For I Have PromisesTo Keep...

...Mostly to myself. I chose making myself write something every day as a Lenten discipline.  Doesn't mean I'm going to write anything GOOD, just means I'll write.  So far, I have written something in my notebook every day.  I collect those here on the blog every other day or so, or more often if I feel like it.

Next week is my Birthday Vacation Week - so I take off work and indulge myself for my birthday.  For a whole week.  Really, I use the time to catch up on projects, maybe I go out and shop a little, or take myself to lunch for once.  Some years I do something charitable, but I don't tell anyone.

This week before is going to be busy.  Dentist tomorrow, choir on Wednesday evening, Thursday is my turn to do Zumba at the library, (meaning I set up for them, and work out with them if I want, I usually do.)  I am hoping my new sunglasses come in this week, so I don't have to go do that during my vacation.

My "squirrel!" brain keeps leaping off on tangents any time I try to concentrate right now.
Yogi Bedtime Tea may help settle me down.  I hope so.

This is all I came up with this morning:
2/15/16

Bukowski had a lot to say today.  No one quote stood out.
 These were mostly the poems about particular cats. "Butch" the altered black tom who still fights, and a "Manx" cat that turned out not to be a manx after all, just a cat somebody cut the tail off of.
These two were survivors.  Both had made it past multiple injuries and insults, and still lived proudly on their own terms.  I think that's a lot of what Bukowski admired about them.
They took more crap from life than most other creatures do, and yet they were undefeated - unbowed by life.
There are a few people you meet like that, but most of them hide their misfortunes and hurts, not wanting to have to explain.  A few recognize the value of the lessons that come with each and every scar, and they wear them proudly.


2/16/16

one for the old  boy
he was just a
cat
cross-eyed.

a dirty white
with pale blue eyes.

I won't bore you with his
history
just to say
he had much bad luck
and was a good old
guy
and he died
like people die
like elephants die
like rats die
like flowers die
like water evaporates and
the winds stops blowing

the lungs gave out
last Monday
now he's in the rose
garden
and I've heard a
stirring march
playing for him
inside of me
which I know

not many
but some of you
would like to
know
about.
that's
all.  
-Charles Bukowski
(From the book Charles Bukowski On Cats)

This poem about a cat who died is very touching to me.  I've lost some cats to death in my time.
Lost our Madame just about three years ago.
She very much died as she lived- entirely on her own terms.
Here, in my office,
After drowsing all afternoon on this very settee I'm sitting on.
She just jumped down, coughed a bit, and fell over - gone.
We knew she had cancer, but she hadn't seemed to be too awfully ill until that day.  She wasn't going to let us do the "extreme measures" or put her through stays at the vet.  Nope.  She died at home, with us nearby.
And I miss that damned cat.
Every.
Single.
Day.


The talk of death and loss always brings me back to my Mom these days.  It is hard to know she's finally gone completely.  She had been disappearing gradually, like some strange kind of mythical creature, slowly evaporating on the winds of time.  Not because nobody believed in her anymore, but perhaps because she no longer believed in herself.  All her contemporaries were gone.  Her sisters, her husband, so many friends, it must be God-awful to watch everybody who knew you when die off all around you. Yes, she still had us, but children are children, no matter that they grow up and become adults.  We were still her babies, still not privy to the truth of her experience in this world.  Not like Aunt Margaret was, or Aunt Sybil, or even my Pop.  
Some days, I think of Mom and I laugh, remembering her sense of humor, and how tickled she would get, and giggle about something with me.
And some days I cry, because she was my mommy, and I miss her.  I'm nobody's baby anymore.  (Well, I'm still the baby sister, but there's nobody going around saying to people "This is my baby." when they introduce me.  Which isn't entirely a bad thing, it was just that she was so cute when she did that.  )
Mom had a lot of cats waiting on her at the Rainbow Bridge.  And a few dogs, too.  I only hope my Madame didn't try to butt in.  (You have to wait for US, Madame, WE'RE your staff, remember?)  Mom had Oliver, who started out as ours, but stayed behind with Mom when we went to Germany.  Ollie LOVED Mom.  He followed her EVERYWHERE around the house, slept with her at night, sat on her lap in the recliner, was VERY much her companion.  He was such an elegant, dapper little panther.  I am sure he was there to meet her, and walked on with Herbie, another cat of ours, to meet Pop, who probably had Bobo winding around his ankles as he waited.
Yes, this family loved many cats.  There were dogs, too, and OD and Skippy and Misty and Cubby were probably waiting on Mom and Pop,too.  (Though Cubby may hold out for my brother.  He was really Butch's dog, I think.  Before my time.) Skippy MIGHT wait for me.  He was my first dog, but he loved Mom and Pop, too.

That's enough  of that for now.

Too late have I wandered
Down this lane tonight.
Tarrying in words
And phrases never right.
Brain worn out
And in need of sleep
But heart refusing
And keeping me awake.
Feelings needed out
Words needed to be written
 -CKArmistead 2/16/16

"For I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep."
 -Robert Frost