The beginning of November feels like a new year for me.
A lot has happened in my life since I have been writing steadily.
We moved. We moved into a bigger house, and the space for my computer moved to a central spot. More exposed to the entire house. And writing, even these dumb blog posts, seems like such a private and personal act, it felt so odd to have my space be in the middle of my family's living space. And so, I stopped writing. The time was never right, or the desk became a landing zone for mail that built up and built up, or. Or I had so many excuses at the ready.
A very dear friend moved back to the area. A very dear friend who means a great deal to me.
I am not ready to write about that.
Spring came. It was marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. So, normal.
Summer was good. And marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. Also normal.
And then my cat was injured. And never fully recovered. He died in my arms, a Monday night at the end of August. He wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. As he rattled out his last breath, I was in the arms of someone who cared for me. In a house with a solid roof and food and heat and toys and computers and clothes. I can count all of these things, yes. I am lucky. I am so lucky. And my darling little cat still wasted away to nothing but fur and skin and bones and I did not do enough, spend enough money to save his short life.
That night the three of us buried him in the back yard. Nick managed to find a place clear enough for a little grave, and by torchlight, I let go of my little black cat for the last time. Limp and dead in my arms, and I did not want to believe that he was really gone. I wanted to think that he was just asleep, and have it be true. I wanted him to wake up when I shoveled the first bit of dirt and sand on top of him, and be angry with us and go sulk on the fence.
Wanting a thing will not make it so. No matter how hard or fiercely you want a thing.
The three of us sat around the fire pit, and mourned the cat's death. Comfort through beer and fire and a certain kind of closeness that only happens around a small fire at night.
A week later, I found out about a friend's passing. The following week, a family member went into hospice.
I cried a little for my cat. I cried a lot for my friend. I did not cry for my grandfather.
I broke. I broke into many little pieces, over and over again. I could not stop breaking, and I could barely find enough hands to hold all the pieces. So, I gathered them up as best I could, and I contracted. Into my shell, me and my pieces. I hid them away, hid myself away, and I think that the wounds have scabbed over now. I am not healed, I am not better. But my armor is returning.
Happy new year.
A lot has happened in my life since I have been writing steadily.
We moved. We moved into a bigger house, and the space for my computer moved to a central spot. More exposed to the entire house. And writing, even these dumb blog posts, seems like such a private and personal act, it felt so odd to have my space be in the middle of my family's living space. And so, I stopped writing. The time was never right, or the desk became a landing zone for mail that built up and built up, or. Or I had so many excuses at the ready.
A very dear friend moved back to the area. A very dear friend who means a great deal to me.
I am not ready to write about that.
Spring came. It was marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. So, normal.
Summer was good. And marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. Also normal.
And then my cat was injured. And never fully recovered. He died in my arms, a Monday night at the end of August. He wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. As he rattled out his last breath, I was in the arms of someone who cared for me. In a house with a solid roof and food and heat and toys and computers and clothes. I can count all of these things, yes. I am lucky. I am so lucky. And my darling little cat still wasted away to nothing but fur and skin and bones and I did not do enough, spend enough money to save his short life.
That night the three of us buried him in the back yard. Nick managed to find a place clear enough for a little grave, and by torchlight, I let go of my little black cat for the last time. Limp and dead in my arms, and I did not want to believe that he was really gone. I wanted to think that he was just asleep, and have it be true. I wanted him to wake up when I shoveled the first bit of dirt and sand on top of him, and be angry with us and go sulk on the fence.
Wanting a thing will not make it so. No matter how hard or fiercely you want a thing.
The three of us sat around the fire pit, and mourned the cat's death. Comfort through beer and fire and a certain kind of closeness that only happens around a small fire at night.
A week later, I found out about a friend's passing. The following week, a family member went into hospice.
I cried a little for my cat. I cried a lot for my friend. I did not cry for my grandfather.
I broke. I broke into many little pieces, over and over again. I could not stop breaking, and I could barely find enough hands to hold all the pieces. So, I gathered them up as best I could, and I contracted. Into my shell, me and my pieces. I hid them away, hid myself away, and I think that the wounds have scabbed over now. I am not healed, I am not better. But my armor is returning.
Happy new year.
I'm happy you are coming back out into the world where, clearly, you have friends with hands to help you with the piece-collecting. There is sun out here, even if hidden by clouds sometimes.
ReplyDelete