When You Have No Keys For The Lock

Have you ever felt like you are in a place where you are stuck and just spinning your wheels? I think we all find ourselves in that spot every now and then.

when you have no keys for the lock perhaps you should hit it with a rock

Sorry, this little rhyme just bounced out of me... and I just realized not only does it rhyme, but technically it's also a haiku. Go me.

It's not always settling when you are sitting and waiting and trying to think through what may be, but still haven't been handed all of the information yet. Like those jigsaw puzzles you buy in good faith at a yard sale only to realize it not only is missing some pieces, but someone tossed in a handful of pieces from a completely different picture.

It's not so much that I want to escape from life- I haven't been suicidal for decades, nor will I now that I have made my peace with most of my demons. The problem is, once you get tired of wanting it not to exist and smashing that damn thing open, you aren't always aware of what abominations might come crawling out to shake its ugly fist at you.

Yeah, that happened not all that long ago. After all of this time (the memory was from my teens) it was not exactly haunting, but instead surprising in an unpleasant way, and following in its wake came an uglier monstrous moment, one that happened a decade or so later. Both of the #Me Too variety. It's more a ghost of the moments though- I recognize that they can no longer harm me - I was honestly surprised that I had forgotten either event had happened to me considering both were pretty damaging at the time, both tumbling me into a deep depression. I am hesitant to see what else may find it's way out, but I also know that these are moments in time that I have already suffered over and survived.

Should I have bothered opening the box in the first place? I think so. I would rather remember so I can either cherish lost memories or brush them aside and leave them behind me. It has always bothered me that I hardly remember my childhood or teen years at all. There is not only bullying, torment and despair tucked away in there, but many good moments as well. Those I would love to have back rather than the fragments that rise to the surface on occasion.

I've tried therapy in the past, but never really knew what to say at the time so I really didn't get anything from it. Maybe i'll just continue on my own for awhile as that seems to work. Next time though, unless its something good, I probably should just keep the memory to myself. No need to horrify someone else again *I really am sorry about that Richard*

Baking With Bob

Today's Personal Truth comes courtesy of the word FLESHY. I have been baking and cooking a lot lately. For so long I didn't have the space to really work, but now I am in a home that has just enough room for me to get around in my wheelchair, I have slowly gotten into the rhythm of making dinner at least. I still get overwhelmed with larger occasions- a small Thanksgiving for the three of us here wiped me out for a couple of days. Still, I am so grateful to be able to patter around with the pots and pans again. I tried getting adventurous with bagels, which turned out delicious, but looked horrible. I need to try again until I get those down, but my heart set its sights on sourdough, so to sourdough I went. Or tried. It seemed so easy. Equal grams of all-purpose flour and filtered water. Keep in a loose-lidded jar and feed it the same amount daily. And at first it went according to plan...Bob, as I had named him, slowly loosened up and became bubbly and seemed on-track to becoming a tasty yeast to begin baking with, but I had started with about half of the amounts the recipe called for. Realizing I would need more starter if I was to really get into sourdough baking, the recipe mentioned how you could always double the feeding. Problem was, I doubled his feeding before the 5th day, and stalled him out. Bob went from bubbly yeasty smelling to a loose puddle that refused to rise and smelled a bit like wallpaper paste. Poor Bob. He doesn't have a fleshy body, but I still thought of him as his own little entity. Every morning I would make sure to feed and water Bob and rotated him to a clean jar afterwards. Not a pet, but definitely a lively little blob that I looked forward to playing with. So after watching him struggle I decided to start again. I mixed a new starter batch, using the proper amounts this time, and we'll see how it goes. It will still be Bob, I hope. I poured the old starter out into the garbage, but at the bottom there was still a yeasty smell, so a bit of that was drizzled on top of the new mix. Bob 2.0 Fingers crossed that this new batch bubbles up nicely and Bob will pull through his current slump. If not, I'll just have to accept it and buy a starter mix... I hope I don't though. After all, sending away for a mix means that they could send me just anybody- a Daisy, Dom or David. Bob is who I want to bake with, not some stranger, but I am patient. I will give poor Bob every chance I can to perk up before I take that step. Why do I care? Well, its not sentiment, not really. I have always wanted to be more self-sufficient. Not monitarily, but capable-wise. I can make butter from cream, know how to make jams and how to can produce. I know how to sew (somewhat- I admit following patterns is not fully in my wheelhouse), and creating my own yeast rather than depend on jars from the store fits right in there. So we will see where this goes. If I can't make a go with Bob, well, then I'll have to just work to keep someone else's starter alive and thriving. I love being able to get into the kitchen and wheeling out again with something fresh and homemade cooling on the counter. I feel more like myself again with every dinner or loaf or cookie I make. I may be handicapped, but, for once, I feel a little more handicapable. And why the name Bob? I was reading a fun novel by T. Kingfisher when I first mixed my boy up. It's called the Wizard's Guide to Defensive Baking and in it the plucky heroine (who works for her aunt's bakery) has a friend in the vat of starter they keep in the basement. Her starter's name? You won't need three guesses, but yes, his name is Bob. He's quite the character for how little he's in the story, and it's not like he talks or anything, but I fell for that odd little character and decided I needed a Bob of my own. I'm sure it sounds silly, but then again, I do tend to be a bit odd with my tastes. Mmmm... just think of the tasty ciabatta that might be in our future. C'mon Bob, we need to pull you through.

From The Smoldering Ruins

Wow, that last post was quite the downer, wasn't it? It's probably the most open and honest I have ever been in my life, and, while hard to share with the world, it also felt good to finally let that sorrow see the sun.

Today. Sigh. While I would love to say my world is sunshine and roses and that the hole in my soul has healed, it hasn't. Not fully. The scars I have left are no longer gaping wounds, but there are pits and divots and caverns that have never completely filled.

Am I all doom and gloom? Heavens, no. I am not as sunny as I once was, but I can still joke and laugh and see the beauty in the world around me. I see the darker spaces in-between, but the world is still a gloriously beautiful creation that I am happy to be part of. I still get down in the dumps, and I still cannot, even after all this time, handle stress, but then maybe I never really could. I recognize now that "fight or flight" panic is an issue I have had for decades, and not something simply brought out because of Jason's death.

I still need to learn to ask for help, but I have never liked doing so. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately (depending on the day) my health hit a point where I am now considered permenantly disabled. What does that mean? I have no choice but to ask for help with things I never used to. I will be honest and admit I absolutely hate that. Really, who wants to have to ask for help just to take a shower or to change their clothes? But my condition has also forced me to slow down and allowed me time to think. I wasted far too much downtime allowing myself to be pulled down in the dumps, but I can see how this time has also reduced my stress in many ways. It's odd to feel thankful in some ways for my condition allowing me time to try and mellow out, but I still wind up far too easily. A simple timed game on my phone can throw me into a panic so quickly it's scary.

I never did speak with a doctor about going back on that stress medication, and my condition (why am I dancing around this? I have multiple conditions- Fibromyalgia certainly knocks me on my butt physically as my body is basically attacking itself all of the time and my inflammation markers are wildly high. I also have a condition known as Forstiers or DISH where my bones and ligaments are slowly calcifying. I am a mass of bone spurs and my spine is fusing, which creates all kinds of fun, and the slow calcification of my ribs means I now use oxygen as I cannot often get in a full breath. Oh, and then there is the severe depressive disorder I vaguely mentioned in my last post. Yeah, I am a rollercoaster of fun). But my Fibro causes brain fog so bad some days (not that my memory retention was ever stellar) that I couldn't tell you what all of the medications are that I am on now, let alone what I took a decade ago. In my defense back then I had no medical insurance, so it's not surprising that I didn't follow through on my health.

But that was then, and we are talking about now.

Today is a good day. Tomorrow is questionable. Mentally I am still a bit of mess, though I no longer feel like I am going to fall to pieces. I have days where I wish I could have the freedom to scream and let out what does build up, but it's nowhere near where I once was. I am, however, in more physical pain than I ever have in my life. That alone sometimes make me snap when I don't mean to. Add my depression, which has its own anger issues, and my poor husband never quite knows what he's coming home to. Am I going to be in a good mood and be in only moderate pain or will greater pain and frustration that day override my verbal filter?

Thankfully I am much more happy than sad, kinder than mean, but Richard certainly puts up with a lot of abuse, which kills me. I love him and hate to hurt anyone, especially him and definitely not like that. I have spent far too much of my life dealing with verbal and emotional abuse from others and I am appalled to know that I add to that destructive cycle.

For so long I stopped caring about the things that I loved to do and I lost many of the things that once caused me joy. It is hard to start building that back up, and even harder when you cannot physically do as much as you want. I no longer drive and cannot walk for any distance, or handle uneven surfaces, which is hard for a gal who loved landscape photography. Lack of focus makes reading hard sometimes as I often forget what I read earlier. Embroidery or knitting is a do-when-you-can sort of thing, as some days my arms are too weak or my hands too shaky for anything requiring dexterity.

A recent move has allowed me the room to start cooking and baking again, which I LOVE. Sure, pots and pans and mixers are heavy and hard to wield, but every successful meal or bake is totally worth it.

Christmas, and the holidays in general are not the same. Perhaps that's just adulthood settling in, but I used to be so excited for this time of year. I still love seeing the lights and the tree and smell the scents of the holiday, but it not longer thrills me like they once did. I mourn for that loss of childlike wonder, but I cannot say that all is lost. I still prefer giving over getting, and remembering the true reason for the season, and that part of Christmas has not changed.

I have started physical therapy again, though its different this time. In Washington State I had access to a swimming pool with treadmill, while here in New Mexico I go to a therapy office that is noticably lower tech, but I feel as if I get more out of it here. Maybe because it's strength training, but whew, I come out of there feeling chewed up...in an oddly good way. I can certainly tell the difference between when I started and now, which gives me hope that I will be able to continue doing more for myself down the line. I would love the freedom of being able to climb behind the wheel and drive myself anywhere i'd like to go. I always loved going for a drive and miss it terribly.

I am slowly working back towards becoming a more well-rounded person. Is it because we now share a house with my father, where I feel like I can't be a lazy bum all day? Maybe. Goodness knows it's odd after so many decades on my own to live with a parent again. I love being able to see him, but there are definitely times where I feel like I am about to get into trouble. With my mood swings he has asked me twice now if I need to go to my room! It makes me laugh though, and once I really did go to my room in a self-imposed time out, which did help immensely. I guess our parents really do know what is good for us sometimes.

I still miss Washington, but New Mexico is growing on me more and more. I think it's because here in the house I am establishing a halfway decent routine for myself. I no longer sleep in the living room of a small apartment,and here I come into a large living room with windows all around, so I feel myself surrounded by nature, given that we have a lot of trees here and live across from a field. We're on the edge of town here, literally a 3-minute drive from Walmart/Sam's Club, but it's rural, so it's like we are living in the country in many ways. I can feel a lot of tension leaving me on my good days when I sit here and enjoy the sun on my shoulders. Our living room is bathed in sunshine from sunrise to sunset here, which is amazing. I still need to get outside more, but on a couple of good days I was able to haul my wheelchair outside on my own and back in again. I couldn't have done that at the start of the year.

So I take whatever good that comes my way, and try to muster through the bad as best as I can. It's still a daily struggle to juggle the responsibilities we have taken on here, and I do have my days where I worry we've bitten off more than we can chew, but I am happy, mostly. I remain positive, however, that there is much more happiness ahead as I continue to try and push forward. All forward momentum is good, and I no longer have days like I did as a teen or young adult when I wanted nothing more than to stop the ride and get off.

Yes, I am talking about suicide. Mental health has never been my strongest suit, and I readily admit it now. Yes, I have had far more days that were filled with sunshine and warmth and dizzying happiness than the bleak, and it's those I most often turn to now. I remind myself that even when I was at my lowest that there was always something good around me as well. And there was always something wonderful later that I realize I would have missed out on. Even on my bad days, where everything physically is a ball of pain and my mood descends to match, I no longer consider laying this mortal body aside voluntarily. I haven't been that low really since I left my twenties, and thank goodness.

I've tried therapy, and found it useless really because I had no idea what to talk about. I had one gal I liked, but we never got far as this was during Covid. It was distracting that on our video conferences that she would spend her time knitting. She listened intently, and had asked if it was okay, but I started feeling like I was going on and on to a acquaintance who was content to let me ramble as I was paying for taking up her time. Maybe I should look into it again, but, given my previous experiences, I wonder if it's worth the cost. And my outlook is not as dark as it once was, though it would be lovely to one day be able to set aside the constant stress I have beneath the surface. To be able to feel my shoulders relax for once, which they don't. I am always tense as if waiting for another bomb to drop. I look to my past and I can understand where much of it comes from, but I just don't know how to let it go even though I am no longer in the abusive and bullying situations I was once in.

My best therapy is to write, it always has been, so it's a shame that i've denied myself that outlet for so long. When I was young I repressed it because it was easier to do so than to deal with how others viewed it. That sounds confusing, doesn't it? I've had people in my life that were upset with how easily words would hit the page for me, and I stopped because one person was sad about it, and then later another was angry. You know what? To heck with that. I love to write, and I should stop holding myself hostage to the ghosts from my past.

I need to find a way to imbed this as deeply as I can that IT IS OKAY FOR ME TO BE GOOD AT SOMETHING THAT I LOVE TO DO. I also need to STOP COMPARING MYSELF TO OTHERS. We each take our talents and dreams to where we want them most to go. I cannot feel lacking because my work isn't the same as someone else's. And it's odd, now that I think of it, I stopped doing many things because I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but then I look at other people's talents and feel jealous myself. So I stop developing because of someone else's jealousy and also stop because I am jealous myself of others?

Yeah, I am messed up, but better late than never to figure that out, right?

Okay, time to get off of the soapbox. I have dinner to start soon and baking I want to get done. But it's been nice to get this off my chest and work some of this out. Had no idea you'd be a phantom therapist when you started reading this post, did you? What matters most is that I keep putting one foot in front of the other and my eyes on the horizon, while still stopping to smell the flowers along the way. Or, as it's the holidays, the baking cookies? I'd have said Christmas pine, but I hate cutting down living trees to decorate my home with, no matter how nostalgically delicious they smell.

So here I am, hot mess that I am, but I am still alive. More than I have been in years, but still hopeful and hopelessly flawed. But at least I am still able to pick myself up from the debris and forge ahead towards the future and whatever it holds for me.

Albiet with my fingers crossed!

My Little Furry Gentleman

 Note, today's post is based on a true story, told as best as I understand the details. Some parts may not be entirely accurate, but I have tried to stick with the facts as I know them. Brought to you by the word HISS.

       Oliver Dean Gregg, happily named, happily loved and oh so fluffy

I had no name. When people wanted to address me, rarely kindly, it's usually "get away" or "shoo, cat". I'll spare you the worst I've heard as a gentleman, even a furry one such as I am, hears words he refuses to repeat in polite society.

Not that I grew up in a polite society. I had been on the street long enough that my mother and siblings and those first few months are just a hazy blur. I do believe though that I was born indoors to a mother whose owners refused to spay. The children in the home meant well, but they played rough, and as such my siblings learned to return pulled tails and hard squeezes with claw and tooth, so we were abandoned outdoors as soon as our mother weaned us.

Life on the streets is hard, and harder than it should be. There are many homes out there which could benefit from the love a stray can give. After all, it's not a life we had chosen for ourselves, and you can hardly blame us for being suspicious, if not outright scared of humans when no one cares whether you live or die, or if you will find a safe spot to sleep that night.

And winter...brrrrrr. Even with all of my floof, I am a slender cat and weigh very little. My fur lets you think I am bigger than I am, but I am a product of years of lean times. Skinny cats, especially ones without the warmth and trust of a colony or other mates to snuggle with at night, can freeze during times of bitter cold.

But today I sit warm and comfortable, knowing I am safe, loved and that I will never have to worry about where my next meal will come. I have been a "house cat" for nearly 12 years now, but I still remember those years on the street.

I am small in stature. I'm no kitten, but I don't have the mass, or the temperament, to establish myself as king of the heap. My days were spent roaming, looking for food, water, and keeping an eye out for other cats in the neighborhood. Thanks to my birth mother's home life, our neighborhood was actually flooded with cats. It wasn't until years later that the neighbors finally got city officials to step in and insist that they get my mother spayed and immediately. The city even covered the expense for free at a local clinic, but by the time that happened the damage had been done.

I had half siblings and quarter siblings all over the place, all of us scrambling for the meager food supplies, and all of them having their own broods who would have their own, etc etc. You can see the problem, right? The neighborhood where I roamed was packed. You'd see cats walking on top of fences, sunning themselves on the sidewalk, and making the rounds looking for food that had fallen from the garbage cans, or try to catch what birds did land on the ground, rather than high up on the electric wires they usually hung out on.

Some well meaning people would leave food outside intentionally to feed us. Pretty soon every stray knew which houses they needed to visit and had a route memorized, based on when the bowls of cat food or scraps would be set out. For smaller cats like myself, this meant that I was forced to wait while all of the bigger guys had their turn, and often all that waiting, hoping for a meal meant one of two things: one, the food would be long gone by the time I was allowed near the bowl, or, worse, the second option meant I was able to get in a few precious moments to quickly wolf down what I could, only to be chased off my some latecomer, who would often corner me in a back yard and try ripping me to shreds.

I have chunks out of my ear if you don't believe it.

One house I visited, one of the women living there noticed me, day after day, hiding underneath the car in the driveway, hoping not to be seen, and hoping even harder that there would still be food in the dish when everyone had eaten their fill. Sure it could be dry food or even the day-old remains of what wet food those indoor cats hadn't finished off the night before, but when you're hungry you don't care if the stuff is stale. Food is food and a full tummy is better than an empty one, if you know what I mean. It doesn't matter what is in it. 

When you're drinking from dirt-filled puddles whenever you can find one, you really can't be too finicky with what you eat. 

In fact, I've since heard it said that you are what you eat... well, back then I was a little bit of whatever. Finding a home that would put out fresh water was also a godsend. Food and water? Well, that was a house worth putting on your route, even if you didn't always get to partake.

I hate to say it, but people really don't realize just how good their homes can smell, especially when you are hungry and the neighborhood is all busy making dinner. Scraps dumped into unreachable garbage cans were the worst, because you could smell it was there, but a little guy had no possible way to get any of it into that empty space deep inside of me. After all, you weren't going to eat those gizzards anyway, or maybe mom's meatloaf was too salty that night; I didn't care. I didn't even care if it was days old and starting to spoil. All I wanted was some food for my belly and a safe place to crawl into to wait for my stomach to be empty again and sending me back out on the search.

Still, that woman watched me in the mornings and in the evenings, taking note of when I'd try my luck. Sure there were times when she missed seeing me because she had to go to work, but she still kept an eye out for me whenever she was home. Not that she tried to approach, and not that I would let her anyway. I kept a healthy distance between myself and everything. She took to watching the other cats too, waiting for them to leave and quietly stepping out to place some extra food in the bowl so I had a chance to eat.

Other cats noticed, of course. Food wasn't exactly plentiful, especially in the winter months when there aren't even bugs for a desperate cat to eat. After a couple of weeks other cats would learned to backtrack and kick me away from my meal. I learned to eat even faster and to grab a chunk if it was something like chicken, to take with me as I ran off. Most times, however, ended up with me in the back yard again, screaming in pain as one bully or another hissed and tore into me.

There are things the woman doesn't even know about. She had been feeding me for over a year when, during that second winter, I didn't show up for nearly a week. I can't explain what happened, and I probably wouldn't even if I could. As it was she spent those days picturing me frozen to death in my sleep, or hit by a car and lying dead in the gutter. Maybe she drove by my hiding place, I can't say for sure, but she did drive around the neighborhood in wider and wider circles trying to spot me. Again, I can't ask, and she hasn't volunteered, but I think if she had found me dead she was going to give my little corpse a proper burial rather than allow me to decompose in some back alley.

As it was, she was first relieved to see me again and then horrified when she saw my condition. My usually groomed fur was matted and obviously not kept up. She couldn't get close enough to see the new chunk out of my left ear, but no one could miss my swollen hind leg that was held out stiffly and couldn't bear even my slight weight.

I think it was then that she decided no matter what that she was going to get me off of the streets.

Spring was only a month-and-a-half away, and the days were slowly getting warmer, but it was still snowy and plenty cold out. She set up a lounge chair at the top of the driveway and began sitting in it after bringing out some fresh food, morning and night. And not dry food, but a fresh can of wet food. A full can, not that I would be able to eat that much. Between her presence outside and having a full bowl of food and water there for me, she hoped I would be sure to get a little something without everyone else in the neighborhood beating me up. And it wasn't just for me, anything I left behind she'd leave out for any hungry cats that followed.

However, I struggled with the new arrangement. Sure, she was far enough away from me, but I tried outwaiting her under that car until my hunger couldn't take it. I would slink as low to the ground as I could and creep slowly, wanting to go as unnoticed as possible, but I would eventually head to the bowl of food and eat, and then take a quick drink before scuttling off as best as I could on my three functioning legs.

She spent weeks waiting me out, until I got used to her sitting there and stopped worrying about her presence. Slowly, every few days she would move her chair inches closer to the food dishes, until, by mid-spring she was only 10 feet away. By this point I was using my back leg again, and it was good to be back on all fours, but I have to admit, I wish she could have somehow gotten me to a vet during this time. I still run well, but I have days where that leg still bothers me. I have to ask to be picked up, because I can't always jump up into the chair we share together.

My leg troubles and that prominent notch in my ear are the only remainders seen from my days on the street. As you've surely guessed, I have been a happily adopted cat for most of my life now, and I love it. I guess if you are still reading this then you are probably wondering how it all finally went down, aren't you?

One day I simply walked past her after eating my breakfast instead of going the other way. No biggie, right? She managed to keep still and not react, so a few days after that I walked past her again, but this time I paused and then as a thank you I rubbed against her leg once before heading on my way.

After that she left an arm hanging down, rather than in keeping it in her lap as usual. So one day I gave it a sniff and rubbed my cheek against it. It took a little more time, but one day she moved her fingers to scratch my chin. Holy cow that felt good. I let her scratch my chin for a few minutes and then headed out.

The next day when I stopped for my chin scratch she reached down and picked me up. I tensed up for a moment, but then she started scratching my chin and I just melted into her arms. She stood up, carried me into the house, and that was it.

Well, not really. The next day I was in a cat carrier and being neutered. That was scary, and I admit, I soiled myself when being pulled out for surgery at the clinic. The techs cleaned me up as best as they could, but I came home that night really smelly and groggy, so the next morning, once I was a little more settled, she took me into the bathroom for a bath. We used all of her roommate's coconut dog shampoo, as well as her own bottle of shampoo and a can of tomato soup (after all, it works with skunk smell she said). 

I still smelled a bit, and my white fur was stained a salmon pink, but both faded within a couple of weeks. Despite surgery, carriers, that marathon bath and the newness of being indoors, living with other cats and also a dachshund, I fell into a new routine. I would traverse the house the long way, hugging the walls so I had at least one side protected, avoiding the bathroom like the plague (no more baths for me, thank you), but I slept on her bed every night... and have every night since.

A lot has changed over the years. She got married, we moved a couple of times, and now she's disabled, kind of like me. I like it though, as this means I can nap on her lap or her shoulder or her chest anytime I want, and believe me I do. I have no interest in ever going back outside again, though sometimes I do have to ride in my carrier for a quick checkup with the vet or those times we moved, but that is enough by me. I love to sit inside and watch the birds and squirrels outside my window, but I have no need to hunt them. I have food available at all times, and now I eat at a much healthier pace. I am still what my adopted mom calls "bird-boned" as I weight hardly anything, but I am relatively healthy, given my age. 

I really don't really know how old I am. The vet thought I was anywhere from 2 to 4 when mom first took me to see him. Given that it took probably 18 months for her to finally gain my trust, I was probably closer to 3 years old, and she knows I once had a home as I, thankfully, recognized a litter box for what it was since the start. So no real issues there. 

If I was was 3 then I would now be 15. 

As a gentleman I don't bite or scratch, except for the occasional claw that may get stuck as I climb up the chair on bad days when I can't jump. I don't even mind my new doggie roommate when she barks at me because she wants to play. I'm not saying I play with her, but I just try continuing my nap while she barks a foot away from me. Despite the volume of her barks, its just not worth getting worked up over.

Yes, I am definitely a gentleman.

I can't get enough love. I accept chin and ear scratches, strokes of my fur, and mom gives me 3 gentle tugs on my notched ear every now and again, just like her grandpa used to give her. Kisses are in demand. I'll cuddle on mom's chest and tilt my head back just so she can kiss my forehead. I even kiss back. Nothing is better than a warm, soft mom to sleep on, a sunbeam and some gentle kisses while we relax together. 

I follow her all over, and the joke is I'm her little shadow, but the truth is I just love to be with her. Nothing really bothers me so long as mom is near, because I know she will keep me safe. And if I follow her into the kitchen I am sure to get treated with bites of whatever she's making for dinner.

All these years together and she still makes sure I have plenty of good food, and I get fun new catnip toys in my Christmas stocking each year. I really love catnip. I just ooze into a puddle for that stuff. My adopted brother loves fake mice, so that's what he gets, and this year will be my new sister's first Christmas with us. I wonder what she will find in her stocking. Not that the presents matter, I am content just for being off the street and loved. 

Do I think all ferals want to be rescued? That's a hard one to answer, as some strays will remain wild no matter how hard you try. Do they still deserve to have people leave them food, water and shelter? Heck yes. Its not as if they chose the life. Capture, spay/neuter and release? Definitely. It keeps more kittens from being born in communities that can't support so many. And some cats would love to be able to trust humans. Maybe they come from abusive situations where it will take a long time to trust again, and maybe they never will, but every cat deserves that chance at a safe place to live and someone to care if they live or die.

After all, mom has adopted many strays from the street or taken on ones literally dumped on the doorstep, and she hasn't regretted it yet. 

As for me? I am content to spend the rest of my life just knowing that I am loved.

More kisses please

This perfect gentleman watches me stitch, but leave the thread alone. 

So much for knitting, Oliver decided to take a quick catnap and started snoring!

Mom, the only bed a cat could need

Giving sweet kisses back

He adores getting kisses from his Pops

Another craft-time power nap

Taking a nap together after I had a procedure. He knows how to take care of me!

.

Life in a Small Town

It is a telling fact that I grew up in a town not large enough to distinguish a Downtown or Uptown area, except in terms of those who live on the slight rise or those who live where the ground dips down a bit to meet the town creek.

It speaks of a woman who knows her neighbors; not only those next door, but the ones down the block and even the ones on farms outside the city limits. Children know each other from kindergarten through high school and are in Scouts or 4-H and those compelled to take their piano lessons from the same woman.

It speaks of a local "shopping center" consisting of a mom-and-pop grocery, a hardware store, a bank and automotive mechanic all within one short block of one another. The post office is just around the corner and down half a block, right next to the bar that also houses the town's one restaurant.  A single, well-loved pool table is all that divides the greasy spoon from the taps, its green felt worn in places, but no one minds, because the town's occupants are used to how the balls roll. On the whole the townspeople are honest, so any outsiders finding themselves pulled into a friendly game and losing are usually handed back their wager in the spirit of fair play.

Children, watching from the restaurant, munch their way through a hamburger and a pile of fresh-fried potatoes, while their parents play or visit with friends over a tall mug of the local brew. The food there is delicious, comes in generous portions and is served with an extra helping of grease.

Judging by the direction dust is rising from you can tell which farmers are harvesting their crops that day, and the local weekend Farmers Market vendors will sell to you even on a Tuesday if you run out of eggs. You don't even have to drive to them, as friendly farm-wives are only too happy to drop by with a dozen or two, and a jar of freshly canned preserves.

Children's summers are spent splashing in the creek, playing in the park or watching pennies being smashed on the local train tracks. Parents do not worry as any hi-jinks will be swiftly heard of through the parenting network. With the days rapidly cooling, school comes and once again the yellow bus comes to a stop at the end of the street. The leaves change color and crunch underfoot, and the scent of wood smoke fills the air. Pumpkins grin wickedly from front porches and Halloween candy is dispensed by the handful.

Snows soon follow, with children sledding on the rise down to the frozen creek below; only returning home once their noses and toes have frozen or once dinner time is reached. Neighbors shovel the walks of the elderly and only accepting payment of a cookie or a mug of hot chocolate.  On especially cold mornings the gray smoky tendrils from wood fires swirl in the air; the ghostly remains of the trees they once were.

Life in a small town may seem slow, but it is actually one of purposeful activity rather than the mad dash from one distraction to another. Small town residents take a certain pride in keeping their yards mowed, planters filled, family garden tilled and planted and doing it all themselves.

Is this still as true as it was in my youth? I'd like to say yes, though, with today's technology the definition of neighbor is broader. I now live in a modest college town that falls in the Goldilocks range of not-too-big but not-too-small. Its a good fit, though I think I could happily live in several of the smaller towns in the area.

It doesn't mean that I have anything against big towns, but they are too large and impersonal for my tastes. For me, the closeness you can get with people is always a worthwhile trade-off to having a vast selection of stores to shop at. Of course, there will always be those people in small towns that, no matter what, will give small towns a bad name. I should know, I have lived near them and more than once. It still doesn't change the fact that there is something about little towns tucked in the midst of fields or forests that just speak to me. Rural life is comfortable and fits like a well-worn, warm pair of cozy slippers or woolly sweater. Towns where there is no up or down or right or wrong. That same lonely train whistle and rattle of tracks are heard by those on either side, so why should it matter which side you're on? Oh yeah, because large towns keep track of that (no pun intended, but I will take it!)

Answer Me

I wanted to call you today, even though I knew you would not answer.

It's been years, but I kept your number; I see it when I search for the digits of doctors, aunts, uncles and mom.

It's then that I allow myself a moment to pretend I could call and check to see how you're doing.

I picture myself dialing; you answer and we fill one another in on the new course of our lives.

We'd agree it had been far too long since we got together and make plans to meet at your place for dinner.  If it were like old times, I would be cooking while you kept busy, distracted with grading papers, but I wouldn't mind.

I have to remind myself that kitchen now belongs to the people who bought the place. They fill the air with smells that are not yours; but for a moment I can almost taste that chicken you loved to make...the one whose recipe I lost.

I should just forget the number: it probably belongs to some exhausted soccer mom, always on the run and wondering who I am to interrupt her mad rush into the store for milk and toothpaste before her toddler wakes up from his nap.

It is not as if I need to call ahead to see your new home, though it's door is always shut and will not open to me. I know it's yours because it says so in the letters engraved across its face.

I cry awhile, and try talking, but I have yet to hear you answer. I hold my one-sided conversations until I run out of things to say.

I carefully apply my lipstick and quietly kiss the open space next to your name before I leave; admiring how the bright color stands out dramatically against the dark stone.

Maybe one day when the grave yields up their dead you will see it and know I came calling.

Unanswered

Hello?

Am I the only one who feels stuck while the rest of the world rushes by my window?

There they go: busy...capable...full of life...bursting with energy and oozing with possibilities.

I stumble where others move on undaunted, unhindered, unfettered and unconcerned.

My days are unchanging; without drama and the bits that make for amusing stories. In the Book of Living I would not even merit a footnote; boring even to myself.

I want to fill my days with the fire I once enjoyed, but I struggle to lift my arms, my camera, my pen or my book.

...but in my dreams I dance among the tall grasses.

I am wandering over distant green hills and discover hidden glades of bluebells, and the woods reveal the secluded, dappled meadows that hide within their depths.

I listen to the wind as it caresses the leafy treetops; sharing secrets to the Robin nesting there.

Do you only live through dreams now too?

Will you please answer me?

...hello?

Worse than things going bump in the night....

Image courtesy of http://www.ceviu.com.br

I’ve been putting off this subject post for a long time now, seeing as how nightmares are a rather personal thing.  I feel that it is somewhat appropriate though that I post this today, seeing as this is my youngest sister Lucie’s birthday. 

Lucie is a fan of horror movies and I am not.  Luckily we have enough in common to compensate for this when we get together and want to watch something.  There are times, however, that she asks for something horror themed and I know that I am in for that creepy feeling as I walk to my car to head for home.  

You see, Lucie’s taste in horror is more along the lines of demons, ghosties and human possession rather than your average serial killer chopping up hitchhikers type of fare.  This is a bother for me in that I truly believe that there is more out there than what is easily seen, and I do believe that you can invite the wrong sort of feeling into your home when you embrace that kind of thing.

But I digress.  I wasn’t actually going to speak about horror movies today.

You would think that with my aversion to horror flicks that my nightmares would be tinted with ghouls and menacing figures, but most often they are not.  I rarely have nightmares, but when I do they are things that linger long afterwards.  You see my nightmares are of loss: the loss of my family, the loss of my friends… the loss of the people that matter most to me.

I know people will probably think heaps about my psyche and about how I have abandonment issues or some such garbage (I firmly do not believe in dream interpretation).  Rather, I believe it is because my family means everything to me, and it is precious.  It is something that I would fight to protect, so a dream where I am helpless to do anything is truly the worst horror that I can come up with.

Or so I thought...

So what does this have to do with my sister?  Well, I was 20 when she was born.  I watched my mom (who was in her 40’s at the time) struggle with health issues related to the pregnancy.  Mom had already lost a child in a previous pregnancy and there was of course that worry added to everything else.  The worst nightmares I ever had were during this period of time and one still haunts me even now, decades later.

In the dream I am faced by my mother and she is accusing me.  I am sobbing and trying in vain to apologize and find myself saying “it was an accident”.  In the dream I am responsible for the death of my brother, the child that in real life was stillborn (I won’t go into details because it isn’t important and also because it is very disturbing), but it was a highly detailed dream that carried over into the waking world, for when I awoke I was filled with the horror that I had actually committed murder.  

Needless to say I was up for the rest of the night….

I still find myself waking on occasion shaking and crying and filled with a conviction that I truly have killed someone; a feeling so real that I have to get up and walk away from the bed.  It takes time for reality to sink back in and allow me to calm down and reassure myself that it was only a dream and that I am not some horrible monster who has carelessly destroyed the life of an innocent baby and ripped a family apart in grief.

I have a good idea of what triggered this dream (something quite innocent actually) but it is something that I wish I could lose. To be haunted by something that has never happened is a terrible feeling. The fact that it has morphed over the years into something I wake up from only to find that I am still being accused (and realize upon waking for real that I only dreamt I had awoken) is just one more cruel twist of the knife.

Who knows, maybe it has served to make me a little more cautious than I would have been, but I can’t help but wonder if my mind could have come up with a nicer way of going about it.

Something involving prancing pastel ponies and orchards full of candy corn trees perhaps?  

The Magic of Snow

I awake to a ballet on a stage of white: forms leaping and twirling in their graceful dance upon drifts of air. Downy flakes drift from the sky, growing heavy under a warmth that threatens to transform their crystalline bodies into something infinitely more liquid.

I come out and pause a moment in reflection of snowflakes once captured on my tongue.  A random thought of tasting one again comes and passes as I move to take shelter in  my car, shaking the stowaway flakes from my hair and watching as they melt before they can hit the floor.

I drive; a reluctant participant in this impromptu third act on the stage of winter, and I wonder when did I stumble from childhood into this person I have become.

I have heard the sledders at night on the hill; their shrieks and laughter carry over the hush of snow, but I do not think to join them.  I think only of the warmth of my four walls and blankets of wool rather than the chilly white I once plunged into making angels of snow upon the lawn. I have grown cautious where once I would have roamed unfettered by the thought of wet socks and a runny nose.

When did I let go of childish adventures I wonder.  When did I trade youthful exuberance for adult restraint?
Did it pass while I slept?  Was it wished away with the blowing out of candles on a birthday long past? Or is it the result of some changeling being left in my place while I and those around me failed to notice.

I may still dream, but I have forgotten how to play, and find myself the poorer in soul for it.

I pull up to work, my driving done for the moment.  I look up at the flakes still swirling down and smile as they dance around as if enticing me to join them.  I hesitate a moment before thrusting my arms out and twirling; I open my mouth and sample the first snowflake in what seems a lifetime.  Its chill on the tongue passes quickly, but it tastes as sweet as they did long ago.

I lose myself for that moment and simply thrill at the scent of snow.

A passing car honks, bringing me from my play I allow myself a few more twirls before gathering up my things and making my way indoors.

Maybe I am not as lost as I thought after all.

Bonus!  As this blog is taken from word inspirations written by my brother, I thought I would share his own little thought on winter in here.

My Homeland

The idea that I have been pondering for some time now is "My Homeland".

Homeland.... an idea that could embrace a myriad of things.

Is it my country, or is that too grand of a scale?  Is it the state that I live in, or the city?  Is it where I was born, or where I currently live?  Can it change over the years, or does it remain unchanging with the passing of time?  Where do I find it?  Does it somehow lodge itself inside of me and become a part of my being?

Over a decade ago I came across a phrase that I loved, and painted on a wooden board which has hung in every home I have had since.

"Home is where your story begins" 

I still believe that, but, perhaps if I were to paint this signpost again, I would expand on it.  Perhaps it should read, "Home is where your story begins and it guides you chapter by chapter in the epic that is your life".  Its a bit wordy, but that doesn't make it any less true.

For many, homeland is what you use to identify yourself, as in "I'm an American".  We sometimes feel the need to narrow that down, where my husband, after identifying himself as a Texan, would elaborate "I'm from San Antonio".  There is a certain pride and emotion in the places and things we identify ourselves with.  We are not just the place that we are from, but who and what we associate ourselves with.  For me, "I am a Mormon" is an important part of my identity.  

My personal homeland is a complex thing, added to over the years, layer upon layer, like some pearl forming deep within the core of my being; an integral part of me that has helped me develop into the person that I am.  It is the thing within that defines me, a reserve within me that I can draw upon when I find myself on rocky shoals and in need of solid ground.  

My core, built from my experiences consists not only of places, but of things, memories, people... all of which have influenced me for good or ill in my life.  Not all of the experiences are pleasant, but all have, in some way, brought me strength or peace.  The darker sides of that core are still there.... a childhood of abusive words and bullying left me for a long time struggling to feel a positive self worth.  A former destructive marriage partner at one point had me struggling with issues of trust.  While these experiences are part of me, and always will be, that pearl is continually building up.  Like the natural pearl, some of these experiences will cause bulging on one side or another, but the layers built since those experiences are ones that have proven time and again that I have an inner strength and resiliency.  I may not have wanted some of those memories and experiences, but I have changed them to where they now help, rather than hinder me.

So who am I?  What things do I identify as my own personal "Homeland"?

Well, silly as it may sound, I am part of a global family, one who shares the lands and waters of this marvelous blue ball we call Earth.  I am an American, and am proud of the fact that my forebears worked to come to this land where I have so many freedoms and opportunities available to me.

I was born in California, but I am, in my heart, a Washingtonian as I was raised in its mountains and forests, and nestled amongst its rolling hills of wheat, barley and alfalfa.  My heart and soul still thrills at seeing the tall grasses waving in the breeze like some vast, rolling green inland sea.  I find peace in the sound of the wind as it roars through the trees, giving them voice to call out to their brothers in century-slow voices.  I love experiencing things in nature that others do not seem to notice.

As such, I consider myself a country girl, and one of simple pleasures.  As I said before, I am a Mormon and feel blessed to count myself among such a wonderful congregation of people.  

I am a wife, and while I have not been blessed with children of my own, that has not stopped me from being a mothering presence to those in need of it.  I am a part of my family here, and I love them dearly.  Home is never felt stronger for me than when I am near my loved ones and when we are together.

I am a friend and confidant.  

There are so many things tied up into what I consider my own personal definition of home that there is no way to fully explain it to you, as home is something that has to be felt in the heart.  And, sadly, most of us are judged on our outward appearance as the things of the heart just cannot be fully expressed in words.  Its taken a long time for me to find peace with that idea... that there are just some things that people are unable to know.

As a child, when I was bullied it was hard to think good about myself, because I did not have that reserve developed.  I would hide myself away to cry and wonder what it was about me that made me so different that it would subject me to ridicule.  It couldn't have been just my weight, because some of the kids who teased me were overweight themselves, or had other such defects that should have made them the subject of teases and taunting.  I took it to mean that there was something lacking in me... and for years I allowed that to define me.  I still found my simple pleasures, but I told myself that they were silly little imaginings and that I should let such childish things go... that I had to grow up.

I am glad that I never really got around to taking my own advice, because my imagination is a strong part of who I am.  It is what forms me into the creative person that I am today.  It has also shown me compassion towards others... even those that are not kind to me, and respect for others, even when they are different from me.

Most importantly, I am me.  Just me.... simple sometimes, and complex others. I am the culmination of my experiences and thoughts, and I can choose what I will allow myself to keep bright and shiny on the surface for any to see or what to allow to sink to the depths, to be let go of and be replaced with things more suitable to my nature and what I want to be.  

I am home, and I carry it within me, wherever I roam in life.  All this and more encapsulated within and yet flowing throughout my core; freely shared with those around me.  Home is what you make of it... it is the things that you allow to define yourself and your relationship to the world that surrounds you.  It is an ever-growing and ever-expanding place within your heart that you never need let go of, and yet is infinite enough to share time and time again.

Home is love.

   

Hummingbird

Whisper soft come the words
"I am here... I am safe"
Not spoken, surely
But there nonetheless
Speaking peace to my mind.


Gentle the touch that follows
"I will be with you always"
Not a physical moment
But I feel it throughout my being
Speaking peace to my soul.


Sweet moments that come
In times of sorrow or doubt
The reassurance
That my loved ones are still there
Waiting for the day we are reunited again


Grandparents, friends, brothers....
All of these I have lost in life
Not gone from me
But just around the bend


...writing themselves on my heart with the touch of hummingbird wings.

Wounds

Not all wounds are visible.

For example, I was at work the other day when my retired boss came in with his 5 year old grandson.

The grandson, who is absolutely adorable by the way, asked me if I was pregnant, because, hey, his mom is pregnant.

I replied that I wasn't.

He looked at me for a moment and then said, "Well, you have kids, right?"

My old boss looked appalled, but I smiled and answered, "No, I don't have kids. I do have cats though... does that count?"

"No," he retorted. "Only dogs count."

"Bummer... I don't have dogs."

"I have a dog. She's a little dog."

"Oh, so she's your little sister, right?"

"No! She's A DOG!"

Ah, the humor that is lost on little kids....

Later that day I received a text from my sister in which she asked me to guess who was pregnant. Excitedly I called her, eager to offer my congratulations, when she hesitantly told me it was a joke and that she was just now typing the reply "Kate Middleton."

Curses.

We talked about her having children in the future, and how I was moving closer to her and would be willing to watch kids anytime. We even cracked a joke about how she's going to get my name for the family Christmas drawing next year and how she'd better get cracking if she's going to provide me with the kid that I want so badly as my present.

Yeah, I was all but demanding space in my sister's womb so I can have kids.... I am definitely shameless.

The subject of kids keeps coming up around me. The boss's daughter is pregnant, the other boss's son is getting married to a gal who has a couple of children. My brother is having their second child, and I live in Utah where pretty much every other woman you see is either pregnant, toting around a baby or both.

Its been awhile since I've really been sorrowful over the fact that I can't have children... a feat that unwed teens accomplish daily all over this country. A feat that, despite education or love, or desire, I can't just achieve for myself. So it breaks my heart when I see people treating their children like something that they are burdened with, rather than the blessing that they are.

I am a firm believer that children should not only have two parents whenever possible, but that they should be allowed as much of a stable home as you can provide for them. Now that my husband and I have been married for a year I feel better about looking into adoption. With our moving home in the year to come it will be awhile before we are settled enough to adopt, but I also have to take into consideration the fact that I am no spring chicken. Maybe adoption isn't a step that will end up working out for us, and maybe I won't ever have children in this life, but at least I have the comfort that there are children in my life in one form or another.

That still doesn't stop the green-eyed monster of jealousy from rearing its ugly head every now and again.

I may keep a smile on my face, but I miss the family that I have not been afforded in this life. I am grateful for what I have been given, but I still can't help wishing for more.

So does that make me a monster? No, of course not. It simply adds me to the rank of all the women in the world who would love to have children, yet are unable to. The despair it can cause is intense and it can overwhelm you at any time. I know many wonderful women who are in the same boat that I am, and I have no idea why those who would make for some truly wonderful parents are unable to have children, when so many children are unwanted and abandoned.

So if you do have children, please take a moment to reflect on how blessed you are. Be mindful of those of us who are unable to share that particular joy, and everyone, please treasure every moment you have with your loved ones, no matter how close or far they are. You never know just how long you'll have with them.

Endeavor.... to try hard to do or accomplish something.

It seems strangely out-of-place that so many of my thoughts are about you. That I am still spending so much of my time weeping about the fact that you and I will have no more adventures together here in this life; that any new memories I form will not have you in them. That I have days where I cannot seem to bring myself to focus on the matter at hand.

Surprisingly, I do have days where I feel good. Days where I can accomplish the tasks I set forth to do. There is a balance in knowing that while there are bad days, there are good ones too, and I can take comfort in the fact that as much as it hurts, that I can go on.

I have made plans; plans that you would be happy over, and projects started that you would approve of. They will take awhile, but it not only gives me something to do with my time, but some of them are things that I can still share with you.

I am trying my hardest to keep moving forward and not live in the past; to focus on the future, instead of weeping for my lost youth, but its an uphill battle. I have a feeling it is something I will fight against for a long time... but I am trying, really I am.

I love you.... I miss you.... I look forward to being with you again but, until then, I continue to work towards that glad day.

I will be a poet, a writer, an artist.... everything that I wanted to accomplish in this life I will do. I will continue to be kind to those I meet, and help wherever I can.

I will continue to move forward until the day where we can all meet as a family at the end of this mortal journey.


I will not hold myself back...

Wandered Away

As a child I used to wander off. One moment I would be standing there in my mother’s sight, and the next I’d be off who knows where, chasing after something that had caught my eye. It got so bad that she purchased a harness for me, as if I were some bad dog that couldn’t be taught to heel properly and now had no freedom of movement.

My brother used to tease me about it…. I still remember him raising his hand and dangling an imaginary object in front of me. “Look Shawna”, he teased, as the made the unseen object wave and bounce enticingly. “Bright and Shiny! Bright and Shiny!”

Oh yeah, he pegged me pretty good there. Sad thing is I wanted to reach out, take that imaginary object and make it mine.

Its been the story of my life really…. I’ll be walking along with someone…. They’ll be talking away, turn and realize that they are talking to empty air. I didn’t mean anything by it, there was just something else caught my attention. If we were at the store then maybe it was a bottle of this or that which I suddenly remembered I needed. If we were out in nature maybe the sunlit shadows dancing on leaves caught my eye and demanded I stop and admire it…. You never know with me.

I wandered off at Disneyland once. We were in the Haunted Mansion and I was following a pair of legs that I assumed belonged to my father. Imagine my surprise when I looked up and realized that it wasn’t my dad after all! I stood there in the entrance of the mansion, looking around, and wondering where my father was hiding in that big crowd of strangers. Luckily he found me… he walked up and reached down, taking my small hand in his large one, and guided me to where my mother and brother waited. I wasn’t scared, because I knew dad would find me.

That’s the way it always is for me…. I know where I am, so I am not frightened. I am sure I have caused my mother a few heart attacks though.

I guess I should be more attentive.... more, well, in the moment. As it is I spend my life with my head mostly in the clouds. There's nothing wrong with dreaming, or distractions, unless they take away from the time spent with those around you. I never intend to slight anyone... it just happens sometimes.

So if you are one of those whom I sometimes "zone out" on, I apologize. If you are someone I have been distracted away from, I am sorry that I made you feel less important. It really wasn't the case at the time.... I'm just....

....ooh, what a pretty bird!

...ooh, smell that autumn air!

...ooh, I should bake banana bread today....

Oops... see.... there I go again....

.....wandering away........