It’s a strange dichotomy to be elated and full of sorrow, both at the same time. It’s like your body can’t hold it all, so the emotions just spill out in a pounding heart and shaking hands and all you can do is cry.
I was listening to a podcast this morning while folding clothes — a task made infinitely better by the input of a good podcast — and the speaker, Minnesota author Leif Enger, said something about the moment when he knew that books and writing were going to be very important in his life.
Before the days of Trunk-or-Treats, before the days of churches sponsoring “dress like a Bible character” night instead of trick-or-treating, before anyone ever worried about finding razorblades in their chocolate bars, I roamed my neighborhood on Halloween night with my next-door-neighbor entirely confident, entirely innocent, entirely safe.
We knew that my husband’s grandmother, Mary, was near the end of her life. She was, after all, 97 years old. But it still came as a jolt to learn that she had died. Mary had six children, 16 grandchildren, and 13 great-grands, to date. She was smart, funny, thoughtful, inquisitive, insightful, friendly. Mary didn’t have a fancy college degree, but she was one of the wisest people I have known.
It’s almost always difficult for a (previously) only child when a new sibling is introduced into a family. In the world of cats, it’s no different. Allow me to explain with a little vignette… Characters: Zephyr (aka Big Orange), age 6½, only cat in the family for over a year, and Persephone, age 4 months. Setting: every room in our home. Plot: young upstart kitten upsets the balance for middle-aged cat. Scene 1: The living room, first introduction.
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Munich, Germany, as I write. My husband is at a trade show and I tagged along. We’re heading to Berlin for a day and a half after leaving Munich. It’s been seven years since I’ve been in Berlin, my former home, and I’m getting excited.
There are few things in the world I crave more than time alone to write. Don’t get me wrong, there are things I love more — my family, for instance — but as to craving, as in wanting more of, I think that time alone to write tops the list. The truth is, other than my weekly column, I have no time to write. This leads me to two thoughts: 1) thank the Lord for my column! And 2) I’m too busy. But aren’t we all?
I just got done viewing “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”, the documentary about Mr. Rogers. The filmmakers did a wonderful job of showing us who Fred Rogers was, of explaining the things he stood for. Things like love. And acceptance. And respect for children as intelligent and emotion-filled human beings, not just short people who were to be seen and not heard.
Grief. It’s what’s on my mind. Not, “Good grief, Charlie Brown,” which is a phrase I’ve used often enough — though when parsing it out, one can’t help but wonder how the phrase came about — but bad grief. Real, heart-wrenching, aching grief.
Things which you can stare at for minutes at a time without getting bored: 1) Waves on the shore 2) Fire in the fireplace 3) Babies 4) Kittens Things which I need more of in my life: 1) Waves on the shore 2) Fire in the fireplace Things which get in the way of doing what you need to be doing: 1) Babies 2) Kittens