A Dream at 4 AM

One drawback to being a writer is that you can’t stop. Ideas come to me, and I can’t just not write them: they sit there in my brain, firing off synapses even when I’m trying to sleep. And like a cat with a string I have to chase it. I can’t let it go.

I had a dream tonight. I was running an errand somewhere – maybe picking up a loaf of bread for a dinner party? – in the car my parents gave me at graduation. And I was having the worst time driving. I was stuck trying to get out of this facility and I couldn’t seem to get the turn right: couldn’t get into the right position to reach the ticket and hit the button to open the gate. I hit the pole a couple times, and I was very aware of the guard watching me from the shack. He had to be thinking “what an idiot” and laughing at me.

But I got out. It was night, and there was nobody else on the road. There were tall pine trees thick on either side, but somehow it was south Phoenix, where my grandparents lived. I was going the wrong way. I did a u-turn that turned into a three-point turn that barely managed to keep from being a four-point turn.

I was in the woods, on foot, coming up behind the house I was trying to get to. It was a nice home. It was new, and well-lit, and inside it looked very warm and cozy and inviting. I could see my friends and family walking up the driveway, laughing and enjoying each other already. I was supposed to be there, but somehow I didn’t feel like I would be allowed inside. Like I was supposed to bring my loaf of bread and leave. I felt sad about it, but there it was. I met my sister as they were coming up the driveway, and she took my arm. We all went inside together and everything was fine. We were laughing and talking, and I belonged there, and everything was fine.

I don’t need Daniel’s gifts to make sense of this one. I’m not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. I have to do some things that are going to be very difficult for me. But they’re long overdue, and there’s no getting around them. There are issues to be addressed, problems to be solved. It’s going to be harder and easier than I think, and in ways I can’t predict. And I don’t know entirely what the other side looks like except that it’s better than here. More day the night, more clear than confused, not so much lost and alone as sure of myself and my place. And I can do this.

Chewie

Mneme and J said goodbye to their dear cat Chewie this morning.

Part of me thinks that it’s not my grief. It’s not my story, nor my place to tell it. But I remember that I loved him, too. My hurt differs greatly by degree but comes from the same place: he was here, he was loved, he is gone. He was family to me as sure as his human guardians are, and as sure as my own two Karamazovs are to me.

And surely there’s pain enough to go around, sadly. I’m sitting here crying about it, and all things considered I know there’s a lot of people out there who share Mneme and J’s loss right now.

I remember when Mneme brought him home. He was sleek and graceful and elegant and adorable. And loud! Who knew you could get so much noise out of such a tiny body? I hadn’t been around Siamese cats before, and this one was a surprise to me. Sixteen years ago. It doesn’t seem that long.

I remember when he met his Yoda – a tiny little white fluffball, not the least bit intimidated by the full-grown predator yelling at him. And I always thought it was funny how even though Yoda grew up to be a much bigger cat than Chewie, it was always clear who was the boss.

Goodbye, Chewie. Say “hi” to Gizmo for me.

Comfort Food

My grandfather passed away earlier this week. My parents drove out from Kentucky for the services, and just arrived in town this evening. Mom called when they arrived in town, just as my crock pot was almost finished making a pot roast with celery, pearl onions, baby carrots, and new potatoes.

Mom called to tell me that the family would be gathering at my aunt’s house tomorrow for lunch. My aunt is making a pot roast – we can all make sandwiches.

I laughed, and told Mom I was almost done making my pot roast. She laughed – she’s staying with another sister, who had made pot roast last night.

I guess we have our traditions after all.

Love

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately.

I’ve always thought of love as what you feel. I feel loved when people do things for me, or tell me they love me. I feel loved when I feel safe and appreciated. And I feel love towards those who make me feel like that.

But is that really what love is? Just liking people who like you? It’s easy, it’s safe, but it’s one-sided. It’s no more interactive than miming a mirror image, and probably no more real.

I think love needs to be a verb. I’m thinking of how to love those who love me. How can I give them that same warm, safe happy they work so hard to give me? I don’t know yet. I know enough to start trying harder.

More

We always think we have more time. Another day, another chance. Call it hope, call it desperation, but we all do it.

Life doesn’t come with a guarantee: no threescore and ten and no rose garden, nor even so much as a handful of manure to start one. Every instant is a gift. Every smile is a treasure. And the presence of those you’re lucky enough to love is a miracle to make the Red Sea look small.

So enjoy it. Presence, not absence, makes the heart grow fonder. Nothing enriches our lives more than time spent enjoying others.