Someone Else's Cat and Other Thoughts

Someone Else’s Cat and Other Thoughts

I am going to begin with a poem.

Ode to Simon

Friend

Ode to Simon

Companion

Ode to Simon

Partner

Thank you.

Our life is filled with circumstances, things happen, friends walk in, walk out, heading to wherever they came from. I have yet to figure out the time frame and just maybe I don’t want to know. A lot has been going on in the small circles of being, regarding individuals I know of, care about and love. Even in my own smaller space where I was hit hard on Monday with throwing up, fever and not eating for several days.  I am better, more thankful than ever and working harder on blessing every molecule in my body.  Eating real food has never been so good. As to the short poem, it is given with love to my friend. If we are lucky, we get a chance to say Thank you.

I am happy with my life.  I am happy with my husband.  So in part on this Father’s Day, I wish to acknowledge the truth of being blessed with the goodness of this glorious being in my life.  Remember in the title of this blog, I did mention other thoughts.  You will be getting a lot of them but you can take a coffee or tea break, return to a good book or head out for a meditative walk.  The key is to stop for a moment, take several breaths and say Thank You.  Notice that both the words, Thank and You are capitalized. Use your inner self, pay attention and let it flow. No, I did not say play video games, watch a movie, or zone out on your phone.  However, you can Facebook briefly if you are inclined to read this.

I find things daily in the world giving me reason to take pause, and either break down crying, weeping for everything happening to the life on this planet or I can laugh with joy, feel pleasure and happiness for everything happening with the life on this planet.  I am nearly repeating myself but there is a difference. I can concentrate on sadness, or exude with enthusiasm every miracle I hear, see and feel.  I can laugh when the opportunity presents itself.  I like that one, laughter is healing.  The pealing laughter of a child is a testimony to the power of laughter. My heart fills up every time I am gifted with the sound.  So laugh, even if you have to fake it out at first.

I was offered a moment to laugh at myself just the other day.  I was searching for my alarm clock.  In the morning, I turn the clock off, head to bathroom, set it on the counter so I can see how much time I have left when I am bathing, brushing my teeth, etc.  It is what I have done, what my husband has done for years.  You might say we have it down like clockwork.  I know, forgive me.  But did I mention that I am feeling better.

 

My husband has been in rehearsal this week for an upcoming play so I have been home alone.  I work on preparing myself for bed with some reading, watching Netflix and finally, getting undressed and redressed for bed and when I was ready, I reached for the clock on the counter in the bathroom until well, it wasn’t there. I looked twice, thrice and agreed with myself the clock was missing.  I even moved several brown paper rolls left from the toilet paper just in case, it was hiding amidst the four rolls sitting there. Nope, I was being frustrated and in my defense, I was still recuperating from being sick so my attention span was not good.

I decided to look in the other rooms thinking my husband might have placed the little black clock somewhere else. I checked the main bedroom, the blue bedroom and headed to look under piles of dirty socks in the other bedroom.  The socks are left to cover the clock at night as its insistent tick, tick, ticking is a hindrance to my falling asleep.  No clock, I wandered into the kitchen, walked to the dining table with its piles and piles of books, newspapers, both opened and unopened mail, and a jigsaw puzzle. I flipped over newspapers, fingered and moved books until I sighed and gave up again.  I believe in black holes.  I believe in moments in which the universe twitches and things I want to find disappear until the proper amount of time to reach a certain frustration level has been obtained.  But I also believe in angels.  I do asked them for help in locating my stuff, to retrieve it from whatever black hole it has hopped into.  I forgot to do this on this particular day.  Remember, fuzzy head, not thinking clearly from Monday’s day of doom.

I gave up, and still wondering where the man, my husband had hidden the clock I went to the bathroom to pee.  I have a wonderful little window in the bathroom.  It looks out at my red rhododendrons and multi-colored roses of golden yellows and orange. As I sat upon the toilet, my friend of Monday’s fun and games, I heard a tick. I went still.  I held my breath.  Tick.  Where? Tick.  I gazed down at my feet at the heavy green towel which my husband had placed on the floor for my worshiping pose on Monday.  Then I remember.  My bath one morning with the window open. The quiet of the house broken by the birds singing and the tick, tick of the clock which I stuffed in the towel so I could hear the birds. Oh, joy.

I did confess to my husband the blame I had placed on him, regarding the clock.  His comment, “Yes, I am guilty.”  He is so wise.

I think this was a final way of healing my body, a small misadventure to cause me to laugh at the clock, to laugh at myself and to laugh with my husband.  Most of what happens is a gift of some sort to ourselves. The real gift and challenge is finding it somehow.  

Dictacting Habits

Dictating Habits

I fight with myself.  So far, no bruises, not even mean words tossed randomly out on a hunt and destroy mission.  My battle are small ones.  One of my most current ones is what I am reading. Perhaps, I have touched on the subject before.  After all, I did turn another year older during this month of May so who knows what memories I have stashed in the dark, cold, cobwebbed places in my mind.  I have given up on index cards as so many of my thoughts really have no constructive purpose in existing except for being a flashing minute, whizzing like so many atoms before they decide to join for a singular purpose.  Some of my thoughts, well, are simply there.

 

Books, I loved to be surrounded by them.  I like my piles, promises of adventures leading me to hate one character, root for another or to weep with an outcry of no, not him, not her, or it.  But should I have a goal, a purpose to picking up the next one, turning the page? I read primarily for pleasure.  However, there are times I look at my various philosophy, spiritual or what I think of as nonsectarian books sitting lonely on the shelf. Books, if they possess consciousness, would they wonder where I had gone? I, too, wonder where I have gone.

 

I have been looking at my habits, the little rituals, the paths I follow daily. When I was younger I had no other goal except for drifting up a hillside to reach the top stopping to graze for hours into the valley below, watching the river wind through its channel, the elk grazing quietly on the hillside across the river.  I would wait until nearly dusk until heading down the hill to a home cooked meal by my father. I could breath. I could wonder. I was more alive.

Now my little habits gathered through the years are dictating my life.  I get up, wander into the bathroom, heading to the kitchen to make my tea before opening the refrigerator seeking breakfast. The spontaneity is sadly lacking.  Or perhaps, the responsibilities have taken over, the need to work, to make the paycheck, to pay the bills is what my life is about.  Maslow’s hierarchy of needs still applies to my life.  Without the security and comfort of my home, and the realization food will be on the table I would not even consider life has more meaning than just the basics other than breathing.

A friend who has recently had surgery suggested the following. ”You should write about how a broken toe has nowhere to go.” I decided to take it under consideration.  After all, would a broken toe want to go somewhere? Where is nowhere? And if the broken toe left on a journey, does it have a purpose in implementing said journey? Can it bring into play any goals considering its handicap? Does the toe have a consciousness? An awareness of self? Or does it only wish to be better in order to cram itself back into a very vogue pair of shoes? Back to habits. 

Dictating habits? Often I do the same things over and over instead of creating a new way of doing something until it nearly hits me in the head with an ah moment.  Suddenly, I am aware of a whole new consciousness, barriers have been lifted and I look into myself trying to figure out where the new idea came from.  For a moment, my heart leaps, I do the happy dance, joyful in suddenly finding something new in what I have done before. There is a glimpse of my other self, the mystic, the child of the stars who disappears again.

I am still building up my piles of books, reaching for the tantalizing quick read rather than the more thought provoking tomes of insight. I am sometimes conscience-stricken at my imagined lack of dedication to enlightenment.  Until I find what is dictating habits in my life, I will just move on moment to moment, reading another book, wondering if a broken toe can ever find enlightenment or the perfect shade of shoes.

Melting in the Sun

Melting in the Sun

“Strawberries coated in chocolate melt fast in the sun.”  This is a great truth passed down from mother to daughter.  Strawberries with chocolate swirled around them are so beautiful, tempting in the clear plastic box in the cool air conditioned air of the supermarket.  But get them in the car after walking over heated pavement in the parking lot, let them sit on your lap in the hot sun which is beaming through the clear window of the car while you take a picture of their succulent beauty. Well, thankfully, I had lots of napkins on this past Mothers’ Day, a patient husband watching me scarfing down one, two, three, and four chocolate covered berries trying not to coat my fingers, drip on my clothes, car, etc.  Watching, trying not to laugh as chocolate oozed and clumped off of sun heated berries. Not a moment to linger.

Somehow, I think that they were better suited to a leisurely moment in the shade beneath tall trees by a gurgling brook or rushing creek.  A soft moving zephyr rustling my hair while violins play nearby. An old fashioned picnic with a comfortable blanket to rest on, fragrant, pungent cheeses with slices of breads to linger over and chilled water, wines to sip.  A much better picture than me, sweating slightly, eating the damn strawberries with their melting chocolate in a quickly heating car.

As things go, obviously I was swayed by beauty and not content.  So often is the case in our fast paced world.  We go for the quick, instant gratification without much thought to what might be happening around us.  In my case, I was at a grocery store on a very warm day.   We had stopped on our way home from vacation to stretch our legs, get a restroom break and pick up more tea to drink on the next leg of our journey towards home. I was slightly chilled, cool from walking in the store when I saw the strawberries, chocolate, and very convenient Mothers’ Day sign.  I was hooked.  After all, I was a mother, it was my day, and I was on vacation.  The man dutifully grabbed my tea, said go for it and left me to fulfill my desires.

 

Life is filled with after thoughts, after deeds?  An after deed is what I think that I should have done after the before deed happened.  I should have left the strawberries, been content with my tea, smelt the flowers on the way out to the car.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, the strawberries were good, very good for warm, melting chocolate puddles of goo.  But the chilled ones are so much better.   

Having an Icky Day

Having an Icky Day

When you are sick, nothing is good. Food doesn’t taste right, the friendly comfortable bed has begun to develop pits and mountains making it near impossible to navigate with various arms, legs and trunk into a resting position.  Your head makes it impossible for light reading or any other kind of reading as eyes can’t focus, the brain can’t take in meaning of squiggles dancing across a printed page.  A Kindle is worse with the bright screen hurting sensitive eyes. It just plain stinks.

As for taking a walk to clear your fog bank dwelling in your head with fresh air. Well, the best movement is back to bed.  Let me say boring. Disruptive to one’s work week, planned social events or having a simply lazy day in which to do many things if the mood grabs you

.

I was knocked down by an icky bug, no need for details.  Enough said I spend all of my time sleeping for two days, making it up for a bit of tea, eating a good breakfast that my husband prepared.  He knows me.  I would have ignoring eating.  As it was I lost several pounds without a good exercise routine.

Three days later, the man walked me around the block before declaring it good enough.  Today, I missed out on the fun things going to Farmers’ Market, getting a massage and just going to the grocery store.  I contributed a shopping list.  My list for Farmers’ Market included stopping to say hello to some of my favorite vendors, getting fresh baked bread which they had our favorite (honey oatmeal wheat bread), looking for good soup (I provided a jar with a good funnel) and some fresh vegetables.

Ah, but my bug was a small bug.  A small inconvenience for me, a bigger one for my poor co-workers. My apologies.  It does make you sit up and take notice. I am actually quite healthy.  I am going to be a year older in a month.  Sorry, if I keep harping on it.  You should hear the people who keep asking if I going to retire.  I am just as bad. Frequently I ask several individuals I know if they will be retiring on the big day of turning sixty-five.  Meanwhile, I just keep going.

I am taking more time for things I want to do.  Really, I am.  At least, in my mind, I think I have a plan.  I should probably talk to the man, my sweet husband so he can be involved, too.  It would be a lot more fun than him waiting on me hand and hand when I am sick.  Or would it? I should probably asked after he is done loading the dishwasher, heating me up something to eat. No, I will ask him after he finishes the laundry.     

Spiriting

Spiriting

I was raised with the idea of spirit inhabiting everything.  Ask before you hug a tree. Apologize, asking forgiveness when you walk on the grass and when you weed your flowerbeds.  As one of my Wiccan friends said, she needed to do a lot of apologizing to the fairies and spirits for all the yard work she had done one day in early spring, she was feeling the anger and grief for the disturbance from the fairies.

As we drove home from the valley yesterday, well the man, my husband was driving while I gawked in wonder at the display of clouds ringing the valley. My little body was vibrating with the utter joy I felt, getting me caught up in wondering how many cloud spirits it might take paint the sky with the mass of thunderheads I was seeing. Back lit with the sunshine, my heart was stilled. Which lead me to wonder about fire spirits, how many fire salamanders are needed to keep my little fire in our wood stove burning.  What about the wild fires burning every year? Spirits, billions and billions of spirits are inhabiting just the bodies of human beings, animals, insects, plants and heavens know what we are incapable of viewing with our eyes. It is easy to be overwhelmed.

 

Probably it is not a good thing to dwell on it, the mechanics of what is going on around us every single moment.  I am constantly amazed by myself. Egotistical?  No, just amazement for the body I have which in turn processes the good (a really great salad) and bad things (okay, I ate four chocolate chip cookies. They were homemade by the man.  They had a bit of oatmeal and whole wheat and all of the sugar and butter); I eat into a breathing, walking, thinking bag of protoplasm.   I mean Wow.  As a woman, I did an incredible thing.  I grew another creature inside my body.  Other than the initial hard work done by my husband and I in the set up for the biology experiment, I really didn’t do much.  I was lucky. The experiment now lives in New York.

Spirit, spirits.  Miracles, sparking everyday occurrences. Life. It happens, right?  I need to take more time out to feather dust my spirit. Let the sparkle shine.  Time to let some spiriting happen. 

 

Sweaty Buns

Sweaty Buns

When the man, my husband came in to wake me in order to go to our local REC center, I declined, telling him that I needed to cook my broccoli which had been sitting in the refrigerator for more than a week. After he left, I returned my alarm clock to the floor with a nice pile of dirty socks to muffle the tick, ticking of the clock.  I don’t like the noise while I am trying to go to sleep so over the years I have developed a routine of hiding my clock under a towel or discarded clothing but I have found socks work exceedingly well.

I began thinking of my day, cooking the broccoli, what to wear, figuring out what to have for breakfast.  Soon I began tossing, turning and ended up pushing the bedding to the foot of the bed allowing myself to steam off in the cool air of the bedroom.  Sweaty buns, I thought to myself as I flung my body onto its side.  My right bare arm rested on my side, my right hand touching one of the buns in question. Yes, definitely sweaty or is it a glow. Supposedly, women glow. Yeah, glowing, my royal ass.  Baby, I am sweating. In all of the creeks and crevices. Just a note, according to my sister Cindy, it never goes away.  Changes, yes, but never goes.  Just eat your dark chocolate during the day and you will know what I mean.

Luckily for me I never had to take hormones or rather I choose not to.  I had a brief period in which I would start stripping down practically everywhere.  Once in a jewelry store.  Fortunately, we knew the owner who smiled and continued to help us. The man, my husband told her, she gets hot. I did keep my blouse on but fanned myself a bit too rigorously defeating the purpose of fanning cool air on my body.  It is a good way to impress others.

Often, my own little ritual would begin with the removal of one piece of clothing followed by another piece and more articles of my attire until the blessed sweet cool air danced on my skin.  For a while, ice packs in my sports bra front and back was a new fashion statement in the privacy of my home.  Occasionally, our scrabble friend would see the sweater, t-shirt slide off and on throughout our game as I tried to adjust my temperature until I was sitting in just my bra on my torso.  I was aided in the process with a glass of cold water to put against my forehead and the back of my neck. The scrabble game went on.

Thankfully, I am way past those days.  My heat is mild lasting about 30 to 45 seconds.  Most of the time I sleep comfortably in my cotton flannel nightgown. I am resting beneath several quilts, a dark blue comforter, a couple of cream colored hand knitted afghans and a couple of small cotton blankets depending on the night.

 

I like to sleep with lots of things.  When I was a girl, it was the time of single pane windows that the winds whistled around and through.  Everyone slept with heavy quilts and a sibling or a cousin.

I would wake up with frost on inside of window from our breaths’ moisture in the night. The windows in my home are double pane now. Despite the whistling and howling of wind there is no frost except on the rooftops, the lawns about us. I have to wonder what the next decade has in store for me.  So far, I have begun to develop the attitude that this too shall pass.  Hopefully, the only future sweaty buns will be hot out of the oven with steam rising from the baking.

 

Aggravation and Relief

Aggravation and Relief

Sometime the simplest thing can aggravate you.  Perhaps this is not a conversation for the faint at heart as it involves potty talk. I am talking about heading to the small room after waiting too long, standing in place, trying not to dance as you try to separate the paper toilet seat cover in order to use it.  Aggravation, near terror, hopelessness and a compelling thought to stand and hover to take care of the problem.  Damn paper product.

Allowing the flow of bodily waste to pass warm from your body is one of the greatest pleasure in life. There is no judgement, no need to hurry once the process is in place as you rest gently in a publicly designated spot, in a stall with the door firmly closed behind you.  I have been out in the woods with rain or snow hitting my bare backside.  The great relief was not diminished in any sense.  Though the drip drying was not exciting.

 

I am trying to take my moments of aggravation out where I can examine them more carefully, to dig out the roots, to laugh at myself for nonsensible emotions I seem to be having at the time.  This is my truth. “This moment will past.” “The next moment will come.” “I will be.”

Gratitude should play into this somewhere.  Being grateful for a body which takes care of itself without much effort on my part is a win-win situation as far as I am concerned.  But I am working on it.  I am making an effort.  Adding various different vegetables into our meals, yes, the man, my husband is involved in taking care of ourselves.  Not only are we working on eating better daily, stretching our bodies, walking, playing games but periodically we attempt meditation on line with Deepak Chopra and Oprah.  We are not good at doing it daily but we are at least aware perhaps a higher view point would be good for both of us.  Procrastination is not just a big word.  It is a lingering habit right up there with the promises of an afternoon walk which does not materialize, reading uplifting prose to expand my mind, hell, just head for the cookie with a cup of coffee or tea to wash it down.

I am getting older.  I will be sixty-five in a few months.  I think I am doing well.  I can still walk and think.  I can touch my toes.  I practice it daily or try to.  When I was on the bed placing the eye drops for my dry eye problem, I found myself just continuing to rest on the bed.  There was really no pressing reason to get up yet for our walk. I relaxed my knees and let my legs rest fully on the bed.  This moment is perfect I thought to myself. I am perfect. I am loved. I gave thanks to the glorious father and divine mother.  I allowed myself to breathe in the perfect moment.

I find myself seeking these moments more and more as the days go by. It is better than aggravation.