Tattered Blankets…

image

We cannot let go of the dying.  It’s in our nature, I suppose.  We’re constantly craving stability, same-ness.  As such, we cling to the dying as if they were pieces of a tattered blanket, somehow trying to put it back together with needle and thread, knowing that the effort is futile and there will come a point where nothing can be done.  You can’t forever repair a broken body.

Instead, we should dissect those tatters, thread-by-thread, keeping the meaningful ones…the laughs, the joys, sometimes the tears, and weave them into a tapestry of our own.  Those threads are part of our story now; they have changed us, and we forever bear their marks.

All that remains should be burned…fights, sadness, betrayals, disappointments.  Yes, we are indelibly marked by those as well, but we should let them be mere flecks, tiny imperfections, remembered, acknowledged, and then let go to scatter on the wind like ashes from a dying fire.

We can try to hold the tatters, but such attempts would be in vain.  The soul slips away, the body withers, and like the husk of a cicada, remains as an empty shell, tattered remnants.

What we do with those tatters is up to us.

Sunday, Sunday Sunday (to be read like a wrestling announcer)…

Another Sunday is drawing to a close.  It was a relatively nice day despite some frustration at church over a couple of different things.  I gave my parents a bound copy of my thesis; it was a win:).  My parents got me lots of nice clothes for my birthday (Wednesday), which are much appreciated since I’m sorely lacking in clothes that fit me at this size.  They also gave me the most hilarious card EVER.

That was from the graduation service at church…I didn’t drive up to school to walk since I did the program online and didn’t know anyone.

So, I’m still feeling pretty frustrated and restless with the way we’re living right now and wanting to live more simply and peaceably…it hit me again at church this morning during the music.  I’ve been having a pretty rough time with music in general since Phil died.  I haven’t listened to it that much (except for a solid month of the Monkees after Davy died), and I’ve lost a lot of my joy about singing altogether.  I used to get really excited when I was asked to sing something.  Now, I just feel kind of blah.  I’m hoping it’ll pass, because I do know that Phil wouldn’t want me to quit just because he’s not here to give me confidence anymore.  I thought about him a lot this morning because 3/4 of the music this morning was stuff that I’d connected with him over the years.

Anyway, enough of that.  I think some changes are afoot, though, because I’m finally feeling frustrated enough to start taking action.  I’ve always been like that…when I was a kid, it would take me foreeeever and ever to get frustrated enough with my room to actually clean it (shut up, Mom and Dad!!! ;)), but when I did, I really went on a spree.  I’m finally getting frustrated enough with all of the “stuff”…the clutter, excess, the diversions and distractions, the emotional roadblocks.  I’m not feeling quite so isolated at work anymore, so I’m pretty much out of the woods as far as mental angst goes at this point.

So, I’m going to make a list of things to accomplish this week (because I always used to love making lists), and then maybe get to it and maybe, just maybe, finish a thing or two;).

Early Morning Blues and Greens

She’s so pretty, isn’t she?  I know it’s a little blurry…it’s hard to get a face-shot of her without her moving.

image

As usual, I woke up at 5:30 on my morning with no alarm.  I actually woke up at 5:25 and saw that my alarms weren’t set and freaked out, forgetting it was Saturday.  It hasn’t been too bad, though.  It’s 63* outside, so I’ve got the windows open and the breeze feels nice.  Shelli obviously likes it, too.

Today will be a thesis-filled day, which I research and write my first chapter.  The feedback on my introduction wasn’t too bad, and my advisor thinks that it’s headed in the right direction, so that encouragement has restored my self-confidence that I may not lay a steaming terd when this whole thing is said and done.

It’s been a rough week.  Phil found out Wednesday that surgery is not adviseable for his cancer.  Apparently the tumor is still too close to the vein to his pancreas, and doing surgery would just aggravate the cancer cells that are left and cause them to grow faster, so it would make his prognosis worse rather than better.  Even worse, he got the news during choir rehearsal on Wednesday, so he didn’t even have the chance to go home and process the news before having to tell us.  My heart is broken, and I’m having a serious crisis of faith about the whole thing.

What’s been pissing me off most, though, has been all of the “miracle talk” that’s still going on all over his Facebook.  Don’t misunderstand me, I do believe that miracles happen; I’ve seen things happen in my life that cannot be explained by any logical means without consideration of the involvement of divine intervention.  However, to continue to throw that talk out to him at this point trivializes the weight of his situation.  It’s flippant.  And it’s selfish.  I do believe that their intent is genuine; they want to see a miracle, and they want him to keep hope.  The problem, though, is that it does more harm than good.  Joey calls it “the Christian form of denial.”  Am I still praying for some kind of miracle?  Of course.  But, at this point, the definition of “hope” in this situation needs to shift and as such, so must the form of encouragement.

There are so many things that I think the Church (Big “C”) are getting wrong these days.  This is one of them.

This next week is going to bring us back into the nineties, which disappoints me.  I’m so ready for fall.  I come alive in Autumn and, for the past few years, in Winter, too.  It surprises me, because I used to have SAD so bad that I had to keep a UV bulb in my bedside lamp so I made it through the winter.  Now, the crisp coldness is a joy, and the few snow days that we do get are wonderful.  Precious few things are better than sitting in the living room with a steaming cup of coffee and the fireplace blazing while watching the kids sled down the never-treated roads of our neighborhood.  And the snow cream.  Can’t forget that.

Anyway, enough rambling.  Believe it or not, despite the tenor of this post, my meds are working quite well.  I am keeping perspective, even in my grief over the burdens so many of my friends are facing.  Once Joey (finally) wakes up, we’ll head out to Blessings Cafe for breakfast and pick up a track for the song I’m singing at James/Shannon’s wedding.  Then, thesis-thesis-thesis.

Here’s another Kins-bliss pic for your day:-)

image

P.S–the title of this post comes from a Monkees song.  It’s quite beautiful.

Loss and Blessings

I’m not going to say much today.  Two years ago today, my little fur-sister, Puss, went on to heaven.

I will spend the rest of my life trying to help other kitties; none of them should ever have to be alone or afraid.

As much as her leaving us hurt, I wouldn’t trade a minute of having her in my life for almost nineteen years.

There is no love quite like the love of a cat, and I pity those who’ve never gotten to experience it.

To love a cat is one of the most frustrating, yet totally rewarding blessings that life can offer.

Someday, I’m going to do something in a big way, a big, big tangible way, to help homeless and especially special needs kitties.  Just wait and see.  And I will have done it all for Puss.