The End Before the Beginning

It’s over.  The ‘showing up’ is over.  There will be things that require our presence, just not where we’ve been, likely ever again.  99% of the struggle and battles happened outside of the courtroom.  What remains of that now is a decision, after 12 childhood-stealing years, intended to preserve or salvage the same.  It was made worse from day one, only different than what was anticipated, according to what was written, according to what was taught and learned.  It's not the same in 'real life'.  And few would believe it unless it happened to them.

An only child no less, and it happens to those with multiple children.  The pain for all who care cannot be imagined.  Some don't make it.  Some can't endure.  It's just too much, and understandably so, only for those who've been there.  We wouldn't wish the same on an enemy; it could mean death: wrong to wish on anyone.

Can't look at the baby photos, or all that we had before it happened.  We have our memories, now fragmented and bittersweet.  Those that we cherished, none that can be taken for granted.  It hurts so much more when we see children who are not cherished, not wanted, or treated poorly.  Why are they with those who don't love them and do so much harm, and those who moved to do something to save their childhoods had their children taken away?  For many, they were 'sold'.

Losing the equivalent of a lifetime during a lifetime is indescribable.  Our losses were someone else's gain; there were several from the other beginning, none of whom really understood or seemed to care.  It was just another day 'at the office'.  One of many, not much different from any other in particular.  Just 'another case'.

There is no real 'winning'.  We've all already lost things we can't get back.  Some will realize it much later.  Too many of us already know.  There is no 'adjustment', only picking up what pieces are left to create a new mosaic.  All broken, creating a new picture nonetheless.  Some would say the cracks make us stronger, though we may not be as pretty on the outside.  They're vessels that can hold the nurturing waters for the future, so that no childhood is ever lost again.

Reunion at the Rainbow Bridge

Our family menagerie awaits us just over the Rainbow Bridge.  Smandie and Elvis went to join Charlie last week.  Elvis was unexpected, and Smandie followed just over a day later.  It was almost too much, especially with the original owner out of town.

Our remaining healthy younger flirtatious boy, Jack, went to Elvis' adoptive home, with their consent.  They had fallen in love with Elvis as we had.  He tended to nip occasionally, which kept him at pet status, as opposed to being qualified as an emotional therapy pet.  Jack is, and is already bringing love and smiles to his new family, including their dog.

It's sad suddenly with most of our guinea pigs having gone to play over The Bridge, and the last gone to a new home, since they had lost Elvis after only having had him three weeks.  We knew he was old, though not that he would begin to fade so soon and pass just days later.

The boy a guinea pig saved had wanted to keep our oldest remaining: Smandie.  She had brought many smiles in a hotel room after Hurricane Sandy.  Now we have her in our hearts, memories, and photos.  Same for Elvis; he was so easy to love by all who met him, whether he nipped or not.  All of them went to the other side having been in loving arms; none went alone while anyone was away or not with them.  We are especially blessed for that.  It was as if they held on until we were home for them to say 'goodbye'.

Charlie has her two playmates back, as Peaches and Lucy look down from their heavenly perches, singing new songs that all of their pet family friends now understand.  They're all happy and healthy again and playmates as well with the children who skip blissfully among them.

There was little time to cry, and so much the better.  The sooner we move on as our friends now on the other side look on, the sooner the little boy who now almost looks like a man can be at a place to pick the next furry friend in his own time, giving holding such a creature a new and renewed meaning.

Au Revoir, Chuchi; Bon Voyage, Elvis (until we meet again)

Parting is such sweet sorrow.  You are loved very much.  So much that we want you to be with families that want to make you the center of their love for a long and healthy life, with other playmates just like you, and extra time and attention for play and happiness.

There's much going on now that may not allow for much fun in the present or near future, so we had to decide what was best for you.  We will miss you very much, though by now you may realize there's more fun to be had where you are, and you may be missing us less than we miss you already.

You are close by enough for us to visit, and we look forward to hearing about all of the news of your new friends and families.  We wish you plenty of extra treats, smiles, and snuggles by your new friends and humans.

You are both beautiful and special: the reasons we found you.  Taking care of you until your forever families could welcome you may have been part of the plan, as they could not have found you on their own.  We were brought together for your safety, love, and comfort until a place where you could thrive even more wanted you very much, a place that only we could take you to.

Until later, we will have our memories and visit again in our dreams.  You deserve only the best.

Goodbye, Charlie

When the last post was written, it wasn't really known Charlie wouldn't last the month.  During her last evening I was fortunate to have the privilege to be able to provide water, food, vitamin C, and what love I could.  I didn't know she was trying to say goodbye when she turned her whole body around just to catch my eye.  She could only move with her front paws, so the effort was significant. 

I praised her for turning around on a towel she was resting on in a chair; she couldn't really move much from the size of the tumors that had take over her body.  While administering her vitamins I didn't realize what her clicks as opposed to her unique sounds and the color of her teeth meant: she was in fact dying. 

Upon checking her after dinner I found her limp.  I don't know if her heart was still beating when I picked her up and began to cry; she was still warm, at the center of her body, though 'gone' by all appearances.  I immediately texted her original owner and other family.  The plan was to be together at the summer place and euthanize her there.  Two other pets were buried there on the mountain from an earlier year: a tropical bird who caught a chill and couldn't recover, and another who became too weak after losing a toe to another aggressive bird.

My son didn't want Charlie kept cold until we could make the trip, and asked that she be buried near the home where we were.  The next morning she still wasn't fully cold and remained limp in the exact same position I'd left her in her cage, wrapped in a towel with her face showing.

She was gently placed in the same towel in a box that had held some very expensive shoes.  I took her in a shopping bag to where my son asked she be buried.  It was an effort in the morning hours, though it felt as though we were protected from onlookers wondering what might be in the box.  Once I'd actually succeeded in getting her final resting place covered I remained on my knees, in tears.

She had her own unique sounds and personality.  She was our first, with lots of memories, and pictures.  We know she's crossed 'the rainbow bridge' with two little birds saying hello again where time doesn't exist, waiting for when we can all play together again.

Charlie the Lifesaver

She saved my son's life at a critical time, and taught him another form of love.  For a long time, they were regular friends.  A boy religiously took care of her, changing her bedding, food, and water daily.  She got time out of her cage almost daily, too, and a regular memory is a short video of her jumping what looked like two feet into the opening of her 'home' that had her nameplate on the outside of it.

She continued to jump onto the platform of her cage, without the ramp, most of the time with its door open, to the food dish, and down again for the hay and water.  She would also jump when happy, and take short, happy sprints when let out on the floor to cover more ground.

Time changes things.  She has her own personality, and was always loved.  A boy grew into a young man, and trips to and from became too much.  So Charlie's cage remained at Mom's house, and the sound of a young boy's voice became unrecognizable to her, as it went from that of a child to that of a young man.

Mom and the family continued to give love, and not as much time out of the cage as we would have wished, had things been different.  There were other guinea pigs, one or two, that had their own personalities and ways of wanting to be active, or not.  None of them got whatever overtook Charlie.

The vet said surgery would likely not be successful.  Guinea pigs don't do well with anesthesia.  Her belly is swollen as if there's a large litter of pups in there, though Charlie never mated.  She was acquired from the pet store as a pup herself.  She had fit in a small child's hands: the best friend whose life she made different and even more valuable at a critical time.

Tumors, cancer or not, have inexplicably overtaken Charlie's body.  She can no longer jump onto her platform.  Her food dish must be nearby.  She has difficulty moving across the cage from the size of her body.  The vet said to keep her comfortable, so she gets the softest bedding, changed daily.  It's not really enough; Charlie can't move much, though does the best she can...

The vet said so long as she acts like a guinea pig.  She was sick a time or two before she started to get bigger.  She still has an appetite and sounds like her old self, though she doesn't look happy.  Soon we will likely have to decide when to allow her to cross the rainbow bridge.  She may not lose her appetite again, or become so big her unhappiness makes the decision inevitable.  It's sad to see her every day; her body can't be free from the ground, her back legs struggle to move her lower half.  She must be picked up gently to give her vitamin C, and her underside washed to keep her cleaner. 

When one loves an animal or a person, we don't see what they've become; we see what we loved first.  Holding Charlie as she makes her signature sounds only reminds us of when she was little.  We are saddened that her days appear shorter than others like her, and that we may have to decide what her last day is to be.  Miracles do happen.  I pray that something lets go in her body and that she just starts to get smaller again.  If the loved ones on the other side of the rainbow bridge need her more, she will go there to be happy and jump high again.  Maybe before that she can give comfort to someone else who's sick.  Only time will tell.  We love you, Charlie.

The God Thing

I'm understanding more, and reading the bible, taking classes to improve what I already knew.  I'm understanding what others like to communicate, though I'm not sure it works for everyone.  Equating Jesus with God works in some circles, not in others.

Using the Son of God first with everyone doesn't always work.  Recognizing God is universal.  He and his son don't really mind how we get it across, for the most part.  Seeking a higher power and acknowledging it is what's most important.  Encouraging others to read the bible as opposed to our interpretations is better whenever possible.  It's the most read book, by very successful people, for a reason. 

I could say more, in a better place spiritually than I have been.  When Jesus is 'denied' from lack of information, God isn't.  He understands the shortcomings of ignorance, and doesn't ignore the prayers of those who seek him in earnest who don't ask for his son first, or at all.

Denying God altogether is another matter, yet we are not to get caught up in that either.  We are to be instruments for the 'open', by example.  Running against walls defeats the purpose.  Yet some insist on doing it anyway.  Sometimes silence is simply the best option, except when others are suffering who have no voice.

Deliverance

Ladies prayer group (okay, 'women's': sexist conditioning kicks in again).  Who knew.  No one showed up the day after the long holiday weekend.  None but one.  The one whose book I'm reading, along with biblical texts, and another on mega giving.  It's all helping.

Getting up today, I had to go; hadn't been yet.  Participating in lots of other stuff, but that. So I went, theology books in hand in case no one was there.  It's a special place, and a school.  The kids there don't know how lucky they are yet, at least most of them.  Some appear to thrive.

Showing up and drawing interest, caring, compassion, enthusiasm.  It couldn't have been just my choosing to go, it was more, much more.  The calm before the storm.  I was accepted, not criticized or scrutinized.  That would be an understatement.  Just being myself and honest, a cheerleader appeared.

Was I kicking someone off the throne?  If I did, I didn't get on it either.  Did I want to feel them at 'my level'?  Perhaps.  Therein lies an argument, that doesn't have to be one.  Is the spirit here, or above?  I argue it's everywhere, at all times, not called upon enough.

We can't wrap our heads around in our tiny human minds that everything is known in advance, though can still be changed by reaching out, to the right places.  As big as we can imagine isn't big enough; we haven't seen it all, yet.

Baptism

I was baptized in a river. The water was clean and clear; the stones that made the riverbed were round, so when my new plastic-flowered flipflop acquired for the occasion fell off as I waded out from deep to shallow, it didn’t hurt.

I don’t remember who the minister was, only that he preceded my favorite pastor where I attended as a third generation with my legendary grandfather, whom I now represent here. They sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ on the shore as the candidates prepared to enter the water. It was a warm day; towels were in the car.

I wanted my favorite pastor, who passed away before I could think of marriage, to reside over my wedding. His laughter I can still hear as he quoted scripture during his messages; he enjoyed a lot of the irony in the bible, and because of him and my grandfather, so did I. Pat Ruble, I hope as you hear your earthly name being uttered or written again here from Heaven your ears perk up. As you probably know now, your legacy to your congregants was a lasting one as well.

My baptismal experience would be a hard act to follow once that small church finally had its own baptismal. I was secretly grateful I’d had the ‘real river’ experience, complete with a current. The baptismal allowed the church to baptize year round.

I don’t remember if the river in West Virginia became an option after that, though I’m sure my mother would know. She came with me and my sister to our first visit to this church; the energy around her as always attracted people, and by the time she returned to Florida, was as if everyone knew her even though she had only been here two weekends. She is her father’s daughter, after all.

My mother returned to Florida with her daughter alive and recovering from spine reconstruction surgery. I didn’t know when she arrived over two weeks earlier if I would see her again once leaving the operating room.  The surgery was risky and terrifying; I’d written a will. I would be ‘re-built’ from the inside out, losing enough units of blood in the process to require transfusion and be in ICU for two days afterward. But I was alive, and walking. They made me get out of bed heavily medicated with numerous tubes attached the very next day after I became conscious again, to see if I could stand, and take a step. I did.

There was no guarantee I would be able to walk soon, or ever, though further deterioration had been stabilized that would allow for my internal organs to continue functioning, which they needed time to get back to, once lots of nerves were cut during a nine hour procedure followed by a weeklong hospital stay.

Before I was made unconscious (I would not be privy to see the operating room, or the powertools set up for use), the surgeon had said we would be finished by lunchtime; it was then about 6:30 a.m. He was wrong, though proud of his work once the task had been completed. He smiled with my sister for a photo. Another doctor who had also been in the operating room later said the surgery could have been successful though there could also have been serious complications or risk if functions did not return. I was glad I was informed of this after my organs did function again…

I’ve been scared and survived potential death before, though not like this. I couldn’t watch any videos about the upcoming surgery, read about it, or seek out ‘successful’ patients. I didn’t want to know, or I would have been even more frightened, if that were possible. This time I was also fully aware and had made a choice to take this step, mainly for my son, so that he could continue to have a mother that might be able to play with grandchildren, someday. It may be double the years old he is now, though at least by this miracle of prayer by my former home community, when that time comes I may just be there.

I made a joke to the surgeon the worst I was to expect would be to have to wear a one-piece bathing suit to cover the resulting scar; even that wasn’t true. All the stitches were inside, and the top layer that was my skin was ‘glued’ with the exception of a few stitches at the lower part where the drain tube had been in the hospital. The scar was only a ‘line’; I could wear a two piece swimsuit, if I wanted…

My mother and I had a small bit of quality time the first time in many years once my sister, who had been irreplaceably invaluable as well, returned to her home a day earlier than my mother.  Our apartment would not feel the same after our family left.

In the hospital, once I woke up and walked, it was surreal. I had been half expecting not to return to the planet. Being alive made everything look new. Small things that might have been annoying in the past meant nothing; I was only spared, blessed, and still here for my son, and whatever it was determined I was here to accomplish, as my grandfather had said while I was in high school before he passed. I even saw people differently. I was even slower than before to jump to conclusions about anyone; the other word for that is ‘judge’.

The truth his I’m obviously here for more than just my son, though before the procedure he was all I could think about. I didn’t tell him about it until knowing he would not be here either before or during the recovery with our family on his maternal side.  More irony.

My second trip to this church was with my mother, three weeks after our first being here together, when I looked it up as an option when she and my sister had arrived that first weekend. I took the initiative to locate a church, mostly because our family apart from me always went to church on Sunday, and because of what I was about to undergo.

I wanted to offer church options before anyone could bring up the subject. I didn’t know whether my mother and sister would bring it up at all, because I’d drifted on my own journey in New York from being a regular ‘churchgoer’, and this was a time they would want to respect my wishes. I think they may have been pleasantly surprised of my bringing it up before either of them may have inquired about going. Though unspoken, we all knew it wouldn’t have been right to not attend church together for what could have been a last time for one of us.

My mother chose this church; I simply provided the nearest options. At the time, with no basis for comparison, all potential choices were ‘equal’. I still don’t know what any of the others would have been, and it doesn’t matter now.

I’m here, for the first time as a ‘grown-up’, by myself, going to church on Sunday and as a member of the community. Had you told me this before going into that operating room, I may not have believed it.  Later it would be something that simply couldn’t be left out. I am, after all, my grandfather’s granddaughter.

That said, the time between ‘leaving’ that former church and being here remained a very spiritual journey. I would explore a number of other faiths, as an ‘adopted Jew', Catholic via a ‘short’ marriage, and even acquiring an interfaith minister certification, where I never really wished to practice what ministers do, other than serving those seeking counsel in life choices. I also lived in a largely Muslim community at the time of 9/11, which only served to increase a compassion for others.

At the six week post op visit with the surgeon, I saw what my back looked like in the x-ray. My first response would be ‘Where’s the remote?’ My back on the inside no longer looked like that of a human. There were rods and screws that looked like small train tracks marked with ‘ties’ that were screws in each vertebrae from behind the middle of my lungs or ribcage to additional metal connectors extended into the pelvis to stabilize its connection to the lower spine. The scar ran to the base of my tailbone.

It took me too long to realize why the front of my hips had been so sore for weeks: the surgical team had been bearing down very hard (power tools and all) from the back with my unconscious body face down on a flat steel table. Duh! I couldn’t and can’t imagine how so much had been done during that nine-hour procedure with the entire back of my body opened, leaving only a narrow pink line as its final mark on the outside.

I had come to New York in the theatre and media businesses. It was successful, though I realized when the doors of opportunity began to swing open I didn’t want to be media fodder; I could barely handle the attention I was getting in my youth then. The truth was I hadn’t come to grips with whomever I was at the time; I hadn’t identified her. I was afraid of becoming lost as others in the business had without a strong sense of self and purpose I hadn’t yet formed.  I wanted only the love of one person, one man not yet identified, as opposed to any adoration or attention from the public. I hadn’t entertained (no pun intended) that the one man I really needed above all else was the one whose speculated image (as we didn’t live in Christ’s time to see him) had hung on the wall in that little church where the bell had been rung every Sunday morning in West Virginia. The man who rang that bell was my grandfather’s best friend until his passing, who kept his promise of watching over us after Grandpa passed on before him, our ‘Uncle Lafferty’.  Of course, The Right Man was always there, keeping me safe, eventually sitting next to my grandfather from their Other World vantage point, who did the same.

My sister and I had every opportunity to get in trouble when we were growing up, and there is no doubt in my mind that being in church every time the door was open as my mother exercised her exceptional musician’s gift as a pianist and organist kept us from making any more unsafe choices than those it would seem we could not prevent.

Apart from all the reasons stated above and those yet not understood, I reluctantly, human and therefore not sinless as I am, willingly and joyfully, with as much sarcasm and laughter as possible, take up the yoke of why I’m ‘directed' to be here.  By the same token and in this journey I’ve seen and witnessed things in the world that do not disprove anything in the life of Jesus or the bible that contradicts experiences up to now. They are also things not every body in Christ as humans can comprehend either.

I won’t claim to have any concrete answers. As a human, I can’t. Apart from being ‘mercy dominant’, I’ve recognized another gift is hearing what isn’t said, feeling what isn’t written in the story, like a lot of court decisions where ‘facts’ just because they are written and recorded, are not what happened, just what was written down in the form of an opinion, by a human who didn’t have the full story. I’ve been commended in public forums for asking questions in a diplomatic and on point way that address what didn’t make it into the conversation that has been directly relevant to the issue at hand. I’ve been the resident representative of the elephant or 800 pound gorilla in the room.

No one is immune from anything, regardless of location or a country’s alleged ‘freedom’. I’ve learned every day is a gift, and nothing is taken for granted. Sometimes it’s hour by hour, not day by day. We must go on as if life as we know it will stay the same or continue to improve, though we are not promised this. Only in striving for the example we’ve been provided with in the life of Christ can we get a glimpse of what may be possible, transposing it as best we can through a Word that is divinely designed to open our eyes in a different way at different moments in time.

We are designed to anticipate peace, not conflict or violence; that feeling is to bolster us when the unexpected happens, so that we may continue to thrive and live out our respective purposes. This is where I tread a fine line between earth and ‘the church’ as many of us do. I don’t really know what a ‘comfort zone’ is for many years now: the equivalent of most of my child’s life. I was given the tools, however, before coming to New York. Empathy isn’t something everyone has. Humans hurt each other, sometimes deliberately. This is beyond comprehension for many of us, though we see it almost every day. We cannot judge at the expense of the big things: what saves lives, literally or through the Example we’ve been provided. I don’t claim or care to be accepted by those who don’t understand, I wasn’t prepared to this point to be so easily distracted.

Daily, somewhere in the world, someone puts their life at risk to save the life of a stranger, child, or animal, or on behalf of their country or their city. Right or wrong, they don’t think about the ‘deserve’ factor of who they’re saving when they choose to take action either by personal choice or as a designated soldier. I struggled at times in the past about why so many unsung heroes have not been recognized or how the significance of their lives and deaths was any less than the life of Christ. In God’s eyes, they’re not. It’s us. Our eyes had to be opened in the life, death, and only resurrection, uncommon with any other human. One human couldn’t sin; one human couldn’t stay dead in their earthly body. It can take a full human lifetime to fully comprehend what that really means. I’m only here to raise the questions, as assigned. They may not be easy to answer or very well received at times. I only have the questions, not the answers. I will try my earthly best to deliver those questions in a loving way, so that no one is insulted or offended. I also hope to create more laughter than contempt.

Winston Churchill was coined in saying that it is good to have ‘enemies’ because it means you stood up for something.  Having a child has brought the greatest joys, and deepest sorrows. And only in trying to save another life, that life, was I given courage not to back down. I’m certainly not here to create more enemies, though I may not always say or feel what others wish to hear, though it’s also why I’m here, whether I like it or not. I must joyfully accept this assignment, not least of all because my son still has a mother this side of Heaven. The reward for the price of asking the hard questions where it may not always be comfortable or welcome is remaining my son’s mother in this existence for now. By comparison it’s a small price. Tact is another facet of that capacity.  Trauma has a way of teaching how to say things with the least friction, so as to survive. It can be useful with regular people, and those that willingly or otherwise may hurt others, to keep damages to a minimum.

I hope to grow here in being able to ask those questions in a way that is compelling, and most of all in a way that my tears lessen over time, because tears can be confusing. At a glance, we don’t know if they’re from pain or joy, and either way they’re not becoming or make someone want to continue listening. It’s human nature. Yes, I have an ironic sense of humor, and I want very much to make others laugh more, not excluding me.

I commit to staying within the tenets that have built this church. My other foot in the world, also by assignment, will not permit any tampering with basic foundations others have spent lifetimes creating; that would not be pleasing to ‘the Great Spirit’ (Grandpa was a lot Native American). None of us are intended for the world or the church to become most dominant in our lives at all times, because we are to be a witness to both, we must understand both, and embrace what saves us all in life, and Spirit.

When someone saves a life outside of the church, are they any less in the eyes of God? Maybe it’s not for us to say.  Those souls are not ‘other’ than us, they were also created by God; they are simply in a different point in a journey it is not for us to define. It would appear it is all we can do to manage our own souls. We are bound to remain available to all, to guide and offer only in Spirit, embracing and celebrating together whenever life is affirmed and elevated, as that is what brings us all closer as humans on the whole to what we were intended, with what we have been provided. I can’t lose sight of that; it was hard won.

I’ve been nudged by something or Someone not of this world to not remain quiet, whether it’ comfortable or not. I hope to continue to grow in this path here, if that is the will of the Spirit we all share in a sanctuary known as ‘the church’, this church. Only time will tell. I remain grateful. Every day is a gift; thank you for being here.

This testimony is unabridged because it’s the one I didn’t get to say in a river in about 1969; maybe because it was meant for now. I wouldn’t want to listen to it perhaps from water with no current or sun shining above, so poetic license is being exercised during this milestone, so that it is recorded with others whose place in time we have in common. By the way, when I’m here, nothing hurts, and I can stand taller…

In sincerest gratitude to this community and All from whom I continue to learn.

Grandpa's Spring

Seeing daffodils feels like Grandpa saying 'hello'.  Have a photo of him in his Sunday suit in his yard by one of the flower beds he kept up among all the other beautiful flowers in the yard.  It was round.  He stood over a circle almost a dozen deep of rich and pale yellows, or so it seemed.  He was using a cane, or a single elbow crutch, smiling as wide as ever. 

He had been a tough guy in his day, a police officer, Greyhound bus driver, real estate agent, coal miner (leaving school after second grade), among many other things.  The true definition of a 'pillar of the community', more loved and respected than the local, state, and national politicians who knew him well.  He was honest, to a fault, and authoritative in a way that is extremely rare.  When he gave a command, you followed, knowing it was only and truly for your benefit, not his.

He passed nearly eight weeks to the day his 'sweetheart' left us, strong willed to the end, and deciding when he would go to join her, as he did.  Toward the end of his wife's days on Earth, she had declined and to say she was not resembling the young girl he had fallen in love with would be an understatement.  And yet, in a way I can understand, when she passed he saw only that young girl and their best of times, as if who she had just been had not happened at all.  This was who he 'returned' to, and who could blame him?

Neither of his daughter's daughters succeeded in finding a mate that could even begin to come close to who he was and represented.  He became an impossible act to follow.  The great grandson he never met said he missed him; the legend remains strong decades later.  The presence is still felt at times.

In these days, the family legacy continues in his memory.  He is smiling down on us in ways we can often feel, while holding the young hand of our grandmother, and hanging out with our other grandma as well, another legacy in her own right. 

If only all children could know and enjoy such people, the world would not be what it is, or our society would be much further ahead.  They are the ones sent to show us how it's done, and there seems to be always too few of them.

Leap Day

How many blog titles today that are the same?  Did I have the same title four years ago?  I've been here that long...  Google's meme today had bunnies; so do we.  The bigger lop eared girl puts her chin on the upper platform so that her 'husbun', who's been 'fixed', can groom her, which is licking like cats do to each other as well.  And cats do to rabbits when they share the same home.

Once in four years; where will be be this time in the next four years?  He will be out of school, maybe in college.  We'll be in another home, a real, permanent house.  Mom's house, eventually grandma's house, with the animals, and a dog, too.

The car isn't as important.  It needs to be comfortable, reliable, and roomy, for the critters when we travel.  We'll have more help, so the animals won't have to go with us every time we take trips, only the ones that enjoy traveling or will do better by going with some new scenery or more playtime.

He'll likely have his own car, too.  Reliable and safe, maybe not the one he wanted, though he'll be content by the time it's done.

Building and repairing relationships will be underway.  Connecting with family more and spending significant events together, for as long as we can, as much as we can.  There's really no making up for lost time.  We'll do the best we can.

No Resolutions

Once a year is too infrequent; and overkill it being a birthday month, on a holiday.  In a continuous state of resolving, to get past barriers.  I don't envy those who make resolutions, even the ones who successfully stick to them and permanently change habits (the rare few).  I just can't relate to that kind of life, where a resolution is an annual thing.  There's no right or wrong.  For some of us, the opportunities come more loudly and something must be done, or it could be gone. 

Maybe it's enviable to be in a place where changing something once a year is all that's needed.  In hindsight, it seems a bit unusual.  Perhaps one resolution begets another we just never hear about.  To know someone well who actually makes one and moves forward is probably to have heard a story of how one conscious change leads to others that add up more over the year.  That sounds more realistic.

Of themselves, they're just campy, and sound weak on the surface, more than marriage as likely as not ending in divorce.  Resolve, once a year.  The more it's said, the less realistic it seems. 

However, actually keeping one, having made one, and what happens after is something we rarely hear about, unless we seek it out, or listen.  Another blip on the screen, that must have many others to follow in order to stay alive...like a heart monitor.  It's real when it creates a momentum all its own.

New Birthday

Birthdays have become cumbersome by a certain age.  I've remained the same age by choice now for several years, and for obvious reasons must now change the claimed age for credibility purposes to another year, by one.  Let's see how long it can carry me. 

My younger sister still looks younger; I don't bother with makeup for a significant number of years now.  I've adopted the Elizabeth Warren with glasses look, with longer hair, and the days are numbered for that as well. 

It was a good birthday this year, for the first time in awhile.  As I didn't really 'have' the birthdays in between, it's pretty much a wash anyway. 

Last night with all the family excitement, us actually being together for a holiday, I again knew what day it was and the overwhelm factor was so strong yet again the evening passed, until today. 

Still recovering, grateful everyone is safe, and scratching the surface of the catching up from what is usually maintained when alone, almost abandoned with family events in progress.   We will all be still recovering for several days from the travel and getting back to life without family together, which in a way seems very much wrong and neither ideal nor optimally functional.  So much more can happen for the better when everyone is together long and often enough.  Staying busy keeps the sadness away.  Productivity is in spurts instead of steady, which would be different otherwise.