When my cat Buddy Boy didn’t greet me in the morning I sensed something amiss, and found him under the stairs to my studio taking his final breaths. Respecting his space, I sat nearby, petted him gently and briefly, and whispered, “I love you Buddy Boy. Thank you for touching my life,” then left him to rest in peace.

Engulfed in a wave of emotions, I moved in deliberate slow motion and caught a glimpse of the sketch of him included in the letter to my sister, written just 12 hours before.

“Here’s Buddy Boy happily drinking from his cup.” I expressed delight in his apparent recovery from a lengthy sick spell as he seemed to be rallying with greater vigor thanks to plenty of personal care, which bonded us closer than ever.

Our relationship began tenuously six years previously when he showed up in my yard to share food put out for another feral cat, Mr. Moon. Although Mr. Moon would affectionately sit on my lap in the garden shed, he refused to be restrained and earned the nickname “Houdini,” after twice breaking immediately from fool proof traps borrowed from the animal shelter. His wild life was short, but sweet and by the time of his death I had earned enough trust from his pal Buddy Boy that he permitted me to pet him while he ate.

It took six months of concerted effort to lure him into my house where he resided skittishly in the basement, and another few months before he felt secure enough to venture up stairs for exploration of the domestic scene. Soon he was on friendly enough terms with the gracious elder cat, Winnie Miblington, who was duly impressed with his macho attitude and the way he fearlessly dominated our dog Skyler. Buddy Boy’s physical presence here will be missed by all of his companions, especially by this human compelled to ponder, grieving the loss while reflecting on the timeless memories.

On the morning of Buddy Boy’s death, I decided to follow through with plans made for the daylong retreat with fellow “pilgrims” of Art Spirit. This group of sensitive and diversely gifted individuals aims for expansion through deliberate gatherings focusing on specific themes of exploration.

The growing process occurs through the sharing of positive intentions developed by camaraderie, learning, interaction, reflection, and respectful gratitude for inspired insights. This year we have focused on the theme: “Art and Spirit of Plants,” and would celebrate the transition between spring and summer with a field trip to visit the gardens of two leading members of our non-denominational group. The morning meditation would be held in the formal garden of the Buddhist temple on the outskirts of Bridgeton, hosted by Linda Engstrom, soon to be ordained “Assistant Minister.”

The covered dish luncheon and interaction to follow would be enhanced by a view of Stowe Creek at the new residence and sculpture studio of Ron Crouch, recently retired pastor of the United Methodist Church.

I was relieved to be simply a passenger on this trip since Judy and Blair had offered to pick me up on their way from the tip of the Jersey Cape to the heartland of Down Jersey. By the time they arrived I had moved in efficient slow motion, packing a light bag including my sketchbook and lunch contribution of homemade coleslaw.

I dug up two of my mom’s reseeded marigolds to plant in each garden. As I entered their car I explained my sad demeanor, and these good friends (literally, because they are Quakers) respected my need to sit quietly, with part of me turned inside for contemplation, and another part wide eyed to take in wonders of varieties of passing scenery.

The day was blooming as we turned into the temple parking lot. A cheery elderly woman with sun hat and watering can waved a welcome and gestured for us to enter the temple door, which we did with careful reverence. Linda was informally speaking from the elaborate altar, explaining some details and sounding the gong for the group, which included Scoop and Karen, both musicians. Ron invited me to sit next to him and when I told him about Buddy Boy’s passing, he gave me a reassuring hug, knowing how it feels to lose a loved one.

Linda said synchronistically, “There are two universal truths: One is that nothing is permanent. The other is that everything is connected.”

I carried my mom’s marigold around the lovely enclosed formal garden including a lily pond, where we meditated and I wept accompanied by bird song, and decided it should be placed out in the open. I was introduced to Frances who helps tend the perennial bed and we established an immediate rapport while selecting a spot. As an exchange, she dug up some hibiscus, and a daisy for me to bring home. I promised her plenty of Rose of Sharon in the fall.

Then we art spirited folks carpooled through the gently sloping rural hills and valleys to Ron’s place for our feast and a lively discussion of the term “omnivalence,” which relates to wholeness, pertinent to the concept of Art and Spirit. As I sat on the banks of Stowe Creek, sketching its abundance of nature’s design through my tears, I considered the creek mingling with the Cohansey River, then down the Delaware Bay to the Atlantic Ocean, which joins all of Earth’s seas.

Also, I thought of the river of spirit, which runs through all things. Smiling through my tears I said out loud, “This was a beautiful day to die. Carpe diem, Pilgrims.”