On "stuff" and substance

I have a dear friend whom I've never met.

He lives in London (and he is probably reading this right now - you know who you are! ). He has an amazing, selfless website and I met him through there. I used to help him out on the site, but with my health issues right now, I am trying to focus on my own well-being and getting things done around here that have long needed doing. We have known each other nearly 4 years, and while we have never met, we talk usually 4 times a week via email, sometimes 4 or 5 times daily. Most of it is silly nonsense, or sharing links to interesting lectures or songs. But just enough to know we are thinking of the other.

Just this past weekend, I heard his voice for the first time. He sent me a recording of himself singing "Blowing in the Wind" while playing guitar. LOVED it! You have NOT heard Dylan until you have heard it with a British accent!

So, while my dear friend is very dear to me, as are his beautiful boys and gorgeous partner, there is still a 'thing' between us.

You see, my husband and I may be visiting friends and family in London in the fall. Well, friends other than my dear one. He is concerned, and was open and loving with me about this, that he is not on the same "level" Husband and I are.

We own a farm - he lives in a flat in the city. In the urban, gritty guts of London.

I teach college & Tim is a surgeon - he is an artist, art instructor, and (in American terms) a handyman. Definetely a different economic strata, but what of it?

We are married - he is in a domestic partnership (with two adorable guys to show for it!)

But, what he perhaps does not realize, is this is all "stuff ". Stuff isn't what matters, it's substance.

Content of character has always meant more to me than content of wallet. And his carefree, Bohemian lifestyle he often describes to me makes me jealous (YES! I am jealous of you!). He has installations in schools, he has students lining up for his classes. He is living the life he loves instead of the one he pre-planned.

And I admire him for it.

But, because of his own 'fear' (for lack of a better word) of not measuring up (for lack of a better term), he feels he couldn't meet me face-to-face for coffee when I am in London.

Huh.

He lives the life he chooses. Maybe I am not worthy of him.

A feather in the hand is worth a bird in the air

This is BW. We call him B-dub for short. He is the uncle of all of our feral cats from Cincinnati - many of whom were left behind when we moved. Not out of neglect, but out of inability to capture them.

We managed to trap, neuter, and relocate six of them. B-dub and Patrick are the only ones who still live on our farm. Finnegan, Patches, Fiona (daughter of Finn & Patches) and another feral male were brought here but did not accept their new home. They escaped from the barn during the 'acclimatizing' phase and broke my heart. At least Finn & Fiona were together. And they are spayed & neutered and will not add to the population crisis.

One of the ones left behind in Cincinnati was Pyewacket*. She is a gorgeous little girl and tame enough that I could hold her. Her daughters, Luca and Lilliana, each aged a year apart, were quite ill as babies. We have kept both of them as inside pets, and Luca & Pye were spayed the same day.

The vet and I jokingly called it "Mommy/Daughter Spay Day" - as opposed to "Spa", of course.

Out of the kindness of her heart, a neighbor down in Cinci who was assisting the Ohio Alleycat Resource organization with the trapping, let Pye go. She's not a cat person, but she is a kind soul. Pyewacket was in a trap, waiting for the OAR to come get her, and the neighbor was concerned as it was hot and Pye was in the sun without water.

So, my beautiful Pyewacket is lost to me forever. As is my sweetheart, Finnegan.

But, these are the risks you take in life. You love, you lose. You love, you win. You never know where the roulette wheel will stop.

The seemingly little choices we make often influence the rest of our lives, while big ones, so we think, don't quite have the magnitude we worried about.

While I love Finn & Pye with as much love as an animal lover can, I hope they are well. But, there comes a point where I have to realize that no matter how much those two meant to me, they are not with me. Both of them left me. Both of them ran, out of fear of the unknown.

I am left with B-dub. He's a very good cat. He brings so much joy and asks for so little in return. And, he gives me gifts. He once brought me a shrew! (Shortly after moving here, I came out of the back door and a small, dead furry object was lying there. Patrick & D-dub were running down the sidewalk. I think it was a thank-you gift for their new home!)

I admit, at times he makes me mad - he is the reason we no longer have a bird feeder - but he is, after all, a cat.

Finn & Pye will always be in my heart. I will always look at Luca, their daughter, and Lilli, Pye's girl, and remember.

All I have is two photographs of them and memories; they are like birds in the air - lost to me forever.

But B-dub is here, feather in 'hand' . . . or is that 'mouth'? (He is feral, after all. And very vicious, as you can tell.) He always greets me, never fails to make me smile.

I will learn to be content with what I am given.

* The name Pyewacket is taken from the Jimmy Stewart movie, Bell, Book, & Candle but also refers to an imp "familiar" of an accused witch in 1644.

On tears and rain

I was perusing favorite quotes today and came across a great one:

"The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh." ~ Samuel Beckett

That's interesting to ponder - is there ever a moment in time when no one in the world is crying? Or are tears, as Beckett said, a constant? There never would be a way to check, so I just consign my own tears to the sigh of humanity. Yes, briefly, I broke a resolution.

Again, tagging my last post, I am coming to realize that we really are part of something outside of ourselves. And no one's pain is localized.

It's raining here again, still, making melancholia seem the norm. Even the dogs are grumpy and tired. It would be easy to lay in bed this morning, crying.

Instead, too many things to do. I think of another favorite line, from the movie Blade Runner. The head renegade replicant, Batty, is dying. He relates a list of memories to the human hunting him, then quips:

" . . . All these moments will be lost, like tears in rain . . ."

It's such a powerful scene. And a powerful thought.

I will lose my tears in the rain today. Moving on needs constant reminding.

Here comes the flood.

On broken resolutions, broken promises, and broken hearts

I broke a resolution, in the wee small hours of the morning.

I cried, just a little, over a long-standing dream which came crashing down a few weeks ago. An incident which has forever changed my perspective on life and love. But, one of my resolutions for my "new year" was not to cry anymore. At least it was only a little.

Sometimes, where you end up is not where you thought you would be. And, hearts mend, wounds heal, but it takes a long time to let go of what you understood to be your future. Especially when you find it will always be a mistake of your past for which you'll never be forgiven.

So, picked myself up, brushed myself off, and started all over again. And I forgave myself, if only for the tears.

High hopes. Even if I have to move that rubber tree piece by piece instead of all at once, I will still overcome.

There's a morning after.

It's not a sign, it's shared humanity

I used to believe in signs. Especially those expressed in music.

I would be feeling a certain way, or thinking about a certain person or event, and, suddenly (Miraculously! How did the gods know?) a song with poignant lyrics would come on. I would take it as a sign. My life was going to change, the one I loved would come for me, I would win the lottery. Fool.

I don't believe in signs anymore. I just realized that every time I hear a song, no matter how fitting the words may be to my situation, it's just proof I am not alone in this web of humanity. I am not the only one to have felt this way, or to do this, or to have this done unto me. It's happened since the beginning of time.

I am not unique in my pain. I am just unique in how I choose to suffer.

"Fools in love -
are there any creatures more pathetic?
Fools in love -
never knowing when they've lost the game." ~ Joe Jackson

And suffering is a choice. So, I just won't think about it anymore.

It's day 3 of my new year. Time to get my shit together. At last.

It's my New Year's Eve

I am sitting here, 3 hours 'til midnight, a bit worried, a bit excited.

I am hoping this is a whole new beginning for me.

But that's not something that I'm looking forward to . . . well, maybe

So, as my "New Year's" looms closer, I am taking a good, long look at what is going on in my life at present.

This week alone I have broken the three center toes on my right foot and had my (oversized) gloved hand attacked by one of the semi-feral barn cats, leaving me with some nasty puncture wounds and a whole lotta swellin' goin' on.

I am calling Friday my new New Year. It will be one year to the day since I woke up with the left side of my body shrivelled and withered with dystonia, caused by an allergic reaction to lisinopril. It left me with constant vertigo and balance issues, thanks to vestibular neuronitis and nystagmus of the left eye. And, it also left me with more than a trifling of fear.

It was on Thursday, April 8, 2010 that I found out I had celiac. Potentially harmful but controllable if I do not ingest gluten. The control is just all-encompassing and pretty brutal. It was due to this celiac discovery that I changed medications. The one I was on was on the X-list AND not gluten free. The new medication, lisinopril, was GF approved. I just had no idea what two doses of it would do to my body and my following year. And, one week later on April 15, I found out.

So, for a while there, I was afraid of Thursdays. But, I fought hard for my year and my health. My sanity, too, come to think of it. And a change of doctors truly helped. I know - I thought being married to a surgeon, I would no longer have to go to a doctor. Turns out, surgeons have to cut you up to figure out what's up. Usually. He is very handy with sprains, preventing infection, and general medical trivia. But, I have always said I enjoy being married to a doctor (although I was more excited he was rock star!) because I am so accident-prone, I need a private physician. He, however, jokingly reminds me of how it ended for the wheelchaired evildoer in "Hannibal".

For this reason, I refuse to have pigs on our farm!

But, all of this rhetoric is yet another example of how I am living in the 'wrong moment' currently. All of, or most of, my recent accidents have been preventable with an ounce of prevention. I am going to face my New Year with new found hope and an even more attentive ear to my inner voice.

It's there . . . "life" has just been drowning it out lately.

So, c'mon, April 15th! I await you with a hint of trepidation, but a heap of excitement, too!