DatingGod

Fuzzy, Toasty, Thankful

I kind of dread the end of the year holiday season, though probably not why you might.

Sure, there's the horrible xmas music, blaring from all directions, starting sometime in early November. And the stress folks go through, trying to pull off a big family feast with the least amount of family fireworks. Or the crazy spending of wads of cash on stuff, stuff that isn't usually either needed or wanted, usually slapped on a credit card with an interest rate that is not dissimilar to a kind of date rape with no hope of prosecution. 

Yeah. But the core source of my dread? Other folks who well-meaningly want to pull me into the middle of the fray, to give me gifts and then feel hurt when I don't give them one in return, or invite me to thanksgiving to witness the fireworks of their family. They don't understand that I simply opt out. Truly out. Just say no.

Because what I feel to opt into during this flow of season is hanging with my tribe, my fuzzy band of tricksters, my pod of snugglers, my weaselly brethren. Because we really, truly, just want to hang out in bed, explore the rich possibilities of impossible snuggling positions only found in an apartment heated to 63 degrees, by three cats, one human, and a pile of blankets and pillows, maybe get up and have a little protein, then hit the snuggle caves again, and laugh and purr and maybe bite a couple heads.

To me, the holiday season means time and space and freedom to chill. I'm not lonely. I don't get lonely. I don't need for any of the humans in my living to prove their love to me through stuff on a certain day of the year. I don't need to be part of a group of humans and share a specific meal to feel connected to my tribe. And I know that the folks who love me have gotten used to me opting out in this way, and hopefully feel some relief that I'm one less loved one they have to stress out over and pour energy to. 

And as for gifts and shared meals, when they occur, it is so very sweet. I received an email the other day from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab and I ordered a couple of bottles for myself of the limited edition scents they concocted for their birthday. And then saw an image in my mind's eye of the lovely Kelly and so ordered a bottle for her. Or when she gets the urge, she sends me jars of her fantastic homemade pickles, or hilarious stuff off etsy that is so me, like a cell phone case made of felt with a crow embossed on it.

Or my sister, and how we get together and share a meal and have a few laughs, usually around rednecks or poop or how crazy we all are. Or she does as she's done for several years now, and gives me enormous bags and bags and bags of designer clothing, passed on by the wealthy women-who-hobby-shop whose homes she cleans. Or I give her the gift of a half dozen hours over a week of talking with her on phone, when I seriously, seriously hate talking on the phone if it isn't work related, but she's going through something, and I listen to her, huge smart phone mashed all up in my ear. Or herbs she's been thinking of trying but hasn't made the jump with, or some weird granolahead food she's tried at my house and actually liked and so I get her the special vinegar, or vanilla almond milk, or dandelion leaves so she can make green smoothies.

But the truth of the holidays for me is being with my fuzzy guys, having the space and time and freedom to just hang out together for long stretches of days. Of looking deep and long into the magic that is Baby Malcolm's chocolate lips. Of inhaling the hay and sun scent of Baby Wallace's fiery fur and have him sniff me back while purring the sonic rumble of heavy breathing that shows his weaselly ecstasy. Of spending an hour in the dawn light, drifting in and out of sleep, Emmaline doing as she's done since she was a four-month old kitten, laying directly on top of my face like a balaklava, paws wrapped around my neck, leaving me a single nostril to myself with which to happily take in air. Of jumping back into bed after turning the heat up a bit and having Baby Wallace settle onto the top of my head like a toasty toque, complete with paw-shaped earmuffs. Of dancing in my living room, having Malcolm squeeeek so that I pick his 19lbs. of love up and he crawls up out of my arms and onto my right shoulder, riding it like a carousel pony as I dip and twirl and shake my bootay. Of laying on the living room floor with a big plate of thanksgiving takeout, joyfully joining in the slurps, prrps, and arwarwarw that is the fang-toothy consumption of ham and turkey and sugary dessert cream topping. 

So the real reveal is that I love the holidays, so look forward to the love and joy and giving that is life with my core tribe, so enjoy the sharing of food and love and Yes. I give the gift of toasty and foodies and Yes. They give the gift toasty and their Themness and Yes. And Life is good . . .

I just want folks to go off and do their holiday thing and leave me and the fuzzballs to do ours. Not to give me pity eyes when they hear that I'm spending the holidays with the kitties, or to do their best to try and talk me into thanksgiving at their house with their family and the in-laws or with a group of single people who have nowhere else to go. Maybe this year I can answer that yes, it was a lovely holiday spent with my loved ones, and they'll leave it at that and just smile.

I'm good: I'm with my family. I have someplace to be: in the center of a kitty purr-rumbly pile-on snack-fest.

So happy thanksgiving, ya'll, from the center of the Yes that is my living, to the center of Yes that is yours . . .

 

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Open, Closed, Open, Closed . . .

Opening the blog back up. No more password. At least for now. Not sure where any of it is going. Guess none of us do. But in this moment, no more password. Not much blog either :) but for now, no gate.

A month ago: Packed up the apartment. (Thank god for my sister and her insistence that she help.) Finished up at Hiveworld, and Cubicleland. Packed up the truck. (Thank god for the folks who came and helped that Wednesday night - the truck looked like the Beverly Hillbillies by the time we were done) 

Now we're in Chapel Hill. Two weeks on the job already. Joined a local CSA - Coon Rock Farm. Discovered the magic that is Trader Joe's. 

The urge to write has mostly left me. And I understand that what motivated me to write was the need to explain myself, the need to have echos come back to me from you folks. The folks that vibrated Yes at me I felt love for. The folks that vibrated No I felt revulsion for. But it was all about the same fear of not being seen. And not writing is also about not needing the response, and witnessing as the emotional vibrations coming from the blog have less impact on the consciousness that is "me".

Everything that's going on right now is about dropping the drama, about letting go of the need to create exciting stories, even much like I used to - cobbling together enough bits of Wow from my living, stitching them together to make an exciting weave of living so as to make a meaningful blog post.

Maybe writing will come back. Maybe I'll just come here to leave paragraphs.

I've been tweeting a few times a day. Tiny bursts of Yes from this story. 

But other than that, just breathing, doing lots of energywork on my body, mind, heart. Doing energywork on the kitties. Breathing some more. Beginning to truly drill down and address the No that is caught inside of "me". 

In terms of Waking Up, it feels this is the part where a person drops the Waking Up push. There's nothing to push for. It's about letting go. Dropping. Stopping. Breathing and releasing. Letting Life do the work. 

The mental gravel that remains is clear. It's in such stark contrast to the Yes that quietly has become the predominant backdrop. It makes the No show up as so much more disharmonious. But instead of some big effort to Tune The Disharmony, a great throwing of money and time and effort at transforming the No into a vibration of Yes, there is only this: stop humming the No. That's it. Close the mouth. And breathe . . . 

And okay, some pictures :)

 

 

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Sunday Morning With Furry Babies

Yep

Hearth Tribe

I did three sessions yesterday. For the phone sessions, Emmaline and Jacinta hung out with me on the couch. As I talked with the folks, I held my face up to the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Ever so often, one of the sweet kitties would nuzzle me, roll over so I could rub the talisman of Yes that is their silky belly fur, or they'd lick my fingers, reminding me I'm here, in my physical body, even as I traveled all over the place in my mind and heart and energybody as I read energy for the nice peoples. 

For the in-person session, it's someone Malcolm is madly in love with. When she visits, he always comes out and gets right up in her face, peering into her eyes with the most innocent expression of wonder. And when we do the energywork and she's laying on the table, he hops up and lays on her chest or belly. Yesterday, though, it was Emmaline who purred her Yes into the client's second chakra. And as I did the energywork, Emmaline would open her eyes, make that soundless small squeak of 'Yes' that is more of a flutter of her tiny lips, give me the sparkly love eyes look, and go back to blissful purring into the chakra.

I woke up this morning right before dawn. Because I turn the heat down to 60 at night, it's chilly. This morning, snuggled under kitties and covers, I felt toasty, except for my neck. No sooner than I had the thought, I felt a kitty rise up, walk delicately amongst the others, and maneuver back and forth for a moment before settling in at the most perfect angle around my neck and head. Furry and warm against my bare skin, nestled in my hair. Perfect. Sweet Emmaline . . .

I finally woke for good around 8 am, which is sleeping in super super late for me, but there was no push to get up. Instead I just lay there, all relaxed as one by one the kitties came around, doing their morning thing: 

Jacinta was purring, the loudest purr in our land. She purrs like a trucker, like a feline Harley Davidson, like ocean waves pounding the sand. She crawled over to tuck herself under my right armpit, where she nursed the cotton of my sleepwear as she has her entire life, since she came to live with me when she was an undernourished 6-month old. I'm used to the wet patch her sweet slobber will leave on the sleeve. I don't mind. I smooched her big ole head again and again. And the sound of trucker purrs filled the room.

Baby Wallace was staring out the window at the wee morning activities of things feathered or bushy tailed. But when he heard me stir, he waited til Jacinta had found a good groove, then walked right over to do his morning inspection of my breath. Deep, long sniffs of inquiry. He always squeaks, a single high pitched note that only Baby Wallace can make, (I'm never sure if it's alarm or feline for "a-ok"), then alternately lifts and bows his head so I can more easily rub his beautiful fiery puma face, run my fingers along his spine for a little massage, lightly stroke the enormous silken triangular amphitheaters that are his ears. This morning we did all this in slow-mo, til he felt satiated and wandered back to the window.

Emmaline then climbed me like I was a small hillock. She settled on the summit of my chest, peering into my eyes, silently giving me love looks. I rubbed her back and stroked her tiny face, telling her what a good girl she is, how beautiful, so sweet, so very sweet, "yes, yes, yes . . ." I say over and over.

Baby Malcolm, the tabby-stripey behemoth that he has grown into, circled around in and between the others. Most mornings he dives right into the preliminaries of Food Bowl Dominance Order, chasing kitties back and forth around the bed, then remembers that I give good rubbinz, comes for a scratch, then goes fuzzily postal on Baby Wallace, who goes postal right back, all paw smacks and head bites. But this morning, Malcolm was calm, sweet, chill. He tucked up on my left side, small snores and an occasional long squeak that sounded like "ahhhhhhhhhh". He knows when I finally settle in at the computer to answer emails, he'll claim my lap as his toasty chaise lounge. He can be coolio. Because the vibe is mellow, and food and more snuggles are most definitely on his horizon . . .  

I'm with my tribe. We sleep together, eat together. We watch tv together, stare out the window at the wind and birds and sky together. We do healing sessions for the nice peoples together.

If you would have asked me ten years ago if this would be enough, this life with kitties would be enough, I would have laughed. But Life has a way of knowing exactly what we need. I'm so taken care of. I'm so loved.

I'm so grateful for the days and hours and minutes, every second I have with my fuzzy tribe. And Life, if you grant us more, we humbly thank you, and offer up our Yes to you, to continue to use as you see fit . . . 

Thank you Life, for this morning, of fuzzy love and snuggles, of toasty warmth, and squeaky Yes . . . 

Thank you for our lives . . . 

Master of the Snuggle, Lord of the Headlock

Hello. It is Malcolm. I am here.

Yes. There is dastardly in my beingness. But I am Malcolm. My karma comes with fuzziness and fangs and tough whiskery love. I am at peace with the profundity of my Weaseliness. I am One with The Dastardly in my soul.

 

What alpha kitty doesn't like to get out there and kick a little fur? Bite heads and rumble fuzzily, show some dominance at the litter box, then retreat to the food bowl to recount tales of growly battle, followed by a trip to Snoozeville?

But have you factored in my sweet side? My sweet side is so very sweet. 

Why look. Can you see them?

 

Why Yes. It is my Chocolate Lips. For Baby Emmaline to smooch. And to tickle Katmama's fingers with when I wash her hands with my scratchy tongue of Yes.

Yes. I am dastardly. But my Chocolate Lips give me away. I am also Malcolm, King of The Snuggles. And I wish to climb upon your head while you snooze, to purr my Yes into your ear, so that you too will be at one with your soul.

Weaselville Idol

Baby Wallace has decided he wants to be a pop star. How can I deny Baby Wallace anything he wants?

Here he practices for his audition doing his take on "Pretty In Pink", that delightful Psychedelic Furs hit from the 80s:

Emmaline joins in as his backup singer, although Baby Wallace has stated firmly that she will not be allowed to accompany him into the audition room. Emmaline says we'll see about that, Mr. Pinkypants.

And then The Call of The Nap overtakes her and she's out, snoozing and dreaming of feline fame where canine assisstants bring her feathered snacks in bed and she tells the paparazzi: Talk To The Paw. 

Jacinta says: f*cking kids and their f*cking noise. You little bastids and yer caterwauling make me wanna . . . zzzzz.

 . . . f*cking kids . . .  zzzzz . . .  gimme snack . . . zzzz . . . drool . . . twitch . . .  

Malcolm says: Who needs fame when you got all this lovinz so much lovinz and dinner is so purrdeliciouso?

 

Luscious Fiery Weaseliness

I thought all my pics and vid from when they were babies were lost in the harddrive crash a year or so ago, but look what I just found in my typepad blog archives:

Wow, that is one flicky tail! 

Addicted to Lactobacillus

Emmaline is just wild about keeping her intestinal flora and fauna partying with happy friendly microbial friends:

 

If you took me out for a frozen margarita, with salt, and fresh lime, this is what my face would look like too:

Yogurt should come margarita flavored. Though Emmaline is still holding out for tuna. To each his own.