Annie

I've an amazing friend who, over the course of the last two years, became quite the world traveler. Yesterday was the anniversary of those beginning moments of wanderlust.



And it feels like the cliche of being only yesterday when she left to find out what she is made of. The months leading up to her departure were full of loved ones filling the small spaces in her head with the 'what if' notions of catastrophe. I've embraced the notion that if you really love someone you can't worry about them. Those are contradictory vibes. So we began to speak of the 'what ifs' of the wonderfulness that awaited her. Imho, authentic love is like a light that we cast to help others stay on a steady path while holding faith the light merges and eventually becomes their own. I'm certain when I see her, I'll need to put my shades on! But this blog isn't exactly about her. It's really about my cat. The first cat I ever allowed to meow into my life...about 7 years ago.

I didn't like cats...because my mother didn't like cats. She thought they knew things they shouldn't. They gave her, and still do, the creeps. My aunt, her sister, (RIP) was so superstitious of black cats that every time I see one I have to stop to acknowledge them as an incarnation of her because of the memories of turning around and retracing steps just to avoid crossing their path is so seared in my hippocampus. But for the longest time, I believed I could never love a cat.

We were living in a mobile home in the middle of a trailer park surrounded by as-down-to-earth neighbors as you could get. There were always children running around and the smell of charcoal burning in grills. There was always the heavy metal streaming from one end of the park at ungodly hours and the incessant barking of dogs. We had no pets. Fish kept dying. But one day, when I pulled into the driveway, I noticed a small white object next to the door. At first, I thought it was a mouse because it was so tiny. It shocked me to realize it was a new born kitten. Of course, my little people were thrilled. I was literally in awe that it was alive. The mother had dropped it in transit and I waited for her to return. She didn't. We went looking all around for her with no luck. Somewhere in the middle of searching, it dawned on me that it was 'our' anniversary. Knowing the day would be low-key, I embraced the kitten as a gift and so began my cat-loverness.

Still so small and needing skilled intervention, I decided to drive 45 miles to the nearest mega-pet store. I explain to them that I couldn't find the mother and they agreed to nurture and feed it for the next six-weeks and that I would return for it. When I got home, a family was searching and asking if anyone had seen a kitten. Soooo...I turned around and went back to the store and got her. The mother nursed her and, after six weeks, Anniversary was returned to me. I called her Annie for short.

Maybe animals, like people, create their destinies. Shortly, after her arrival, we would move out of the trailer park into a posh golf course community. Annie had moved up the social ladder much more quickly than her siblings ever dreamed of. But like my friend, she had wanderlust. She'd have no part of being an indoor feline. So I would let her roam being a novice cat owner. Well, one of those roam-filled adventures was exactly 365 days after I had found her on my doorstep. Yes, the anniversary of finding Anniversary. This day she was near the doorstep. I had a brief thought to put her in the house but my fear of being late to some now-forgotten-date related to the children made me dismiss the the impulse. We made eye-contact then I drove off. Ah, there are just moments you want back. I came home and could not find her and we were scheduled to move in a few short weeks -- hundreds of miles away. I looked everywhere. I hung fliers. I went door-to-door. And daily, I checked the pound. Nothing. She was gone. And I was devastated.

We moved but we didn't sell the house. Instead, we leased to couples who needed an abode a little nicer than a trailer to live in while they awaited the finishing touches on their one-of-a-kind custom homes. I would make trips to check on the property. Nothing unusual to report except one day while I was inspecting an issue outside a rather fat cat walked by me...and kept walking.

Annie? She turned to me and had the most amazing bling dangling from her neck. Though she had put on weight which distorted her features a bit and like me she had aged a little, I knew it was her. I bent down and she came to me. The occupant told me the old woman behind the house had found her lost cat. I remembered the old woman being the only one who wouldn't open the door when I went around with my fliers. I learned from another neighbor that she had indeed lost a cat but I knew this was Annie.

Because I had been so devastated, my friends immediately replaced her. They felt like the only way to help me get over her was to give me a really cute kitten. I've never gotten over her. And I'm not much of a golf course kinda gal but it seems she is. I knew this was where she belonged. So I sent her my loving light as she wandered off down her path already sparkling left and right moving just a little slower than I remembered.

Resurrecting Rossetti

Nineteenth-century English poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote a series of sensual sonnets inspired by his relationship with his wife Elizabeth. Before he could publish them, Elizabeth died. He was so distraught he placed the only copy of his manuscript in the grave with her. Years later, though, he decided the love poems were too good to consign forever to the oblivion of the dirt. He had the coffin disinterred and recovered his work.

Draw inspiration from Rosetti's change of heart. Reclaim riches you once abandoned or left for dead. ~ She's Robbin' Again




A Sea-Spell

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell,
The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea.
But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,
In answering echoes from what planisphere,
Along the wind, along the estuary?
She sinks into her spell: and when full soon
Her lips move and she soars into her song,
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng
In furrowed self-clouds to the summoning rune,
Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry,
And up her rock, bare breasted, comes to die?

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Accordingly

There can be miracles of healing the body; there can be miracles of healing the soul and the emotions. Remember, there are no victims, only Consciousness, God expressing. You do create opportunities by bringing to resolution that which has not been in accordance with your desires. You can only be in conflict with that which is in conflict with yourself. You no longer have the liberty or freedom to go about your days without being aware and conscious that you create your reality. ~ Ship of Songs

I am bringing into resolution that which has not been in accordance with my desires.

The most difficult thing about raising a child with a disability hasn't been the disability but the inability to be supported in a way that nurtures me in the process of nurturing him. Wanting the outside acknowledgment that diet does matter, that assuming intelligence is imperative, that there is nothing wrong only incredibly different from what was expected would have blessed some of the more difficult moments. Over the last 5 years, I have not been living in accordance with my desires but more flailing in default. I've learned even the people who claim to love us the most define the world from their own perspective and I can no more make someone see the way I see than I can force my son to speak. If they are not in accordance, they are not in accordance and I guess, per these "laws" I've clung to, they cannot stay in proximity without an invitation. It's my chosen desire to see my child as a brilliant piece of art. Something I cannot explain and that others will come to with their own interpretations. All I can think to do, to move beyond what difficult realities there are in this moment, is to tell a different story. A very joyful one.


Once upon a rooftop...

It's Never Too Late

GRANDMA MOSES



You can't turn back the clock. But you can wind it up again.
~B. Prudden

Marriage Equality

When I first heard the phrase Marriage Equality, I paused. Hmm. All the marriages I was privy to, from my perspective and my girlfriends' rants, did not have much of the "E-word" present. So, I was envisioning a symbiotic give & give of spiritually mutual co-creativeness between man and woman. Then I hit play and realized what equality it was referring to. Ahhhhh...silly me. Yes, my Me & Youtopian bubble burst. Oh, we are just talking about the same drama with different characters. I say this knowing that one of the first same-sex couples to marry are now divorced. And that many gay couples that are married are struggling with issues when wanting to divorce. This isn't a pessimistic blog on marriage or a commentary to discourage it but rather an acknowledgment that regardless of our gender, race, religion or sexual orientation we are at the heart blood pumping humans that desire to give love and be loved while at a soul's level desires freedom towards spiritual fulfillment within the context of that love...imho.

When people get married because they think it's a long-time love affair, they'll be divorced very soon, because all love affairs end in disappointment. But marriage is a recognition of a spiritual identity. ~ J. Campbell

So, in my acknowledgment of the shift that has taken place regarding same-sex marriage, a shift that I envision continuing, I offer up sincerest thoughts to any couple embarking on this journey that they pave the way with the deepest of their spiritual intentions.

This Is A Way

When I was younger, there was a mulberry tree that grew down the street from our bright yellow house -- I use to pretend that our home was the Sun and it brightened the entire neighborhood -- anyway, this tree was the grown-up version of that childhood nursery rhyme. This 'mulberry bush' required climbing if you wanted the really good berries. The best ones always fell heavy on the ground which, in my young mind, were not to be trusted or hung high at the top and quickly napped* by the mouth of stingy, stingy sparrows. There is a similar one growing in my yard now. Moments ago, my son and I just ate perfectly ripen berries. It’s easy to appreciate something in the full bloom of its goodness. It’s easy to want more of it. I may get another in a minute though all that seems left between the ground, the birds and my hands are unripe bitter ones. I’ll search harder. I’ll scan the branches, climb a limb, reach higher knowing I might not find it today. When I was that little girl, particularly, and even just a few short years ago, I would feel the weight of the disappointment of trying so hard and coming off so completely empty handed. Now, I can linger in stillness near the tree knowing the deliciousness is coming if I’ll just allow the unripe its time. This draws my thoughts to my children.

I wanted to give birth naturally. With my first baby, the OB-GYN discouraged it. He gave me horrifying scenarios of women in the early 1900’s. It was the end of the 1980’s and I was smart enough to know that advances had been made in prenatal medicine so I concluded that he really felt that I would not be able to handle the pain. He was right. I lovingly blame it on my Lamaze coach, i.e. my grandmother, who attended classes with me. She’d rub my tummy, give me kisses, and completely ignore what she was being told to do. She had lost a baby in childbirth. As she would tell it, the nurse took her baby away without giving my grandmother so much as a glance. When she asked for the baby, she got a curt reply: Your baby is dead. The baby’s delivery was completely and sadly natural. So, when I went into labor and found my mind wanting to escape my body, all I could hear was her convincing herself: Everything is going to be just fine, Miya, the baby will be fine. The sweetness of her voice juxtaposed with the madness of the pain was fear-filled and worrisome. My then partner-in-this-crime-of-passion (we were not married, yet) had been away working during a portion of the classes so the hospital would not allow him in the delivery room. I remember a vain thought crossing my mind: I’m so glad he can’t see me like this. That was about the time the nurse took over. She gave me a "little something for pain" and set about the task of joining my mind and body into one…focus, breathe, focus, breathe…two words I still use to bring my mind and body together. Eventually, she said push and, a few short moments later, I was introduced to my baby girl. Suddenly, like an emotional epiphany, my soul joined the party, playful and ready for this new world I held in my arms while my grandmother beamed, relieved. Naturally.

I went on to give birth to three more beautiful healthy girls. Sandwiched in between is, equally beautiful, my son whom I must reach higher for, harder for and in his time will ripen into the full bloom of his already glorious goodness. In the meantime, I’ll appreciate all that he is in this moment and all the people, places and things that continue to manifest in this world that nurture his growth. But he is delicious 'as is'...and always will be.

*nabbed...unlike life, where one might make 'mistakes' then desire to return and remake those moments but find it impossible, blogging allows all kinds of tweaking even related to the beak-ing that happens in mine. Yikes, 'pp' vs 'bb'...hm?


d

Index of Her Joy Reflex

Entomologist Justin O. Schmidt drew up an index to categorize the discomfort caused by stinging insects. The attack of the bald-faced hornet is "rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door." A paper wasp delivers pain that's "caustic and burning," with a "distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut." The sweat bee, on the other hand, can hurt you in a way that's "light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm."

In bringing this to your attention, I want to inspire the pronoiac rebel in you. Your homework is to create an equally nuanced and precise index of three experiences that feel really good. ~ The Rhetorical Oracle

Hmmmmm.

(Practically mumbling to herself) Precise nuancification of three experiences that feel really good?

Hmmmmm...(inhaling)

How nice to have so many to choose from.

(Exhaling)...hmmmmm.

I've got it! It's a simple scale. *

5= "Hmmmmm"
4= "Hmmmm"
3= "Hmmm"
2= "Hmm"
1= "Hm"

A) Having a talented artist interested in dusting off my old lyrics and making them into a shiny new demo that gets sent to a budding record company that takes enough interest in the artist to sign her has a "rich, hearty, slightly electric feel that is simply awesome. Similar to dancing at night on the beach when no one is watching." Definitely a Hummmmm! (Note: I add a "u" to keep with a musical theme.) = 5

Next.

B) Having a talented director take an interest in producing two of my one-acts for the stage to amazingly receptive audiences which in turn generates greater interest in future stagings of my writing has a "distinctively sweet aftertaste. Much like the beautiful make-believe world of childhood." Uh, Hmmmmm! = 5

Moving on.

C) Having a strong sense of well-being in the roles of mother, sister, friend and any other supporting character life casts me into being has a "light, lasting, blissful quality. Equal to nothing I have ever known." H.M.M.M.M.M! = 5


*Watch for this in the future. I think I'm on to something.