The hands hover over the keyboard expectantly, waiting for action, waiting for words, waiting for what will come to the hand, from where? From the mind, from the heart, from the ether? Where did these imaginings exist before drifting into this mind, this heart? Are they for me? For everyone? Do they float freely like pollen in the layers we don’t stay aware of ready at any time for any being to catch them on their sleeve? The pollinated mind then, a combination of what was a moment ago and what can be, a genesis for the new life of thought, creation of idea, all possibility always floating within you and just outside you, needing only your will, your heart, your mind. Now turning back to quiet, and waiting…
Sometimes it feels as though I could write about anything, everything. Any idea that springs forth, spanning the breadth from the grand to the infinitesimal. Socks, car odometers, how it feels to look at someone’s hands, the unequivocal cold of marble floors in European train stations, iridescent lipped giant clams in the Great Barrier Reef. Life lived in places loved and hated, peculiar and or wonderful neighbors, the somewhat enjoyable smell of skunk mixed with crisp alpine air experienced while driving through mountainous roads in winter and the strobe effect of complete darkness and glowing bright light as the full moon illuminates first through trees and then into clearings. So many people here and gone and all of those connections and their stories and expressions of exuberant joy and devastating despair both witnessed and experienced. Maybe somehow this unsettled life led in all of these different places has allowed it to become more accessible to me now, enabling me to feel and remember these stories. The reverberations lingering and sharp in mind like the sprightly tart of a kiwi seed in your mouth.
My comprehensions often drift into consciousness as slowly as ashes falling through the sky. Sometimes I liken my mind to that of Lenny from Of Mice & Men…lumbering, well meaning, but dense. I guess what I’m saying is that though certainly no mathematician, even I am occasionally fortunate enough to stumble upon the sum of 2+2. My brother was here visiting the past few days and there were many wonderful aspects to his visit, but something that stood out was his newly formed commitment to appreciating more and complaining less. This was particularly relevant to me as I have been caring for my quite ill kitty Georgia of late and have taken to riding the roller-coaster of hope and grief daily, each breath or movement she makes beginning the ride anew.
When we first adopted Georgia ten and a half years ago she seemed to have had some kind of asthma problem which occurred only sporadically and so never really got in the way of her enjoyment of life. Over the past several years however additional difficulties were added to the mix including sneezing and coughing that seemed to trigger fits more frequently and when combined with an already occurring asthma-type attack, the paroxysms made it difficult for her to catch her breath. These attacks were incredibly distressing to witness and hear, not to mention frustrating as they often occurred in the middle of the night and would awaken us all. Sadly and imperfectly, patience for patients is not always in abundance. Because of her stuffiness and sneezing I erected barriers of sorts near the head of the bed so Georgia would not sleep there during the day and though I made every effort not to shortchange her any love when up and about, didn’t allow her to sleep close or cuddle, which, being so family/love oriented, was quite distressing to her. We took her to several different vets where dietary and litter changes were recommended and acupuncture and herbs were tried until finally obtaining the most improvement with the use of different antibiotics. It was always cause for celebration when she would have a marked improvement as the fits and accompanying symptoms of sickness would markedly decline, the barriers and frustration levels came down and love was most easily given and received again.
Before she was released from the hospital last week all I wanted was for her to be able to come home, know she was loved and not die alone. I would ready the house and make supplications and speak out loud that Georgia could sleep wherever she wanted. What had I been thinking with the barriers? This was my girl and if she sneezed or drooled or was sick on the bed then I would clean her up and love her more. Now that the very real threat of losing her forever loomed near, the imperative of cherishing each moment came alive. I invite her up by my head where she unsteadily flops next to me. I stroke her ears and hug her skinny little body, my tears falling on her back. I’m reminded of something my mother said to me when I was around 10 or 11 years old. My father has always been a whistler and occasionally one song from his repertoire would be whistled over and over and over. This particular occasion it was what I called the Frito Bandito song. Sometimes you could change the song if you tried by humming another tune but my attempts at this must have failed this day. I asked my mother how it was she wasn’t being driven crazy by it and she responded that it was better than the alternative. So. Very. Right.
Petty irritations are nothing. Appreciate more, complain less. The occasion to cherish is now. Right now. Don’t regret. Kiss those ears and whistle along and take care of those you love and fully live in every moment you have to Love. Give that love with all you’ve got.
