My friends got back from Costa Rica and brought me coffee from my Tia Cynthia. I can’t wait to try it.
I feel nostalgic about the coffee, my friends visiting the familiar house of my Aunt. I wonder if I’ll ever be there again? The last time I was there, I never dreamed it would be the last time I’d be there.
“End Stage Kidney Failure* that’s what the vet said when she told me about the results of Ashy’s blood tests. I could hospitalize her, take her home and let her misery increase to intolerance, or she could go to sleep now. Sheba went through option A, Ditto, option B, So I chose option C for Ashy.
Unsure, i asked the vet what if this is want she would do, and she said yes.
I called the ex wife, who came and said goodbye. Then she left and we did it
I buried Ashy under the Ceiba tree in the front yard. It’s a shady, cool dry spot. Better than anywhere in the back yard. And the lattice you see is screwed into the tree roots to keep chickens and anything else from digging there. Although she’s quite deep.
In her box, she looks like she’s taking a nap, on her bed, curled up nice and cozy with a blanket over her. She looked asleep.
I am so sad. She was the greatest cat ever. I miss her.
in other news, the van started leaking power steering fluid really badly, and is in the shop. Scooter today, rain or shine.
Yesterday I was backing up my photos. I found a poem I wrote to my wife years ago on my backup drive:
The poem won’t win any awards, but it has meaning.
When I read it, I felt a shock. And I felt a welling of sadness . I remember feeling lonely and missing her, looking at her while she watched tv, messaging on her phone. If we were in bed, I wasn’t allowed to touch her, because it would wake her, and herr “sleep was sacred”. I used to put my hand close enough to feel her body heat without actually touching her.
The emotion upon reading that poem was like a yellow orb ready to explode, maybe into something huge like a sun or giant flower opening.
I felt this emotion, but before I could observe it, my automatic suppression systems kicked in and killed it.
I saw sadness as a little yellow ball of yellow, begin to expand, possibly into something huge, but then shrank and blinked out of existence.
I tell people I don’t have emotion. People tell me I do, but repressed. My marriage counselor and my meditation coach both say this same thing.
The second I read that poem, my mouth dropped open and for a brief moment felt so much, and immediately saw the whole thing automatically crushed into nothingness before I could even take a look.
This is a vivid example of (one of) my insanity(ies) and problems with relationships.
It was a rough sleep last night but I’m feeling good now. Thanks to the tools I have been given in recovery and meditation.
I’ve been asked many times and questioned myself over the years. (I’ve been in and out of counseling since the late 60s / early 70s when I got my first F on a school report card.)
I have felt joy exactly twice. On e when my wife appeared in view the day we got married and the second when she gave me a particular birthday present that surprised and delighted me beyond expectation. (Travlin’ Tim)
I’ve been in good moods plenty, more lately, but meditations and counselors frequently ask me to “think back to a time when I felt joy.”
its one of those words that have never been in my vocabulary and when someone asks for it, I have to find out what it is before I can tell you I don’t have it, or if I do.
To me joy is an extreme word. An extreme rarity on the far edge of emotion. The most extreme happiness.
This isn’t a negative post. Just a statement of fact. When I am asked to remember joy on order to recover from the loss of my wife, it’s kind of counterproductive that she’s the source of the medicine to help me recover.
The other weekend, like a freak, I was out standing in this tree I’m trying to heal. (The Otaheite Apple Tree, you’ve heard me talk about it). I’m standing in the tree, talking to it and looking for new growth like I do almost every day. My neighbor and his wife were outside too, although we couldn’t actually see each other.
All of a sudden I heard my wife’s voice call “Babe”. I stepped out of the tree. I looked around. That was my name. I heard it, where did my name come from? I remember every detail, the quality of the light, the texture of the side of the house, the too long grass and the weeds. I want to find my wife who called my name. I was walking, looking.
It must’ve taken me a full 60 seconds to figure out what was going on. In those 60 seconds I was either not human at all or fully human for he first time ever. There were no thinking words in my brain, no tangible thought. Time stopped. My name, I heard my name. I was on my way to provide anything the sayer of my name wanted.
After that long minute, it all started coming back to me. Wife’s long gone. Divorce final. It wasn’t my wife. It was the neighbors wife. Even when my wife was still here, my neighbors wife calling Babe sounded the same as my wife.
It wasn’t for me.
But the fact is, I heard my name. I heard my name for the first time in over a year. My name is Babe, and I miss hearing my name. I miss it real bad.