My Heart Is Bleeding

People occasionally ask me, or ask generally in groups I am part of, “how is everyone?”. And today more than ever I am grateful for people like that who stop to ask. I am finding out more and more each day that it’s harder and harder to think of others, which is quite the opposite of what the world needs now. If anything, we need more compassion, more togetherness, less vile-ness and definitely, infinitely more respect. So, if you’re reading this: how are you?! Drop me a note, comment on this link – whatever you feel comfortable with … How are you?

To answer those who have asked: we are doing fine. Our hearts are bleeding and our minds are wound up with concern and worry and fright of what tomorrow might bring or how today might morph into something worse, but we are, generally speaking, in the scheme of things, fine. We have been grateful that we and our immediate families are healthy, protected from harm and those of us who work have kept their jobs. These are not small blessings.

But my heart is bleeding, a little more each day. I just cannot believe that all the evil of the world has decided to all come out at the same time all in one year. Every day I am more and more stunned by how everything, and everyone is falling apart. I knew the world needed “a  moment”, needed an inspiration, needed a hero, and a purpose, but  I never dreamed that that moment would be all evil, all dirty, all dark and inhumane, all hopeless, a big whirlpool of vitriol, poison, and desperation.

Tonight is one of those nights where I cannot stop my blood pressure from climbing because my heart is bleeding for everything around me … These are only a handful of things that I can think of right now that make my heart bleed. Every day. 

My heart’s been bleeding for the soul of the American nation, for the loss of the values they hold dear. For how our troubled past is following us into our present. A past that I thought we left behind for good.

My heart has been bleeding for the loss of humanity and respect in our country, at every level but especially at the leadership level. There are days when I see no end to it. My heart’s been bleeding for the injustices I witness every day, whether viewing them on TV, or reading about them, or hearing them retold by my friends. My heart’s been bleeding for all the innocent people being killed and gassed in our streets; my heart’s been bleeding for the death of the belief that “every person is innocent before proved guilty”, the policy of firing a gun to everything that stands in one’s way before better judgement is applied. My heart has been bleeding for the useless violence in our world. Every day.

My heart’s been bleeding for those who die or suffer life-long complications from Covid19. My heart’s been bleeding for not being able to see my family. Not being able to know when seeing my family will eventually be possible. When this exile will end.

My heart’s bleeding for all those who have kids to feed and lost their jobs to the Covid19 depression. My heart’s bleeding for every business owner closing their business, their dream, because they can’t pay the bills anymore.

My heart’s been bleeding for all those who take a knee.

My heart’s bleeding for all those killed in fires caused by a raging climate. My heart’s bleeding for all those who try to teach us to be better and get laughed in the face, dismissed.

My heart’s been bleeding for those stuck at the border, trapped in cages like animals, with no respect to their humanity. When all they wanted was to be free …

My heart’s been bleeding for all the babies dragged away from their parents …

My heart’s bleeding for all those who don’t read anything except for Facebook and Twitter … Especially those who also have the power to change things for good.

My heart’s been bleeding for the loss of our critical thinking. And of compassion.

My heart’s been bleeding after driving around in several counties this weekend and seeing 80% (my humble estimation, it could very well be more) of the electoral signs having the wrong person’s name on them. It’s not the wrong person because it’s wrong to me. I seldom, if ever, make an absolute truth statement, but this is an absolute truth statement: it is the wrong person, if you have one ounce of decency and humanity left in your body. 80%. My heart and eyes are bleeding ….

My heart is still bleeding for losing John McCain. My heart bleeds for losing RBG.

And tonight, I add my beautiful Armenian friends to this list of horrible tragedies that make my soul bleed and my heart stop … I have worked with the folks from our Armenian office for close to ten years now. They are beautiful, smart like I have never met before, selfless, and fragile people. The thought of losing coworkers or their families to their mandatory draft to fight the recent war against Azerbaijan there makes me scream … Some of these people are close friends, part of a larger family I hold dear to my soul. My heart bleeds for them tonight, too … Regardless of which side you're on, the civilians of a country, the ones who ultimately suffer more because they didn't invite the evil in, are always the wrong ones to pay the cost of it. And that makes my heart bleed ... 

I don’t ask “what else can go wrong this year”, because I know: a lot can still go very, very wrong. This moment, I don’t ask for much. I just watch everything helplessly and pray that humanity will find its way …

I was in an online seminar recently and they reminded me of something that I think about tonight, as I write this: “When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.” (Gandhi)

Tonight, I think of this. And I pray that I one day, in my lifetime, I see this become truth …

 

 

My Lucky-Charm Cat

Gypsy: May, 2001 - November, 2019

This is the first blog I am writing in many, many years from my home, when I am not getting sidetracked by little fuzzy paws pulling at my sleeve as I type, asking me to stop and play with them; I am not getting pitter-patter feet running across my keyboard, nor kitty faces rubbing against my laptop lid, in a tireless effort to make it close. This is because for the first time in 21 years I am in my house, completely catless.

Our last kitty, Gypsy, went away to meet his two brothers over the rainbow bridge this past week. He was 9 days short of being exactly 18 and a half years. The pain of missing him is only surpassed by our regret of not being able to be there when he passed. Life wanted it other ways … But this is not about us … It’s really about him.

Gypsy  was an answer to a long, secret wish I had as a 20 some year old. Before I moved to the Bible-belt South, I never knew such hatred towards black cats. I was amazed every fall, around Halloween, how people found black cats mutilated and strangled, and drowned in bags in the river. Humanity, or lack thereof, made me sick. Although at the time I was a happy mommy of two gorgeous cats, I said to myself: “one day, I want to have a black cat! I want to love him and raise him and turn him into the most amazing, kind, gorgeous kitty so I can show all these freaks that black cats are awesome.” No sooner did I utter this wish than in two or three-week’s time, we started hearing this piercing meow under our house, coming from the crawlspace. We had a stray cat that usually came and went, and we were thinking, OK, maybe it’s in heat and she’ll stop once it’s all over. But the meow would not stop. A day became two. A night became three, and the meow continued.

One warm late May afternoon, I opened the door to the crawlspace to let the poor creature out, weary from several sleepless nights where it had kept me awake with the incessant meow-and-meow-and-meow. I was figuring it must be a huge kitty, probably hungry from days of being trapped and dying to get out. When I opened the door, the meow kept getting closer to me, so I knew the kitty found its way to the opening. Instead of a huge kitty, to match the loud meow, I saw this tiny fuzzball, easily under a pound, covered in cobwebs, one eye half closed, I thought, or just dirty with under-the-house muck, big blue eyes, and completely black walking towards me, slipping and sliding on the rotten beams we stored in the crawlspace at the time. His voice was piercing. I had never heard such a loud meow in any size of a cat, but especially in a cat small enough to fit my palm! Since the minute we made eye contact, he did not want to lose my sight! He had the most expressive face and just begged and begged for help and comfort.

I knew I had to keep him! I was absolutely smitten, and my prayer of an all-black cat was right then and there answered. I took him to the vet who thought I wanted to put him up for adoption, having just found him under the house. I was insulted. How can someone, anyone, put this kitty up for adoption?! Just look at him: eyes blue as the skies, hungry, lonely, skinny as a rail, tiny, lonely, and all he wants is some food and love. Who can put him back out there into the world with no one to his name?! He became mine, or rather I became his the first moment we locked eyes. I asked the vet to check him out, before I would bring him to my other cats, to ensure he is not carrying some odd disease. He was not. Other than being severely dehydrated and hungry, he was 100% healthy. The doctor called him “a woolly worm” and he said: “This cat has incredibly strong lungs, and that is a sure sign that he will have a long and healthy life.”

We named him Gypsy, as my mom who was then visiting suggested “kindly”. The name fit: he was independent, dark, stubborn as they come, and with no regard to anyone’s wishes but his own. He was then and he remained for the rest of his life, the baby. Me-me-me … all the way.

As a young cat, he got himself into all sorts of troubles. He chewed more wires than any other cat I had. He chewed my shoes like a dog. He was 100% nocturnal. When the sun would go down, that’s when he was wide awake and ready to play, bite your toes, lick your face, knock pictures off the walls in your bedroom, and pull your hair. He was relentless. No matter how much he got sprayed with water, he continued his shenanigans for years. He was fearless of getting in trouble. I always joked that he knew that if I saved his life, there is nothing that I could ever do to hurt him, so he was not really ever scared of any consequences. I think he was maybe 8 or 9 when I ever noticed any sign of him slowing down and maturing just a tad … He was always playful, curious and loud. With all that said, he was also the most gentle cat you ever met: he literally had no idea how to hurt anyone, but especially humans. He trusted humans more than any other cat I knew. He never bit or scratched maliciously. Ever. He was trusting and gentle.  

People will talk about cats that want to escape and want to be outside more than they want to be inside. The number one prerequisite for being my cat is that you are going to be a 100% inside cat! No arguments! I cannot risk them being eaten by some beast, or run over by cars. Gypsy never had any interest whatsoever to ever be outside. He was completely content in the house, always in the humans’ business, especially mine. He had a nervous breakdown when I was behind any closed door – he was my shadow, constantly. He wanted to be where I was and have me in his full sight. In his old days, he would pick the most strategic point in the room so he can watch me no matter where I was headed from just one spot. His big yellow eyes (they turned from blue to yellow when he matured) would follow me around like laser beams. He loved to nap with me, and sit with me as I typed on my laptop. He slept under my desk, when I worked … His eyes were intelligent and intent in everything that had to do with me. We had a bonding like I never had with any other being. This was our life for 18 years. We read together, napped together, put up the Christmas tree together, ate lunch at the kitchen island together …

Gypsy was the only one of our cats that traveled to Utah, and then made the trip back to the North Carolina woods where he was born. He came back across the country as a 16 and a half old cat, and he did superbly during that journey: sleeping all day in his carrier in the back seat of my Corolla, and sleeping at night in our camper, when we’d camp at KOAs across The Land. He never complained. He always felt safe with us, and I hope, always loved. He was.

In the two years that we have been back in NC, he has slowed down a lot. He has outlived all the cats and dogs in our families and extended network of friends. But, life took its toll and his kidney disease advanced, and he started crying incessantly again, just like when he was a kitten. His piercing meow could wake up the dead, really! You’d never know that a creature weighing only 7 pounds (or not even one when he was a kitten) could be so loud. But that voice is what saved his life.

His big voice, bright eyes, curious nature, soft as silk coat, beautiful, picture-perfect profile will stay with us forever … He was in truth my dreamed-about, picture-perfect black cat, just like I wished all those years ago. And he did show the world that a black cat can be gentle and kind and loving and sweet, as well as mischievous and naughty ... 

I am not sure how I can now move on without any kitties in the house. I really don’t know how to function with no bowls to clean, no stop in the litter aisle at the store, no special blankets around the house … no one to snuggle with when I nap in the afternoon, no purring as I fall asleep … Gypsy was my go-to kitty for all the naps I have had in the past 18 years. Fero almost never slept! And Little Kitty was way too independent to be anyone’s cat … But Gypsy was my mirror. My soul-mate, the answer to my prayer. Just like I wanted him before he ever happened under my house, I want him now, and will want him always …

Life, of course, is never endless … He was called to the other side to maybe make other souls as happy as he’s made us.

We’ll miss you more than you know, little guy. We’ll mourn and ache for you for a long, long time, and we pray that you’ll forgive us one day for not holding your paw when you crossed that bridge. We were, and I know you knew – but just not in person. Sleep well, and wander free – enchant other worlds as you so plentifully did ours.

With a bleeding, aching heart, your momma loves you, and Mr. Aa., too …

Good Night, Sweet Princess

I don't remember when she wandered into my parents' yard. Could have been 18 years ago, when they got their first dog, or could have been later. She was a stray, although she never looked like one. Dad always said she belonged to the neighbor, but I am not sure: she spent more time in my parents' yard than in any other place on the street.

She was smart, as cats go, and she was sassy, as they go, too. But less so than any other cat, she was quiet. She was unobtrusively inserting in the life of our family, and mostly in our hearts forever, without as much as a meow. She never begged per se, but she always sat on the outside window sill of the kitchen waiting for food.

More than any other cats, she was gorgeous. I am yet to meet an ugly cat, really, but she was exquisite. She had the markings of a Siamese cat, with piercing blue eyes, but maybe not with the same body style – more short and dense and less athletic, less tall. I truly thing she was a mutt, but not less beautiful for it.

My first ever Instagram picture was that of Bella

Bella was never officially my parents' cat, but they treated her always like she was. Their first dog never barked at a human, but he barked at Bella (and all the other cats of the neighborhood). He, even, knew she did not belong there. But she came there every day, religiously to nibble at food from her bowl which dad put on the kitchen window sill so the dog won't bother it. She spent many winters in my parents' laundry room, because mom would have no pets anywhere else in the house, otherwise.

I did talk about her as “my parents' cat”, but she was really my dad's. He is the animal lover in our midst and he infected both me and my sister with the love for cats. Mom could take pets or leave them, but mostly leave them.

She spent an errant life, really, of a stray cat. She would perch on top of roofs and jump from yard to yard, to avoid the busy street filled with crazy drivers, and naughty kids who would surely torment her. This made her smart.

She hoped from yard to yard, but I think she was fed only at our house. My parents were probably the only ones on the street going to the pet store for Bella. She scavenged what she could off the other neighbors, from trash and dropped food. But she had her designated food and water bowls at our house.

I never heard the neighbor ever looking for her when she was gone from their yard.

When we were there, she came and snuggled and said 'hello' in a quiet, shy voice. She loved to be petted and loved on. She did like humans, to some extent, after all, but never expected anything from you. She purred in content when you paid her any amount of attention. She was tame. She was a stray but definitely never feral.

This fall, she disappeared for a few days. Dad was besides himself with worry. We knew she was old, but I don't think we ever knew exactly how old. Dad thought for sure it was “her time” and she would probably never come back. But she did. Dad said she came back “fatter.” Well, they only found out recently that she was actually sick: her abdomen started swelling up with fluid and this past week she was the “fattest” she had ever been although she all but stopped eating or drinking.

Today, they found her on the floor of the bathroom, motionless. She was breathing, but that's about all. It was time. And she knew it. She had come back home, for the final stop. Like the owner that he acted as all these years, it was dad's “job” (the hardest job in the world) to help her through her final hours.

She was such a big presence in the landscape of my parents' house. She had, like all pets do, the superpower of really inserting themselves deeply into our hearts, right where our softest, most delicate, and most vulnerable spot lives.

She leaves a big hole in our hearts. My heart cries mostly for my dad, but for all of us who knew and loved her, over the years. I hope she is now truly free to roam, without cars, naughty neighborhood kids and dogs to chase her. And I hope she tells all our other furry friends that we miss and love them, too.

Rest, sweet girl. No more worries where to spend the winter. You will always be part of our family.

This is the last picture I took of her, this past May. It looks like she prophetically is waving us 'good bye.' Sweet girl! 

The Death of a Bright Star

There come days in my life where it gets dark. Really, really dark ... I am sure I am not alone in this. I am sure many of us have days where we lose something - a dear person, a dear pet, an ideal, a dream, a little bit of health, a hope ... 

Today is one such day. After reading about the death of Anthony Bourdain, a man who, in my opinion, defies labels and definitions, it got really dark. 

My husband and I were talking and we both feel like we've known him on a personal level. We had the luxury of seeing him live a few years back in Salt Lake City and I am so happy we got that chance! He was so real. He was so honest. Heart on his sleeve, he called what he saw what he thought it should be called. He had little concern for how he was perceived, and he was unapologetically honest, and truthful to himself. Or so we thought ... 

I have been collecting his books for years, but I have to confess that I am yet to crack one open. In a world that has so much stuff out there, on all the feeds I follow, I have been following his shows, his blog posts, his articles, his facebook feeds. I have been keeping his books for that one day, when I will work less and read more - like a treasured keepsake that you might only bring out once a year for the holidays. 

Once you get him, I think it's hard to kick the habit - so I have been able to conveniently get a healthy helping of Bourdain through various media sites, and through CNN. 

He had such an eye for the ordinary, and such a gift to make it extraordinary. He is one of the geniuses of story-telling, which is secondary only to his honesty. He peeled reality like an onion, to get to the bitter-sweet-spicy core of it. 

He made you feel, and smell, and taste (mostly) with him. But most of all, he made you feel the humanity in everything he followed. I think, ultimately, he loved people, the more obscure, the more troubled, the more underdog-like, the better. Nothing was ordinary to him. As it shouldn't be, for nothing is random in this world, and beyond! He called your senses to pay attention and not miss the big miracle that the world around you is. He was all about awareness, most of all. And understanding, secondly. 

I had to stop from my busy day and record this. My mind just stopped. My heart breaks for his family, for us all, for the world in general. How no one can prevent such sudden and sad deaths is still beyond me ... 

Rest in peace, Chef! I am saddened that I won't be adding to my book collection anymore, which is the only thing I have left to "hear" you again ... 

My Heart

"For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning as is refreshed." (Khalil Gibran)

I am sitting here, writing. I can almost hear my heart, almost as loud as the fridge in the kitchen. Beating. Very clearly spaced out, beat after beat, after beat.

I think this is what gave away for sure that I existed in my mom's womb - the heartbeat. My heart has since then been the rascal of my being: mom tells me all throughout her pregnancy with me, the doctor (who did not have access to an ultrasound machine back then) always heard two heartbeats in her stomach. So, he always thought she was carrying twins. She didn't. It was just my show off, loud heart.

As I grew up, I have learned I have a condition that will eventually damage my heart, as well as my brain, as well as many other vital parts of my body. But the heart was always the number one concern for all doctors - the heart goes first.

Almost all of my life, since I was 6, I have known that one day my heart would give me trouble. Well, that day has come. I am scheduled for open heart surgery in just a bit over a week.

Ever since I can remember, I have looked up to open heart surgery patients! The concept of it is no less than Frankensteinian! To crack your chest open. To stop your heart. To cut your heart. And replace parts in it ... who does this?!?! What kind of stomach does a doctor need to muster?! And then, the surviving, the moving on. The acceptance of a life on the watchout. Forever. For as long as you are lucky to breathe after that. The scare of maybe repeating the surgery, again. Oh, Lord!

Although I have known this for what seems ever to me, I am still in semi-shock. I have been lucky to have known about this for months now, and it's still hard to swallow! For 40 years, there was always "something else" they needed to try and surgery was not mandatory. There was a pill. A lifestyle change. Another test to be done. Now, there is no going around it anymore. No more delays. No avenues. No path not taken. Just a wall. A big, huge wall. A mountain to climb, and on the other side, hopefully ... life.

I pray. I beg. I cry "why me". I cry "forgive me, Lord". And I take one day at a time. And I hope. I am a big hoper these days.

I am not even in the least bit afraid of the recovery time - of all the pain, the forever meds I'll be on, the trauma, the light head, the nausea, the gore ... I am afraid of those 6 hours where my whole life, my rebel, crazy, stubborn, loud heartbeat, that first "me" of this world, will be silenced, and will only be placed solely in the hands of God and the medical staff I have only recently met. I am mortified.

I hope and pray that life will continue even better and louder than before. I hope I will meet my family, my friends, my future, on the other side. I have so much to look forward to. I miss my nephews. I miss my dad. I miss reading books I have not bought yet. I miss writing books I have not dreamed about yet. I will come back. I need to. I must.

Sick as it's been, and struggling, my heart has beaten fully, eagerly and passionately, for so many - my sister, to begin with, early on. My mom, with her blue eyes, always watching over me, beating for me, trying to make her proud of me, always. My grandma, maia, who raised me. My dad who made me tough. My aunt and all other grandparents who welcomed me, spoiled rotten, as their first born ... and not the least my husband - who keeps me together and re-stitches my broken self, daily. My cats. All the space in my heart is filled with them, overflowing.  I know all their love must keep me together because what else is there to?! So many others that never knew I cared for and about ...

I am afraid of not being the same at the end of this, the most. I am afraid that my mind will lapse and slip away, that my memory won't be all there, that my feelings will change and my outlook on life will be compromised. I am afraid of the post-op me, I guess, the most... I guess we're always afraid of what we don't know, what we don't see, and what we can't control ... but this is the ultimate in that. My dad jokingly said: "Honey, they'll pick up your heart, pull it out of your chest, wash it with some disinfectant, wipe it clean, and put it right back in". They might as well do that, or do that to my brain, and I feel just the same.

I have done some crazy stuff in my sick life. One should really not be allowed this much happiness, and gusto as I have known in my 40 years. Especially with a sick body like mine. To say that I have been blessed is to insult the word.  I have lived on impulse, spoken the truth, and never feared to look fear itself in the eye. But this time is somewhat different. Every time before, I was (although sometimes just seemingly) in control. This time, it's God and the doctors. I am just a guest at my own sorcery business.

I hope one day,  folks will remember me for one thing. And I hope that being scared out of my wits for almost the first time in my life won't be it!

I'll continue to listen to that beat. Every moment of every day. Every second. Every glimpse. For as long as God will allow. Love it and cherish it like my own first born. It needs to know it's loved and cherished. This beat needs to continue its march and stay the showoff rascal it's accustomed this world (and me) to be. I need to tell it, it's perfect just the way it is now, so it will come back promptly and carry me through many, many more winters ...

The Dog Who Barked Only ... at Cats

Why do we do it?! Why do we ever consider to have pets? We know we will get attached like they are family. We know they will die before us and we know it will hurt when they go. And yet we choose to have them. Consciously. With eyes wide open, we seek them, or we open our doors and our hearts to them when they seek us. Why?!

I am guessing for a similar reason that some of us choose to have kids, although we know we won’t be able to protect them forever – just from some kind of unexplained law of nature. We feel the need to connect. To give love, and to receive it. Unconditionally and totally. Explaining why is superfluous. We will do it at some point in our life, to celebrate our humanity!

Ever since I can remember, my dad wanted a dog. He was very specific about what kind of dog he wanted: it was going to be a German Shepherd. As my sister and I were growing up, we watched him love other people’s dogs, because mom never allowed pets in our condo. But once he built his house, the very same year, he was on the lookout for a dog. This way, the dog can live outside, and not bother mom.

And a dog he got. Ten years ago this August, he had a friend who had a German Shepherd female dog who had puppies. And he adopted one and named him Bobby. More precisely, Bobby Cappuccino, because of his “cappuccino” color. Dad wanted a mean looking dog, so people would stay away from his house (in Romania the notion of a guard dog is not at all extinct). A large and mean looking dog Bobby was, but a mean dog he was very far from.

He had to be the quietest and meekest dog I have ever seen. He loved friends and strangers just the same. And although dad wanted him for the known, loud and intimidating Shepherd’s bark, the only thing Bobby ever barked at were cats! Never at people. Ever. He would eat from anyone’s hand, and lean onto anyone’s leg at the dining room table. He would greet everyone, friends, strangers, the mailman, anyone at the gate, and show them into the kitchen or where dad was.

He was dad’s shadow, all these years, although dad has been known to be mean to him when he trampled his veggie garden and when he wandered off into the streets for hours causing dad to panic that he might have gotten killed by a car.

Healthier and happier times: Bobby outside the kitchen and in front of the gate - he never quite grew into his paws and large head.

He was always free to roam. In Romania chaining a dog is routine, but dad never ever chained Bobby. He trusted him, and Bobby behaved always, after he learned everyone’s needs.

Like any pet, he became very much part of the family. During his first weekend in our yard, my sister got married. He was there when my grandmother died, when we visited my parents and had all our meals on the patio, he was there when Dolly, our cat, died; there when we grilled out, there when we brought Patrick for his first visit to see my parents. He was always quiet, and unless you saw his large frame, you never ever knew there was a dog living there. Unless stray cats would happen in the yard, and you’d hear his whining. Not as much as a bark, but a frustrated whine. He was not very successful at keeping cats at bay, though: dad has had throughout the years many-a-stray cats in the yard to feed. His whine was just a warning to them, perhaps, that yes, they may get food in that house, but the yard still belongs to him.

He was without a question the smartest dog I have ever known. His diligence to move around babies and small children without hurting, his nonintrusive closeness to humans, his discreetness and never begging for food made him smart to me. And definitely, without a question, he was the most loving dog I have ever seen. He was nothing but a big pile of love for everyone. And meekness!

I think his silence almost killed him: my parents didn’t realize he was as sick as he was, because he never complained. His congested heart was found too late.

He died today. He was only 10. And I say ONLY because dogs should live longer than that! Much, much longer! He went as quietly as he lived. As mom said “he was just like a child of ours; we loved him, although we sometimes scolded him, just like you do a child”.

So, at only 10, we – and definitely dad who waited for him for 40 some years – were not ready to lose him! Truth is: when are you ever ready to lose a “child”, a part of your family, a pet?

Hopefully, if there is such a thing as a doggie heaven, Bobby is peacefully roaming it free and painlessly, only whining at the random cat up there … I’ll miss you, Mr. Cappuccino. You could never be replaced!!

Dad and Bobby. Not as much "master and servant" as "pal and pal"

The High (and Painful) Price of a Dream

The House of Guilt - of sorts

So, I never quite got comfortable in this very house of mine. I think I have said it before, and I apologize (not really) for the repeat, but I don’t think I have ever gotten over the buyer’s remorse on this joint. At the time I bought it, I thought it was a dream come true. I still think that, in fact. It was my coming of age as a grown woman: it was coming into adulthood from the condo, college-like living I had before, as a single woman.

So, I plunged into it thinking this is what I have worked for all my life, and praying that I will be in it forever (uumm … 30 years at least) to pay it off. I knew at the time, though, that is just about as much as I can possibly swallow without choking on it. It was a bit too much, but not enough to cause me to say a definite “no”.

My gut was in knots though and I sensed than one day, this will be trouble. A friend advised that I will make more money in a couple of years, as it happens, usually, and that will not be an issue. Only the friend didn’t foresee the economic crisis that followed almost immediately after I signed the bottom line, even before the ink dried on the paper. A not so favorable loan had me borrow it at painful terms, and thus my guilt towards my hard earned money deepened!

I am not exactly house poor, as I have been able to play, too, and go out and have fun with friends, and donate to my charities, and also take some trips and play with some of the money, as well. Or at least I was not house poor till before I quit my job about a week ago.

I did make good use of it, too, I will not be ungrateful: I have enjoyed people having their own quarters when they come to town, especially since it’s illegal in my family to book hotel rooms if a relative lives in town. I have enjoyed the back yard, and all the greenery I have planted there; the grapes and strawberries, fresh dill and parsley, fresh onions and rosemary for my omelets. I have enjoyed the quietness of the area, and the changes of the seasons in the beautiful, huge oak trees across the street from me. I have also enjoyed having e designated place for every single thing, and a room with a purpose for everything, like they teach you on HGTV! I have also loved, loved, loved my huge kitchen, where I never run out of space when I cook or when I have to store a new pot or pan! It’s been all great!

But, alas, plans are made only to be broken by life, aren’t they?! Now, the prospect, which is slowly turning into an ugly reality, of no job, a wee bit too much of a payment plus utilities plus HOA fees which I swear must be fed on growth hormones or something, because they are insane (at $158 a month for grass trimming) is becoming more and more bitter. Even more so than before, the straps on the shoulders of this too big of a weight are cutting into my back.

The house sits quietly on the market, for exactly a month and two weeks today, along with other 20+ homes (I think) in the same neighborhood, 5 of which are in the same parking lot as mine, listed at a lower price than I bought it for, to make it more appealing. I sit here, on a quiet and beautiful spring afternoon waiting for seers, “passer-by”-ers. Isn’t spring the time deemed by all realtors to be the most appropriate for home buying?! And isn't Sunday the most perfect of days for real estate?! So ... where are the people? I sit here, and I listen to the sound of birds and swishy wind in the new leaves of yet a new spring. And I try with all my might not to cry or to hurt myself for the guilt I feel for buying too much of a dream!

I do know that every house sells. Eventually. And I know this, too, shall sell, and pass. But I cannot help but feel ever so guilty for burdening not only me, but my husband also with an expense which could have been so much more bearable should it have been planned a little bit more carefully …

And unlike so many people out there, I have enough self respect to not blame “W.”, not the banks, not the economy, not Obama for something that I signed up for with no gun against my temple.

It still makes me choke up with guilt and lose sleep at night, because I seldom screw up, you see. But I guess it keeps me real, too, and reminds me that I too can make a very wrong decision sometimes. The comforting thought that we are not infallible is so sweet! When I’ll chase a dream next time, I’ll ask for an insurance policy first. If only life can give you one, that is. *Sigh*.

The Carrot Joke

Did you all hear "the carrot joke"? Did you? Well, if not, here it goes:

Two carrots were walking down the stairs together. One of them was paying no attention to the steps, and he tripped, fell down the stairs and hurt himself really badly. The other carrot called 911, and took the hurt carrot to the emergency room.

After a few hours of surgery and medical investigation, the ER doctor comes out to talk to the healthy carrot and he says:

"Well, I have good news and bad news."

The healthy carrot was waiting with bated breath to hear the fate of his poor, hurt, friend ...

The doctor continued: "Well, the good news is that Mr. Carrot will be OK: he will live, the fall didn't threaten his life. The bad news is ... he will be a vegetable for the rest of his life".

So, now you're supposed to laugh. Or at least think the joke was cute... Yeah, I know: it IS a silly joke, indeed. Nothing amazing about it, right??

The amazing fact about the silly joke was the man who told it to me. My group of volunteers was wrapping up a dinner preparation and serving for Urban Ministry, a homeless shelter, and the man who told us the joke as we were walking out from the charity event was a security guard at The Shelter. This was a man who sees the worst, darkest side of life, every day. No, not death. But struggle. Need. Hunger. And hopelessness. And even despair.

And yes, in the midst of all that, he found energy and purity in his heart, I thought, to tell us "the carrot joke". His laugh was loud and plenty. He told us his 9 year old daughter woke him up that morning to tell him this joke, and he found it so funny, he wanted to share it! I can only imagine that little girl's curly head swaying as she tells her daddy the joke, her giggles getting the man through his hard day, at The Shelter! Such a blessing!! And how his paying attention made his day easier to take on, maybe?!

And that was one of the life's biggest lessons for me, and made my (lately) incredibly pessimistic and negative self snap out of it, and wonder: am I wasting precious time on trite matters, and is life really not too short to worry about small things like co-workers' moods, and managers' inadequacy, and the state of North Carolina being short on cash and me not getting the tax return till June?!

Made me really wonder: did I miss a day in which I did not smile, if not laugh out loud, healthily and happily, as that security guard, at the simple, little things that are plenty around us, IF we pay attention?! And was that not such a shame and waste if I did?!

This silly joke, and the tall, dark, uniformed man visibly in love with his daughter, or with what she brings to his life, an island of happy, and calm, and love, in the midst of chaos and despair, made me stop for a moment and re-assess.

And I just wanted to share, as I thought we all could use a silly joke. Lately.

Coming Home

"We're trying for something that's already found us." (Jim Morrison)

I have been on the road a lot this year, it seems.
Atlanta ... Norfolk ... Arlington... DC ... Blowing Rock .... Raleigh ... Montreal ... Norfolk again ... And I am planning at least four more trips till the year closes ...
One question allows itself to peek its ugly head and interrupt me: what am I looking for?!

My dad used to (still does) leave us for a day ... a couple of days ... a week ... one time even a month ... when things got "ugly" at home. You know: just too much to handle. I always wondered what was he going out there for? Why was he not just talking it out, and resolving whatever it was that bugged him... Why did he have to leave us?!

And that was my most horrifying feeling: what if dad, the most sturdy pillar of the home, will not come back? What if he will be distracted out there, in the world, and never come back? So many nights I have lost (used?) praying God to bring him back. And God always listened.

I feel like now, I grew up to be my dad, ironically... when things get "ugly" here, I wander ...

Are the loneliness, and emptiness, and pain that I have felt this year sending me out on the road so much? And I am looking for some kind of answer from the world? I feel like that's a double "yes".
I wish I could call dad and ask him what he found in all those wanderings. But we're not supposed to talk about the wanderings. Those are his alone. I am sure, though, he found some kind of strength to keep going. Or did he find it "there" ...?!

I am not sure what I found if anything. Higher gas prices and lots and lots of accumulated tiredness for sure. Lots of miles on my car. Seeing friends, and bonding, shooting some beautiful corners of the world, sure ....
But is the pain gone? The loneliness? The emptiness?

Not that sure ...

I cooked dinner tonight. And Fero was standing in front of my oven sniffing the garlic and rosemary flavor seeping through the oven door. Gypsy was asleep, upside down, on the dining room chair, and Little Kitty was passed out on a shelf, listening to "An American Prayer"...

And for the first time this year, I felt like the puzzle pieces have come together ...Finally. For the first time, in eight months, I was not only home. I felt home.

Not sure why, but the smell in the oven, and my house, full with cats and me, and my thoughts has felt fuller than it has in years ...

I guess I needed to go out to rediscover the in. What's new, right?!

Whatever the reason: I am grateful God listened once more. And that I am back.

Another picture of Home

We’re not innocent anymore …

“Old dreams and new dreams all wanting the same thing (…)

Playing the same game again

It’s just being so hard to win. (…)

You’ve gotta give in to see, to love and to grieve,

Wipe that slate clean when the morning comes again …”

(Steep Canyon Rangers – “Old Dreams and New Dreams” - hopefully, accurate quotation)

I used to think of my life as having the most of its history back home, in Romania, where the first 23 years of my life were spent. I kept telling myself, I am only a “baby” in America, with no identity yet, not past, no history, no roots.

And that was just till a day or so ago. When I took a ride around town. When everything seemed to change, in two hours.

I passed the place of my first home, where my marriage once flourished and I knew all-encompassing and desperate and unconditional, I thought, love for maybe the first time in my life.

Then I drove past the lawyer’s office where that marriage came apart, and became two separate ways of two very different people.

I then drove by the agency that first hired me for the first official job, here, a Temp agency. They moved their office, but their name will forever stick with me: they were the first listing in the yellow pages, and my name starts with that letter, so I figured, that’s gotta be a good sign. And it was.

I drove by the movie theater that smells like dead chicken, and I remembered how one of my best friends asked me how in the world do I know what dead chicken smell like. Well, when you have a dad that works in a chicken slaughterhouse for years, and takes you there for field trips, starting when your 6, you just know. And remember.

I drove by my first sushi restaurant and I remembered my friend Charlie, who first “challenged” me to eat sushi. Little did he know that was no challenge at all, just pure love at first sight.

I drove past the street where I lived alone, for 5 years, after my divorce; the years where I truly found out what America has to offer to a single, immigrant woman with 3 cats, a head full of dreams and curly hair, and a crappy pay. And somehow, I survived those 5 years. They’re building a shopping center across the street from my former condo, so I am glad I moved, I thought.

Yet, the history remains; imprinted in my heart and brain like hot iron markings. History of friends, and lovers gone by, parties, and margarita mix spilled on the white carpet, of dad making Romanian (and burning it to make the smoke alarm go off) food and getting everyone drunk on tzuika shots; of good friends cursing the peeling of grass-cloth, but peeling it away anyway. First home projects, all on my own. How empowering! And rewarding!

I then drove past this street with a big two story house on it, where I loved and hoped again, at a time when I thought love and hope were not possible anymore. The place that allowed me to love dogs and decide they’re not evil, after all. The house is sold, the love interest has moved away and moved on, but of course, the memories, of tv watching, good music, nipple on national TV on Super bowl night, NJ subs, Auburn games, the bbq dinners, the love and quarrels will remain. Mostly the love and friendship.

I drove past the park that my “second borrowed dog” loved to walk and where ducks run free and children talk about their dogs and how their dogs “don’t get to see their mommy because she went to work”. The second dog moved to Maryland, and I’ll miss him forever! But the park is there, to look back at me, and remind me where I have been, in the past 10 years.

I went to the pharmacy and they had my address from 10 years ago on file! True, I just moved back in the neighborhood, but that woke me up with a jerk: “Wow! 10 years ago!”.

And then I drove past the hospital where my best friend, that I love so dearly still just died! The hospital in which I locked so much hope, and so much love, and so many white nights. Where I watched the Oscars in 2007. And which made The Oscars nights never be about glamour and happiness ever again for me! The hospital that gave me hope, and a year later gave me desperation too. The hospital that gave my own health condition hope and a deadline, too.

I am not innocent anymore. My history has now extended here, in the States. I cannot tell people anymore, “Oh, well, you know, I speak funny English, because I am not from around here.” Or: “I have no clue who Doctor Seuss, or Big Bird, or Captain Kirk were, because I am not American”. I have a history now. And no excuses.

And that “slate” cannot be “wiped clean” as easily! It’s not a dry eraser board anymore. It’s more like a block of stone that’s been dented by all the passings of time and by what those passigns brought along. Not as easy to “wipe” it as it sounds… The marks of time, the history left a deeper mark than just a scratch. Yeah, you can dust it off. But it’ll be dented – to remind you through what it’s been.

And just like any child that loses her innocence … I feel a tad lost … And off centered …

Pain

"People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” (Jim Morrison)

I noticed pain first in the waiting room. That’s when I felt it like a presence. Like a looming cloud over our heads, waiting to pour down chicken-egg-sized hail on us … Menacing. Not hitting us yet. But there.

With every door that opened, my heart jumped. I was hoping that when every door opened it will let Hope and Life burst out and we’ll be free from the heavy cloud. That he’ll be free from the heavy cloud.

But with every door, and with every doctor and nurse that passed, the knife was being pressed even deeper into my heart! No Hope. No Life. Just waiting. Endless waiting and pain, more pain. I could see the tunnel of what I was being shoved into now deeper, even deeper, with every carefree doctor that passed by. Torture. Hours feeling like days, months …

Herodotus says that “The worst pain a man can suffer is to have insight into much and power over nothing”. It’s how it is: you FEEL all these things abusing you, all your pores are open and you take in malicious things that shoot sharp knifes up your nerve endings and you feel, and you are aware, no enhancers necessary, but there is nothing to stop the afflux of “too much” information from the outside sad news. You’re powerless. You sit. And wait. And take it all as it comes. And pray that your body has the innate immunity to block some of this. And most times, it feels like it doesn’t.

Emotional pain is tricky. You can’t quite describe it. You can’t quite locate it and for sure you can’t quite take Tylenol for it. It’s there, all-encompassing your whole being, , and it’s worse than whatever pain you’ve ever felt, but there is no way to “handle” it.

You hang, feeling it, maybe the most in your chest, between despair and blasphemy and you just demand “justice” and “cure”. But there is nothing in sight.

Emotional pain is the only kind of pain that you just have to “put up with”. You go through it and you keep going. I think Churchill said that “when you find yourself walking through hell, keep walking”. That’s ALL you CAN do through horrible emotional pain. You’ve already lost the war, and it’s pouring ashes and snow, and you’re naked, stripped off the skin you had left, and alone in the field, with the blizzard whipping. And you know, that somehow, in all this madness, you’ll live. You know, somehow, that THIS is necessary and you WILL be ok. But you can’t avoid it. You have to be there, be present. Embrace it, even. It’s part of what will make you-you.

You’re not sure how long it’ll take for this thing to do its thing with you. You pray and you walk, and you burn, and you cry, and you hope … that somehow, you’ll come out of this.

Somehow, at the end of some day, you’ll be left stripped to the bone, and helpless and naked, and alone. And somehow, you’ll stand up and walk away back in the “normal” realm, where everything is warm, and tender, and cozy. Bruised, scarred and lifeless, you will stand up and walk. You’ll never be the same person, but this was necessary! To test the skies, and to test you, this was part of the daily routine we call “life”.

But till then, you bleed in the snow, and the wind and the hail of too much emotion thrown your way. You curse God and you don’t mean to. But who else IS there to blame or listen? Who else is capable of giving us so much pain?! You have questions like these and more, but they are called into the desert. You wait. And you pray. And you cry. And most of anything: you bow, and you’re humble and you’re hoping the sooner you take all that’s given to you the faster the healing will begin. But where does the abusing stop?! How can you tell? You can’t.

Just wait. And pray. And trust!