Tag Archives: changes

Today is Not Forever

25 Wednesday Aug 2021

Posted by in Ultimate Blog Challenge

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

Life is funny. It shifts and changes, and sometimes alters the course of the people we thought we’d become. Sometimes you fly, sometimes you’re brought to your knees, and sometimes it’s all you can do to take that one extra breath.

I’ve been thinking about this lately. For many of us the past year and a half has seriously altered our lives. Some of us have lost jobs, others have lost loved ones, still others have lost opportunities. But what we’re experiencing now won’t be this way forever, even if it seems like it. The past year aside, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that we are all emerging creatures, and the person we were five years ago can’t possibly be the same person we are today. How can we be? We’ve lived a whole bunch in those five years – made and lost friends, loved and lost, learned, felt, experienced – and only going through those experiences can bring us in to the person we will eventually become.

I look back on my own life, and I can’t help but be surprised at how so much of me has changed, and how much is still the same. I’ve always been outspoken, usually said what I thought, loved fiercely, overthought things, and generally gone after what I wanted. But over the years, how I’ve approached things has changed, the things I thought I valued have shifted, and things I thought were rock-solid turned out to be shifting beneath my feet.

And I don’t think I could be happier.

When I was young – really young – I wanted to be a veterinarian because my next-door neighbor and best friend wanted to be a veterinarian. Then I realized that veterinarians had to put pets down, and deal with blood and guts and puke… and I didn’t want to be a veterinarian anymore.

When I was nine, I wanted to be a singer. One of my friends and I were firmly convinced that all we had to do was send a recording somewhere and we’d be on the local radio any day now. We would perform weird concerts for our parents, singing the same songs they’d heard for the hundredth time. Little matter that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket (I’m horrified by cassette tapes I found from that period). I just spent hours and hours in my room singing to the radio until I sounded okay, and maybe even good. I got to be a singer for a while, to lead bands at my church as a teenager… And then I burned out.

At seventeen, I believed it was my calling to work with teenagers, to work in a church as a youth pastor. I remember the argument with my mother – the one where I wanted her blessing to attend a four-year Bible college; she didn’t want me to bury myself in the church. I don’t think I had ever felt more misunderstood, but I also knew that I couldn’t just trot off to Bible school, spend four years and thousands of dollars, and still be angry and resentful of one of my parents. So I vowed that one day, I would go to Bible college; it just couldn’t be then, and it couldn’t be like this. And I did. I asked questions and learned and grew and made friendships that I cherish to this day. And I no longer believe it’s my job to enlighten or evangelize or persuade anyone when it comes to their faith journey.

I thought I knew what I believed. I believed God was a “he”. I believed in a Jesus who fed thousands with five loaves and two fishes, and whose words of love and justice were so radical that he died because of them. I believed in piety and purity and separateness, believing that my radical acts of self-sacrifice would make a difference in the here and now. I didn’t realize the things I “gave up for God” would cost hundreds of dollars to replace, and years of self-doubt to claim in the first place.

At twenty-three, I married. I vowed until death did us part, and I meant it. But marriage, like life, changes you. The woman I was at twenty-three wasn’t the same woman she was at thirty-four, when it became clear that a marriage couldn’t be held together by sheer force of will. Today, I am just waiting for a seriously backlogged court system to process my paperwork, and then I will no longer be legally married.

I’m still here. I’m still myself. I still say what I think, ask a zillion questions, want to understand how things work. I still want to plan things to the nth degree – like a month-long trip across the western United States – even as my own life has shown me that changes in myself and in circumstance are inevitable. Maybe the person we are today wouldn’t recognize who we were one or two or five years ago – maybe in big ways and maybe in small. We can’t go back to the formerly comforting days; we’ve all lived and learned and loved too much. We can’t keep painting pictures of a nostalgic time and place, fitting our current selves into the image, because the colours are too bright or too dark or too faded.

If we could go and tell our past selves what would happen in the future, we wouldn’t live our real lives. My former selves wouldn’t believe the person I am today. And my current self wouldn’t believe if my future self came along and told me all the things that would shift in the coming days or weeks or months or years. And maybe that’s why we have to do the best we can with whatever we have… because nothing is permanent but change.

Book Review: “The Gunners” by Rebecca Kauffman

30 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Book reviews, Fiction

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

I love books about friendship – the nostalgic type that brings back memories to the friends I had when I was young. Don’t get me wrong, I love my new and/or “adult” friends fiercely, but childhood or adolescent friends hold a special place in my heart.

And because I write reviews about representation of blindness in books, my selection for June seemed like a perfect fit.

Was I right?

 

Publisher’s Summary

 

Following her wonderfully received first novel, Another Place You’ve Never Been, called “mesmerizing,” “powerful,” and “gorgeous,” by critics all over the country, Rebecca Kauffman returns with Mikey Callahan, a thirty-year-old who is suffering from the clouded vision of macular degeneration. He struggles to establish human connections – even his emotional life is a blur.
As the novel begins, he is reconnecting with “The Gunners,” his group of childhood friends, after one of their members has committed suicide. Sally had distanced herself from all of them before ending her life, and she died harboring secrets about the group and its individuals. Mikey especially needs to confront dark secrets about his own past and his father. How much of this darkness accounts for the emotional stupor Mikey is suffering from as he reaches his maturity? And can The Gunners, prompted by Sally’s death, find their way to a new day? The core of this adventure, made by Mikey, Alice, Lynn, Jimmy, and Sam, becomes a search for the core of truth, friendship, and forgiveness.
A quietly startling, beautiful book, The Gunners engages us with vividly unforgettable characters, and advances Rebecca Kauffman’s place as one of the most important young writers of her generation.

 

Mikey’s Story – Mostly Loneliness

 

This story opens with an eye test. mikey, aged six or seven, cannot read all the letters on the eye chart. When he is told to cover the other eye to test that vision, he says he can’t, because that’s his “good eye.” When he comes home and talks to his father – who clearly loves him but is emotionally distant – he is told to never ever tell anyone about his failing vision.

And so he doesn’t.

Even as Mikey’s vision worsens – as he holds down a job, inherits a house, adopts a cat, cooks amazing dishes, drives around town – he never tells anyone about his vision loss. He attends doctor’s offices and gets stronger and stronger glasses, and he navigates his home and cooks his meals more and more frequently without vision.

But he does all of this alone.

And he never really makes any friends.

Not after the Gunners fell apart.

 

The Gunners – Bonds that Break…?

 

The strongest part of Kauffman’s writing is her depiction of friendship. In flashbacks to their childhoods, we see how the Gunners meet and become friends, how they grow up together, how they keep secrets from everyone around them, and then secrets from each other. When they return for Sally’s funeral – a sign that there is no reconciliation of the group as a whole – they eat and drink (all but Lynn, a recovering alcoholic, and Sam, a born-again Christian) and open their pasts and discover painful realizations… that the person you thought was keeping secrets may have been – but not the ones you thought they were. Does that make a difference?

 

The Messiness of Disclosure

 

This book unfolds slowly and beautifully. Without spoiling the plot, most of the characters come to a place where they need to open up about the deepest parts of themselves to truly be free. Whether coming out to parents, or disclosing vision loss, or telling the truth about family histories, there are scary points of vulnerability that changes the course of life.

This reader wishes the author had gone deeper with Mikey’s blindness, past the outward denials – I frequently forgot Mikey was going blind – to moments of self-pity (when Mikey says he’ll quit his job and get a dog and then… whatever) to relying on friends for practical needs (there is literally no mention of blindness services, at all). This quibble aside, this book, more than any I have read, shows the power of disclosure and the risks involved, and how those around you can treat you differently once they learn something they didn’t know before.

 

Conclusion

 

This book is well worth your time. It moves along slowly but powerfully, and I loved getting to know the characters – their secrets, their revelations, their futures. Mikey’s story could’ve so easily been written without blindness involved – it didn’t really add to the story, even if it became so integral to the ending – but as written it was handled with general sensitivity. The bonds of the past, reality of the present, and hope for the future are what carry this book above its pitfalls.

3.5/5 stars.

With a Little Help from my Friends

09 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

A few days ago, I saw a video posted online of a guide dog user being denied entry to a well-known New York club. Not only did their friends stand in the gap for them, trying to advocate and to explain that their friend had a right to be there, but also physically going into the club and making the manager address the issue.

At the time, I commented about the true sense of friendship between these three.
“And her friends refused to take it lying down. They refused to allow the manager to ignore the issue, they made him flat-out say that he didn’t care about the law and would discriminate anyway.
I want allies like this.
Allies who will stand in the gap when I say with a sigh that feels like a scream – because of someone’s actions TOWARD ME – “I’m sorry for ruining your night.””
And as I thought about it, I realized that, in fact, I do have friends and allies like this.

Just today, I discovered a post I wrote that puts into words what true friends are.
“Good friends are those who will talk to you about anything, talk to you about nothing, listen to you, cry with you, laugh with you, let you forget your troubles for awhile, tell you the truth even if you don’t want to hear it, visit you in the hospital, stand in line at the pharmacy with you, dance with you, laugh at your bad jokes, drive you home in a snowstorm, encourage you to try new things, accept you as you are.
I truly have great friends.”

 

A shoulder to Lean On

 

A few months ago, I went through a pretty unpleasant experience. In many ways, I felt like my brain and my body had betrayed me in ways they never had before, and I struggled to make sense of it all. From some pretty surprising corners, both new and old friends reached out and listened as I sorted through my feelings and my reactions to what happened. Their attentiveness and occasional “checking in!”s made a ton of difference at a time where almost nothing in my life made sense. When, after a few weeks, I was still struggling, those same friends cheered me on as I reached out for professional assistance. They made that time in my life – which was the beginning of a journey of serious and life-changing self-discovery – a lot easier to confront.

And, sometimes, friends do not have any idea that they’ve been a lifeline. When my employer sent out the weekly newsletter featuring a marathon runner with a disability, I reached out to her and said hello. We talked about what we had in common – disability, running, dislike of Nicholas Sparks books – for most of that day. What she doesn’t know is how talking about those things helped keep me together on a day where I was emotionally struggling, probably harder than I ever have. It causes me to stop and wonder… how often do we support our friends without even realizing it? In those moments where the struggle is not so obvious, how often do we unknowingly step into that space, lend a hand, and lift our friend up?

 

Ch-ch-ch-changes

 

I’ve had many groups of friends over the course of my life. Some friendships formed through proximity (school, work), others through common interests, and others through shared beliefs or lived experiences. Some have remained generally constant, while others have ebbed and flowed over the years. When life has taken us different directions, some have quietly faded into the background while a painful few have been quickly cut off at the roots. As I’m going through a pretty prolonged and complicated period of self-discovery, I’m fascinated at how some friends and I are growing closer, and viewing life through similar lenses – sometimes after long absences from each other’s lives – while others who were much closer to me when I thought, talked, and believed a certain way have faded into the background. For the most part, I really do think there’s a lot of truth to that quote about friends being for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Sometimes, it’s painful and fascinating to learn which friends are in your life for what period of time.

 

Hands and Feet

 

I’m just going to come out and say it. Sometimes, adulting sucks. There’s big stuff – like moving, starting a family, getting a new job, experiencing illness or loss… you get the idea. Friends are regularly present for such events – and if they can’t be, their absence adds pain (sometimes more pain) to those big life experiences.

But friends show up in the little ways, too. It’s boring to buy groceries and go to the post office and clean your house. Sometimes, though, you can reconnect with friends and neighbors just by doing those adult things. Just last week, Ben and I ran into a neighbor and friend in the produce store we’ve been shopping at for years. We chatted and reconnected just while waiting in line. Sometimes, a friend who works in my office building will ask me if I’m going to a certain area she’s going anyway – sometimes I am – and we end up shopping or mailing packages and chatting about life. Another will join me on a run – seeming to pick those days where I REALLY don’t wanna! – and keep pushing for me to work hard and do well.

 

“I Want What’s Best for You… but I Love you As you Are”

 

I am truly blessed to have some of the most honest friends in the world. Sometimes that means telling me some uncomfortable truths about myself – especially if I ask directly. Sometimes I get told when I’m being too demanding; other times I’m reminded that I’m overloading a friend with my own emotional baggage. As painful as these conversations are sometimes, I’m glad that friends love me enough to tell me these things before they fester into resentment and anger.

And while it’s so important for friends to love us for who we are – and I am blessed to have friends who love me for me – they also cheer us on when we expand our horizons. When I first told one friend that I was thinking about signing up for a half-marathon on my upcoming trip, the first thing she said was “do it!” Sometimes you need a friend to talk you through a situation – finding all the angles, asking questions for you to consider – and other times you need a friend to just give you the push to go for it. I’m blessed to have friends who can – and do – do both.

 

I Could Go On… but What About You?

 

There are so many other things that make good friends, but these have affected me most deeply lately. If you recognize yourself in this post, thanks for being my friend; if you don’t, this in no way diminishes my love for you or how much I value our friendship.

What about you? What makes a good friend? Have you had an experience where a friend appeared from an unexpected place, or supported you without even knowing it?

Tell me about it in the comments below!

“You’re SO brave!”

25 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by in blindness

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

“You are SO brave!”
I hear this phrase a lot. Maybe not as much as I used to, but I do hear it, usually relating to the fact that I’m a blind person who works, has a thriving jewelry-making business, and/or gets out of bed in the morning. I don’t think of myself as particularly brave for doing any of these things, and yet many people bestow this attribute on me.
But there was a time in my life where I heard that phrase – “You’re SO Brave!” – a lot more frequently. I hated to hear it, because I thought it was inaccurate, but looking back, maybe not so much.
This morning, I got an email wishing me a happy 13 years of patronage at the Edmonton Public Library.
THIRTEEN YEARS!
It seems like so very long ago, when I packed up everything I owned, effectively transplanting enough furniture to fill an entire apartment, and sinking my entire life savings into rent for my apartment’s six-month lease. I did this, moving to a city where I knew a grand total of one person – not well – with no job, no work experience, and nothing but a hope and a prayer that I would get one in the near future.
Thirteen years ago – almost to the day – my friends and I stayed up until 2:00 in the morning, eating junk food and drinking pop (we were straight-laced kids) and playing endless rounds of card games. I remember thinking it was pointless to try and get any sleep, since I had a flight to catch at some horribly early hour. Thirteen years ago – almost to the day – I slept through the entire flight, and my mom had to wake me up so I could get off the plane. My furniture hadn’t arrived at my apartment yet, so Mom and I slept on the floor in sleeping bags and I tried hard not to kick the lamp we bought and set on the floor to provide a little light into my apartment’s dark corners. I had the power turned on, but before I contacted phone and Internet providers, Mom and I took the train to the downtown branch of the Edmonton Public Library. I’m such a bookworm that I had a library card before I had phone, Internet, food, and more clothes than those that fit into my wobbly rolling suitcase.
My furniture took over a week to arrive, so Mom left me alone in that apartment for five or six days, where I slept in the sleeping bag on my living room floor until she arrived again on the same day my furniture appeared.
None of this made me feel particularly brave, and yet, over and over and over again, I heard it. “You’re so brave!”
The one person I knew in Edmonton took me under their wing. I was welcomed into their home and community for holidays, gatherings and a Christmas production where everything went horribly wrong. When they would introduce me as their “friend from Vancouver,” who moved to Edmonton for job prospects, and was building a life here, I heard it.
“You’re so brave.”
Months went by where I lived on very little. My parents helped me out when they could, but I lived on a lot of noodles and the kindness of neighbors and newfound friends – some of whom would invite me over for dinner or bring me oranges from their grocery shopping trip. The first job I got was a part-time gig, but it enabled me to renew my apartment’s lease for a year, spring for the occasional pizza, and explore other opportunities (some of which fell flat on their face). Some months I barely made rent – one memorable month I supplemented my income by making balloon animals at a downtown Canada Day festivity. I paid my rent at 10:00 PM on July 1 and lived on heaven-knows-what until I got myself another job later in the month.
Many friends and family back home – and new acquaintances and friends in Edmonton – told me I was so brave for doing all this, but for me it was a matter of emotional survival. The more I heard it – “You’re SO brave!” – the more I wanted to scream. To me, it was about simple mathematics: cheap rent plus job opportunities equals hope. Living at home minus career opportunities equals despair. To me, at age twenty, bravery had nothing to do with anything; to me, I couldn’t just keep doing the same thing over and over and over again an expect different results, so I made a change.
A big change.
A brave change.
Over the last thirteen years, I’ve borrowed hundreds – no, thousands – of books in various formats from the library. I’ve worked an amazing amount of jobs and gone through stretches of unemployment. I’ve married, bought a home, built a life.
And you know what?
I was brave.
But I’m glad I didn’t see myself that way all those years ago. Because if I had, I might have talked myself out of it in the first place. Or held myself up as some inspirational figure. Or denied myself some opportunities because they were “beneath me.”
To me, all those years ago, I did what needed to be done, and in hindsight, I did something brave.
Even now, as I’ve explored new career paths, begun planning an amazing trip, I don’t see myself as brave. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe in the moment, we shouldn’t see our spontaneous or daring actions as “brave.” Maybe, the next time someone comes up to me and tells me I’m brave for getting out there and living my life with blindness, I’ll remember this time in my life, smile at them, and say thank you.
Because they would not be entirely wrong.

What about you? What has made you brave? What has stopped you from doing something possibly scary but that you know will make you grow? What will light that spark in you?

Crying Wolf!: Or, What it’s like to have a Blind-friendly Cat

03 Saturday Jun 2017

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Two months ago, after days of hand-feeding and hoping and remembering and crying and realizing it was the end, we said goodbye to our beautiful Russian Blue kitten, Dash. Her ashes – along with her collar and a few tufts of fur – currently sit in a box on a windowsill where she can enjoy the sunbeams until she’s laid to rest permanently. Two ceramic pawprints with her name in raised letters sit on my computer table, where she would climb up for snuggles, as a testament that says “Dash was here.”

But Dash WAS here, and a hole opened up in our little kitty kingdom. The Boy cat and Jenny consoled each other somewhat, but they each grieved in their own ways. Annie started pacing back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone, demanding my attention, something only Dasher ever did. I could hear the echo of Dash’s meow at unexpected moments and it stabbed me in the heart, while Ben sought comfort in the other critters. We knew, very quickly, that we needed to give another Russian Blue a good home.

And we quickly found one.

Wolfie the Photogenic Kitten

We saw Wolf’s picture on the SCARS Web site only a few weeks after Dasher’s death, and we knew she was the kitty we could help, and she was the kitty who could help fill that empty space. The look on her face, and the fact that she needed to be around other kitties told us that we would all be a perfect fit. From the instant we met her, she allowed us to play with her, to pick her up, to show us her sassy side. At only six months old, she showed us that she wasn’t afraid to holdd her own against more dominant cats, and she clearly needed other kitties so she wouldn’t feel like she was all by herself.

From the moment we brought her home, she possessed such confidence and security. She did not spend one minute hiding, but instead made herself comfortable on the arms of our couches, watching everything around her, as if to ccalmly tell the other kitties, “I’m here, I’m exploring, I’m figuring out my own place in this pecking order… you, deal with it.” Within only a few weeks, she went from a clumsy uncoordinated six-month-old kitten to a growing, purring, playful bundle of energy. She and the Boy wrestled and played not long after Wolfie came home, and the difference in the Boy, too, was startling.

It’s fun, learning how to communicate with a new, young cat. We’d taken for granted the quirks of Annie, Dash and Wayne, knowing on instinct their favorite toys or when they preferred snuggles or how they liked to tell us to please for the love of God change the litter boxes. Wolfie through all of that into disarray. We learned very quickly that the way to her heart is toy mice, that she and the Boy will stand side by side when food is poured into the bowls, that her favorite sound is the sound her claws make while she tries to climb up the window screens. She has different meows that we’re still trying to decipher, but most of them seem to indicate a brief, “Hi! I’m here!” She doesn’t seem to like the bell on her collar or her license tag, as evidenced by the fact that she can crane her neck down and bite at the tag at any opportunity. Wolfie has no interest in going outside, but she loves to spend hours in the breeze by the back door.

But why would I say she is a blind-friendly cat?

With me, she is not silent. Ever. She actually comes to her name about 80% of the time. The rest of the time, when I call her, she will announce her presence with a quick meow or a jingle of her collar. If I put my hand down after calling her, she will put her nose up against my fingers, then let me pick her up for a snuggle. Even if I’m near her, petting another kitty, her loud kittenish purr gives her location away instantly. She communicates in her own way with Ben, of course, but I’ve learned she only seems to do these things with me, as though she understands that if she wants to get my attention, tactile and verbal cues are the way to do it.

Wolfie will never replace Dash, not really. But some of her quirks make it feel like Dasher is still here with us. Sometimes, we have to stop ourselves from calling Wolf “Dash”. That gets easier with time, and as Wolf grows into a more confident, stronger kitty. She’s slid herself into our kitty kingdom almost seamlessly; and even though she and Dasher never met, I think they would’ve been friends.

Welcome home, Wolfie. We’re happy to have given you a fur-ever home. Thank you for loving us, for making us laugh, for keeping us on our toes. And Dasher… if you sent us this kitty, thank you, too, sweet girl. Enjoy your sunbeams.

Rest in Peace… While I fall Apart

04 Tuesday Apr 2017

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

I’m writing this post in the hope that I don’t have to post it. But if you are reading this, it’s a sad day in our home today. Last night, we said goodbye to our cat, Dash, after a sudden, fierce illness that we can’t completely explain. If you are reading this, Ben and I decided as a couple that the kindest thing was to let her go. I am writing this with tears running down my face, but I’m writing this now, days before the end, when I can still remember Dasher’s meow and her purr and the way she demanded attention until she decided seemingly arbitrarily that it wasn’t needed anymore. By the time this post is published – if it is published at all – it’s been nearly 24 hours since we held Dash in our arms, buried our faces into her soft fur coat, and said our farewells. It’s been nearly 24 hours since we cried at the kindness shown by the vet clinic, lighting a candle with a sign that said someone was mourning their beloved pet. While I still remember her for the gentle fighter and protective cat she is, not how she was during the last week of her life, I want everyone to know her for the quirky ball of CAT that was Dash.

Dash and Wayne settling in for the Winter

Dear Dash,

I don’t know if I ever told you these stories while you were curled up with me at night, while your purr rumbled me to sleep, while I laughed at your high-pitched, attention-seeking “Meeeeeeeeeeow!” But you’ve been part of this family almost as long as our little family existed, and my heart aches that you’re no longer making memories with us.

Ben and I talked about you, Dash… in the way of many conversations like this. The “We should get another cat… someday” conversation we had not long after we got married. We had Annie, of course, but another cat seemed like a good idea… in a someday-we-will sort of way. That summer day in 2008, we visited friends on a farm and were told one of their barn cats had just had kittens. I sat on their back porch and a little gray ball of fluff came up and demanded my attention. I lifted it up in my arms and it purred contentedly and I asked it if I could take it home. Ben was playing football with the guys, but when he came back to the porch, this same ball of fluff – you – curled up on his chest and fell fast asleep. He looked and me and asked if we could take you home. How could I say no? We drove to a friend’s house and grabbed a diaper box to drive you home in. Somehow, on that trip home, we named you Dash, and your little kitty paws and your big-kitty purr stole our hearts.

You became your name, Dash, sneaking out of the house at every opportunity, destroying Ben’s glasses your first night home, trying so hard to charm Annie who was singularly disinterested. You grew into a cat who was so particular about the “right” way to come up for cuddles (pacing back and forth three times, then hopping up), insisting there was only one way to climb up on the bed (always using my nightstand and boombox), creating the nightly ritual of sticking your paw between bed and headboard and batting at our heads, even straightening a painting you knocked askew during one of your “kitty crazies.” Trees held a fascination for you, until you tried to climb one and nearly choked yourself when you suddenly realized how high you were… and then you ran home in a huff. You broke yourself out of the habit of jumping onto the dining room table by falling through it when we took the tabletop off for refinishing. All these years later, we still laugh at your kittenness, and we never stopped calling you “Kitten”.

You grew older and wiser, your body filling out and matching the size of your big long tail, your formerly loud purr (once nicknamed the buzz saw) turning into a deep rumble. I used to ask you where you got your gorgeous gray fur coat, and for some reason you would never divulge that secret to me.

You hated us moving to our big scary house. There were all these places to go and explore, but it was too much for you. You climbed up on the kitchen counter and tried to melt into the particle board. Annie tried to comfort you but jumped down when she saw that we noticed her. But you owned this house, you made it your own, finding all the cool hiding spaces in the ceiling tiles and jumping into the windows anytime you could.

Not long after we moved in, we brought home… a new cat. he was a boy cat who wanted to be everybody’s friend. Annie grew annoyed with him quickly, and I think the two of you conspired to barricade him in the litter box. But somewhere along the way, though, you and Wayne (the Boy) became friends. You would run and play and wrestle all the time, even slowing down once to let me feel how you played.

Over the years, you’ve been the negotiator in the kitty kingdom. You’ve quietly put Annie in her place, befriended the Boy so much that when he ran away you moped around the house for a week until he came home. You befriended Jenny, this enthusiastic spitfire of a dog, showing her with patience and gentleness how to interact with kitties. Your farm-cat skills came in handy whenever a mouse crossed the threshold of our home. You loved being outside in the back yard, rolling around in the dirt. And if you snuck outside between my feet, after a few minutes you would hang around on the neighbor’s fence, meowing your head off because being outside wasn’t fun anymore. You love boxes so much that we leave empty Amazon boxes around the house just so you could have somewhere to nest… so much that when we said goodbye to you, we chose a box rather than an urn for your ashes – you would’ve turned your nose up at the urn, anyway.

Dash – the Box Cat

I would give anything for one more cuddle with you, Dasher. One more snuggle with that deep purr rumbling against my chest. One more time laughing at your back-and-forth back-and-forth back-and-forth JUMP! onto my lap on the couch. One more time that you and Jenny negotiate the best way to share the sunbeam streaming through the window, or the best configuration to share her doggie bed. One more time wondering what you’re “meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeowing” about. One more time getting my attention by stepping on my foot. One more time that you’re so happy to be with me – and I am NOT done petting you, thank you very much! – that you’re biting my wedding ring and purring at the same time.

I want to remember you for all these things, Dash, because that’s who you were. You were funny and quirky and standoffish and SUCH a wonderful cat.

I’ll never forget you.

Rest in peace, Kitten. May you find all the boxes to sleep in and all the dirt to roll in and all of the cuddles you want ONLY when you want them.

Goodbye, my sweet girl… You’re not hurting anymore.

When Life just Doesn’t Seem Fair

09 Friday Sep 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

Sometimes, life just doesn’t seem equitable, reasonable, or – dare I say it? – fair. Think of discrimination, ableism, injustice for starters. For the most part, it seems clear that in those instances there is a right and a wrong, a hero and a villain. But what if – as in much of life – there is no hero or villain? What if life seems to go swimmingly for someone you know and love, someone you wish the best for… someone who gets the one thing you’ve fought for, prayed for, dreamed of for so long? And what if you are that friend, relative or loved one, who knows someone who has struggled so much with something that seems to have come to you so easily?
I’ve been there. I’ve been on both ends of this theoretical table, and I can’t say I have any easy answers. A year ago I got myself a shiny new job, with all of the hope that entails, and I felt intensely guilty about having success after a sudden layoff, while many others – with and without disabilities, with a wide variety of skills – were struggling just to get interviews. Now that I’ve been back on the employment journey for several months, I’ve seen many others find the success I’ve previously enjoyed, even while I am struggling and pushing against discrimination disguised as compliments on how inspirational I am. It is their time to shine – it truly is – but while I wish them nothing but happiness, their success makes me both thrilled and miserable simultaneously.

But it’s not only about employment. What about being the “token single” in a huge group full of couples? Or the only (involuntarily) childless couple in your church congregation? Attending or planning a wedding after a messy breakup or the death of a partner is both joyous and heartbreaking…

And those who are rejoicing are often struggling to reconcile their obvious (and reasonable) joy with the thought they can’t laugh as loudly or smile as broadly because they know and love someone who feels like that laughter and those smiles are shots to the heart.

So what do we do? We can’t walk around dressed in metaphorical black all the time – life is full of joy and sorrow, and we can’t deny the existance of either. We all love, hurt, succeed and fail – and those who truly care about us understand that our tears of joy at their celebration mingle with those of frustration or (occasionally) despair that we’re still hoping or fighting or praying for that same thing for ourselves. No true friend or loved one wants to take away the joy and success of another. And when we have that success, we feel guilty in a way – that we can’t sprinkle magic dust on those we love and grant them in equal portion the joy we’ve found through love, birth, employment, celebration.

But, please, I beg you, wherever you are, whatever your circumstances, don’t deny your joy, your pain, your frustration, your love. Those who are struggling, wish all the success and happiness in the world to those of whom you are envious; if they’ve done nothing hurtful or illegal or unethical, they deserve that happiness. And for those who are thrilled beyond words at your new job, expected baby, celebration of love… gently share that joy with us who are currently not as fortunate. In your sensitivity to those fragile feelings of hopelessness and despair, you both acknowledge your happiness (there’s no need to hide it) and the complex emotions of support and envy of those who currently can’t celebrate such success for themselves. And yet… don’t hide it! Please, don’t hide it! Your happiness, success, and joy tells those of us fighting in the trenches – in moments of weakness and darkness and pain – that one day, it will be us, and you’ll be right there cheering us on and lifting us up and holding our hands as we welcome our own joy and success into our lives.

Painting Pictures of Egypt

04 Friday Mar 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, ,

Change is an inevitable part of life – or it should be. Whether moving house, obtaining or losing or changing jobs, attending or leaving school, starting new relationships or ending them, getting married or divorced, having a child, or losing a loved one… we’ve all experienced change in some way or another. Some of these changes are joyous and should be celebrated, some are sad and tragic and need to be mourned, while others are some shades of happiness alongside those of sadness.

 

I started thinking about change this past week when I had an opportunity to visit my family and friends in the Vancouver area. It was a much-needed respite from job-hunting, though I was able to submit resumes and schedule interviews from there, so I guess it wasn’t a true “break” from it. But I found myself shocked at some of the changes in myself, in people I knew and in how they related to me. In her beautiful song, Painting Pictures of Egypt, Sara Groves speaks longingly of where she’s been and where she’s going, how she misses what used to be but has to keep pressing forward. I often found myself thinking of this song during my trip, as even back in Edmonton, parts of my life are in a state of transition.

 

One of the biggest changes that my friends and family were confronted with was the addition of my guide dog. Guide dog travel is different in some ways to cane travel, and I found myself being given landmarks (electrical boxes, flower pots), and then Jenny trying to guide around them. it was a bit of a head trip to me and to those around me, who’ve only seen me with a cane… not to mention an opportunity to learn, yet again, how Jenny works best. It was an opportunity to show grace to myself, my dog, and those around me… and I am ashamed to admit I was not always graceful.

 

One Saturday afternoon, I witnessed two things back to back that highlighted the highs and lows of life. A dear friend from high school got married! It was a beautiful, elegant, but simple wedding that outlined the  deep love and commitment that they had for each other. Not long afterward, I spent time with a relative who currently lives in a care home. This was really hard to handle emotionally, as I hadn’t seen him in several years, and he was not quite fully present in the room with us (frequently asking who I was, etc.) On the heels of a celebration of love, witnessing this change in him was truly sad and painful, even as I sometimes regret what could have been…

 

I have seen over the past few years many people I know who are forced to confront change in a much more direct and personal way. Whether it’s a medical diagnosis, the loss of a spouse, or the sudden onset of disability, I can only look with them and admire their tenacity. many of these circumstances are painful, threatening to cut them to the core, and yet many will reach out with grace and tenacity and grit that even they never knew they had. Even those who struggle through pain are strong in their own way. Many of these people don’t have the luxury of many of us; they truly can’t go back to where they’ve been, or at least live the exact way they used to.

 

Now that I am back home, I am confronted with more changes. Being between jobs is infuriating and invigorating, yet I can’t wait to get back to work. The seasons are changing from winter to spring, which brings on some fun allergies, even as the temperature warms up and I can hear the birds singing. In some ways I want to go back to where I’ve been, but it doesn’t seem to really fit me anymore. I can look forward with one eye over my shoulder back to where I’ve been, or keep both eyes on the road in front of me. Maybe I will go back, maybe I won’t, only time and circumstances can tell that. But in my pictures of Egypt, I won’t be leaving out the painful bits, because I can’t live life with rose-coloured glasses… and life is too messy for all that…