappeared.
I lived there for fifteen years, and never saw a fox before that day.
I was simultaneously calmed and distressed by the fox’s visit. I couldn’t help but wonder why the fox came to me. Was this reassurance about the path upon which I was about to embark? Or was this a warning?
It hurts to recall this moment. Stepping back into this particular past always does. Much pain and sadness surrounds the memory.
And yet, there is such beauty and peace and sense of connection in the memory, too. Even joy.
Like so much, I carry the fox in my heart.
Change must be. The fox knows, and she goes with me.