Random But Relevant

The furry feline paw darting under the door as you settle in for an empty bladder and maybe a minute of quiet. The “I don’t know, what do YOU want for dinner” or the “What do YOU want to watch on tv tonight?”. The “Mom! Mom! Mom!”. Odds are something along these lines have haunted just about everyone at some point in their existence. Peace and quiet it seems is sometimes just out of reach.

My dear friend set off on her first solo journey this week. And not just to the mall or grocery store. A real vacation, sans husband, family and friends, to a sunny, tropical place as a milestone birthday celebration. Her excitement was almost intoxicating as we shared her plans to sleep in, dip her toes in the hot sand, read books, people watch, drink fruity island drinks and….not be at the beck and call of commitments. Her joy of going was somewhat tempered by naysayers who couldn’t believe she would have the gumption to travel stag, let alone for her birthday! She’s one of the busiest of retired souls that I know. Family, church, volunteering. And very happily married with a grown child. 

We tend to get lost in the day to day of our lives. Indeed empaths, specifically, spend an inordinate amount of time tending to the requirements of others and rarely step back to address our own needs. I was quick to assure her that her adventure was well earned, beneficial and supported, even if not everyone understood. I have traveled companionless and can attest to the merits of being at my own beck and call. There is something almost magical and healing in making decisions for ourselves alone and in pursuing our own whims as they arise. Most assuredly, solo travel is not for everyone. I know of one individual, when left to his own independent devices, practically made himself sick while on a solo vacation. What I also know is that somehow the dinner and tv binge watching debates back home are more than passably acceptable once we return. And that paw under the bathroom door? Well, to be honest, that is always kinda cute.

We are living in a motel. I’ve housed in MUCH worse. But imagine moving across the world to pursue your passion only to find yourself displaced almost immediately from your new home by a natural disaster called a rain bomb. (Edit to add this event was in February.)

Brisbane the city is relatively young if you only consider the white occupation. I’m not getting into politics here, so I’ll just let that rest. The city started as the penal colony Moreton Bay and adopted the name Brisbane with the renaming of the river…after some white governor dude. World War II saw the city housing the main South Pacific Allied headquarters for both Aussies and Americans – which has nothing to do with what I’m on about today, but I did find interesting.

Brisbane the river is a tidal estuary, which pretty much means you don’t want to swim in it voluntarily. It’s home to bull sharks, Queensland lungfish, cod and muck that requires dredging in order to navigate (not to mention all sorts of other things that would like to kill you because this IS Australia). That being said, it’s actually quite beautiful, rich with lush greenery and abundant wildlife along the banks.

The Brisbane river and the city of Brisbane are very much intertwined. The architecture reflects the river’s curves, the city’s 16 bridges provide easy access to the various suburbs. A refreshing take on what older coastal or river based US cities would like to be. The streets are clean, the people are generally friendly; I feel safe.

Every once in a while however, the area decides to flood. Up until now, these events remained fairly uncommon, the notable disasters occurring in 1893, 1974, 2011…2022. My brain piques at the frequency these are happening, but I did say I’m not getting into politics. 

Unfortunately, this has resulted in the displacement of a segment of the local population. Rain fell by the bucketfuls, resulting in an overflow of the river. The floodwaters rose with such rapidity that most in its path were caught unawares. Imagine going to sleep at night, the rain pouring down but as yet not any obvious danger, only to awake the next morning with waters waist deep threatening to consume everything you ever owned. Now imagine you’re a very young adult, living alone for the first time. 

The waters have receded, there’s not much obvious indication of the flooding left to be seen. The city and state have done a decent job of the cleanup. Most obvious signs are along the river where the ferry docks are closed, some torn from their moorings and listing at angles. But more hidden are those who are left waiting for the parts needed to be able to move back in, whether that be electrical wiring, structural rebuilds, or sanitization.

The juxtaposition is not lost on me. The river and the city cannot be separated, each beautiful on its own but very much a vital part of each other.  I acknowledge those who lost their lives in the flooding, and those much worse off than my family. The motel really does not seem so bad in that light. And the good news is we should be able to move these 20-somethings back home very soon! Perhaps this is a case of what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger…but this is Australia and I won’t play those odds!

Relaxing on my veranda, smelling the flowering shrubs and listening to the happy cacophony of birds as I drink my morning coffee. The air is fresh, damp with sub-tropical humidity, and perfumed lightly from the resulting abundance of greenery. Almost as if the air itself is alive, enveloping you, welcoming you.

Coffee is art here, one consumed for joy, a true purist heaven. The scent of roasting beans summons you, a call to slow down life just a bit and take in the moment.

Each day is an adventure made all the sweeter by being surrounded by my son and his new home. I begin to understand the draw of this beautiful land.

I fear a feline mutiny may be afoot in the very near future. Were I to awake to find 4 sets of beady, feral eyes staring at my slumbering form with determined intensity, my stretching toes unwittingly beckoning primal instincts in my furry companions, I would not feign surprise. Those that know our raucous brood know they are a hearty clan; not many meals have been missed. But, alas, the mandatory hijacking of the revered food bowl is upon us. Our baby kitty – so peacefully slumbering in blissful ignorance this very moment – is to undergo the dreaded neuter tomorrow. The pack as a whole it would seem gets to fast with him over the night. Fear not, one might say. They won’t starve, the delay of kibble is merely momentary. But unless you’ve been woken at 3 AM to the glower of unsatisfied eyes, to the “tappy-tap-WHAP!” of not so cute mittens upon the delicate skin of your cheeks, to the yowl of decidedly angry felines, you may underestimate the depth and sincerity of my cautious tale. Wish me luck, my friends. If I seem a bit rough around the edges on the morrow, know that I likely have traversed the path of the hungry, angry mob I affectionately call my furry kids.

Make your bed. It’s a silly notion, I completely understand. Why make something only to unravel and mess it up every night? Why put the time and energy into something no one will see other than your partner or maybe some family members?

Growing up I never ever made my bed. I wasn’t raised in a household where chores were a requirement and when they eventually did become one, they certainly didn’t obligate me to make my bed. I don’t even remember my bed to be honest. I imagine it was shades of pink and most definitely contained a number of stuffed animals, but beyond that I can’t clearly recall.

Going away to college, I do remember putting some energy into deciding exactly which bedding I wanted. For the first time I was required to share a bedroom and I wanted a clear message to my dormitory roommate that I was not going to be an average, run of the mill college freshman. I needed to express my bad-assery, my “don’t mess with me” attitude and surely the black comforter I selected indicated I was best left alone. But…I still never took the time to tidy up my sleeping quarters.

I ask though, who hasn’t walked into a hotel room and promptly noticed the bed, maybe dropped our travel weary body onto the soft mattress, marveled at the silky soft sheets, the extra pillows? Nothing says hello more than a welcoming bed. Even then though, we aren’t required to make the bed, we have paid for and relish the luxury of room service, after all. And coming back after a day of sight seeing or business meetings, we welcome the sight of a tidy bed.

I’m not exactly sure where I heard this particular message or when, but I do know that occasionally something I run across tickles my brain and sticks with me. The recitation was this: if you do nothing else today, make your bed. The mere act of simply pulling your sheets tight, straightening the comforter, arranging the pillows, means that without much effort you’ve already accomplished something that day. And once you’ve put together, realized one undertaking, no matter how minor, it becomes much easier to fulfill another…and another.

When I’m experiencing a rough day or things are particularly strenuous and I have no direction in mind, when I feel lost or low and I’m spinning my wheels, when I look around me and think…what am I doing? Why can’t I (fill in the blank)….??? I can retreat to my room and the first thing I see is my bed. The order, the tidiness…is an affirmation. And I know that maybe today wasn’t my day to make grand accomplishments but I still carried through with one thing.  And that is enough. One footstep at at time.

My cat just gave me the ultimate in insults, the cream of the crop, solid gold, top drawer…literally the cat’s pyjamas of impudence. After his weeklong absence, to which we both agreed provided a new appreciation for the other’s presence, he has been found in breach of hand/paw contract.

Stanley’s tenure away from the house was one of bafflement, angst and regret. He seemed to have vanished, leaving no trace of paw prints, no whiskers of evidence to be found; his whereabouts were a complete mystery. Having just about given up on the prospect of holding his furry, warm body on my lap ever again, I heartbrokenly found myself making bold promises were he to come home to me; declarations to keep him inside the house no matter how loud he requested to be let outside, to tame the beast inside him that precipitated his neighborhood wanderlust. I would keep him safe inside the premises even if it drove him blistering mad.

As luck would have it, Stanley was returned to us, uninjured and healthy, albeit skinny and a bit abashed. Our reunion was joyous, filled with mutual appreciation; an abundance of food and pets for him, a good deal of warm lap cuddles and hearty purrs for me. We got on in this state for a solid 12 hours before his hearty yowls began again, before his pacing from door to door wore an invisible footpath in the linoleum. There he stood at the slider then the front door, the slider, the front, his green eyes imploring me to do the unthinkable. And there I sat. Until finally the walls began to crumble, the torture to my eardrums became unbearable…and I did the inconceivable. I let him back outside. The agreement was clear, he would not venture out more than necessary, only going so far as to ensure his turf was unbreached, his reign intact and then promptly return. He had no reason to venture beyond our property after all! No reason to feel pavement beneath his paws when he could count on my warm lap and full food bowl inside the house.

We got on in this fashion for several days, me letting him out within minutes of his request, him returning quickly when called. Trotting back indoors, a look of contentment and pleasure in his eyes, a convincing show of his compliance with our contract.

But tonight as sure as the hair in his coat is black and the twinkle in his eye is emerald, Stanley rose up and gave me the middle finger. Having elected to make an evening run to the grocery for none other than catnip of all things, I was on my merry way home, taking in the holiday lights and scenes when a black shape darted in front of my vehicle and crossed the busy road! A blur in the twilight, barely noticeable. I thought to myself … surely… SURELY that couldn’t be – wouldn’t be – my sweet little darling Stanley! We had a deal after all. But I knew that form well, hours of lap snuggles and stroking of silky ebony fur do not lie. As I stood there in our yard, calling his name and watching his return from the concrete jungle I felt his lithe body slip past me and into the house with the whisper of the middle finger.

I don’t know where the dissatisfaction lies most…in his blatant breach of our unwritten contract or my weakness of resolve. What I do know is that in the moment, sometimes promises are made. And sometimes those promises are broken for the good of all in earshot. And sometimes my cat is a dick.

For me the king of all slug days is the day after Thanksgiving. The day where you drowsily wake up, stomach slightly distended from yesterday’s bounty and with the pungent scent of stuffing and roast turkey lingering in your hair. The day where everyone else seems to be orderly and organized, full of energy and somehow able to shop and put up holiday decorations. Major accomplishments for me on slug days come along the lines of getting out of bed, showering – and realizing for the first time that the specialty handmade soap you picked up on your visit to wine country smells distinctly like last night’s dinner.

This year was no different. After hosting a houseful of family on Turkey Day, I relished a day of doing nothing other than bemoaning the loss of my waistline. I had my aching feet up, poultry scented hair down, my continuously filled coffee cup at my elbow and a stack of magazines in my lap.

It just so happens that this slug day also turned into one of the most emotional days of the year for me. I was contemplating the merits of printing a few more lost cat flyers and visiting the houses below ours in person to see if anyone had sighted our wayward feline. Had I been out shopping or stringing merry lights on the eaves I would have missed THE most important phone call I’ve had in a very long time. Stanley the cat was possibly found! Of course this was the one time that the lazy slug me decided to punch the “call screen” button on my phone… the poor soul calling me didn’t give up when my phone rudely demanded her name and reason for calling. Luckily she chose to look past my uppity phone and dial me back. Thankfully we connected and I welcomed the great news….my missing cat had been discovered living in her attic for a week!

I quickly ran down the hill to the caller’s house only to find out that the rascal was on the lam yet again. Having thought to grab all able bodied family members nearby, some of whom were also in food coma recovery mode as well, we started scouring the neighborhood in a systematic way. And by systematic, I mean frantically yelling his name and walking in circles in the rain. Eventually a skinny, raggedy version of our feisty feline Stanley found his own way back to our house, his homing device still apparently intact after a week without food and water. A thousand hugs, kisses, ear scratches and loud rumbling purrs later, our house was complete again.

And I have a newfound appreciation for Slug Day. Sometimes good things do happen when you’re an amorphous blob on the couch. Sometimes when you start to think something is lost for good, life will turn around and hand you back your cat … and maybe your waistline And for that I am very thankful.

Listen to your gut. No really! Listen to it. When you cut yourself slicing an onion and you think that perhaps you might need stitches I suggest following that instinct. Better to be laughed out of the emergency clinic with a Snoopy band-aid and well wishes, than trying to superglue your finger back together a week later because you didn’t want to put pants on and drive anywhere.

The history behind my relationship with owls should have prepared me for the turmoil my house has been under for the last week or so, and cautioned me to listen to the sudden ache I had in my gut. I had almost convinced myself that my somewhat irrational fear of owls was a bit over the top. The cute little owl magnets on my refrigerator are evidence of that. The lack of instantaneous goosebumps at the mere sight of these feathery creatures in recent years is further proof. The automatic cringe when seeing little girls dressed up in pink and purple owl printed leggings, with lacy owl headbands and carrying little owl purses had faded to a mere internal sigh. That is…until I heard one the other night. This little darling woke me up at 3 AM, with it’s unique”oooo oo oooo”.

As a young child growing up in the countryside where my imagination was my stage and my playmates were four legged, I had plenty of good reason to fear these feathery creatures; their eerie calls were haunting wisps of sound swirling through the night and occasionally I’d wake in the morning with one less barn cat underfoot. But no, it’s not the owls themselves that I fear but rather what they’ve come to represent. A strange set of circumstances or coincidences has led me to this point. And I’d almost allowed myself to be convinced otherwise.

Some cultures have deep beliefs and positive associations with owls. My Native friend is someone who has helped me become more comfortable in the presence of owl “things”. However, this does not change the certain truth that the call of these birds his been followed closely by a dark message for me – the loss of someone or something. The first was my step-father who, although we knew was dying, passed shortly after I heard my first owl in a residential neighborhood. The next brought a somber omen for my neighbor. I came home on one of those early to dark evenings, cold and crisp, to the call of an owl nearby. We do not live in an area much populated by trees, let alone birds. This was the first time I’d heard one at my house and ran inside with my heart racing. The next morning I was notified that my dear neighbor’s mother had passed on. With a smattering of other stories thrown in, owls quickly began to represent something foreboding and filled me with unease.

The lone owl that visited me at 3 AM wasn’t something I immediately recognized for what it was. The sound of this creature was softer, more delicate. Once I was wide awake I was unable to sleep until I knew those closest to me were safe. A quick status check assured me that perhaps I was past my “owl stage”. What I didn’t count on was the disappearance of my cat a few days later. I don’t believe it was anything similar to my childhood where Great Horned owls could easily swoop down and whisk away a small cat with ease. This owl was just a messenger… and I wasn’t getting the message.

My gut is sound in its messages. I just need to listen. If it says, yeah… that’s a bad cut, probably should get it looked at, maybe even stitches – I should either head out to the ER or stock up on super glue because typing with one hand is quite difficult. If it says, yeah… that owl is really close to the house, I should make sure all my loved ones… including the furry ones, are safe. Or shoot the f*cking owl.

Funny how a particularly stressful, intense moment in life can make a person remember the millions of other things they’d rather be doing. Throw a little extra fire in the veins of that hot-headed temperament and sometimes good things can happen. An inspirational energy can vibrate from the pores, oozing creativity and resourcefulness previously untapped. Like a match though, my flame tends to burn out quickly, leaving only the lingering scent of possibility wafting in the air. For once I thought I’d add fuel to that spark of life…and DO SOMETHING. Maybe I wasn’t entirely ready to start writing, but dang it, at least I’m moving forward. Now if I can just keep tapping into and capitalizing from that fiery energy…