DatingGod

Wave Riders

Back in January I applied for the perfect public health job for me. A fellowship - so they'd be teaching and training me. An amazing project on a cutting edge aspect of health care reform. With a top notch non-profit with a 15+ year proven track record. Flex time for working hours. 1/2 hour free during work hours each day to exercise. Healthy stipend hiring range. 

I got an interview, and as they're in Chapel Hill, they humanely let me do it on the phone. I was really sick that day, but took some of those decongestants they make meth from and was able to breathe and think so did okay. I got a second interview, this time with the CEO, and again they humanely let me do it over the phone. This time I'd had a killer day in Hiveworld, and with the phone interview at 4pm, I drank a big mug of green tea beforehand, which made me a little manic, but again, I did okay. They narrowed it down to three candidates. For the third and final interview, they asked me to come in person. 

The week before, my boss in Cubicleland asked me to apply for a permanent position with them. The interview time of course was scheduled for the same day. I talked to my boss, and this is what a genuine prince he is: he let me take the day off to drive to Chapel Hill, and allowed me to interview for Cubicleland the day before.

After the Cubicleland interview, my boss called me into his office and said he hoped the Chapel Hill job went terribly and we had a good laugh. Then he said: seriously, there is opportunity for you here, in a couple of years, you'll be in management and in a great career for yourself. I thanked him, genuinely thanked him for all he's done for me, and told him I'd keep it all in mind.

I drove up to Chapel Hill, taking a half tab of a beta blocker my doc had prescribed so that I wouldn't have to manage that god-awful heart pounding that kicks in in interviews for me. (I used to be queen of the interviews, but now that I hate talking about myself, interviews are murderous :) And it worked. I met for a group interview with four people, plus another staff member teleconferenced in. They started out pretty guarded, but by the end we were laughing and making jokes and sharing inside comments about feng shui. They rocked the casbah. I actually had a good time at an interview, and was able to tell them and show them what I genuinely had to offer them, let them see what I'm genuinely like to work with.

The following Friday I got a job offer from Cubicleland. And on Monday, the non-profit. As crazy as this sounds, I told them both I needed to think about it. Because on Thursday, Jacinta got sick. (I didn't tell any of them what was going on, just that I needed some time)

I had a feeling I'd get the public health job too, but on Friday I made the decision to accept the Cubicleland job, because a move would be too hard on Jacinta. I looked at my sweet sister and got: f*ck the perfect job, let's get you healed.

But on Saturday, I faced how sick she was, and looked at the big picture. Not just what I wanted in the moment. But all of it. My life, the lives of the kittens, and Jacinta. After her treatments and tests, I was down to $2000. That's it. After that, if my car broke down or Baby Wallace's virus flared up again, we were toast. And accepting the public health job was out of the question, because there'd be no money for the move.

And it wasn't that I didn't want to go into debt for Jacinta, it's that what I had left wouldn't be enough. The next round of tests and treatments they wanted to do - another ultrasound $375, a feeding tube $600, tests and treatments for her lungs - would have used most of what funds were left. And if those three things didn't work, we'd be done. Not just Jacinta, but all of us.

And so in the early morning of Saturday, tears streaming down my face, I asked the vet: should I do it? Will it likely cure her? And she said that the other two vets she'd consulted with said that a case of pancreatitis this acute didn't bode well, at all, and since the treatments so far weren't working, at all, there was most likely an underlying condition like Cushings or heart disease, which would mean a whole new area for tests and treatments, which at that point, we wouldn't have the money for.

And then I looked at my friend, my sweet sister, and saw she was dying, she had been for days, and in that moment I saw the way through. I didn't like it. But I didn't grab ahold of her and cling for dear life like I had with Grandma, or The Hoon. Instead, I let the whole of the situation flow through me, let the truth of all of it, wash through me, inform my heart and brain and limbs. 

In that moment, I felt an adulthood I'd never experienced before. An ability to truly see my own living in the light of What Was Really Going on. I could see through Hope to the Truth that lay beyond it. For a flash of a moment, I was a warrior on a battlefield, and I saw that this was a battle that was lost. I could stay on the battlefield with my dying friend, and die with her, or I could help her die by my hand, not at the hand of the compassionless enemies coming for her, collapsing lungs and heart, or what Wallace, Emmaline, Malcolm, and I would face without resources.

I had them leave us alone in the room for a while, and talked to her, held her, her body just the week before sturdy and solid, now as light as a feather. Then I let go, and I helped her let go too. And I helped give her as peaceful a death as I could.

And of course, my mind has gone over and over and over everything. It wants to punish me, for the choice I made, because Jacinta is no longer here, and that is unacceptable to the mind. Someone is to blame, and because I took full responsibility for everything, because I only sought council from the vet, and only briefly, making the decision completely on my own, it knows I'm to blame.

If I would have had $5000, I probably would have tried. But I always empty back out at the knowing I had in that moment, the knowing I still have, that it wouldn't have mattered. It was the end of her life. With money we could have prolonged her living, but the quality was declining and would have steadily gotten worse.

And at some point during this week as I've been talking to her, wherever she is, I said that I hoped when it's my time, there's someone with me who will help me end my life peacefully, and that I die in their arms, knowing how much they love me. And I mean it. I hope that my own death will have the meaning in someone else's Waking Up, that hers has had in mine. Because the love that moved between us helped me grow up. 

It doesn't mean I'm off the hook. I know that I'll carry that in my heart and mind for the rest of my life. I took the life of my sister. Just as I took the life of my brother. That's how it is in this world. Death comes for all of us, and sometimes it comes with pain and suffering. But it doesn't have to. But the price? You have to be grown up enough to pay the price. 

And so Saturday I took her life. And Sunday the kitties and I were surrounded by a profound sense of relief, of love, of Yes. On Monday, the public health job offer came through. On Tuesday morning I picked up Jacinta's ashes, along with a small mold they'd made of her front right paw. On Tuesday afternoon, I accepted the public health job. And yesterday, I drove up to Chapel Hill and found the perfect apartment right outside of Carrboro, and signed the lease, with for the first time, all the kitties' names on it as well. (Can you imagine a place more perfect than one with a landlord who wanted the kitties' names on the lease because they're tenants too?)

I don't write much these days for so many reasons, but mostly it's because I usually don't know how to write about what I'm going through. It doesn't show up as Waking Up, but I'm pretty sure it is. It's about healing the life, about letting go into what Life wants, while at the same time, opening the arms and heart to what I want, what I feel is true for me. It's about holding the possibility, the hope, the opening, while at the same time holding the rejection, the ending, the closing at the same time. The experience is like walking a tightrope, a razor's edge, because you can't fall to either side. Or suppress emotion as it rises, nor hang on to it when it does. 

It doesn't sound like much of a big deal: to hold Death while simultaneously living Life. But it's huge. It changes everything. 

And there has been an enormous shift in my psychic and shamanic abilities. I've been able to use them for clients for years. But for myself? Not so much. Truthfully? Hardly at all. That's changing. And it's wild to watch.

I knew I only needed to set up the one apartment viewing, but I didn't know why. Was it perfect and I wouldn't need to look anymore? Will the public health job offer be rescinded and the landlord is so nice he'll tear up the deposit check and lease? When I got lost twice looking for the apartment, and then the landlord's home to sign the lease, I began to tone and chant, connecting to guides and animals exactly as I do when in session with clients. Driving down interstate 40, I did a healing session on myself. And I turned it over to that power I feel that's greater than myself (just like I do when with clients, so that the energy can pour through me, into them, but now it can flow into me, too). I didn't pray for the details of the How, only the result of the Yes: my ability to see what the real deal is, and then the courage to act on it, to do what needs to be done, whether it's say No Thank You, or sign on the dotted line.

And I don't know what's going to happen. I only know I'm following the same psychic and shamanic info I've been giving clients for years. Something in me finally acknowledging that I'm worthy of it.

So even posting is a tightrope act. Needing to write, to place story around what's unfolding, maybe to continue to leave breadcrumbs. But also protecting this process that I'm in, that I'm going through, from the bozos who do that to folks who are in the tender shoot rising from the earth and reaching for the sun phase of Waking Up. 

I'm so grateful for you folks out there who love and send me and Malcolm and Emmaline and Baby Wallace well wishes. For you gentle folks who somehow manage to transcend distance, your love traveling down the wifi and into our hearts and minds.

Much love to you too. We send you love and well wishes too. Keep to your course, burrowing inward. Keep trusting your life process. Keep living in motion the knowing that Life is unfolding your own Waking Up through the circumstances of your daily living. 

Know that you are loved. Always. All ways . . . 

Sweet Jacinta

This post is disjointed. Maybe I shouldn't press publish, but I get that I need to write it. Because I need to deal with my grief somehow, and this is all I know to do in this moment.

Like with The Hoon, I've known for months she was going to go. Even as I understood that taking her to the vet wouldn't do anything, wouldn't stop what was coming. But feeling it coming helped me be clear in loving her. Even though before then, for the past few years, I've been loving her like every day would be our last.

That sweet weasel was so loved. And she loved me so deeply, so hilariously and with so much slobber. Kittens are loving, but Jacinta and I had a long time love. 12 years. We knew each other's stuffs. I'll love her for the rest of my life. And if there is something after this, I'll be loving her in that space too.

But of course the past few days, with all I have going on right now, I've been distracted, and when she called to me on Wednesday early morning, when I was sitting here at this computer checking emails or surfing or something equally as inane, I remember kind of brushing her off.

Thursday morning she didn't eat. Thursday night when I got home, she still wouldn't eat, so I called the vet for an appt the next morning. By 8pm though  she was in bad shape. Throwing up bile. In terrible pain. 

1:30 am and $475 at the emergency clinic later, they ruled out liver and kidneys. 9am the next morning and $610 at the vet's they ruled out a cancerous mass, and diagnosed a mild to moderate case of pancreatitis. Almost tapped out for money, they loaded me up with DIY supplies - a hanging bag for sub-q fluids, syringes for pain and nausea meds, and for feeding. They kept her for the day to dole out professional love, attention and meds, and I picked her up after work, took her home.

But she only got worse with every passing hour. By 2am she was crying in pain, and I gave her pain meds, all the pain meds, all five doses for the weekend all at once. It helped. But her breathing grew labored.

By 4am I knew what the deal was. Actually, by the time I set up the first vet visit, before the emergency clinic, I knew. But you have to go through all the steps, right? 

The worst thing would be for her to die in pain, even if it was at home in bed with me, or god help us, by the side of the road like with Cassidy. The second worse thing would be for her to die in that godawful emergency clinic. So I kept a vigil. An all night vigil by the light of the full moon. Watching her breathe. Doing energywork. Speaking sweet words to her. I didn't talk much. Because I finally, for the first time in this life, understood that love doesn't need to be spoken aloud. But I know hearing the tone of it always made her purr, so I when she was in the worst waves of pain, I spoke to her in that language I always spoke to her in, and through her pain she could recognize.

If things got too painful, we'd go to the emergency clinic. If not, we'd hold out til the vet opened in the morning.

I watched the clock go 4. 4:20. 4;45. 5. On and on until we made it til 6:30.

We got to the vet's by 7am. They let us in at 7:45. 

Lungs filling with fluid. Maybe a heart issue. Maybe the pancreatitis was secondary to something else. Maybe Cushings. Maybe there was cancer that wasn't caught by the first tests. But it all requires tests, procedures, money. Lots of it. But would it even help? Would it make her well?

I just realized one of the things that has been so painful about the past couple of days is how I kept trying to distract myself from the fact that she was dying. Is that what I'm doing now? Trying to distract myself from the fact that she's dead? Or am I facing it more clearly by this writing?

But I do what I know to do. So I do this.

I had five appointments with holistic clients today. I cancelled them all, for folks to reschedule for tomorrow or next weekend. The old me would have muscled through them. Let my heart be all raw and ripped open and mythic. But this person I'm becoming understands that there is no need for heroics. I'm grieving. My sister died this morning. 

Then my mind, the cold, evil part of it says I'm a heartless bitch to kill my friend because it costs too much to keep her alive. I let it pierce my heart, because there's truth in that. I have about $2000 left in credit and cash. I know it wouldn't have been enough. I know the most any of this would have bought is a year or two. Maybe. Maybe only days. Or ten days, like with The Hoon. But I weighed all the possibilities, of having three other kitties to care for, a possible move for a new job in a few weeks, the insane debt load I already carry from school, from the first year out of school before I began making money again.

I told the vet point blank: no heroics. If you feel strongly, let's do it, but I don't want to keep throwing things at her, torturing her like she was last night. No more pain for her, no more suffering. We need to do the right thing. And she said doing the kind thing would be to let go. And even though I knew I didn't need her permission, or her approval, it helps me now, in this moment, when the evil part of my mind rises again.

And then my mind remembers last night, the pain, the suffering of my friend. And I'm so grateful I had the courage to tell the vet No More. And the vet said it's the kindest thing. And in the moment I felt an adulthood I hadn't before. Not out of my mind crying. Crying yes, but focused, clear thinking. 

While the vet prepared things, I talked to Jacinta. Just saying all the things I've always said to her, the same phrases over and over the years, the things I'd sing. She purred. And gave me the love look, the first time since before she got sick. In those moments, I felt her understand what I was doing, and feel relief with it. She could feel me loving her, loving her like I always did. Keeping her safe. Protected. 

Even if I couldn't protect her from death, I could protect her from pain. I could help her have a peaceful death. 

And so they gave her a sedative. Then took her in the back to get the iv port in place. Then came out and placed her in my arms, and let us be together for a while. I waited til she and I were ready, then when someone came in, very gently, to check, I nodded. The syringe emptied, and a few moments later, she flinched just a bit, then her heart stopped. 8:32. 

I stayed with her until her body began to lose warmth and I could feel she was gone. I smelled her fur one last time. Kissed her sweet head. Then handed her over to be cremated.

The vet computers went down. Estimated bill $500 more. They say I can pay it when I pick up her ashes.

It'd be easy to post this without talkinbg about the money. But of course this is also about money. About money, love, adulthood, courage, willingness, gratefulness, broken heartedness.

Driving home in the impossibly bright Carolina sunshine. Then to deal with urine and vomit soaked sheets, blankets, rugs. Clothes covered in urine and drool. In the wash. Needed to clean out the parts of her that were only about the last two days. Although a part of my mind inhales the scents, and yearns, because all it knows is this: this is Jacinta.

Malcolm and Emmaline and Baby Wallace, all so extra kind the past two days. To me. To Jacinta. They keep coming and laying on me, giving me love looks. Emmaline came twice last night to keep vigil with us, not scared away by the sound of Jacinta's pain and labored breathing. Baby Wallace keeps checking in on me, squeeking and sending me love. Malcolm is in my lap right now, purring, purring.

Outside my window, birds and trees. The sun feels obscene. But then I remember how much Jacinta loved the sun. And I feel how the sun and Jacinta will always be intertwined in my heart and mind.

I'm the only one left now of my tribe of the Hacienda of Ckats. We were about healing and chasing adventures and being bold and snuggling and snacking and watching tv and being a good family to one another. Brother Calhoon. Grandma Booty. Sister Jacinta. Now just me.

I have a new tribe. Yet we're not sure what our deal is yet. More shall be revealed. We're a young family.

Jacinta.

Can't take it back. She's gone.

I miss her.

I love her.

Baby in the sun, 2005:

 

Baby In The Sun, one last time, taken yesterday evening right after I brought her home, 3/18/11:

 

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 . . . 

Unhappy Endings

Flu-like symptoms for over a week now. Blisters coming and going on my palms, like mutant eczema. All of the cleansing apparatuses of a physical body in high gear. Funky, smelly, ick. Emotional cleansing too. Embarrassing emotional cleansing.

I actually screamed and shook not one but two cats last night. Sure there was a serious, serious willful poop malfunction involved in one, and in the other, a dumped over water glass inches away from an electrical cord hooked up to my computer, but still. It scared the crap out of everyone. And then I spent a half hour dealing with the demon possession of hatred I felt. And then an hour dealing with the shame. But when I faced them all again, with their enormous, frightened eyes, I lay down beside each one in turn, and apologized. And of course they forgave me, licked my cheek, purred, gave me the sparkly eyed love look, then slept on top of me all night en masse, like a multi-feline blanket.

I needed them. It was a rough night. Not physically - I actually had very little physical pain, which was a relief after the past few weeks. But the dreams were intense, woke me three times with energy that lit me up. I don't remember the first one, but the last two? Whoaaaaaaaaaaa.

Around midnight, I woke up with my body, mind, heart lit up with love. Actually, not love, but Love. That Big Love so rarely felt with another human being in a romantic setting, that when it occurs our current culture calls it "soulmate". Wow. I lay there in the dark, seconds away from how he smiled at me, the touch of his skin. The sound of rain clicked on the windows, the torrential downpour that has been constant here on the coast for the past few days. Kitties felt me wake and prrrped, snuggled in more deeply. Wow. Feelings of such Yes, such love, safety. Wow. I drifted back to sleep.

The dream continued, right where it left off.

And slowly began to turn. Into a nightmare. Not a scary nightmare. A sad one. So sad. From soulmate love to merely human love. Then no love at all. I woke up in a kind of shock. And as I lay there in the dark, I heard:

"All of your stories have unhappy endings."

Whoa. Whoaaaaa. Do they? And slowly I began to wind my way backward through all of the friends, lovers, jobs, homes, family, projects, everything, even the master's degree in the assured career. And saw yes, it's true.

I didn't feel any blame toward the people involved or victimy pain at my plight or righteous anger at fate. None of that. Just a quiet acknowledgment that my life has been hope/ dream/ want followed by opportunity/ synchronicity/ magic  followed by hard work/ creativity/ risk taking followed by pain/failure/ending. I couldn't recall a single thing that didn't fit with that.

I didn't know what to do with it, that information, that angle on the truth of my living. Nothing more came. Just that.

Jacinta was sleeping, pressed against my right shoulder. I turned and with my left armed circled her, tucked my hand under her, cradling her face, laying my head on her body, most of my weight supported by my pillow. Usually she didn't like to be touched while she slept. But last night she purred so loud it reverberated through me. And didn't stop. I fell back asleep like that, to the sound of loud rumbling feline Yes.

And woke relaxed. Okay. As if something had lifted. A little space. A little bit of moving room in my consciousness. I got up, made green smoothies, a gallon's worth, enough to last through work, fed kitties, showered, answered emails, got ready to go to work in Hiveworld, another day in Hiveworld.

And I realize: work is the place right now that  solidly, consistantly reminds me Who I Am. When I'm plugged in, being of service to folks who are struggling in their own Battle with No, my own feelings of funk fades. Whether it's with the holistic work or the Hiveworld work, it's the same energy: that vibrant flow of Yes that somehow feels effortless and vital and worth showing up for every single time.

It's okay that I don't have answers to the cleansings that are occurring, either my own or the folks I deal with. That my life has been filled with unhappy endings, or that the folks I'm working with are dealing with unhappy endings of their own. Maybe a few folks are genuinely stopping their stories altogether, but I don't see anymore how we have a choice in that. Either Life stops our story or it doesn't. All we can do is show up to what is showing up in our living. Face it. Do what needs to be done. Even if that action is simply to release the whole pile of goo as if it didn't even exist. 

Ultimately, none of it exists, but if there is a way to force this fact of non-existence into a solid knowingness of it, I certainly don't know how. I only know how to do the next thing, and right now, it's dealing with the stories that cause me and others to embrace toxic things and not let them go. We're all struggling to change our stories, to move them into tales of financial security, meaningful work, vibrant health, Big Love with family, friends, lovers. And that means less Toxic. And maybe Waking Up can happen with our arms full of Toxic, but I doubt it. In my experience, we let things go, one by one, the Toxic and the Love.

Right now, I deal with the Toxic. And I'm grateful for it. Both the experience of how it came to be be, and the experience of sheer freedom as it exits.

Onward. Further. What else to do with a life?

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?

 

It Ain't Easy Being Weaselly

Baby Wallace, interrupted in the middle of morning ablutions says: A Little Privacy Please! To which I reply, dude, this is payback for all those times you stare at me while I'm in the middle of mine. Seriously, Baby Wallace, you watch me brush my teeth or take a wee and the look on your face is simply . . . haunted. Why, Baby Wallace? Why???

 This is Baby Wallace's pirate impression. He's only interested in the seafaring life for the tuna. And the rum.

Aaaargh, matey. Where's the grog?

 

 Jacinta just wants to know why the hell I brought in all these kittens and their head biting and paw smacking and food stealing and the poops, oh my god the poops.

 

Baby Emmaline and Dastardly Malcolm,  so busted. (interrupted in the middle of one of their clandestine meetings about various snuggle & head lock techniques, the pros and cons of eating furniture, and whether or not to begin Tiny Weasel Revolution for World Dominance today or tomorrow or maybe later on this week if they keep getting access to plain whole milk organic yogurt. And cheese. Cheese figures prominantly in Tiny Weasel Revolution for World Dominance.)

 

 Dastardly Malcolm, when his dastardly has caught up with him.

 

 Baby Wallace says: those damm kittens work my last nerve . . .

 

 Emmaline, a cautionary tale on the effects of getting high . . .

It ain't easy being weaselly . . . but obviously these are pros . . .

Mommy's Little Pusher

Some cats do the catnip thing. Others are tunaheads. Jacinta? She likes to mainline a wide range of synthetic or semi-synthetic organic amorphous polymers of high molecular mass. With her tongue. Observe:

 

Above, sweet Jacinta licks a plastic banana walnut millet bread bag. Mmmmmmmm.

Below, you'll find her in what she has converted into her very own Den of Sin:

Sure, it looks like a linen closet converted into a pantry, but what it really is is where she goes to get her polycarbonate on.

Yeah, sure, I've tried everything to get her to quit - coaching her through withdrawal, doing a methadone-esque substitution with some of those soy-based "plastics", even Tough Love - but no go. And seriously, can you even fathom how much plastic is in a home? It's everywhere.

 

And so I surrender, because apparently, we all have our addictions to battle. But that doesn't mean I can't bring her breakfast in bed . . .

Slip N Slide Weasel Style

The bathroom rug, in its happy home.

The bathroom rug, after kitties have played slip n slide on it, which they do every single freakin day. I spend half my waking hours unclumping the rugs.

The kitchen, in all it's lovely be-rugged glory.

The kitchen, when I return from work after a long day slaving at the cubicle farm.

Yes, the weasels, caught in the act, their eyes aglow with: yo, don't harsh my mellow, either climb on a rug for a ride or get us another snack, Katmama. Otherwise, talk to the paw cuz the pointy swivel ears ain't hearing ya.

Or I shall attack your feet, Katmama! <<gripping, gnawing, insertion of tiny fangs thru thin socks>> Argh! Arghhhhhhhhh! Arghghghghghghghghghghg!!!
 
  
Different day. Same hijinks. I've learned that getting up in the middle of the night can be trecherous, little rug mines scattered all over and whatnot.

And the clothes drying rack? That ain't no stinkin' drying rack. It's a pitching range for feline paws. Those are not socks. They are potential feline fastballs.

Does this capture the majesty that preceded this pic? I think not. Best to picture two tabby felines swirling around in the sink like silky vermin, and then Katmama turns on the tap. Look at those paws fly!

Not really. I didn't turn the tap on them. See the bowl on the right? That's their water bowl. Dastardly Malcolm likes to pretend he's Mark Twain on the Mississippi and his paws are a paddleboat. Why is their water bowl here and not with their food bowls? Because they don't want it there. They want it here. How do I know?

Because I am the Katmama. I know these things. And I am here to serve . . .  

 

Live From Thursday Morning

My camera died a couple of weeks ago. Served me well for six years and then, as you may have noticed, the focus just went myopic, as elderly viewing devices are wont to do. My new camera has video. Maybe not the best, but a good place to start. Because why not? You deserve to see the weaselly wonders that are Baby Wallace, Granny Thug, Dastardly Malcolm, and Emmaline, our resident tank-flower hybrid. 

It's unedited (still need to learn imovie :) The lighting blows. The camera movement is shaky. But it's weasels! And that's just so dang cute. 

My first attempt at posting video. Enjoy. . . 

Weaselville, Live From Thursday Morning . . . from Katherine Turner on Vimeo.

Dastardly Malcolm

Malcolm is dastardly:

  

You can tell this is true by the fierce, faintly feral look in his eye.
  

So very dastardly.
    

And with his big ole fangs latching onto everything he can get their pointy tips into. . . 
  

He chews his way through the household. Seriously.
    

The covering over the tv.
  

The back of a couch.
  

The clothes drying rack.
  

The 4ftx7ft rug i spent a year crocheting that is now utterly, totally swiss cheesed.
  

This one, though, made me wonder if he'd weren't trying to self-medicate some buried trauma from his kittenhood. Perhaps his bung wasn't washed enough in his formative weeks? Perhaps he needs a soul retrieval? (if you live with kitties you are at least smiling right now; if you don't you most likely really, really wish i'd stop posting about kitty bungs.)
  

Malcolm likes to chew on animate objects as well. And he gets as good as he gives. Malcolm has no issues with his masculinity. He doesn't believe in passive aggressive.
  

He likes to turn the bathroom sink into a water park. "Party in the bathroom in 5!" he's been known to holler as he herds the other cats into yet more hijinks. He's in charge of all A-Level Hijinks in our home.
  

But he isn't just dastardly. He's not just a fighter. He's a napper, too, as you can see by the many hours spent chilling in his hammock aka the clothes drying rack that he's learned to scale like a freakin tabby colored monkey swinging up the monkey bars. (You think I'm kidding? Dude doesn't need opposable thumbs. He's got like, spidey paws or something . . .)
  

Okay, so we're back to the bung issue. Definitely a soul retrieval is needed.
  

But whatever, cuz he's a lover.
  

Like a feline Steve Guttenberg, he's always snuggling someone. 

  

Like me.
   

For which we are all eternally grateful. Becuz he's as sweet and luscious as he is dastardly. Not just full of testosterone, but full of full-on multi-dimensional lovins. 

   
Yes.

  

Life is good with Malcolm in the house . . . 
 

Gratefulness, Full of Coastal Carolina Sunshine and Day-Off Yes

I don't think I'll ever get over the delicious feeling of having provisions stored up, tools and environment tended to, all beings in my care relaxed and smiling.

I had sessions scheduled for today and all three of them either cancelled or postponed. It's the first Saturday I've had off in a long, long time. I slept in late, til kitties biting my toes and licking my eyelids drove me from bed at 7:45. I drank coffee and wrote emails to friends and clients and chased kitties around for a couple of hours. Then I made things right in my kingdom.

Did a mound of dishes. Cleaned the apartment top to bottom. Did laundry. Turned the mattress and changed the sheets. The latter took a half hour because the changing of the sheets brings all kitties running, to dive under the fitted sheet, trapped and tickled by The Hand Monster, kitties all jumping on and around each other as the light summer blanket comes down, then up, then down, then up, me pretending that I need to just lift and float it down one more time to get it on straight, but really, you know it's just to see the kitties scoot and scramble just one more time. 

Then out into the world. . . 

A check! In my mailbox! From the cancer insurance folks! Which paid off all my medical bills. In full. Even the most recent digestive related ones. Al*state: you suck, but in this moment, you rock, you really do.

Car gassed up, put in a quart of oil, wiper fluid. To the grocery store for the things I can't/don't get at the coop (litter and tp and some of the more seriously on sale or stuffs/veggies/fruits that just look dang good.) 

To the library to take back the Bryson's bio on Shakespeare, a non-fic about what would happen to the earth if humans vanished, some novels that I read a few pages of then closed, uninterested in. And to pick up more novels to take a whirl at, including Daniel Suarez's Freedom, the sequel to Daemon, which although not as well written, is just as freakin prescient as William Gibson, and which I can't dang skippy to wait to dive into.

Next stop: Tidal Creek Coop, where I dropped a cool $140, and bought organic and mostly local fruit and veg, enough kitty food to last for the next couple of weeks, mineral bath salts for detoxing, salt for the neti pot, coconut milk for coffee, and cowgirl ranch dressing to spice up the homemade vinaigrette I make, red chili powder to spice up the Crazy Wok N Roll I've been indulging in, and sprouts and local goat cheese and millet bread, and local eggs in hues of green, brown and speckled white, and gluten free poppy seed lemon cake and vanilla ice cream because really, just plain yum. 

And fruit juice sweetened lemonade, which I am drinking now with apple favored vodka, because it's 2:30pm, and why the heck not? 

I love being single. I love being crazy. I love not shaving my armpits. I love working in Hiveworld with my Hilarious Coworker and various crazy/wonderful/crabby/big-hearted Cubicleland folks. I Love hanging out with the neurotic and elegant and very very pink Baby Wallace. And the delectably sweet, fiesty, tiny fanged wonder that is Emmaline. And the big, impossibly-soft-n-fluffy hunk of testosterone that is Dastardly Malcolm. And the licky, puffy, squealy, Yes that is Jacinta, our beloved Granny Thug, the All-Star Gangsta Granny we all love and adore.

Life is good. So very good. May this find you deep inside your Yes . . . your demons starved into silence, the beings around you loving you in all your sweet, f*cked up glory, and the plant world sharing their grainery/greenery love with you, all to rights in your own kingdom . . .

Party on . . . you are loved . . . 

Spiritual Bon Bon or Hard Work or Just Plain Good Luck?

I had an amazing day yesterday. 

• I woke up, drank my yogurt, flax seed oil, maca root powder, green food powder water. I felt sad and tired and hopeless. "Do you feel awful?" I asked myself. "Yes," I answered. Then I went for my three-mile walk and as my feet flew ever faster, and the cobwebs and funky mental fog blew away, I planned out the summer - work on the novel and my health May, June, July, post audios of the Sunday night journeying classes and launch combined websites in August, begin doing a class or two a month starting in September. I arrived back at the house happy and joyful and full of vim.
• I cleaned my house, and the resulting feng shui-ish quiet had me walking room to room, just to inhale the Yes radiating in each room.
• I got my car back from the mechanic, a friend of my sister's who installed a brand new radiator (how awesome that I won't have to fill the radiator up every few days!). He also did new brakes, spark plugs, air filter, oil change, and I'm sure some other stuff. He picked my car up from my sister's place on Thursday, took it Leland, then brought it back yesterday afternoon. All for $200. Which my sister paid for, and refused, absolutely laughingly refused to let me pay her back for. So I took the money I'd saved and went and had new tires put on the car, which I'd been meaning to do for many months because the front righthand side tire was so bald it was totally smooth, not even a hint of a tread left.
• I ate only healthy, clean foods all day, avocado and tomato, pineapple and watermelon, rice crackers and organic cheddar, hazelnut coffee and almond milk. 
• The kitties attended the soul retrieval sessions according to some calling only they hear. A guy arrives and Baby Wallace sits at his feet, staring at him with the sweetest of expressions. When we do the healing work, Wallace jumps up on the table and curls into the space between his feet. When the guy leaves, Baby Wallace goes into my bedroom. A woman arrives and Jacinta comes out, which she very rarely does, and talks to the woman, these pointed mreowwwws that has the woman leaning over and talking back to Jacinta in a very caring way. Jacinta stays with her for the whole hour and a half. The woman leaves, Jacinta disappears into the apartment. The next client arrives and Emmaline and Malcolm come out, Emma spending the first ten minutes sniffing and licking the woman daintily, which delights the woman, and Emma gives her the love look, you know the one, over and over. E and M then nap on the floor, Malcolm at the woman's head, Emmaline at her feet. After she leaves, all the kitties come out, and sit, watching me as I shut things down, turn off the drumming track, blow out candles, fold the blankets and put them away, fold up the massage table. Then they all disperse. I know this is a main reason I knew I needed to work from home - so that the kitties could do their work too. 
• I went to the grocery store and stood in the cake mix and frosting aisle, eyeballing something called "chocolate explosion- just microwave and eat!" for many long minutes. It took that long to get to the knowledge: this will make you sick. As I put it back onto the shelf, I felt a sliver of gratitude, the smallest poof of virtuousness, but mostly what I felt was a profound grief that stayed with me for approximately one minute, then was gone. When I left the grocery store, without a single product made from wheat or chemicals or sugar, the sun felt brilliant and healing, and I smiled all the way to the car and back home.
• Instead of going to the movies to see Iron Man 2 and eat popcorn, I drank a banana and pineapple and vanilla rice protein shake, and scratched and rubbed various kitty pelts, and watched Fringe and Medium and Flash Forward and Stargate Universe off of  Side*reel and Hulu. Then I went to bed, read some more of The World Without Us, kitties all up in my stuffs, and listened to the suburban soundtrack of birds and squirrels and dogs and wind as we drifted off to sleep.

Maybe this would have been a more or less normal day for some folks, or for others, with the economy the way it is, a freakin joyride on a magic carpet. For me, it felt like everything that's going on is a confirmation of the hard ass, bone grinding work I did the past few years. 

But then I think: maybe I'm just having a streak of good luck. But I remember I don't really believe in good luck, or at least good luck in the form of Yes just randomly zipping into a life, then zipping back out. And then there's the fact that this "good luck" always always seems to come in the wake of doing hard time in the inner mines of spiritual work. 

Then I think: maybe this is just what happens when someone quits being all erratic and flighty and buckles down to a regular "normal" job. I've been working seven days a week - five days in Hiveworld, then shamanic healing work clients for three to five hours on Saturdays, then shamanic journeying class on Sunday night. A phone session or two on the weeknights. Keeping my apartment clean. Being on time. 

And then I get: this is the beginning of Human Adulthood. This is what a life is like when a person drops the emotion, the batsh*t crazy rage and judgment and addiction and depression and hopelessness and victimy blame and romantic love and delusion and belief that anything means anything (the ones most people pretend they don't feel, but which all but the tiniest percentage of members of our western civilization tribe indulge in). It doesn't mean these vapors don't still come around - it means they are so much less attractive that a person doesn't stare at them, reach out a paw to grab them as they whirl past. This is what happens when a person stops buying into the insanity of the demons that nip at their heels, not turning to fight them, just flinging them off, keep climbing, further, always further. This is the beginning of Human Adulthood, and it isn't something that is achieved so much as surrendered into.

I highly recommend it. I give my stamp of Yes approval to turning toward whatever horrible awful No is vibrating in your world. I support and encourage you, as the No begins to surround and then consume you, to chant the mantra "Yes, yes, yes, Yes." And then as the No changes into Yes, and you begin to laugh at how hard you fought all these years against the supposed No, when you see how it always was and always will be Yes, go sit in a chair, and watch the wind move the trees, and watch the movement of your mind downshift into floating, and the pointlessness of your life to reveal itself as quiet joy and sweetness and hilarity.

It's not your life. You just travel in it.

What a beautiful day . . . 

So Very Much Lovins

Sometimes, we curl all up in a pod of snooze

Sometimes we get all pretzelly

Sometimes a haunch makes a happy pillow for my head

 

Sometimes love means a tongue bath

Ditto

Ditto back at ya

Hello. May I lick the skin covering your third eye? Really. Just lean in a little closer and my tongue of enlightenment will cascade your living with my Yes

Oh yes, mush my face, my face, my face, yes, mush it, mush it

Oh yes, your lap is of luxury, if by luxury you mean love, because there is love here in my heart for you, so very much love

Write away, sister Kate, do your verbally thing, I shall remain here to keep you toasty, and filled with the Tiny Rumbler purrs of my Yes

We love you, we love you, we love you . . .

Yes.

Deconstructing the House of No

The emotional death I went through the past few years was horrible and painful. Thoughts and yearnings for suicide were with me more on than off. I was afraid to die. I wanted to die. I couldn't take anymore. The feeling of being peeled, skinned, eviscerated was too much, I couldn't bear the agony a second longer. And the then the weight would lift, and it was like the sun burst through, but from inside, the sun inside, shining through every cell, Yes, Yes, Yes. And I would see that the pull of death had been the death of who I thought I was, death of "Katherine", and I saw that I wasn't her, and the space, the freedom without her, was luscious, hilarious, Nothing. Then another round of death would commence. And this went on for years.

Now the physical portion of the dismantling goes on. And it is just as painful, with death just as present. But now it's not suicidal thoughts or yearnings, it's watching as my body goes through some sort of death throes. The digestive pain, the back pain is so intense I wake up several times a night, wide-eyed and sweaty. I'm going to see a gastroenterologist next week, but I put it off as long as I could so that I could get the clearest picture of what is going on.

I've written about it before. It's addiction, which is powered by fear. It's from this life, the lives before this one, and the ancestral karma I carry, and the chunk of world suffering I carry as my due. All I want to do is eat refined carbs, watch tv, sleep. I watch this. Surrender to it when it shoves me over the cliff. Make other choices when there's enough space in between the lines of bullsh*t. 

I've discovered that love makes the pain go away. And not just softens it, but makes it go away. Because it's most acute in the mornings, this is when it's the most noticeable. 

Often it's the kitties, and the love they show me, so natural and simple. It's a grace and a gift. I wake up, Emmaline walks over, lays down On My Face, and then lifts a paw so that I have breathing hole. It sounds crazy, but in the chill morning air, it makes me unbelievably toasty, and snuggled, and relaxed. Then she slides down into the crook of my neck, and reaches up to place a paw on my cheek, her eyes slowly blinking and sparkling that Kitty Love Yes look. And as I write this, Malcolm walks onto the desk, gets a few inches away from my face, reaches out a paw, looks at me, waiting for permission. I lift my hands from typing and he crawls down into my lap, snuggles in, purrs, goes to sleep.

And it's also the people that come to me while I sleep, in dreams. Most times I wake up and only feel an essence of them, but other times, like this morning, it's like living with someone, having spent the night sleeping in their arms, or taking a walk and talking, or sitting together as things get explained. Who are they? They are friends, lovers, teachers. Men, women, animals, plants. Beyond that, I don't know.

I don't know if I'll make it through this. Whatever that means. But whatever this is, I both do it on my terms, and utterly surrender. In relation to the world around me, I stay away from folks who know not what they do, walk away from the situations that resonate No. In relation to this physical death that I go through, I have no choice in any of it. I know that it's all Yes, and that's what I work toward every day, all day. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I'm so grateful for all of it. It's like watching a giant jigsaw puzzle being put together. I'm no longer believing that I have to choose the right piece and put it in the right place. I'm only watching, clapping my hands in delight when I see the most impossible looking piece fall seamlessly into the most impossible looking place. 

My life is forfeit. I'm along for the ride. I'm so grateful for it all. What a ride . . . 

Crustacean

I dreamt last night of roiling oceans, me adrift on a plank of wood, grasping hold with clenched hands, legs dangling in the water, knowing that sharks and other fish with teeth swam underneath. As the huge waves broke, I saw an enormous octopus, it's tentacles dark pink, sinewy, so very very many of them. And then it changed into a huge lobster, leviathanesque, antennae like stalks, rolling over and over in the huge waves.

It was early morning, and I woke up with a horrible stomach ache, aching back so intense it made me wince. This is nothing new. This is how it is most mornings. And most mornings, I wake up around 4am, get up, take ibuprofin and digestive enzymes, lift the Barnacle out of her crate to get her all snuggled and toasty under the covers, so that when the morning alarm goes off at 5:15, I'm warm, relaxed, and pain free. Not this morning.

This morning I just lay there. The new "daylight savings" 4am painted my bedroom pitch black. My stomach pain was a direct wraparound to the pain in my spine that radiates out like the roots of a tree on fire. The nausea, the discomfort of my distended stomach, reminded me of the half bowl of homemade veggie chili I ate last night for dinner, with a half a piece of millet bread. I didn't mean to only eat half, but fear kept me from finishing. Fear of pain. Fear of what I would feel in the morning.

And as I lay there, the cats one by one began to realize I was awake, and one by one began to purr. The sound of purring filled the room. Malcolm slowly climbed from the curve of my legs and tucked into my side, the weight of him on the bed, but his paws and head laying across my belly. Jacinta reached out her paws and lay them atop my shins. Baby Wallace made a trip up from the ottoman at the foot of the bed and sniffed my face for a long minute, let me smell the delicious umami of his fur and breath. I reached over and opened the door of Emmaline's crate and she slowly walked out, stretching her leg long and lifted like a ballerina, then snuggling down on my neck and shoulders, purring, purring.

And as I lay there, totally surrounded by love, the sound of contentment, the feel of soft fur, the warmth and gentle weight, I realized I felt no more pain. All I felt was Yes, Yes, Yes.

And I felt grateful, so grateful for this life, for this body, for the love that surrounds me, the gift that stewarding felines brings every day, every hour, and on mornings like this, profoundly so.

And then I got up and another day begins . . .

Ramblin' Squirrel

Whither we goest . . . The Barnacle goes too . . .

At night, before we go to bed, Daughter of Conehead snuggles into the leopard blanket of warmth.

In the mornings as we wake up and breakfast and caffeinate and fishate.

At night we surrender to the magic that is hulu.com.

At dawn we greet the day with glowing eyes and electric hearts.

And Jacinta the Bristly says: your love makes me slightly irritable but I'm okay with it.

We congregate and fill the Vibrant Living Room with the healing powers of Fuzzy Yes before the Shamans' Circle Journeying group on Sunday evenings. Come lovely humans! The Yes is waiting for you!

We greet the day, hanging with our homies, the platonic greenery known as Phil and Nettie and Basil.

We prepare the Vibrant Living Room for it's function on weeknights: the place where Katmama shucks (most of) her duds, partakes of grainery and greenery, and shuffles off the No, replacing it with Yes, and Yes, and YES.

(Kelly! Where are you?!? Luscious vibes of Yes, groovalicious Speahead calls us forth! Dance, mama, dance!)

 Life is good . . .

Fuzzy Love & Sundays

We love snowstorms. They mean snuggle weather.

  

Plus we are beautiful when we are all snuggled in.

Hello. My name is Baby Wallace. I am very good looking. But you knew this of course. May I lick your forehead?

I have been wounded in battle. But you would not know it. Because Life is good. And I am good looking.

When I dream, I dream of luscious hunks named Oscar. And tuna. I dream of tuna.

Afternoon siesta. And the sound of purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr fills the room.

The sun, it heals me. Plus it feels nice on my naked behind.

I reach out to touch you, because you are near, and so very fuzzy, and your purrs are more contagious this way.

Still dreaming of Oscar. I no longer dream of tuna. Now I dream of cheese. High quality cheese. That organic Italian monk stuff that you pay $17 dollars a pound for at The Teeter. I am proud to be a cheese weasel. Life is good. Oscar, I love you.

Mi germies, su germies . . . our love knows no infectious vectors. 

I love you.

Kiss me you rascally rascal.

I love you, you little kumquat, you little gluten free corn muffin, you little little debbie snack cake, you.

Malcolm says: you taste like the first flowers of spring, the purple ones, with the dainty white centers.

Emmaline says: love, love, love, love, love . . . 

Wallace says: the vibes of your love are very therapeutic.

Katmama says: Life is good in Weaselville.

  
 

Emmaline Takes A Header and Lives to Tell the Tale!

For many years all the weasels were fine. A ding here and there. Stuff as they grew older. And then Grandma got sick and died, then The Hoon. And since then, all the kitties here at the Hacienda of Ckats one after the other, have had various ailments, all of them either serious and life or body part threatening or chronic and requiring all sorts of intensive daily care and whatnot. For you hard core long time readers of DG, see if you can Name That Kitty:

1. Several times a day, had to have the hardened snot wiped off/out of his little kitty nostrils so he could breathe, blew actual snot bubbles out of his nose like a cartoon, could sneeze 13 times in a row and come out raring to put someone, anyone in a headlock (he can and does still do the latter).
2. After the implantation of a radioactive seed to stop the growth of the thyroid tumor she spent 3 days in an isolation room, and was so distraught over the whole process, that instead of keeping a 10-ft distance between us like recommended for safe radioactivity levels, she spent the next week suctioned onto my body like a barnacle.
3. Spent six months having pills pushed down his throat, bad goop wiped out of his eye, good goop squirted into his eye, sneezing snot all over me and the furniture and the food, two seperate rounds of kitty paw swollen like a spatula, and many months with enough herpes mouth sores to qualify as a gigolo.

The answers are 1) Malcolm 2) Jacinta 3) Baby Wallace

The only kitty in the bunch who was the radiant picture of health was sweet Baby Emmaline. Tiny little Emmaline, with her sweet face and even sweeter tiny tongue up my nose in the mornings. Bright flying Emmaline, biting the heads of Malcolm and Wallace with equal fearless ferver. Bodacious brave little Emmaline and her bold quest to get high.

As of Sunday at 4pm, our girl has been benched, joining the rest of her small tribe here in the Hacienda in our long standing membership of the Badge of the Walking Wounded.

She took a flying leap off a window sill, caught her back hind leg on a towel rack, and fractured her knee, breaking the kneecap almost clean off the bone. Then commenced over the course of 18 hours: one hysterical katmama, two trips to the vet, another trip to the feline orthopedic surgeon, one surgery to reconnect the knee with metal rods, a $1500 credit limit increase from Care*credit tp pay for the estimated $1400 surgery and recovery, and one very stylish red cast.

She had the surgery yesterday evening, the surgeon called me afterward to tell me all went great, and I went to see her this morning before I came into Hiveworld. She was high as a kite, her eyes enormous sweet inky pools of infinity. And sweet. So very sweet. Did I mention how sweet?

She can't come home until Wednesday or Thursday and then has to be immobilized in a small space so she won't be able to run around for 6-10 weeks, but she's okay! And there was fundage to pay for the surgery! And Life is good!

Crazy, strange, wonderful, rollercoaster life . . .

(I'll post a pic of her in her stylish red cast later on this afternoon . . . :)

Weaselville: Don't Disturb The Guru

 

Xmas In Weaselville

It's a lovely day over here in Weaselville. Kitties lie in various poses of recline.

Malcolm's makes little nonsequitur high-squeaked prrrrrps, having tuckered himself out at being my silky noodle for the day, stretched out in bliss on my shoulder, his hind legs dangling as I walked about the house.

Next to him, mere inches away from his usually love-bitey mouth, is Jacinta, her status of Resident Crabbypants rescinded for the day as she purrs continuously, her tail tucked into Malcolm's loving embrace.

Baby Wallace, a behemoth vision in pink and fire, snoozes on top of the couch right behind my left shoulder, and when I say "Hello, Baby Wallace, you big hunk of stuff", he opens his eyes, looks at me with that sparkly feline love look, and then sighs as he drifts back to sleep, but not before I slide a finger up to his mouth and he chews on it for a minute like tuna jerky. 

Emmaline, after spending the night wrapped around my neck like a feline muffler (one of her little paws slung across my cheek) and the day on me like a fuzzy barnacle, trades in the curve of my neck for a little alone time curled up nose to tail with herself in the chair. 

 

We ate pad thai for lunch, followed by coconut cake, which the kittens especially made unearthly grunting noises over. Malcolm wore a white whipped cream mustache for a while until Emmaline licked it off for him.
Sorry I didn't get a pic of it but we were real busy with the cake.
 

What a gift of a day.

 

Bam, Said The Lady

Yes, I'm posting from HiveWorld. I have on girl shoes, my hair is styled, and I'm wearing cute clothes. I'm drinking ginger lemon tea, though the caffeine buzz from this morning's mugs of Newman's Own caramel and vanilla coffee are still singing arias in my CNS.

Life is good.

How good is it?

I'm up every morning at 5:30 am, as I have been for several weeks now, writing. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because if I have a spiritual practice at all anymore it is writing. And dang it's luscious to be banging away on my laptop as the sky lightens, the first bird of the day says hola, and kitties purr electromagnetic rumblings from their snuggles on my lap, on my desk, and the couch two feet away.

I went back to the 8-year grad school to get the official diagnosis. I'd had an ultrasound of my nether regions and as he perused the pics he said: you have such beautiful organs! Which was so nice to hear. Then we chatted a little about cancer (I don't like to call it cancer, I prefer to call it pre-cancer, he said), and the surgery, where he tried to upsell (while I'm in there, would you like a D&C or a tubal ligation with that removal of your cervix?). When I expressed my indecision to let him up my HooHah with a torching device, he began his flattering song and dance, but I cut him off and said you'll be much more effective with me if you get right to the hard science of it, show me exactly what you'll be doing, and why. He looked down at his desk for a moment and I wondered if he was even listening. Then he stood and began to ransack his office. Several minutes later he produced a brochure from a medical device company that showed in bright digital color the cancer covered cervix, the cutting tool, the cutting of the cervix, the cervix post-cut, and the happy pink puffy partial cervix six months post-cut. Sold! (well, not entirely as I haven't scheduled the surgery yet as you know, gotta wait for the Knowing . . .) On my way out the door he said to me: two months, I give you two months tops, then I want to see you on my operating table. So Life, you're on notice, you have a deadline . . .

Baby Wallace, the enormous fire puma behemoth that he is, and ever the petri dish, has developed an abscess in his left paw. The vet shot him up with all sorts of Pharmaceutical Whatnot, but it'll take a few days to kick in. In the meantime he holds his paw up like feng shui prosperity kitty. Thanks Baby Wallace!

Baby Malcolm has decided that there is great refuge to be found on my head. While I sleep, he rides my head like a horse, and if I'm lucky, he gives me one nostril as a blowhole for oxygen. Baby Emmaline still greets the day by sticking her tongue up my nose, though she has also discovered that the corner of my eyes and my open mouth are also great ways to say I Love You with a scratchy tongue. Jacinta growls, and purrs, and growls, and prrps, and growls, and blissfully naps. It's awesome. I love it all. I wouldn't change a thing.

The "spiritual retreat" is this weekend (when you follow the link, scroll down for presenters and pics). And after a couple of months of waffling, I'm almost positive I'm going. Dare I say I actually feel excitement? Good vibes? Echoes of future hilarity careening my way? I'm not sure what I'm more swerved about: meeting David Scoma (who helpfully dropped a bomb in my bulls*t this last go round of Open Your Eyes), meeting Bruce Rubin (screenwriter for Ghost, Jacob's Ladder, and The Time Traveler's Wife), or the fact that the retreat hosts have agreed to have gluten free food at Every Single Meal.

Seriously. Life is dang skippy flippin good . . .

PS - Nathan, dear Nathan, we were Feeding the Birds back in 1986 up at SUNY Purchase, and then in NYC. It's awesome that you wish to spread the goodness, yet you must give props to its roots. . . I hold my hand up, fingers dangling, in Yes and Howdy to you as you surf the lovely wave of Yessssssss your Twitter account is generating . . . :)

October at the Hacienda of the Hazel-Eyeds

Thx Brother Will

Paradise For The Worried

After the move from Hell job to Chill job, I wondered: what's the next layer of "me" that Life is going to peel off? And as I was fully immersed in fluffy petals of Yes, I couldn't really imagine, which is just as well, because that was the point, so that I could be blindsided, and get the full effect and benefit of The Boom of 'sploding ego.

In a period of less than 48 hours, several scenarios played out, all having to do with death and madness and loss of identity: 

Two separate clients came into cubicleland with violence on their mind, showing me how death can come and there isn't a heck of a lot I can do about it other than look into its eyes and say: I see you coming. Obviously, I didn't die, but what I saw was how afraid of dying I am. It was like getting a chance to see where on the Death Fear meter I am. My meter was smoking burnt tire rubber.

Another client came rushing into the office to tell me he had dropped his keys and that his car had been stolen, which showed me that my mode of transport could vamoose at any moment, and my mobility could be seriously curbed. I saw how so much of "me" is invested in being able to go from place to place, and how the government, and the world, have it organized so that we have to be a part of The System if we want the luxury of mobility.

Another three clients, all utterly mentally ill: one who tried several times to tell me the intense details of various atrocities that had been done to him by people in his world, another who tried to feel me up, and the other who kept walking up to people and screaming at them, waving The Finger in their faces, spilling his anger at the world on anyone he came into contact with. To all of them I dodged their energy, words, actions, until they got that they'd get nothing from me, not one speck of emotional, mental, or physical energy. There was no fight in me around any of it, just moving out of its path. I got that if death or madness is coming for me, there isn't much I can do, but if it's someone else's madness or death, I can akido the heck out of it and get on with my living with nary a speck of their fallout on my personage

My wallet went missing, I ransacked my purse, my desk, my car, and one minute after I let go, it was in my purse, where it always is. I understood that just like I'd not understood prior that huge chunks of "me" lived in my computer's hard drive, I now saw that my wallet was alive with various pieces of plastic that corresponded to vast expanses of "me". The point wasn't to lose my wallet, but to show me where more "me" lived, in credit cards, debit card, library card, video store card, in cash and receipts and etc etc etc. Consider me shown.

And for those 48 hours, I smelled and saw death all around me. Being around people was almost unbearable, the stink of decay on their breath, coming out of their pores. I saw how close madness is, wisps of it floating through brains, death showing his face, how intermingled he is with life, everywhere, everywhere.

I remembered this feeling, this sense of awfulness, of f*ckness, of how horrible and disgusting it all is. And for another couple of days, I pretty much fought it, tried to make it all Nice again. But soon enough I gave up, acknowledged that really, the only choice is to surrender, to let go of being afraid of death and all his sticky friends, the violence, the madness, the loss, and say Yes, I see you, and Yes, this is all part of it, no denying it, no way to keep it at bay, not really, not and be truthful. 

And something in me let go. 

And in Wallace, who has avoided me for a couple of months now, like a teenage boy who is embarrassed to be hugged by his mother, promptly climbed me like a tree, tucked his paws under my chin, and fell asleep on my chest for a couple of hours, waking ever so often to look into my eyes with sweetness and love. He just looked so worried, so anxious, even before the kittens got here, even after they brought him brother love like he's needed. He's in a space of softness now, glad to be the Big Red Dude he is, happy to come and ask me, please, would I stop writing and play fetch with him some more?

Malcolm, who used to be called Thor, also hasn't much been in the mood for "me", but now is very much into being all up in my stuffs, and let me clean out his eyes, and smooch his leonine little face. And Jacinta is still crabby but eats dinner with the other guys and hangs out in public instead of the closet most of the time and yes, she is okay. And Emmaline is still my little furry love barnacle, licking my eyelids, loving my garlic breath, her bung all stinky, and she too, is okay. 

And we are all okay. 

Half the battle seems to be about being okay with death. Death of money, death of identity, of comfort, of relationships, of connection and work and positive feelings. 

I need a whole lot less hulu.com these days . . . 

Time to go play fetch . . . 

We Is Family

Wallace needed a brother. Jacinta isn't much fun for him and his pink punk ways. And me, I eventually grow weary of tossing toys for him to chase. Yep, he needed a brother.

 

And so began the process. That took three months. And culminated yesterday with this:

 

I meant to only get one. Really. I even had a few dreams about him: black with white spots, goes by the name of Beauregard. But alas, Beauregard was not to be found lo these three months. But Thor and Emmaline? They have joined the party.

Yep, we're all diving right in to the love fiesta here at the Hacienda of Kcats. While napping just a few minutes ago, Thor rode my head like a horse. And his sister Emmaline? Emmaline loves to lick, especially my face, and may I share with you how much it tickles to have your nostrils washed out by a tiny little 11 week old kitten tongue? That little tongue was all up in my stuffs, with Emmaline just purring and purring like she was humming while brushing my long luxurious hair . . .

 

And Wallace? He is passed out in the bed right now, plum tuckered out. But happy. Sleeping the sleep of the deeply, contentedly, exhaustedly happy.

 

Even Jacinta appears to be okay with it all. Hanging out mostly in her closet, her little hideaway, but she's in good spirits, and I can tell that a tongue bath from sweet Emmaline lies in her imminent future.

 

If you don't have kittens in your world, I highly recommend them. Jed and kittens. What more does a gal need on a Sunday afternoon?

 

Sentence

The Big Boss pointed his finger at me. "You," he said, "my office," and turned, walking down the cubicle row to the back of the facility. 

I followed him, walking in his wake, both of us in silence. I'd applied for a full time position within the office back in May. This was most likely the verdict. Hired. Not hired. Or perhaps I was being fired. It was definitely one of the three.

"This could be my execution," I said out loud. He didn't laugh. Neither did I. I meant it. 

He pointed to a chair across from his desk. "Sit," he said. I sat. 

"Looks like you're going to be working for me for two more years," he said and smiled.

Yep. Definitely my execution.

I quickly searched my brain for the correct response. I'd practiced this for weeks now, just in case they gave me the job. I'd gotten that expansive Yes feeling after the interview, so knew they'd hire me, but the pesky mind had added it's two cents in several hundred times since. But now the job offer was floating in the air between the boss and me, and an adequate response was expected.

I clapped my hands together and said, "Yay, what a relief, thank you, that's good news."

We exchanged a few more meaningless words, there was nothing important to discuss. It was a state job and the salary was fixed - $31K - as were the benefits, vacation, health, etc. And so I went back to my cubicle and back to work. Just because we had the following day off didn't mean the work load had lessened. It was why they hired me: I work like a machine, perpetual motion, on and on and on, sick, tired, crabby, work, work, motion, motion. They probably think it's work ethic, but it's really surrender, about saying Yes to every moment, stepping up to the plate again and again and again, climbing the steps to the gallows over and over and over so that Life can continue it's destruction of me.

A global office email was sent out announcing the new hire. Folks stopped by my cubicle to congratulate me, the very people that I've avoided the eight months I've worked there. I found a standard response and performed the motion over and over: thank you, yes, it's a relief. In the insanity that is the current economy, one hundred and thirty-two people had applied for the three jobs available. It was a big deal in their world - who got hired, who didn't. But mostly they stopped by my cubicle to talk about themselves, and so they did, and my required further input was reduced to simply sitting there until they ran out of egoic steam and walked away. 

My immediate boss is in the cube next to me. He's the really intense guy in his late sixties that is just as likely to blast me as be kind. He brings me garlic and tomatoes from his garden, ignores my questions on how to solve the computer glitch problem for the man sitting in my cubicle who hasn't gotten any state cash for two months and who has four kids and a pregnant wife and is losing his trailer and car. 

"Hey, big guy," I call over the cubicle wall, "looks like you're stuck with me for another couple of years."

He comes to my my side of the beige fabric wall and hugs me, tickles my back in that gentle way that always surprises me with how full of love it is. He reminds me that he's retiring in 18 months, that I'm most likely being groomed to take over his job. The very thought is horrifying. I hug him back.

At 5:02 pm I'm in my car, driving home, crying, just a little. I knew this was coming but still it feels shocking. My physical and energetic bodies fill with the sort of anguish that feels really, really big. 

Another piece of me is dying. Another piece is being sliced off so that I can see that what I think is me isn't really me. I am not the job I do, not the money I make. The purpose of the job is to continue to dynamite the ego. There will be enough money to take care of what needs to be taken care of. I'm not the bachelor's or the master's degree I spent three non-stop excruciating years and 85K in debt to acquire, whose information and skill set and language are leaving me rapidly, day by day from lack of use. 

Over the past six or so months, I performed a lot of actions, in order to give Life a wide selection of choices. And Life responded with all sorts of immediate support and assistance. A chance remark with a client provided me with a public health contact, a man high up in the PH world in the Raleigh-Durham area, a chance to talk with him several times on the phone, go to his office to meet with him, have him introduce me via email to several more PH folks, for informational interviews, contacts. While I was visiting him, he mentions that there is a conference taking place, and would I like to stop by and hear the lecture going on? Yes, I say, and as we sit down in the lecture hall, I see it's one of my old profs from SUNY Albany, and I spend a half hour talking with him after his lecture. From all parties I hear the same thing: the world of public health jobs is frozen solid right now, state government budgets slashed, grant funding shriveled, huge crops of new graduates all clamoring for the same few jobs. 

For six months, I stayed in motion, sending out resumes, taking days off from cubicleland to drive three, four, five hours to interviews, each interview costing me ~$175 in lost wages and travel expenses. I had no real feelings either way about any of it, nothing that stuck longer than a half hour or so anyway. These were all the next steps, so I took them, whatever they cost is whatever they cost.

I got that Life would ultimately do as it would, but I also got that my job was to do as I felt. Some of it was simply to get the actions out of my system, to play all the notes, so that when the hammer came down the peanut gallery that lives in my mind could say: I tried everything. And I did. But in the end, I was turning down job interviews, four of them in the last two weeks, knowing what was coming, and completely surrendered to it, or at least mostly.

Staying here in Wilmington and accepting this job means that I expend no extra energy. Not in moving to a new a city, or starting a new job, getting to know new people, acclimating them to my rather unfriendly personality. I save the money it would take to move, money that I don't have. I can continue to do the holistic work that comes my way because of the rep I've established the past couple of years, and earn enough money to close the gap between my ridiculous bills and my paltry state wage. Because the important thing is that I have a white hot burning laser turned on my ego, my self. The perimeters have been identified. And although I slip every day, blow it in a hundred different ways, fail and fail and fail, sometimes I succeed, and another piece of dead, grey self falls into the dirt, and that Yes thing inside of me, whatever it is, gets a little bit easier to recognize as Who I Am.

That's the whole point. Surrender. Trusting Life. Going with what is occurring. 

As I write this, Baby Wallace sleeps in the barcalounger, the sun turning him into the tiny sweet fierce fire puma he is. Birds make wild music outside the open window. Jacinta is safe and snug in the laundry closet, her belly full from the breakfast I just served her "in bed". My head is clear from the massive amounts of digestive enzymes I've been taking. The three day holiday weekend stretches before me, no work scheduled beyond errands, and even they feel more like dance moves than Must Do. The decaf coffee in my mug is full of both sweetness and umami, from the stevia and the vanilla almond milk. Hoochie, the backyard dog, just pounced on a squirrel, killed it with a shake of her head, then walked away to do the next thing. 

And all is well, exactly as it should be.

Life is so very good. Right now. Right here. I could die anytime today, or tomorrow, and that's good too. 

Something happens when you begin to release the tiller on your own life. The situations don't really change. Prosperity and soulmates and permanent never ending flows of comfort and happiness don't appear and set down roots. But the need for prosperity and soulmates and happiness begins to leave you, because they aren't real, like letting go of the easter bunny or santa or god. And it's good. The horrors you spent your whole life avoiding surround you, but instead of ghouls they are simply old acquaintances. They're kinda irritating at times, but on the whole, fine, just part of the background, the background that is fading. 

In the next few weeks I'll get new glasses, go to the chiropractor, the gynecologist, an endocrinologist. I'll settle in to having a regular paycheck, map out a new scenario for bill paying. Waking up doesn't mean the action stops, the flow of motion ceases. It just means it becomes clearer what to do, what can be let go of, what needs to be attended to. As I began this latest deepening of tiller-releasing I set a broad intention: to free up as much energy as possible for awakening, how it happens is of no consequence, just free up energy for the burning, the letting go, the surrendering. And this job, because of it's health and time off benefits, because of the fact that I don't care about it in that attached way one does to A Career, how I in fact hate it, would fling it from me like a flea-infested coat if the opportunity presented it, is perfect.

I'm curious as to what Life has next for the chopping block. I search around for what I still care about, what I still believe in. Then I shrug. I'll know soon enough by the screaming and the Nooooooooo and the wailing and the gnashing of the teeth in my head. Or maybe not. Maybe the next phase is a little quieter. I doubt it. But who knows?

Life knows. And that's a beautiful thing . . . 

Gorgeously Lost, Always Home

During the work week, I wake at 5:45 every morning, in order to be at work by 7:50. On the weekends I sleep in til the grand hour of 7 am, which means that I loll around snuggling kitties, drinking decaf coffee, surfing the net, eating breakfast, and then it's still just 9 am. 

On Sundays, what that means is that I pack up a water bottle, some aromatherapy bug spray, some SPF30, and Burt's Bees honey lip balm and head out for a hike somewhere. Today, I went to a state park on one of the local islands. I hiked around in the marshes and alongside the sound, tromping through sand for a while, then forest for a lot longer. Five or six miles worth. Spiderwebs rigged between bushes and trees and sturdy grasses, boobytraps for getting webs wrapped all up in my hair, my mouth, until I wised up and swished a stick back and forth in front of me as I walked. Little crabs scurried, creating a wide path for my passage.

I've been to this park before, walked on all the trails that said OPEN. And so today I let myself loose onto the CLOSED trails, and happily got lost for an hour or so, winding back onto the regular trails, then skipping back offroad for another clandestine romp. I found a broken footbridge that I shimmied up and over. I walked around a pond that was ringed with thousands and thousands of broken glass bottles, most of them from the sixties, seventies. I saw two deer dash away from me, elongated shadows gently crashing through the underbrush. Butterflies, so very many butterflies, bright blue and black and yellow, pale white. A brief flash of bright red, a cardinal with a long white string in its beak.

I start out the hikes a little crabby, a little argumentative in my own head. I know better than to fight it, or to try and force it to be gone. With about an hour's worth of patience, the sea breeze and smell of forest and sense of excited adventure that yes, I just might indeed be Really Lost, the crabby turns to sweet, the landscape of my head widens out and releases the tumbleweeds from the week, and all is well in lungs and heart and head.

By noon, I come back to the apartment. I've discovered that going back to the computer quickly drains the bank account that the forest and the sea just shored up. So instead I clean my house, do laundry and hang the sheets out in the brilliant Carolina sun to dry, make ridiculously healthy food for the coming week's lunches, run errands to the co-op, the gas station, come back to the loll about inhoo the barcalounger and read (today's offering was Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer by Novella Carpenter). 

And I snuggle kitties. Oh, how the kitties get snuggled. Friday night I went back to the local pet-megastore, where the local cat rescue had a new passle of kitties for sale. The goal was to bring Baby Wallace home a brother. But the brother wasn't there. Lots of cute fuzzballs, but none that I looked at, who looked at me, with recognition, revealed that I'd found Beauregard, the next member of out family whose black and white face I've begun dreaming about. 

I smooch Baby Wallace's sweet face (even though he is big and not a baby any more) and tell him: next week, my little fire puma, next week we'll bring you home a brother. And he licks my fingers, much like The Hoon used to do, and sighs, and does that heavy breathing purr of his, and curls up in my arms, and passes out, small snot snores in my ear. And Jacinta says, yes . . . yes . . . yessssssss . . .  

Pulsing

Sundays I clean, do laundry, go for a hike at the nature preserve down by the ocean. Starting in the afternoon, I cook my meals for the week's lunches: kale and collards, quinoa and lentils, brown rice and black beans, salads with avocado and toasted pumpkin seeds and olives and slivers of red onion. Today I'm cooking a special late lunch for myself: lasagna made with rice noodles and organic mozzarella. It's the first time I've had cheese in a couple of months. This is the sound of me taking many extra enzyme capsules, while also salivating, oh good lord, yes.

Wallace grows big and strong. Still with dings here and there, signs that the virus is still not fully vanquished, but he is fluffy and sweet and full of the punk lusciousness of a pink skinned, red-furred adolescent. Jacinta snuggles and growls and smiles and naps and snacks and has many siestas in her cave up in the laundry closet. We are family. I got all my fuzzies with me. Even the ashes of The Hoon and Grandma Booty are parked next to the bed so that we still do family sleeps every night.

My novel came in third in the novel contest's paranormal genre. Sure, there were only three entries, but the editor that did the judging passed on a note to me that said she found the writing fresh, the heroine strong, the novel partial very readable, and that would like to read the whole novel, to please send it to her. I never thought for a second that I'd win any aspect of the contest. But I knew that I should enter. Now I know why. Or at least a part of the why. More shall be revealed. 

I've been on four public health job interviews in the last two months. None as horrible as the first, but still, not a single one of them what I'd call wonderful. And of course no job offer. Except for my cubicleland social work job. It looks like they are going to offer me a full time job with benefits. And I will most likely accept it. Because the whole deal these days is to do what is in front of me, to stay out of my head, out of fantasy and conjecture and thought and do the next practical thing. It doesn't matter what I "prefer" or "don't prefer". It's about doing the next thing. And then finding the ways that it fits, playing the notes it demands. Wax on, wax off. Just do it and the mouth, keep it shut.

I got asked out a couple of weeks ago by a ridiculously hot guy. After a few hours of fluttering stomach and peachfish contractions I got: not this. And so after he'd called me a couple of times, left me a couple of notes at my cubicleland job, I turned him down. He keeps calling, but I don't answer my phone anymore. It isn't about whether he's cute or interesting. It's about whether his energy fits with what I'm doing, if being around him feels like a Yes. It doesn't, and so I spend gentle evenings snuggled with kitties. 

I'm happier than I've been in a long time. A rhythm is pulsing strongly. I'm grateful. And I plan on continuing to show it respect by only engaging in actions that contribute to it's lovely luscious basso thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump.

Life is good . . . 

Doing

Utterly consumed with practical things . . . 

Clutter cleaning every single drawer, closet, shelf, cupboard, surface in the apartment. Boxes and boxes of former belongings, things I've been carting around for years, get thrown out with the trash, or passed on to someone else, or donated to a shelter.

Thanks to my "digestive illness" I'm down 13 pounds. For the past decade I simply haven't had the willpower to stop using my food lust as a way to cope with emotional distress, and so Life helpfully gave me two choices: utter agony or eat simply and cleanly. Of course it took me three weeks to settle in to choosing the latter . . .

I live on grains, beans/legumes, vegetables, and fruit. Twice a week or so I have some sort of animal protein, like an egg or some plain whole milk yogurt, but other than that, no animal fat of any kind (except for about a half tablespoon of butter I sometimes put in my morning hot cereal). I no longer eat dinner, but instead, depending on what my body tells me it wants, I make miso soup with seaweed and kale and gomasio, or I drink a quart of fresh juiced apples. 

I eat a lot of digestive enzymes, hydrochloric acid, niacin, ground flax seed, colon cleansing herbs. I drink a gallon of water a day. 

Sundays find me cleaning my home, making food for the upcoming week's lunches. I saute an enormous bunch of greens in water, add some balsamic vinegar, gomasio, sometimes a little hot sauce. I roast broccoli, beets, yams. I make brown rice with curry and raisins and almonds. Or quinoa, fluffy, simple, plain. I simmer a pot full of onions for three hours and make "onion butter", which gives lunches an extra hit of umami. I make daikon pickles with umeboshi plum paste and rice vinegar that I eat like candy through the week. 

I'm lifting weights again. When Calhoon got sick, I simply didn't have the fight in me any longer to keep pushing myself to exercise. All violence in the form of force, as in using my willpower like a sledgehammer to shove me through a bike ride, a weightlifting session, is gone. What's left is a desire to get my body moving again, squeeze out the kinks. I'm dancing again too, but now without any wine or self-consciousness or belief that someone is watching, or that it means anything other than the moment.  

I send out resumes, go on interviews. Another one five hours away. One two hours away. Several more set up over the next few weeks. I've put my landlords on notice that I'll be moving out in the next month or two. 

I work five days in cubicleland, or work four days in cubicleland and spend the fifth going on an interview. I work one day a week doing holistic work. On Sunday, I rest, and cook, and snuggle kitties, and dance, and feel the sun on my face. Evenings are spent with hulu.com, and The Dollhouse, and Fringe, and Lie To Me, and Kings, and 24, and Southland, and Rescue Me. Baby Wallace passes out in my arms, doing that purr of his that is really just heavy breathing, with the tiniest of sounds. Jacinta comes around to park her sweet self on my legs, or in my lap wedged up by Wallace, or on the window sill by the barcalounger where she can watch the birds as Baby Wallace and I watch tv.  

Slowly, slowly, I do another edit of the novel. I entered a writing contest on a whim, two days before the deadline for it, and sent in the first 20 or so pages. It made it to the finals in the "paranormal" category. The judge for the paranormal category is a big deal editor at one of the big publishing houses. The winners will be announced sometime at the end of this month. 

I don't care about "enlightenment" or "waking up". There is only the next thing to do, then the next. I'm not lonely or in pain or in drama or fighting my circumstances. If any of it arises, it passes, and then it's back into the practical. 

What I can say, without doubt, is that the seeds of whatever liberation I'm in right now are a direct result of turning, finally turning, and facing the things I was most afraid of. Then embracing them, bringing them close. All the while letting go of the old, the dead, and looking inside for where the energy wanted next to move. 

It's a tricky thing to distinguish between what is really going on and what the mind thinks is going on, what it's convincing you of. But to see the difference between the two, and to go with what is genuinely occurring, changes everything.

Who knows what tomorrow brings? Right now, some rice, a dvd, and perhaps some kitty snuggles.

Onward . . . 

Quiet Blah Blah Yes

Mostly I'm not writing because mostly I'm going thru funk, then layers of joy, then more funk, then more joy. 

When I'm in the funk, it's so full of bile that there is no way I'm writing about it. It's just plain hateful. Possessions of such negativity, such rage and self-pity and doom and pointlessness that I'm no longer me, just some stain of hell left in a skin bag. I'm mean and withholding to clients, I want to pitch myself off a bridge, I grip the kitties so much they squeal, I eat bad food.

When I'm in the joy, it's such a quiet, gentle thing that I barely move, knowing that one false ripple sets the hateful jello jiggling again. I sit in the barcalounger for hours, watching the clouds, Wallace purring so gently it's like heavy breathing with sound as he snuggles around my neck like a living feline scarf, Jacinta curled up in my arms purring like the tiny love trucker she is. Or I clean my apartment like a benevolent tsunami, tossing out bags and boxes of clutter, of detritus from a life that is no longer mine.

What stuns me so much about my living these days is the lack of loneliness. I've spent my entire life lonely, longing for a best friend, a soul mate, a teacher. Working so hard to find them. Then working so hard to get them to stay. Then working so hard to stay alive after they left. Then the cycle starting again. I've spent my life searching for someone to tell me what the hell is going on, to show me how to save myself, to just give me The Dang Recipe once and for all, for happiness, and enlightenment, and how to have a really good time and not pay for it on the flip side. 

But now? Not searching for anyone, looking for answers from anyone, yearning for someone to be with. It's just gone. And it astounds me. I finally understand that no one has any answers. Get that there isn't anyone out there that "completes me". It's like I shed a really, really heavy coat, and now I'm just walking along a path, getting used to the feeling of so much weightlessness, like the law of gravity wasn't really a law but more like a choice. 

It's not that it doesn't come up. It does. It comes around in cycles. And each time I try and return to the world of chat, of talk, of sharing, of stories, of relationship. And it goes boom like a sad little bomb. And I feel sick. And I fail at it miserably. Or not so miserably. More just awkward, weird, simply not one of them anymore, so obvious, so clear. I go silent again, things lift, go gentle and quiet and clear again, until it cycles back again. 

But the real beauty is that Wallace is incandescently radiant with good health. No rashes. No snot. No lacerations. No funky eye or hindquarters or abscesses. Even his breath is tangy sweet. Jacinta is snuggly luscious, purring and purring, growling only when Baby W licks her head, then her ears, then her neck, and then bites her, or I grab her a little too quickly, a little too love-grippy.  

And even as huge change goes on. Lost my room at the holistic center a few weeks back. Politics of the New Age in the new economy and how I'm simply not the hottest game in town. Nowhere to do sessions anymore. (Not that it matters as the phone doesn't ring anymore. Which in spite of the repercussions of cash is actually awesome. Oh how I love it that the phone never rings anymore.) I'll rent a room here or there at different places probably as the need arises for sessions, though, as folks are bound to call sooner or later, though I cancelled my ad in the local holistic rag. I consider clearing out my living room, doing sessions there, maybe a weekly class, get together, healing circle. But I haven't done it yet. Why fight change? Things dying? So much death in my living the past few years that I simply open my fist and let the sand fall away . . . 

So that's it. Friday at 8:32pm. The neighbors are having a party. They laugh and howl and talk loudly. I was invited, they always invite me, but I don't go. I apparently don't do social anymore. Maybe I'm the scary loner chick with cats who is all fat and angry and stuff, or maybe I'm on to something. Maybe I'd do social if there were someone who wasn't utterly full of shit to talk to, but we're all so full of shit, myself included of course. And so I sit here with the kitties, writing, and later on I'll watch Slumdog Millionaire, eat some Quorn.

Blah blah, right? Blah, blah . . . 

But see:

Perfect Broken Heart

This is my teapot:

It feels good in my hand when I pour the morning caffeine, and makes the perfect amount, exactly two big mugs of steaming hot black tea.

These are my glasses, the ones that are so light that I can't even feel them, that I love to wear while watching tv:

This is my awesome, dependable 163,000 mile, 15-year old car, or at least the inside of it. I've tried various kinds of glue and found that the stuff that comes in the neon blue stick works the best:

This is my couch. With enough old feather blankets and covers and pillows, it makes the broken frame in the middle seem like a big soft cocoon:

This is my bed. It's a loner from my brother, and way too fancy and tall for me. Yes, that's the head and foot boards propped up against the back wall. And yes, that's the box spring propped up against the other wall:

The box spring is much better served as Baby Wallace's majestic, manly Perch of Solitude than it's originally intended purpose:

And of course, this is another of Baby Wallace, his little weaselly cheeks puffed out from his latest dance with kitty herpes, this one entitled The Canker Sores Have Colonized.

And this of course, is Sweet Momma J, our official, reigning CrabbyPants, who loves to be lifted into this laundry closet/pantry, so that she is far, far away from the love bites and head locks of Baby Wallace, whose kittenish love she just ain't in the mood to grok:

And this is me, deep in the heart of boring down to the emotional and mental bedrock, while still making time for a photo op:

Life is good . . . 

Pick Ax and Ego

Mondays through Thursdays I'm in cubicleland where it's always groundhog day. The alarm goes off at 5:30am, though usually I call to Baby Wallace and he comes and hangs out on my chest and purrs his morning kitty breath on me, and sometime Jacinta slides in under my right armpit and purrs so loud I get an underarm massage. I get up, do some yoga, situps, energywork, surf the net, decide whether I'm going to wear the brown baggy pants or the black velvet baggy pants or the baggy pants with the grey pinstripes. Then I select a shirt, preferably one that clashes, and add in a cardigan or jacket, again something that clashes, such as the black pants, brown shirt, grey sweater vest, black/brown striped shoes ensemble that I had on yesterday. Then it's off to start the car, put on some Burt's Bees faux lipstick, crank the cd player up with some Stuart Davis. I'm at work by 7:45. I take an hour for lunch at 12:30, and walk down to the urban version of a park and sit on a towel, eat a half an avocado, a gluten free corn muffin, some cottage cheese, some sliced berries and melon, and watch the birds, the wind in the trees, feel the southern sun make a 55 degree day feel warm. I work until 5:05pm. Then get in my car, come home. Feed the kitties, check email, make something to eat - my latest obsession is vegetable fajitas made with sour cream and fresh guac and spelt tortillas. I watch something from my hulu.com queue. By 8:30pm, I'm in bed, kitties climbing all over me in an attempt to mash me into the perfect sleeping surface. They make passes on their rounds, up and around my head, and they stop to lick my cheek, neck, and eyelids. Sometimes I watch the sky for a while, but eventually the benedryll I took at 6:30 kicks in, and the all over body itching stops, and sleep drops on my brain like a bomb, and other than the two or three times I get up to pee or wake myself up from another weird dream, I'll sleep like I'm dead until the next 5:30am starting gun goes off.

***

Baby Wallace's fascination and manifestation of cold sores continued with a cold sore on either side of the one in the middle of his lower lip. This made him look like an english bulldog for several days which never failed to make me laugh hysterically, though I know they must have hurt him. I couldn't help it. I just kept thinking that at any moment he was going to place a monocle on his left eye and ask for a cigar. His latest illness is a hotspot on the entirety of the back of his left haunch that looks like hamburger. No amount of herbal salve helps, which he only seems to lick off with his scratchy tongue which probably only makes it worse. I'll buy some gauze and surgical tape today and see if I can wrap that rascal for a few days. Wish me luck. 

***

I wonder how long it's going to take to kill my ego. All day long in cubicleland I surgically extract slivers of it from my cosciousness. It's a slippery bastard, with the shards buried deep inside, cleverly disguised as "me". Surgical extractions look like this: One woman I work with is actually fairly calm and balanced. She occasionally chats to me about things. As one of the rules of Ego Massacre is Thou Shalt Not Tell Any Stories, I listen to her, and watch as again and again my ego wants to share something about itself, wants to put in its two cents. The woman mentions a sticky client situation, and ego wants to talk about its sticky client situation. The woman tells me what she does for fun when she's not at work, and ego wants to tell a few factoids, put a spin on my life to make it look fun. But I don't say anything. I try and arrange my face into something pleasant, although I usually fail. I'm polite to her, don't just simply walk away as I do with the other people I work with, but I watch the confusion and discomfort she suffers in trying to have a relationship with me. She is actually a lovely person, and as most of the people I work with are distinctly not lovely, I experience feelings of sadness, witness a desire to at least perform the Happy Dance a little for this decent woman. But my performing days are over. 

***

Ego Massacre successes show up like this: the immediate bossman in cubicleland rolls his eyes and is rude, condescending, ignores questions, refuses to say hello or goodnite. He does things like refuses to acknowledge that I'm standing there waiting for him to answer a question, or he'll see me walk into his cube and then pick up the phone and make a call or he'll reprimand me loudly in front of people for telling a client to hand him a form instead of me taking the form from them and then handing it to him, even though he and I are separated at that moment by a partition and he and the client are within arm's reach of one another. For two weeks it's like rotating slowly on a spit. Then, yesterday, I stop trying to get him to stop, and simply act as if he weren't acting like an slime oozing brick wall. Instead it appears as if he's a little simple, a toddler who is cranky. I don't feel judgment, just an acceptance of This Is How He Is, this is his emotional age. I stop feeling anything other than a calm sort of cruise control taking over. Clients go the same way. By the end of the day, I'm actually laughing and relaxed instead of my usual Utterly Verklempt. And people seemed relieved when I don't fight back against the slime pit of their emotion, as if in the absence of my own brick wall of STOP their own brick wall dissolves.

In looking back, I have no idea what mechanism inside of me turned off or on or how I did it. Except maybe it's that I sort of ignore people. Every day, I lose more interest in people, their stories, the aggressions and hopes and fears and desperation they project on me. I think this means that if you ignore the world, it goes away. 

***

Ego really is nothing more than a headf*ck. I look in the mirror and think: I'm so pretty. I look in the mirror and think: I'm so ugly. And the only thing that makes me believe either one is true is ego. 

***

I've begun translating things people speak and email to me into the distillation of what they are really saying. No one likes to appear needy or greedy or mean. So they try and couch what they really want in compliments and side door requests. A family member sends me a birthday card, about two paragraphs worth of sentences. Distilled down into it's core message is one statement: I miss the things you used to do for me. 

I see this exact message all over my living. Doing things for people means they will be nice, feel happy. Not doing things for people, whether it's because I can't, or don't feel to, means that folks won't be nice, and will feel very unhappy, and will express their feelings that their unhappiness is my fault.

If it doesn't matter to you how people feel about you, it's not a big deal. And how people feel about you only matters if you think you'll get something from their happiness, or lose something from their unhappiness. But if you get that nothing anyone can give you has any worth, then you lose interest in how to add to their Happiness Savings and Loan. And you get that your own emotional bank account is as corrupted and bankrupt as any other financial institution these days. But in this case, the only stimulus plan you or I need is to stop asking for people to show us the money and instead understand that:

There Is No Quan 

***

It's 70 degrees today. The windows are open and the spring breeze brings fresh air flavors. Kitties are at the windows cackling in a bird watching frenzy. The sounds of my whirring printer are part of the activities in motion for the class I'm teaching tonight on psychic skills. The decaf coffee I'm drinking is yummy with a little vanilla extract in it. Maybe I'll treat myself to the country cooking buffet for lunch. Time to leave the apartment and run errands . . .