Seeking Shelter

In the days after the death of my cat, Boo (Mr. Arthur Radley), I was unable to write. Truthfully, I was barely able to function. I knew for months that he was leaving, but when the time came…. Well, this missive is not meant to be sad.

A surprising result of Boo’s passing has been learning how close my friends really are. We seek shelter in times of grief. (Well, some of us seek shelter continuously….) And so I have distanced myself from those who cannot understand, and been comforted by those who have stopped in their day to share their own grief at the passing of a pet. Every person has a story, and as I believe that animals are people, too, I know that each one has a story. Here is Boo’s story….

On a rainy day in November of 1998, my classroom door swung open at lunchtime and Nicole, one of my yearbook students, came in. She was holding the heavy poncho she’d worn to school that day gently in her arms as if it were the Christ child. Her long blonde hair was dripping raindrops. There were tears on her face. Her blue eyes were huge and filled with anxiety.

“Ms. Murphy, I need your help….”
Who could resist?

Nicole was an ‘ag’ student, spending most of her time on the working farm we had on campus, training horses, grooming lambs. That morning, she’d heard a commotion. Some boys were throwing rocks at something. Turned out to be a kitten.

“They were trying to kill it!” she sobbed.

She had the kitten wrapped in her poncho. Her plea was that I allow her to keep the kitten in my room for the remainder of the school day, as she was sure her mother would let her add this one little cat to the menagerie of animals they had at home. She just needed to stow it somewhere until after school. I lifted a fold of the poncho and peered in. Two huge eyes stared glassily from an all black face.

“Hey Boo,” I said.

Nicole made him comfortable in a corner of the room, then dashed off to math class, returning in an hour for yearbook class, during which time she laid on her belly with her arms outstretched, holding up a corner of her poncho and telling the kitten all about what his new home would be like. The bell rang, she scooped him up, and ran off to meet her mom at the car, thanking me as she hurried away.

Fifteen minutes later she was back, sobbing uncontrollably. Mom said no.

“Do you want him?” she asked.

Again, who could resist? I had a black cat at home already—Calpurnia—and she would not be happy with this little upstart. But I honestly didn’t expect him to live. He was terribly thin, obviously in shock, and his fur was dull and lifeless. Well, he could die comfortably at my house. When I said, “Sure,” Nicole handed the bundle to me, poncho and all, and walked off into the rain. She was crying too hard to say good-by.

I drove home with the tiny kitten in my lap. He didn’t move or make a sound, convincing me all the more that he probably wouldn’t survive.

I fixed him up with a small litter box in the bathroom, and some food and water, but he wasn’t interested, just dove under the bed and stayed there. That night, just as I drifted off to sleep, I heard his timid scratchings in the litter, his tiny teeth chomping up the cat food. This pattern repeated over several days; I would come home and look under the bed, reaching my hand under to scratch him gently on the neck with my finger. He would stare at me with his huge eyes, unmoving. But later I would hear him sneak out….

As soon as I could, I took him to my vet. Dr. Olmstead made a fuss over him, telling him how “wonderful” he was—despite his sixth toe on each front foot, apparently due to inbreeding. “He’ll be fine!” she said cheerfully. And she was right.

The next day when I came home and repeated my routine of scratching his neck and telling him about my day, Boo began to purr. It was a huge, big kitty purr coming from a tiny body. He soon grew into his purr. Each night as I sat at the computer, writing, I would pick him up and settle him in my lap—until he was simply too big to fit in my lap any longer (though he never stopped trying for the rest of his life). It took weeks for him to show himself during the day, but when he finally did, he strolled out into the kitchen one morning as I was making tea and said, “Meow!” enthusiastically.
“Meow, Boo,” I said.
And “Meow!” he replied again. We would repeat this conversation every morning for the next eleven years.

Eventually, after he was neutered, I allowed him to go outside, to wander in our yard and the neighbor’s, which he loved. Much to my dismay, he was a fierce predator, killing birds far too frequently but also keeping any and all gophers out of the garden. He loved being outside at night, but would come in sometime around 1:00 or 2:00a.m. and insist on climbing onto my chest—especially if it had been raining. He would not stop rubbing his face on my face until I began to pet him. Then he would settle in with the Big Purr that could go on for hours.

It was a tough adjustment for Boo when I moved to the mountain. I thought he was getting elderly enough to slow down. But no. He was impatient in the months I made him stay in, but he kept himself busy ridding the cabin of mice. When I finally did let him outside—under supervision—the first thing he did was pounce on a chipmunk. He loved climbing up to the loft in the afternoon and sitting in the window seat (which I’d relinquished to him, covering it with his favorite cushy bed). Sometimes in the summer I’d go up, slide the window open and sit with him, reading or watching the birds outside.

I think I loved this cat so much because he really did fit the character of Boo Radley. He never lost his fear of humans—except for me and my son, who practiced saying “Meow” in the Boo way until he had it down perfect, and Boo would respond to him in kind. He was reclusive and nocturnal, but he was always a gentleman cat.

As I write this, my other cat, Sugie, sits in my lap, purring—just as Boo used to do. She has been a comfort to me in the weeks since his passing, and she tried, as best she could, to mother him during his illness, checking on him often, and kissing his head. She has been a bit clingy since Boo passed on, rarely leaving my side when I’m at home. But she’ll adjust… and so will I… and eventually there will be another cat, undoubtedly black, who needs a safe haven. Or perhaps I am the one in need. Either way, we will find each other.

Breaking (my heart) News

Spring has come to the mountain. When I walk in the morning at 5:00, a hooded sweatshirt is sufficient to keep me warm—without ear muffs, gloves and other encumbering garments. At that hour, I walk through invisible spider webs slung across the road, and I listen to the birdsong of tanagers and canyon wrens as the sun makes its way toward cresting the ridge. There is enough light now when I get home from work to sit on the front porch with a cup of tea and read while the cats investigate the places they’ve watched robins scratching all day.

I’m gonna miss this place.

With great sadness and some sense of adventure, I have recently come to the decision to leave this mountain and return to the flatland below. Last Monday, I listed my cabin for sale. The day before, I had dinner with my daughter and ‘other son.’ Just hearing shali’s reaction to my news—“Thank god, Mom, I’m so relieved”—was all the confirmation I needed. (And I have clung to her words over this past week, as well-intentioned friends have made comments such as, “Good luck selling in this market!” and “You’re gonna take a beating on the sale” and, my personal favorite, “Have you thought this through?”

That last one, of course, makes me laugh. If anything, I’ve been accused many times in my life of thinking too much… and I have to admit, I am guilty of that.

Over the past several weeks, certain events have occurred that started me thinking… and thinking… and thinking. This place… this place is magical, and I love where I live. No, I didn’t ‘just get tired of the snow,’ as some have suggested; I love the quiet and beauty of the snow, despite its inconvenience. But logistically, in order to make all my dreams come true—or at least the important ones—I need to be down the mountain.

And so—as hard as it will be to say good-by to my jays and my ‘coonies and my squirrels and my ‘yotes and the neighbors who have become beloved friends and the peace and quiet which has enabled me to write more in the past two years than I have in the five before I moved here—I look forward to what the future will bring. I look forward to sitting at my granddaughter’s softball games and attending more awards ceremonies for all my grandkids and to more brunches with my son and his man and more road trips to promote my current book… and the one to follow. I will miss lying on the couch in front of the fire, waiting for a full moon to pass over so the light will flood the cabin through the skylights. But I won’t miss the mountain. Because I’ll be right back up here every weekend, just as I was before I lived here, hiking the trails and visiting good friends… and checking in on my raccoons.

How the Light Gets In

The following is a true account and has not been fictionalized or embellished in any way. It’s just the way my life goes… and what a life it is….

Some months ago I received an email from Vince, a good buddy on the mountain. “A bunch of us are going to see Leonard Cohen at the new Nokia theater in L.A. in April. Wanna come?” Leonard Cohen. Poet, artist, songwriter extraordinaire, composer of songs that have haunted me over four decades—“Suzanne,” “Anthem,” and “Hallelujah” (the hands down best song every written, I don’t care what you bring to compare it with)—to name a few. My email response was three words: “Count me in!”
The tickets were ordered and our event was organized by Tamara, beautiful, glowing, mother-goddess on the mountain, a therapist by gift and trade, the kind of person to whom you want to say aloud, “Just keep talking; I think I’m getting better just by listening to you.”

So this past Saturday night, Vince drove up from his place and picked me up, and we drove down to Tamara’s cabin to pick her up, as we would all be riding in her Passport to L.A. She walked out, ready to go, and we stood for a quiet moment in the gravel next to her home, saying our good-bys to Nikita, the “mostly wolf” dog who began a deep-throated howl in the direction of the moon when she realized she couldn’t go with us.

The three of us drove down to Claremont to meet Tamara’s friends, Karen and Roberto, and to have some dinner before hitting the freeway. Karen and Roberto… kind, open, fully conscious folks… who worked with Cesar Chavez, one of my life-heroes, and more recently campaigned for Obama. “Thank you,” I told Roberto, who shrugged it off in his ‘we’re all in this together’ way, and went on to tell me that yes, Barack really is that cool in real life.

After dinner, the boys sat in the front, Vince driving, and we three girls climbed into the backseat of Tamara’s car, and off we headed for Tinsel Town.

Talk in the car immediately turned to Tamara’s ‘friendship’ with Leonard Cohen….

Fans of Cohen know that he has struggled with depression for most of his life (I hear you, my brother), and that as part of his quest to find joy—or at least contentment—he studied various religions, including Zen Buddhism. Devoted fans know that for some time, he lived in a Buddhist monastery. And really, really devoted fans know that that monastery was located on a somewhat obscure mountain in the San Gabriel mountain range… and that the mountain is nicknamed “Mt Baldy.” Cohen stayed at the monastery in the late 1990’s, and (amazingly) up until that time, the Zen Center had yet to install modern, indoor, flush toilets. During Cohen’s search for enlightenment, some money was raised, and ‘the bathroom project’ was carried out—after which someone thought that a nice way to thank sponsors would be to host a breakfast at the Center and invite honored guests. Tamara was one of those guests, and she just happened to rub shoulders with Cohen, who eventually asked for her phone number. Alas, while they had several conversations about writing, the relationship never progressed any further—prompting Roberto and Karen to suggest we all hold up signs at the concert saying, “Tamara hasn’t forgotten you!”

Tamara, of course, told us of these golden days in her relationship with Cohen as we traveled along the freeway—then (to prove her devotion, I suppose) she produced Cohen’s latest book of poems and drawings and proceeded to read them aloud to us—especially those mentioning Mt Baldy by name—as we sat in traffic.

With Vince’s ample foot on the pedal, we reached L.A. with an hour to spare, so we hit a Starbuck’s next to the Nokia—only to find more Baldy-ites, some from the Zen Center, others just fans, all grabbing a coffee and chattering about the show.

But nothing could have prepared us.

I’ve been to a few concerts in my day—probably the most notable being the Jimi Hendrix concert in 1969. Unforgettable…. But even that wasn’t as good as Cohen’s concert. I love this man’s spirit and heart and passion, and it was there, floating through vocals and instrumentation that gleamed as fresh and clean as new-fallen snow on the mountain. And Cohen. At 75, he is still bright-eyed and alive and he drank in the energy of the audience like it was Red Bull. He did five encores. Five. Each time he left the stage, he humbly doffed his fedora and skipped away. And each time the audience rose in thunderous applause so that he would return again—skipping—to sing another song. The concert started at 8:00. We left the theater at 11:45. We were beaming, humming, vibrating alive with his music, his words, the sharing of his soul.

Somewhere around 1:00a.m., we returned Tamara to her cabin. The mountain was quiet and luminescent under a full moon. We stood together silently again, drinking in the clean air, harmonies still dancing through our brains.

I could not sleep after Vince dropped me off. One of Cohen’s lyrics had been put on a continuous loop in my head: “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

The following is a link to a posting on YouTube of Cohen reciting “A Thousand Kisses Deep.” Go there and listen in the quiet….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXaRT8CXmGE

Footsteps in the snow

The storm that blew through last night left behind breezes and huge white fluffy clouds to float across the valley below. But wild weather still remained on the mountain; I could step out of my classroom door and see it up there, swirling around and filling the canyons with dark shadows. I’ve been walking every day without fail, doing the loop—down the road to the highway, up the highway to the fire road, up to the falls, then through my neighbor’s ‘yards’ back to my cabin. So today was no different. Even though I drove home in steady hail, I still donned hikers and my big squall jacket after I fed the cats, and off I went. My jacket is actually a thigh-length, wool-lined coat with a waterproof shell. The hood is wide, so as I walked along in the hail—which had the consistency of tiny snow dots—the coat provided a sort of small moving hut, with the hail glancing off and falling all around me while I was safe and snug (and eventually way too warm) inside.

The mountain becomes unbelievably quiet in a storm; the birds and animals huddle up somewhere, and the few people who are up here get comfortable in front of a fire and stay put. One car passed as I walked along the highway—someone coming down from the ski lift, I’m sure. And then nothing, no one, until I reached the fire road that winds up to the falls. A lone hiker passed me as I started up, looking annoyed by the weather. (He hadn’t hat nor hood.)

By this time, the hail had accumulated enough on the road to make a soft white carpet about an inch thick. At the turnoff by the falls, I looked back. Mine were the only footprints visible for a half mile down the trail. But I knew that in half an hour’s time, they’d be blotted out, covered over, with no trace left behind.

I often wonder if my life will be like this—a set of lone footprints will show that I passed through, but they will be gone in the same amount of time that it took to make them—say, a generation or two. I know that my children are my strongest legacy, and at this point in my life, I know I never did enough when I had them with me to show them how much I love and appreciate them, not just as my children but as unique individuals. My kids would testify, I’m sure, that while I worked to build a better life for them, I had little time to simply be their mom. And so I often wonder if the truths I tried to teach them about life, about respect for all sentient beings, about being people of integrity… about how deeply I love them… made a lasting impression.

I cannot leave them a legacy of riches. At times, though, it is a comfort to know that I will leave behind a legacy of words. While the old adage tells us that actions speak louder than words, I believe that the written word may have a voice hundreds perhaps even thousands of years after it is laid down. I don’t presume that my own writing will last that long, but I do have hope that my words will remain at least a bit longer than those footsteps in the snow.

The recluse walks at dawn

My cabin sits just back from the rim of a small canyon, which is actually a finger—a glorified arroyo, if you will—of a larger canyon. At the top of ‘my’ canyon, a tall waterfall brings icemelt cascading down from the top of the mountain. In late winter and early spring, if we’ve had enough snow, the stream of runoff from the falls, which normally goes underground, trying desperately to fill the aquifers of this arid mountain, runs along up top, rushing, gurgling, pouring down the canyon, eager to meet the larger San Antonio Creek. From my cabin, even with the windows closed, I can hear the water music down in the canyon.

This morning when I walk at dawn, it is this sound that greets me as I leave the cabin. Standing on my front porch, I can look down the mountain to the lights of the city beginning to fade in the dawn glow. A wide band of blue stretches across the sky down there. Another band of color—sunrise pink—hovers above the blue as the sun stretches and thinks about rising.

It is 50 degrees. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, stick my hands in my pockets, and start up the road.

Eric’s curtains are closed this early. He lives in Connecticut but comes here to his cabin several times a year to de-stress from his crazy-busy job. I look down to the Murdock cabin and the curtains are closed there as well. (Cabins here are identified by their people—not necessarily the current residents or visitors, but by the owner with the most notoriety. Thus, Eric’s cabin is “Finnegan’s cabin,” after the Irishman who lived there for years. A Murdock still owns the Murdock cabin, but someone else is staying there right now. My cabin—unless I live here for thirty years or so—will probably always be known as “Stutsman’s cabin,” because Richard Stutsman lived here for three decades and made it, with his wonderful woodworking skill, what it is today.)

Since last night was Friday night, I try to walk as quietly as I can past Rob’s cabin. Above Rob’s, none of the cabins on our road are currently inhabited. Because my lungs are small and the road is quite steep, I stop to catch my breath a hundred feet or so past Rob’s. Below me, I watch the flow of water over rock. Then my eyes scan the slope on the other side of the canyon. I look for Bighorn Sheep, which visit often, but today there is no one there.

Now the blue of the sky below has paled, the pink faded, as more light enters the valley. The perpetual layer of brown air that blankets the cities below is now more apparent. But it’s not a heavy blanket today, and I can see to the ocean—or at least as far as the hills that separate our valley from Orange County. The OC is covered with marine layer. The valley is not. This dictates what I will wear when I head down the mountain for a writers group meeting later today.

I continue walking higher, to where our road dead ends, and I keep going, across Doc Brauer’s front yard and around behind his cabin. (“Doc” has been dead for over a decade.) The trail winds past Deborah’s cabin, and I do a quick check to make sure it is undisturbed. Her father is in his 90’s and has been ill recently. The last time we spoke by phone, she told me, “He just wants to get well enough to travel, to visit the cabin one more time.” In her driveway, I find an empty beer bottle, freshly thrown. I pick it up and carry it with me. Her driveway leads up to the fire road, which leads to the falls. Ambling up, I stand in the wide turnout of the road, glance one more time to the valley below, across the canyon to the spectacular, thundering cataract, and then start down the trail on a circuitous walk home.

The fire road leads to the main highway. As I go, two hikers pass me. Here they are, wearing hundreds of dollars worth of gear, carrying water, off to hike for the day. Here I am at 7:00a.m. in my hooded sweatshirt, carrying an empty beer bottle, headed back down the trail. What must they think?

I cross the main highway at the trailhead where several other hikers are gearing up to hit the trail. They too, watch me as I pass, return a tentative “hello” to my cheery “Good morning!” I wander into the campground, where boy scouts huddle around a picnic table while grown men set out snacks. There are no women in this group. I have to make a conscious shift in my mind away from the resentment I still carry at not being allowed to join the scouts when I was a kid.

Several spaces down from their group I spot an empty cardboard beer carton—with 12 empty bottles—sitting on a picnic table. Under the table is an empty plastic water bottle. I grab it, add it and the empty I’m carrying to the box, then pick it up to carry it home for recycling. Across the highway, someone honks a car horn impatiently, waits several seconds, then honks again, then honks again a moment later, each time louder and longer. It’s time to get back to my sanctuary.

The campground is directly across from our road, so I quickly cross the highway and start the steep walk back up to my cabin. I pass Jimmy as he throws a jacket into his idling car, and he says good morning, not even questioning the box of empties that sits heavily in my arms.

I huff and puff my way up, past the Walker’s, who are probably just turning on the morning news, past Dr. Nicki’s. I can see a light on in her kitchen. Last winter, when I found myself walking home more often than I would have liked in twilight, through deep snow, the lights of her cabin always cheered me as I passed. Now, finally, I make the final turn and I am once again walking along the rim of the canyon. As I pass Eric’s, I see that his curtains are open and his computer is on; he will spend the day ‘telecommuting’ to his job in New York. And then I smell the sweet rich scent of wood smoke. Patty is up; I can see the smoke drifting up from her chimney. We will probably walk together later if time allows.

At my cabin, blue jays are gathered in the pine tree branches above the porch, squawking loudly and waiting for me to throw them some peanuts. “Hang on,” I say aloud as I hurry inside to trade empty beer bottles for bird seed.

On choosing to live in the shoe

Just as inevitable as beginning to blog (check back here soon for a rant on what an ugly word that is) will be the posting of my thoughts on Nadya Suleman--"Octomom." Truth be known, I have thought about this young woman often in the past few weeks, and every time her name comes up in the news (most recently last night, when she 'fired' the free nanny service that was helping her with the tiny ones), I shake my head.

No worries--I'm not about to join the masses with torches and pitchforks trying to break down her garage door to demand she give up what she has created. (Note to Gloria Allred: Please, dear god, stop trying to tattle on her to social services. You have no idea--most people have no idea--the utter devastation that can be visited upon a family once Child Protective Services comes to take over.) My issue with Nadya is not the number of children she has. (A good rule of thumb for parents is, Can you feed and clothe all of them, and can you take them all to Disneyland at the same time? If you can afford to do so--go for it!) My issue has to do with how she acquired her children.

I know she sees Angelina Jolie as a role model. (In some ways, a lot of us do.) I think the point she's missing is that Angelina has attempted to provide homes for kids who weren't scheduled by the gods to get lots of nice things in life. And let me tell you, there are a lot of those kids in the world. Which is why it doesn't make any sense to me when people spend fortunes on IVF. (Yes, yes, I understand you want to look into the face of your child and see yourself reflected. Ohhhh, mommy, I hate to be the one to say be careful what you wish for... but....) Look, if it's really the joys of parenting you want--along with the constant stress of trying to do the utmost for your child and the guilt over never doing the utmost for your child--just grab a child and get started. It's as easy as, well, blogging. (Well, almost.)

People always find it shocking when I tell them that there are thousands of kids--hundreds in the state of California alone--awaiting adoption. No, you don't have to go to China or Africa or Mexico. Walk into your local Department of Social Services, introduce yourself to the person in charge of adoptions, and ask to see the profiles on available children. You will look through hundreds of photos of kids who are languishing in the system, floating along in the limbo of foster care while they get older every year, desperate for 'real' parents, a permanent home, a dog they can actually say is theirs... or a room of their own. Their stories are not publicized by bright lights and paparazzi. Their stories are often not pretty. They can be children of addicted mothers. Children from abusive situations. Childen who were neglected in infancy. Children who are not "perfectly" healthy. Or children who are not deemed 'desirable' by young couples seeking to adopt.

You want to embrace the challenges of parenting because you love children? I dare you to jump in there, grab one of those kids--or a sibling group, because there are many of those kids who end up getting separated and never reunited because most folks' fantasy involves that one little orphan child that brings her bright happy smile into the family to warm everyone's heart. If Suleman had been so daring, she could have adopted two or three or four sibling groups. Instead of being villified, she could have become a hero. At least to those of us who know the truth about how many kids are out there, waiting. Imagine you are that child in a foster home, hearing about Nadya Suleman, who made lots and lots of babies because she 'loves children' and 'loves being a mom.' Wouldn't you just want to start screaming, "I'm here! I'm here!"?

My friend Janice once told me, "Unfortunately, we don't all live in Kay's world." She said this in a conversation we were having as she waited for the results of an amniocentesis. She and her husband had decided to terminate her pregnancy if the baby had inherited her own congenital defect. My point to her was that the desire to create the perfect child is ludicrous. Kids are kids as much as people are people--flawed and floundering, we make our way through each day as best we can. Only kids are more resilient, more adaptable, more hopeful than adults. Kids can find the silver lining in a situation quicker than any grown-up can. Kids will speak the truth, no matter what their starting point in life was.

Nadya, sweetheart, you have my best wishes on every one of the little lives you have begun thus far. But please--if you decide, you know, once the octuplets are in kindergarten and it's quiet around the house again, at least for half a day, that you still have more energy (after fourteen baths and bedtime stories) for more children, please consider opening those all-embracing arms to a child who may have to face life later on with nowhere to go home to on Christmas day. Trust me, those kids are out there. Just look.

A word (or two) from the recluse

It is a cold and windy day on the mountain. On most mornings, I can see down into the valley from this seat. Today I see gray cloud. Directly above me, the skylights are being covered by freezing rain. It's Sunday, so I don't have to go anywhere. A fire crackles and sparks behind me. A small black cat, her feet tucked beneath her, sits on the short space between the front of the monitor and the edge of the desk. It's not as warm here with me as it is by the fire, but she finds the wind and rain disturbing, perhaps reminiscent of her days spent huddling somewhere, homeless. I stroke her fur periodically as I write. When I'm at home, she is my constant companion. My dog-cat. Having her makes it not-as-hard to live without dogs in my life.

Because it is Sunday and the weather is what it is (not bad--we need every single drop of water), I suspect I will go the entire day without talking to anyone but this little Sugar Plum of a cat. Friends tell me I have become reclusive in recent years. I understand their perception.... But the truth is, I am more 'out' these days than in. Yes, I do live waaaay up on a mountain. But coming here has brought me more friends and neighbors than I ever had when I was a flatlander. It is true that, despite opportunities to socialize, I often keep to myself. This has to do with time constraints, mostly. But yes, I will admit to having the compulsion to withdraw sometimes. I don't get on well with people who are mean... or controlling... or derisive. I don't like to be in large groups of people who begin to whine or complain or attack others. There is too much of that in the world. Too much competition to be the most beautiful, the most glamorous, the most popular, the guy with the most toys or money or both. We have lost sight of the simple pleasures of life... the blessings we've been given that we so often take for granted... the sound of water falling over rocks... the music of the first mockingbird of spring, singing at dawn... the scent of wildflowers and warm pine... the warm rich flavor of an oatmeal cookie fresh out of the oven... the smile of a friend.

I want to remember to be thankful for those things, and others. I want to be in the present, hearing, tasting, seeing, smelling--touching what is here now, and appreciating the blessing of this life which spans the blink of an eye.

Because, other than Sugie and Boo, I am without a partner in life. I find myself talking to myself... about life, about blessings, about what makes me angry and sad and joyful. I have begun this blog with a mind to writing some of those thoughts down. I know from time to time others will read what I write. I hope that knowledge never keeps me from writing the truth as I see it. And I hope that when my words touch or comfort or resonate with someone, he or she will take the time to let me know.