Musings on the Power of Three — A Sprinkling of Grace

My life path number is three, and consequently, one of my favorite numbers. I didn't know that part about my life path number until a few years ago. I was aware of the pattern in my life but rarely looked too deeply into it. And this isn't the point of this musing.

My ramblings today are in memory of my favorite sidekick and forever guardian, Athena Ama Andrews. On December 3rd, 2022, I silently commemorated three years since she went on to the place of ancestors and angels. And today, December 19th, I held space for her on what would have been her 13th birthday. These two numbers signify so much in my life and combine my lucky number (13) and my life path number (3), which feels sadly serendipitous.

I honestly can't believe that the years have passed so quickly; that time has slipped through my hands like the piercing drops of heavy rain on a cloudy day. If I'm unflinchingly honest, I still measure my days by how long Athena's been gone. She still inspires my most outstanding art and my most daring adventures. I often wonder if I'll ever stop.

However, on this day, I want to be firmly rooted in the greatest lesson Athena ever taught me, which I call "the gift of the final bite." It's a strange name for what I think is a fairly common but rarely discussed concept — sharing or, better yet, saving your final bite of food for the ones you love dearly. Let me preface this by saying that I come from a family of great cooks and excellent eaters - we're the kind of people who sip soup straight from the bowl and lick our fingers when we're done (btw, many of our traditional dishes are eaten with clean hands). We savor every morsel, and there's nary a crumb left behind.

When Athena was a wee pup, I got it in my head that a dog that begged was obnoxious and obstructive to me, enjoying my last bites. With some positive reinforcement, I trained Athena to spend mealtime sitting away from the table or resting quietly under the table. And for every successful meal, I would place a doggie treat in her bowl. As time passed, the positive reinforcement became sporadic and unnecessary; however, several years before her passing, I began saving the last bites of my meals for Athena. If it weren't something she could eat (read here: too spicy), I would fry her up some eggs in coconut oil and save them as the "last bite." I felt overcome with the need to let her know that we were enjoying these savory bites together and that no matter what, my love was as big as the most delicious final bites of my meal.

The most exciting thing was that Athena fully understood the ritual I had begun. She would always materialize at the end of my meal, regardless of if she was sunbathing outdoors, sleeping upstairs, or having some quiet time in her secret spots. Athena would pop up just in time for me to offer her the precious crumbs (read here: a good portion) of my meal. And she always looked so happy and grateful. And afterward, I'd pet her on the forehead, tell her she was the bestest girl in the whole wide world and give her a big hug.

When I think about Athena, that's always what I remember and miss the most. The sparkle in her eyes as she watched me put food into her bowl and the softness of her fur under my hand when I pet her. I've never regretted those moments; not once was I sad about not getting to scrape my own plate clean. Primarily because of how much joy it clearly brought Athena.

These days, I'm not as generous with every last bite, but I still save the best bits for my nephews, share the first bite with my brother or sister-in-law, or make extra and take some to my parents. I even apply this principle at work -- albeit with my words and time instead of food, since I work remotely. This ritual of care is my constant reminder of how much love Athena showed me I had inside and all the ways I could show it. The last bite is simply a metaphor for our inner light, a demonstration of our capacity to care. And the wonderful thing is the more you share it, the more it fills you up.

Athena's death changed me. More accurately, it transformed me. That's the thing about grief-- if you can find your way out of the heartbreaking and gut-wrenching insanity of it, if you can lean into the hurt, if you can use your pain as a mirror, you can begin to see yourself so clearly that even you hardly recognize yourself. And inside that haze is the formulation of the new you, your very best self.

Some days, I'm unsure of the changes, wobbly about if I am convinced that it's growth I feel inside my bones. But most days, I know. There's a rumbling inside me that wasn't there before, light pouring out of the seams and cracks of a heart that's barely holding it together. Although, in this life, our moment has passed — at least for now. I know that more awaits Athena and me in the next.

And when I'm uncertain of what comes next or who I am becoming, that's when Athena appears. It can be as mundane as an iPhone memory with her picture, a random album of her stoic yet cheerful face, the glimpse of a German shepherd at the park, and when I'm really in need of direction — her presence crystallized in my dreams. Those are my favorites, the moments when she becomes so real that I can touch and hug her and tell her how desperately I miss her.

Athena is the constant shifting gear of the clock of my life, letting me know that time is ticking by but still on my side. But even in my dreams, she rarely allows me to get that close. She's simply there to remind me that I've got to keep stretching and growing. That I have to move to higher places in myself so I can become as big and full as the Creator intends for me to be.

So on this day, I celebrate the life that was and the spirit that will always be the guardian of my light—three cheers for the one and only incomparable Athena.