It is still relatively early in the day and as I sit at the computer all sorts of little, strange thoughts filter through and then dissipate almost as if they had never been present in the first place. An example of this is the sense of "ordinariness" that washed over me this morning as I thought about the lack of sparkle (?) to my most recent poem. The lack of that "something" in my poem is likely because I am very out of practice writing poetry at the moment, although I will continue to write as I am able, but also because these thoughts and feelings were carried on the same wave of time in which my sweet little kitty, Mottle, deposited a barfie on the floor next to the computer desk. If I were truly (and too) extraordinary then who would clean up the urppies? Perhaps we under rate being ordinary. If the world were filled with Oprahs, or Van Goghs, or presidents and kings, they would be the norm and it would be the common person who would be seen as extraordinary, which means it is all a matter of perspective. There are people who put a lot of effort, vain or otherwise, into being or becoming extraordinary - like that is a good thing to be - without recalling that many mass murderers fall into that particular category as well. I guess what I am thinking here is that it is not so bad, this being ordinary, and I am reaching the point of really beginning to relish the thought. Who ever knew that needing to clean up cat barf could be such a transcendant moment in one's life? I just hope I have the right sort of paper towel for the job - color coordinated with the room the barf is in and sufficiently absorbant to keep the task in the ethereal realm instead of just ending up with goo on my fingers that smells vaguely of whatever it was my Mottle-cat was eating earlier. At least it is not mouse remains. It also occurs to me that perhaps early in the morning is not the best time for me to share my thoughts with the world, but I was hoping someone might be amused, assuming they can make any sense out of my brief trip into "Weirdsville" or not.
May your day be extraordinary, even if all you get to do is clean up after the kids or the cats, scrub the toilet or win a gold medal in winter sports, read a classic novel or write the next best seller.
Shalom.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
A Song For Today
While the Angels Weep
The torn flesh and vacant eyes
No longer see the sky
No tears sully the blank stares
Bereft of souls no longer there
Life torn from the limbs
Like a fruit from its skin.
Where is the Billie
For our current times
So sweet a voice
Singing deftly tuned rhymes
About injustice
Hatred abounding
Salty tears flowing
While hearts are pounding
With a knowledge so shameful
And grim
For each life torn
From its God-given limbs
Murder is the order of every war
Each era’s demanding price
To settle the score
Contraception
Made big and grim
With each soul torn
From the dangling
Flaccid limbs
Hanging jaws and withered flesh
Bulging eyes staring
Straight into Death
Bombs as sure now
As lynchings were then
For removing the life
From human limbs
Where is there a peace untold
For all of us to have and hold
A marriage of minds and hearts
And souls
When will ignorance and hatred finally fail
Taking its toll from the weak and frail
Hopeless actions, torn universe and time
A tragic reality
Recorded in rhyme.
The torn flesh and vacant eyes
No longer see the sky
No tears sully the blank stares
Bereft of souls no longer there
Life torn from the limbs
Like a fruit from its skin.
Where is the Billie
For our current times
So sweet a voice
Singing deftly tuned rhymes
About injustice
Hatred abounding
Salty tears flowing
While hearts are pounding
With a knowledge so shameful
And grim
For each life torn
From its God-given limbs
Murder is the order of every war
Each era’s demanding price
To settle the score
Contraception
Made big and grim
With each soul torn
From the dangling
Flaccid limbs
Hanging jaws and withered flesh
Bulging eyes staring
Straight into Death
Bombs as sure now
As lynchings were then
For removing the life
From human limbs
Where is there a peace untold
For all of us to have and hold
A marriage of minds and hearts
And souls
When will ignorance and hatred finally fail
Taking its toll from the weak and frail
Hopeless actions, torn universe and time
A tragic reality
Recorded in rhyme.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Joys and Burdens of Having Sisters
Not being able to remain asleep sometimes has beneficial effects although, at the moment, it may not seem so. The wee morning hours seem to lend themselves to the contemplation of things not usually worried about during the normal course of the day or that are easily put aside while one is busy with other things. This is the state in which I find myself tonight(there's that damn passive voice again, but it really is more my own voice than I care to admit, and has been for many years). Unfortunately, the topic of this rapidly evolving moment is that of having had the misfortune of being born first, ahead of all of my siblings, and being the oldest of three sisters. I have always wondered at the many pieces available written about the joys of having sisters, but do not recall many about the bitterness of having been placed in that relationship by the whims of nature and parental passions. On the one hand, such a bittereness seems quite trite and petty. On the other hand, it hurts like Hell and woke me out of a sound sleep; a time when my brain is too groggy to leap to its own defense and shrug off the suggestions creeping to the surface of my thoughts.
My youngest sister, who has declined being named in my blog, may be pursuing her PhD (without telling me she is doing so), ostensibly because she can, but possibly to prevent either of the other of us from "getting ahead" of her. Such events occur even at the expense of any sort of a relationship with, at least, her oldest sibling and are legend to me- hence the bitterness.
Please do not get me wrong here. I actually do wish her all the best in her pursuits, it is merely that I know her too well to not question at least some of her motivations, all of which is based upon events witnessed or heard about over the years, and I cannot help feeling the sting of her attitudes and her successes when they detract so largely from any I might be able to hope for or claim. She has been, is and likely will always be the same intensely competitive personality she has, as an adult, unleashed in my direction but never really shown to Patty, Dad, or much of anybody else. That she has been this way toward me most of our adult lives does not mean she has not sent gifts at the appropriate times of year or that she, in turn, has not had a lot of poop being sent back in her direction. She has certainly had her share of trials and ills, tragedies and stresses, too - as we all have had along our lives' paths, and she has overcome a great deal in the ensuing years as well, so I cannot and would not attempt to denigrate those very real and special moments for her. Yet the bitterness for me persists, to be dealt with as it emerges during these small and chilly night hours when my resistence is low and my brain is too sleepy to move rapidly elsewhere in thought.
There has certainly been love and a moderate, tepid sort of polite affection, but none of the warmth I spent on her in our youths when she would get herself into some kind of trouble and her older sister, probably something like a Rottweiller, would leap to her defense, snapping and snarling at all who might threaten her in the absence of one or both of our parents. Certainly none of that has ever been forthcoming from her in my direction and the hurt of it stings and edges the bitterness just a little closer to the surface where, it is likely, it will find its release in tears should the sensation become too strong to resist further.
There have been the moments when the triumphs of my sisters have so overshadowed any accomplishments I have managed in life that all of the recognition and celebration go to them while I am left to wonder why I have never been quite as important or quite as special to my family, as my two younger sisters. Patty got the "royal" wedding - or at least a large chunk of help and support for it - as well as being the only one to manage offspring. "The Nameless One" received the most incredible congratulatory party upon her graduation from college, with a limo and a sitting U.S. president included - at least for the graduation ceremonies - as well as our mother's particular pride and approval. I never got to feel that pride flowing in my direction, ever, and wonder if my entire effort in life has not become so totally eclipsed by these two sisters that it is hardly worth regaling my relatives with any of the pertinent details of such things in my life. It has, in the past, even gotten to the point of my wondering if the following exchange might not actually take place some day: "Well, "The Nameless One" has done thus and such again. She really is so-oo-oo remarkable and special and her entire family is so-oo-oo proud of her! And Patty has managed to overcome yet another terrible trial and is finally doing well and everybody is so-oo-oo proud of her two kids, too!" [They are really GREAT kids and I am a very proud Auntie]
"Oh, by the way, I believe they have an older sister, but no one really cares much about her. She's a real nobody."
From a stranger, I can tolerate this. From a stranger, I really do not care. But in my mind the people saying these things are friends and relatives who do not even recall my name because they are so-oo-oo focused upon my sisters and their meteoric lives that I am hardly even an afterthought. I was always under the impression that parents always recognized and remembered their first born, but have seen little evidence of it since we all reached our adult years. For me to not be as special as one or the other of my siblings is pretty much the norm for our family, and I have managed to live with it for the most part but, when it reaches the point of my feeling like I am being held at arm's length like some thing one intends to flick off of the end of one's finger - like an inconvenient booger - by any of the people I am supposed to be able to count on for love and support, it feels intolerable and really hurts - a lot.
I will probably end up in hot water for posting this but, if they bother reading my blog at all, they will likely miss this one anyway, which is probably for the best but I will at least have the comfort of knowing I finally verbalized my feelings, petty or otherwise, even though it is likely one or the other of my sisters will be doing something much too important for any attention to end up wasted in my direction - again.
My youngest sister, who has declined being named in my blog, may be pursuing her PhD (without telling me she is doing so), ostensibly because she can, but possibly to prevent either of the other of us from "getting ahead" of her. Such events occur even at the expense of any sort of a relationship with, at least, her oldest sibling and are legend to me- hence the bitterness.
Please do not get me wrong here. I actually do wish her all the best in her pursuits, it is merely that I know her too well to not question at least some of her motivations, all of which is based upon events witnessed or heard about over the years, and I cannot help feeling the sting of her attitudes and her successes when they detract so largely from any I might be able to hope for or claim. She has been, is and likely will always be the same intensely competitive personality she has, as an adult, unleashed in my direction but never really shown to Patty, Dad, or much of anybody else. That she has been this way toward me most of our adult lives does not mean she has not sent gifts at the appropriate times of year or that she, in turn, has not had a lot of poop being sent back in her direction. She has certainly had her share of trials and ills, tragedies and stresses, too - as we all have had along our lives' paths, and she has overcome a great deal in the ensuing years as well, so I cannot and would not attempt to denigrate those very real and special moments for her. Yet the bitterness for me persists, to be dealt with as it emerges during these small and chilly night hours when my resistence is low and my brain is too sleepy to move rapidly elsewhere in thought.
There has certainly been love and a moderate, tepid sort of polite affection, but none of the warmth I spent on her in our youths when she would get herself into some kind of trouble and her older sister, probably something like a Rottweiller, would leap to her defense, snapping and snarling at all who might threaten her in the absence of one or both of our parents. Certainly none of that has ever been forthcoming from her in my direction and the hurt of it stings and edges the bitterness just a little closer to the surface where, it is likely, it will find its release in tears should the sensation become too strong to resist further.
There have been the moments when the triumphs of my sisters have so overshadowed any accomplishments I have managed in life that all of the recognition and celebration go to them while I am left to wonder why I have never been quite as important or quite as special to my family, as my two younger sisters. Patty got the "royal" wedding - or at least a large chunk of help and support for it - as well as being the only one to manage offspring. "The Nameless One" received the most incredible congratulatory party upon her graduation from college, with a limo and a sitting U.S. president included - at least for the graduation ceremonies - as well as our mother's particular pride and approval. I never got to feel that pride flowing in my direction, ever, and wonder if my entire effort in life has not become so totally eclipsed by these two sisters that it is hardly worth regaling my relatives with any of the pertinent details of such things in my life. It has, in the past, even gotten to the point of my wondering if the following exchange might not actually take place some day: "Well, "The Nameless One" has done thus and such again. She really is so-oo-oo remarkable and special and her entire family is so-oo-oo proud of her! And Patty has managed to overcome yet another terrible trial and is finally doing well and everybody is so-oo-oo proud of her two kids, too!" [They are really GREAT kids and I am a very proud Auntie]
"Oh, by the way, I believe they have an older sister, but no one really cares much about her. She's a real nobody."
From a stranger, I can tolerate this. From a stranger, I really do not care. But in my mind the people saying these things are friends and relatives who do not even recall my name because they are so-oo-oo focused upon my sisters and their meteoric lives that I am hardly even an afterthought. I was always under the impression that parents always recognized and remembered their first born, but have seen little evidence of it since we all reached our adult years. For me to not be as special as one or the other of my siblings is pretty much the norm for our family, and I have managed to live with it for the most part but, when it reaches the point of my feeling like I am being held at arm's length like some thing one intends to flick off of the end of one's finger - like an inconvenient booger - by any of the people I am supposed to be able to count on for love and support, it feels intolerable and really hurts - a lot.
I will probably end up in hot water for posting this but, if they bother reading my blog at all, they will likely miss this one anyway, which is probably for the best but I will at least have the comfort of knowing I finally verbalized my feelings, petty or otherwise, even though it is likely one or the other of my sisters will be doing something much too important for any attention to end up wasted in my direction - again.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
To Be a Writer or To Merely Write, Is There a Question?
Just recently I got hold of a month old copy of New Yorker magazine and began reading Orhan Pamuk's tale of his father and his father's writing. It has me wondering if there is some precise and extremely relevant definition of exactly what makes one a writer that I have somehow missed all these years, or if each person who writes defines whether they are or are not a writer for themselves. If being a writer entails filling hundreds of notebooks a year with one's musings (I do not) or being willing, or needing to, shut oneself up in a musty, dusty little room in order to compose (allergies), then I am not, by that definition, a writer; yet I write on.
Somewhere within the clutches of either my father or one of my sisters exist the remnants of the women of my family('s?) attempts at written expression. There is a brief story about a "colored" maid's encounter with some bees recorded by my great-grandmother, a poem about her "too long toes" and a (largely fictional, we think) account of my grandmother's travels in Europe following her graduation from college in the early 1920s, and some pieces of writing by my mother that largely explore the trials and tragedies of her own life while growing up on Cape Cod. I have seen all of these, the crumbling original copies and the dutifully made facsimiles, and read them more than once. In my teenage years I had high hopes of adding to the modest collection for my progeny, but cats do not have much patience for such activities and I suspect my niece will be far more interested in her mother's writings and in her own than in the ramblings and mutterings of her (fat) old auntie. But I still write or, to be more exact, type (carpal tunnel surgery) my thoughts and musings into the less ethereal existence of the written word.
I was curious to read that Pamuk took such a long time to open the suitcase his father had given him that was filled with the notebooks full of writing that are such a strong part of this man's heritage as a writer. I have never felt such a hesitation and so do not understand the emotional constraints that might prevent one from exploring the thoughts of a parent, but perhaps that is part of the distance, the infinite difference, between a writer like Pamuk and one such as myself. He is the artist and I the wishful scribbler permanently stuck in her passive voice. He is driven where I am drawn. He is eaten alive by the need to write, while I am intrigued and relieved of emotional burdens during my sessions. He creates and lives in those worlds he delves up from his mind and heart while I write about what I recognize and merely wonder at, which is hardly the stuff of Pulitzer Prize winning tomes.
In my great-grandmother's writings there is only the reflection of her immediate world at the time, in my grandmother's the wondering and contemplation have begun but only insofar as they pertain to the almost immediate in her life. My mother took it all a step forward by going back into her childhood for her material, creating poems (which I think she destroyed before she died - dammit!) and a play that try so hard to create visions of the more beautiful or amusing moments in her life but that still whisper quietly, weaving sinuously throughout the tales of moments of laughter and love, of the deprivations and pain she felt as a child and young adult. But perhaps these are only my own musings, brought forth in response to the musings of a writer one may dare to refer to as "great" in that he has been proven and duly rewarded within his own lifetime.
I took the writings of women who came before me in our family, and have tried over the years to continue it; the establishing of a continuous family tradition, if you will. I have written the tales told to me by my grandmother of her youth and continental adventures as a college graduate, some of them having been decidedly improper. I have written the tales of my mother's childhood and of her final illness and her demise, as well as of the pain and differences between the two of us. I have written of my broken hearted moments and my fears, my joys and my moments of private amusement, and I have tried, rather desperately, to write some of those moments in such a way as to inspire in others the same emotions and laughter, the wonderful laughter, I have shared in, but to no avail - comedy is not my forte'.
There is some evidence, although she is still so young, that my niece may carry on the writing by the women in our family for her generation. I hope so. Perhaps one day one of us will make it into print and cast a rosier glow upon all of the feeble efforts of our predecessors, myself included, which will make our crumbling papers and outdated computer discs into something worthy of exciting the appraisers on a late-21st century episode of "Antiques Roadshow." I wonder what the media for the writers of that time will be - perhaps direct recordings of mind and heart, downloadable for a reasonable fee, into the brains of those who no longer have to take the time to sit down with a book, to scribble compulsively onto paper or into computer files all of their thoughts and feelings, ideas and philosophies; who will never know the joys and excitement to be found in the perusal of the lovingly crafted, written word.
Somewhere within the clutches of either my father or one of my sisters exist the remnants of the women of my family('s?) attempts at written expression. There is a brief story about a "colored" maid's encounter with some bees recorded by my great-grandmother, a poem about her "too long toes" and a (largely fictional, we think) account of my grandmother's travels in Europe following her graduation from college in the early 1920s, and some pieces of writing by my mother that largely explore the trials and tragedies of her own life while growing up on Cape Cod. I have seen all of these, the crumbling original copies and the dutifully made facsimiles, and read them more than once. In my teenage years I had high hopes of adding to the modest collection for my progeny, but cats do not have much patience for such activities and I suspect my niece will be far more interested in her mother's writings and in her own than in the ramblings and mutterings of her (fat) old auntie. But I still write or, to be more exact, type (carpal tunnel surgery) my thoughts and musings into the less ethereal existence of the written word.
I was curious to read that Pamuk took such a long time to open the suitcase his father had given him that was filled with the notebooks full of writing that are such a strong part of this man's heritage as a writer. I have never felt such a hesitation and so do not understand the emotional constraints that might prevent one from exploring the thoughts of a parent, but perhaps that is part of the distance, the infinite difference, between a writer like Pamuk and one such as myself. He is the artist and I the wishful scribbler permanently stuck in her passive voice. He is driven where I am drawn. He is eaten alive by the need to write, while I am intrigued and relieved of emotional burdens during my sessions. He creates and lives in those worlds he delves up from his mind and heart while I write about what I recognize and merely wonder at, which is hardly the stuff of Pulitzer Prize winning tomes.
In my great-grandmother's writings there is only the reflection of her immediate world at the time, in my grandmother's the wondering and contemplation have begun but only insofar as they pertain to the almost immediate in her life. My mother took it all a step forward by going back into her childhood for her material, creating poems (which I think she destroyed before she died - dammit!) and a play that try so hard to create visions of the more beautiful or amusing moments in her life but that still whisper quietly, weaving sinuously throughout the tales of moments of laughter and love, of the deprivations and pain she felt as a child and young adult. But perhaps these are only my own musings, brought forth in response to the musings of a writer one may dare to refer to as "great" in that he has been proven and duly rewarded within his own lifetime.
I took the writings of women who came before me in our family, and have tried over the years to continue it; the establishing of a continuous family tradition, if you will. I have written the tales told to me by my grandmother of her youth and continental adventures as a college graduate, some of them having been decidedly improper. I have written the tales of my mother's childhood and of her final illness and her demise, as well as of the pain and differences between the two of us. I have written of my broken hearted moments and my fears, my joys and my moments of private amusement, and I have tried, rather desperately, to write some of those moments in such a way as to inspire in others the same emotions and laughter, the wonderful laughter, I have shared in, but to no avail - comedy is not my forte'.
There is some evidence, although she is still so young, that my niece may carry on the writing by the women in our family for her generation. I hope so. Perhaps one day one of us will make it into print and cast a rosier glow upon all of the feeble efforts of our predecessors, myself included, which will make our crumbling papers and outdated computer discs into something worthy of exciting the appraisers on a late-21st century episode of "Antiques Roadshow." I wonder what the media for the writers of that time will be - perhaps direct recordings of mind and heart, downloadable for a reasonable fee, into the brains of those who no longer have to take the time to sit down with a book, to scribble compulsively onto paper or into computer files all of their thoughts and feelings, ideas and philosophies; who will never know the joys and excitement to be found in the perusal of the lovingly crafted, written word.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
In the Footsteps of Giant-Hearted Pussycats
As I was pondering a tale I have often recounted to other people that they have thought cute, I decided I had better get it posted so, in case anyone else might try to claim it as their own, I will always know it has been told the "right" way. I also want people to know about our extraordinary cat, Tiger, who took care of me when my boyfriend could not. Tiger, this is for you:
A relatively short time ago (measured in years, as opposed to other units of time) Ross had to have one of his knees replaced and was not anticipating his hospital stay with any degree of delight. He was very concerned about bills and business calls, of course, but also he worried incessantly about the household chores he usually takes care of because of my increasing troubles at the time with arthritis and a variety of other health issues that would make taking care of our mutual home very difficult. He also worried about our population of geriatric cats and how they might fare under "mommy's" auspices during this time.
The day or so before Ross headed for the hospital, our kitty Tiger caught his frst mouse (the first we are aware of anyway) and proudly left it in the middle of the doorway from the living room into the kitchen. I was the lucky person to find it, although as the tale unfolded I thought that might have been Tiger's plan, and after telling Tiger what a wonderful mouse it was and thanking him profusely, I gently retired it to the yard and thought nothing of it again, until the next mouse appeared. After mouse number one we both thought Tiger would retire from the pastime. He had been exceptionally pleased with the praise and had jumped up on the back of Ross's chair purring ecstatically and rubbing Ross to show us we had received the mouse with proper cat-human ettiquette and interaction, but he really had never been much of a mouser.
Until the day of, or just after, Ross's surgery, when I was once again presented with a mouse in almost the same spot. Again, I praised Tiger and told him his mouse had the wonderful and unique attributes only a cat like he could possibly have selected, etc., etc. Tiger was very happy and I just figured he had found some spot where the mice were slow, fat and plentiful but again, did not attach any special significance to the actions, although they were really highly unusual for any of our cats.
As the days passed and Ross entered rehab, I was presented again and again with mice caught by Tiger, each given with a joy and generosity of spirit only a very special pussycat can bring to such a gift. By the time Ross was able to return home I had garnered no less than half a dozen mice from Tiger. We were both wondering if he would continue to present me with mice but, after Ross was back home, the gifts stopped. The day of the return of "daddy-cat" was the day Tiger stopped catching mice. It was only in retrospect that Tiger's behavior made any sense, and I feel certain I have interpreted the situation correctly.
The days before Ross's surgery, Tiger let Ross know, in no uncertain terms, that he, Tiger, would take care of me while Ross was unable to do so. I was well supplied with mice during Ross's absence but, when Ross returned home there was no more need for the mice, and Tiger realized this and placed the care of "mommy-cat" back into the capable hands of Ross. Tiger jumped up in his favorite spot on the back of Ross's chair and seemed to retire from taking care of me with a satisfied sigh that said, "I did what I set out to do for you but now it's back on your shoulders, guy."
I wish I had taken pictures of every single mouse. Never have I ever been singled out like that by a pussycat for the reasons I feel certain Tiger carried in his being during that time. (I have never had the heart to tell Ross that I enjoyed those mice a lot more than the White House-shaped Christmas ornament he gave me one year.)
A relatively short time ago (measured in years, as opposed to other units of time) Ross had to have one of his knees replaced and was not anticipating his hospital stay with any degree of delight. He was very concerned about bills and business calls, of course, but also he worried incessantly about the household chores he usually takes care of because of my increasing troubles at the time with arthritis and a variety of other health issues that would make taking care of our mutual home very difficult. He also worried about our population of geriatric cats and how they might fare under "mommy's" auspices during this time.
The day or so before Ross headed for the hospital, our kitty Tiger caught his frst mouse (the first we are aware of anyway) and proudly left it in the middle of the doorway from the living room into the kitchen. I was the lucky person to find it, although as the tale unfolded I thought that might have been Tiger's plan, and after telling Tiger what a wonderful mouse it was and thanking him profusely, I gently retired it to the yard and thought nothing of it again, until the next mouse appeared. After mouse number one we both thought Tiger would retire from the pastime. He had been exceptionally pleased with the praise and had jumped up on the back of Ross's chair purring ecstatically and rubbing Ross to show us we had received the mouse with proper cat-human ettiquette and interaction, but he really had never been much of a mouser.
Until the day of, or just after, Ross's surgery, when I was once again presented with a mouse in almost the same spot. Again, I praised Tiger and told him his mouse had the wonderful and unique attributes only a cat like he could possibly have selected, etc., etc. Tiger was very happy and I just figured he had found some spot where the mice were slow, fat and plentiful but again, did not attach any special significance to the actions, although they were really highly unusual for any of our cats.
As the days passed and Ross entered rehab, I was presented again and again with mice caught by Tiger, each given with a joy and generosity of spirit only a very special pussycat can bring to such a gift. By the time Ross was able to return home I had garnered no less than half a dozen mice from Tiger. We were both wondering if he would continue to present me with mice but, after Ross was back home, the gifts stopped. The day of the return of "daddy-cat" was the day Tiger stopped catching mice. It was only in retrospect that Tiger's behavior made any sense, and I feel certain I have interpreted the situation correctly.
The days before Ross's surgery, Tiger let Ross know, in no uncertain terms, that he, Tiger, would take care of me while Ross was unable to do so. I was well supplied with mice during Ross's absence but, when Ross returned home there was no more need for the mice, and Tiger realized this and placed the care of "mommy-cat" back into the capable hands of Ross. Tiger jumped up in his favorite spot on the back of Ross's chair and seemed to retire from taking care of me with a satisfied sigh that said, "I did what I set out to do for you but now it's back on your shoulders, guy."
I wish I had taken pictures of every single mouse. Never have I ever been singled out like that by a pussycat for the reasons I feel certain Tiger carried in his being during that time. (I have never had the heart to tell Ross that I enjoyed those mice a lot more than the White House-shaped Christmas ornament he gave me one year.)
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
So Many Times To Cry
I am about to mail a card to the university I am doing my master's degree with. It is for the family of a student who lost his life tragically just before the holidays. The tributes to him from those who knew him were loving and beautiful and I wanted to express my sympathy to his family. It also got me thinking about everything my own family has been through and is still going through; the fear, the loss, the not knowing what will strike next or where. I hope my heart was in the message on that card because I cannot feel that anything less would suffice; a family has lost a son and brother, his parents their child, and friends and coworkers a person they knew they could count on to be there and help get the job done. It brings strongly to my mind the tone of voice and expression on my father's face when he said to me one day, "No parent should ever have to outlive their child."
In C. S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia, in one of the books, he has his lion, Aslan, respond to the question of the child Lucy by saying that no one is ever told what might have been, yet I can understand the wanting to understand the full repurcussions of such a loss. Who knows how many lives this young man would have touched in the years to come?
How much more love would there have been in the world had he survived? How long would he have lived if his life had not been so cruelly and unnaturally cut short? How many children will never be born? How many lives might not get saved? How many friends may not have the hand to hold, the shoulder to cry on, the person who is always there they so desperately may need in the days to come? Has the nation lost a president? Has humanity lost a lone voice of reason during times of crisis? Have his parents lost the only child of theirs who might have saved them from war, from the predations of old age, from poverty?
While life continues apace for all of us left behind, there is now a void that can never be filled. It will remain forever, throughout the many ages and vagaries of time; his place, his space, his moments and his thoughts and actions - gone. A miniscule vacuum in humanity has been created unnecessarily and will remain forever unfilled, unrealized and empty. His parents, family and friends will feel that vacuum for the rest of their lives, whether they remain completely aware of the absence or not.
All of us, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, hold a very real and special place in this world and in the life of this world and no one's death or absence should ever go unanswered, unnoticed or unfelt.
Perhaps Heaven is a vast and sparkling silver ocean made up of the tears shed when loved ones are taken from us, no matter the circumstances or timing, and each soul missing from the face of this earth has its own ship to sail upon those salty, warm waters, kept forever afloat and in motion by the power of love.
In C. S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia, in one of the books, he has his lion, Aslan, respond to the question of the child Lucy by saying that no one is ever told what might have been, yet I can understand the wanting to understand the full repurcussions of such a loss. Who knows how many lives this young man would have touched in the years to come?
How much more love would there have been in the world had he survived? How long would he have lived if his life had not been so cruelly and unnaturally cut short? How many children will never be born? How many lives might not get saved? How many friends may not have the hand to hold, the shoulder to cry on, the person who is always there they so desperately may need in the days to come? Has the nation lost a president? Has humanity lost a lone voice of reason during times of crisis? Have his parents lost the only child of theirs who might have saved them from war, from the predations of old age, from poverty?
While life continues apace for all of us left behind, there is now a void that can never be filled. It will remain forever, throughout the many ages and vagaries of time; his place, his space, his moments and his thoughts and actions - gone. A miniscule vacuum in humanity has been created unnecessarily and will remain forever unfilled, unrealized and empty. His parents, family and friends will feel that vacuum for the rest of their lives, whether they remain completely aware of the absence or not.
All of us, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, hold a very real and special place in this world and in the life of this world and no one's death or absence should ever go unanswered, unnoticed or unfelt.
Perhaps Heaven is a vast and sparkling silver ocean made up of the tears shed when loved ones are taken from us, no matter the circumstances or timing, and each soul missing from the face of this earth has its own ship to sail upon those salty, warm waters, kept forever afloat and in motion by the power of love.
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