When grace purrs

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, grace can find you in a parking lot. That’s what happened to me almost 17 years ago when somebody picked up a scrawny feral tabby kitten and dropped it off at my veterinarian’s clinic. A friend who knew I was considering adopting a kitty was in the vet’s office that week and saw her. She immediately thought of me and picked me up to “just” have a look and, well, you know how that turned out. I had to say goodbye to my furry best friend a few weeks ago and my heart still feels like a bag of sawdust. I know you know.

The staff at the vet’s office had named her Tiffany because the markings around her neck resembled a necklace. I appreciated their creativity, but that sounded like a stripper name to me. And besides, I have a tradition of naming cats after towns in Maine. My first cat as a grown-up was named Kittery and she lived to be almost 20. I love Maine and it just feels like a good luck charm to give a kitty a Maine name. I settled on Castine – Cassie for short. A cat’s name should be very singable and Cassie fit the bill perfectly. The vet’s office had estimated that her birthday was March 17^th – St. Paddy’s Day – another good omen.

**Cassie, the cat, not a stripper, wore her necklace well for almost 17 years.**

Our first night together, I lost her. Well, she lost me to be more accurate. She was frightened and crawled into a tiny opening in the back of an end table drawer. I gathered a search party of a handful of friends and we scoured my house for an hour before I pulled out the drawer and found her – a tiny furry ball in the corner. I put her in my bed that night and that’s where she slept for the first few years. We quickly bonded – she let me pet her but she was never happy being in my lap. Spending your first formative months in a parking lot had to be tough, so I respected her boundaries. Funny sidebar: Cassie never looked back once she became an inside cat. I could have left all the doors in the house wide open all night and she would never even step on the threshold. Unlike Adele, Cassie was never going to say hello from the outside again.

But here’s the thing, you can take the kitty out of the parking lot, but it’s really hard to take the parking lot out of the kitty. Cassie was always sweet to me, but she was never going to win Miss Congeniality (understatement). Her standard greeting to other people was a wicked hiss – very intimidating and rather impressive coming from a relatively tiny body. Most of my friends were terrified of her which presented a challenge when I needed someone to feed her when I was out of town. Luckily, my devoted friends Barb and Linda were brave enough to volunteer for this daunting assignment. They have a really good sense of humor and have a running gag of staging two Barbie dolls, the “girls” as they are known, at special occasions like Super Bowl parties and birthdays. One year, I was on the way home from spending time with my sister when Barb and Linda texted me a picture of the Barbies, bloodied and bandaged, with an update on Cassie. I almost cracked a rib laughing and I will never delete that photo from my phone.

**Emergency Room Barbies -that time the girls took care of Cassie.**

Cassie had no use for other animals either. In fact, she could literally scare the shit out of them. My dear friend Lynn has a darling Shih Tzu named Cagney who is the sweetest and friendliest creature on four legs. One day years ago, Lynn and Cagney were over – Lynn was fixing something for me in another room – and Cagney jingled into the sunroom – not seeing that Cassie was perched by the corner of the couch. Cassie released a long chilling hiss and Cagney leapt into the air and out popped one dainty little turd. I did a swift pickup with a paper towel and it was years before I shared the story with Lynn because I knew she would have been mortified.

**Who could blame Cagney? Cassie came from a long line of fierce.**

I always warned people to simply ignore Cassie when they came over – don’t make eye contact I would tell them. Most people thought they would be the one to win her over. Oh, they were so foolish. A mere human is no match for a cat with an attitude. My dear wife was one of the few who took my counsel to heart. Cassie was six when we started dating and my wife literally did not look at her for the first couple of months we were together. And then she started feeding her – a very wise strategy. Also, Cassie never liked big energy – she was less threatened by people who were calm and peaceful – like my wife. She hated my sister (see WAY BIG ENERGY) – which was sad because my sister adores cats. When I told my sister that I was marrying my wife, the first thing she said to me was, “Thank God. Now I won’t have to take care of Cassie if anything happens to you.” True story.

Cassie may have been challenging (okay, threatening) to others, but she was my cat and I was her person. She was my touchstone through some turbulent times and while I might have been making a mess of my life, she was the one constant I could count on, offering me unconditional love every day. She always seemed to know when I needed her to pay more attention to me. I remember times when I was alone and feeling sad and I’d be lying on the couch and she would jump up and lay on the curve of my hip. I couldn’t tell if it was me or her purring when she did that. And she would often be waiting for me in the front window when I came home from work. Her bright eyes saved me on some dark nights.

“*A silky ball of fur inhabitated by a purr.”* ~ Source unknown

Cassie made me laugh, too. She talked a lot and we talked to each other a lot. And my wife and I made up lots of Cassie songs – changing the lyrics to well-known tunes. One of our favorites was Copacabana – Her name was Cassie, she was a show kitty – you know the rest. And whenever we were traveling somewhere we usually gave Cassie a nickname to match our destination. When we went to the British Isles this past summer, Cassie became Cassie O’Lassie. The best one was when we went to Paris and Cassie’s name for the weeks leading up to our departure was Cassoulet. We were so amused with ourselves and Cassie mildly tolerated our shenanigans.

Here’s another true story. The first Thanksgiving we were together, my wife and I went to Columbus, OH to visit Big Energy sister. We were in a beautiful gift shop in German Village the day after Thanksgiving – Christmas decorations were up and holiday music was playing. It could have been the setting for a Hallmark movie. We were standing close to each other and I whispered to my wife, “I want to live with you.” She responded immediately, “Then come live with me. Besides, no one is going to buy your house with Cassie in it.” She was right and Cassie and I packed up the U-Haul and moved to Winston Salem from Greensboro.

**Facebook memories are crushing me these days.**

That was the last time Cassie was in a car until a few weeks ago. Getting her into a cat carrier was like capturing Saddam Hussein. I was lucky that she was never sick and rarely was exposed to other animals, so I did not subject her – or me – to regular vet visits. In late October, we noticed that she was not eating her dry food. We figured she had grown tired of it as cats are known to do sometimes. She was still eating her wet food with gusto and acting normally – even getting the zoomies a couple of times a week. And then I noticed that her mouth looked a little funny and she was drooling – something was wrong. I googled all of these symptoms and concluded she must have a bad tooth. A good friend, who is a veterinarian and a crazy cat lady in all the best ways, referred me to her vet. And I will never be able to thank her enough for that. So, I made an appointment with Dr. Fox – what a great name for a vet – and my wonderful wife rearranged her schedule to leave work a couple of hours early to help me. Our plan to take Cassie by surprise and get her into the carrier was as intricate as the invasion of Normandy. My wife would text me when she left work, then I would quietly but swiftly lift Cassie off of our bed and into the carrier that was sitting on the bedside table. My wife would be in front of our condo with the engine running. We had one chance – there are no do-overs when it comes to capturing a cat.

**Why must you always take pictures of me?**

Looking back on it now, I think Cassie knew her days were numbered. She was not very upset when I nabbed her and only cried a little bit when I put her in the backseat so I could sit by her while my wife drove. Her eyes were as big as saucers, but I kept talking to her and she seemed surprisingly calm. We were lucky that there were no other animals in the waiting room and we were led to an exam room right away. Cassie was okay until the very sweet vet tech came in and introduced himself. He barely got his name out when she startled him with her signature hiss. Fortunately, he was able to control his bowels and asked us several questions. He told us he would take her to the back to weigh her and then the vet would examine her. A few minutes later, we heard what sounded like a small mountain lion screaming. Cassie was having no part of that plan.

Dr. Fox, who looks like a warmer, more huggable version of Nicole Kidman, came in and introduced herself and told us that she would not be able to examine Cassie while she was conscious. No kidding. She told us she would put her in an induction chamber and she would quickly fall asleep and then she could take a look inside her mouth. She left us and then we heard some more screeching – Cassie was not going down without a fight – and then an eerie quiet. Dr. Fox returned and showed us pictures inside Cassie’s mouth. Her teeth were fine, but she was concerned with a thickened area below the gum line of Cassie’s lower left jaw that looked like it could be a growth that is usually cancer.

Fucking cancer. I could feel my heart pounding and I tried not to cry. I knew I needed to have my wits about me to make the best decision for Cassie. Dr. Fox left to do some x-rays and I knew then that I was not going home with my cat. I had already decided that I would not consent to any invasive measures to prolong her life. You see, in one of life’s cruel ironies, my mother died 21 years ago from an oral cancer. She was in unfathomable pain, lost 50 pounds and at the end, could not even swallow water. Oh, and don’t forget the rounds of chemo and radiation that ravaged her body.

Dr. Fox came back to us with the “I have really bad news” look on her face. She gently told us that as she had thought, Cassie most likely had osteosarcoma, an aggressive bone cancer not uncommon in older cats. The x-ray was absolute – we could see the mass in her little jaw. Dr. Fox told us that all treatments would be palliative and that none of them were good. She explained that it was a painful and rapidly growing cancer that would eventually start to eat away at the bone. No. No. No. I was grateful and resolute that I could do for Cassie what I could not do for my mother.

I had to sign some consent forms and choose a container for Cassie’s ashes. Dr. Fox explained what would happen when they brought Cassie back to us and then she said she was so sorry to have met us under these circumstances. Gulp. That’s when we shared a hug. Why can’t our doctors be as compassionate as every veterinarian I’ve ever met? Another tech tenderly carried Cassie in on a blanket and asked if I wanted her in my lap. That made smile – I wasn’t going to make Cassie sit in my lap at the end of her life. So, I put my head next to her on the cold metal table and whispered softly into her ear and held her head while Dr. Fox gave her two injections. And just like that, Cassie was gone. It was all very peaceful and she looked like she was enjoying one of her many extended naps. They told us to take our time with her and to simply open the door leading to the back when we were ready to leave. My wife petted her a little and with a cracking voice said, “She’s so soft.” I kissed her on the head one last time and we left with the empty carrier.

**I hope Kitty Heaven looks just like this.**

It was a grey and chilly evening when we walked into our dark condo with no kitty in the window. And we cried our eyes out. And then we cried some more and shared a bottle of wine and a bag of popcorn and we had a little wake of sorts for our loved one. We told lots of Cassie stories and looked at pictures on our phones. I called my sister and we texted with some close friends.

The first morning without her was the worst. The silence was deafening – Cassie usually sang the song of her people when she heard us stirring in the bedroom. I’ve had plenty of second thoughts about my decision, but I know that bringing her home for a few more weeks would have been selfish. It is a thin line between guilt and grief, but in the end, we can only hope we do right by our faithful companions.

She’s been gone three weeks now and I still keep thinking I hear her patrolling the perimeter at night. It comforts me to think it is her – just making sure we’re okay. I guess some people would say that I rescued Cassie, but we all know that it was the other way around.

**She’s still watching out the front window for me**.

**Wishing you all a very Cassie Christmas**!

Life is a highway

I have a love/hate relationship with surprises. It’s simple – I love being the surpriser and hate being the surprisee. I mean I do love little surprises – like when my dear wife comes home with a case of my favorite wine or a friend sends me a card in the mail when it’s not my birthday. I’m just not a fan of the big surprises – like a party where you never really are surprised, but you have to act like it to make sure everyone else is happy. That is no fun, but I’m all in as the surprise generator and I orchestrated a really good one for my sister over Labor Day weekend.

My sister lives in California but has been on the east coast for business and was visiting her dearest friend from high school – Paige – who lives in Waynesboro, Virginia. We grew up in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley in Harrisonburg – God’s country as my father was fond of saying – so Waynesboro is close to home for us. Paige and my sister have an extraordinary friendship dating back to the 8th grade. I hope to write about it some day in a book – yes, it’s that rich. They will both turn 60 next year, but when they get together, they’re like two teenagers and I was excited to crash their slumber party for one night. Bonus – Paige’s party mix is legendary.

The drive to Waynesboro up U.S. 29N through Virginia is the MapQuest of my life. I have made that drive at least 200 times since I moved to North Carolina in 1995. It was the route I took to visit my parents until they died in 2002. And during that darkest of years as they both succumbed to cancer, I was on autopilot, making that trek on an almost weekly basis. I was a little apprehensive that the drive might stir up some painful memories of that time, but instead, my trip was a comforting collage of many of the best times of my life – trips home for Christmas with my former partner, the car loaded with presents, goodies, and giddy anticipation; drives past miles of burnt sienna colored trees to Charlottesville to meet my folks and my dear friend Chris for a UVA football game; day trips to Lynchburg to visit my favorite aunt who always called me “Love” and made me feel cherished. This was a solo trip, but my car was filled with loved ones past and present.

My mind was so full on the trip up that I sometimes forgot that I was driving. Not in a dangerous way – more like when you enter a drive-thru carwash and slowly pull into the grooves of the tracks and shift your car into neutral and take your foot off the brake. There’s that sudden lurch forward, but then the car is driving itself and you simply let go, knowing that you are safe as you are mesmerized by the spray of changing colors. That’s what Route 29 feels like to me. I was being gently pulled forward in a cocoon of gauze filtered memories.

As if the drive wasn’t already delicious enough, I treated myself to a free Audible trial and listened to a book by Anne Lamott – Almost Everything, Notes on Hope. Lamott is, of course, a wonderful writer and I love to hear her read her own work. It’s like sitting over a cup of coffee with her at the kitchen table. Neither one of us is in a hurry and I feel like she’s speaking directly to me – sometimes a little too directly. She often writes about family – a subject I find heartbreakingly fascinating. Lamott says that “family has to be a cauldron of challenges and loss or we couldn’t grow.” Yep. I feel like I’ve spent a lot of time stooped over that cauldron since my parents died – endlessly stirring lamentations and disappointments. I’m tired.

Lamott shares a story about an uncle that she had a huge row with many years ago – while she was still drinking. A few years after getting sober, she offered an apology to the uncle and he reluctantly accepted. They remained distant and life went on and they both got older and he moved into assisted living. She visits him often now and says that she will miss him when he dies. Lamott explains that our old identities within our families keep us small and that our work, and it is hard work, is to forgive ourselves and our families. For years, my role in my family was that of the dutiful oldest child – a role Lamott describes as “code for filled with rage” – that made me laugh out loud. I was damn good at that job, but when my parents died seven months apart from each other, my identity was obliterated. I desperately clung to a role that no longer existed and set myself up for years of disappointment with unrealistic expectations of others. Lamott describes these expectations as “resentments under construction.” See? She was totally speaking to me.

I could not bear the idea that my perfect family no longer existed. Of course, it never existed – no family is perfect. Lamott says that this journey we call life is mostly about reunion. And she ends the chapter on family with four words that made me almost stop the car – “Don’t bank on never.” These words were a hopeful balm to me as I motored down memory lane.

I thought about a couple of interactions I had had on my birthday last week with two people I hold very dear. We’ve been estranged for many reasons – some quite valid, some tethered to those old identities. Whatever the reasons – the connection with those people gave me a bit of the peace I have been longing for. I felt hopeful that there might be more.

So, I made it to Waynesboro and surprised my sister and Paige – a good surprise I think – at least they made me feel like it was. And we laughed and laughed and shared old stories and inside jokes – the kind of things that families do when they get together. We cried a little, too, when we remembered those no longer with us and some of the hard things we had all been through. When I went to bed that night, my body was tired from holding so much joy. I want more of that tired, please – the restorative tired that connection and reunion bring.

My drive home the next afternoon was lovely. I stopped at the scenic overlook on top of Skyline Drive and stood in the breeze for a good while looking down on the beauty below. There was a family picnicking nearby – just as my family had done many times over the years. They were happy and laughing and I wondered how things get so achingly complicated when it comes to family.

And then I heard dear Anne’s wise voice again – “Don’t bank on never.” And I got back in my car heading towards Route 29 because somehow, that road always leads me home.

**No matter where I live, I will aways be a Virginian.**

Finding grace at Trader Joe’s

I’ve never really enjoyed grocery shopping, but COVID-19 has made me approach this ordinary task like a Navy SEAL. Gone are the days of just running in to pick up something. Grocery shopping today requires strategy – and PPE. Have mask, will shop.

So, I set out yesterday morning and went through my litany. List. Check. Wipes. Check. Sanitizer. Check. Anxiety. Check. I arrived at Trader Joe’s shortly before nine. Shout out to TJ’s – they have done an excellent job of adhering to safe distancing guidelines. There are blue tape strips on the sidewalk outside the store marking the magical six feet and they have a traffic controller outside only allowing so many people in the store at once. Meanwhile, another employee is constantly sanitizing carts. Once in the store – you’ll see more blue strips, reminding you to stay in your lane.

Trader Joe’s is bringing a strong virus game.

No one looks like they’re enjoying their outing. There are plenty of awkward moves as folks try to avoid each other while snagging a beautiful avocado. Things get a little more tense when you approach the bin where the highly sought after Danish Kringle resides. Behold the Kringle, a sinfully delicious Scandinavian flat ring of pastry. Trader Joe’s Kringle even has a calendar. True story – the flavors change every quarter and the most popular one, almond, comes out after Thanksgiving. I’m grateful that the COVID-19 Kringle is raspberry – not my favorite so no reason to risk my life to grab one.

Kringle. It’s not just for Christmas, but pandemics, too!

I got the essentials – Greek yogurt, hummus and wine. And maybe some more wine. I head to the checkout and find myself behind a very elderly woman. It was a warm and sunny morning, but she was wearing a teal raincoat and had a floral scarf wrapped around her head (not her face). And she was wearing sunglasses. Think Little Edie without the cats.

Her cart was full of various canned goods – beans and tuna and such. She asked the cashier to give her a running total of what she was purchasing. Yes, I had definitely picked the wrong line (per usual) and as I rolled my eyes, I surveyed an escape route. I decided a pandemic is no time to be changing lines and took a deep breath. I must remind myself to do this several times a day now.

Meanwhile, the cashier was patiently and kindly calling out the total to Edie. When the grand total was announced – something close to $60, Edie started pulling out items for the cashier to remove from her bill. Clearly, she had a budget and she was not going over it. I thought for a moment of offering to pay for the discarded items, but there was the bold blue tape reminding me to stay where I was, and I wanted to respect this woman’s space and privacy. Once she got within her budget, she pulled out a roll of paper bills from her pocket. I’m pretty sure I gasped. Paper bills! Surely that’s where COVID-19 goes camping. The sweet cashier (who was wearing gloves) never missed a beat as she counted the multiple bills and gave the woman her change.

Edie didn’t want her items bagged – she told the cashier that she had plenty of room in her trunk. Then the cashier thanked her – again, most cheerfully – and told her she hoped she would enjoy the beautiful day. I was mesmerized by her genuine benevolence to this rather eccentric woman. Surely it could have gone another way with a different cashier.

She greeted me and I took my place in front of her plexiglass shield. And then I heard my own muffled mask voice speaking to her, “You were so kind and patient with that woman. You are a lovely person.” Once it was out, there was nowhere to go. She looked at me a bit surprised, but not startled and as she started to respond to me, I could tell she was tearing up. She said, “That is such a nice thing for you to say. Thank you.” And then I teared up and we both looked at each other through our masks and the plexiglass and into each other’s eyes. And I knew that she was smiling, too. It was the most intimate moment that I’ve experienced during this wretched quarantine. It felt like the passing of the peace.

Two strangers sharing communion through the plexiglass of a pandemic.

I’m fairly certain this is how we save each other.

It found me at Trader Joe’s and took me to a place I was longing for.

The myth of the ruby slippers

Anne Lamott, one of my favorite authors and a certified treasure to humanity, has some simple and direct advice when it comes to writing. It goes like this: “Butt in chair. Start each day anywhere. Let yourself do it badly. Just take one passage at a time. Get butt back in chair.”

I’ve been writing – or pretending to write – this blog post for months and it’s high time I got my butt back in the chair, although it’s not always a bad thing to let a piece of writing sit for a bit. I’ve found it often marinates into something richer than it might have been. I guess it could also grow mold, but I’m hoping that’s not the case with this post.

My original piece was going to be a reflection on my summer sabbatical in California and the importance of place in my life. For some reason I stopped working on it in early November and well, somehow the daffodils are now in bloom. To be honest, I know the some reason was that the holiday season is a roller coaster of emotions for me (and a bazillion other people).

Me as soon as I see the first Lexus Christmas commercial.

A typical day for me during that time from Thanksgiving to Christmas is not unlike a NC weather forecast – sunny skies early, thunderstorms in the afternoon, some containing hail and heavy winds, followed by partial clearing. In short, I’m all over the place – which is where this post originated – place.

When I returned from my summer (a civilized no humidity summer) in California, I began thinking a lot about Dorothy – yeah, that young girl from Kansas. Or was it Missouri? How was she so very certain that there’s no place like home? Maybe it was those ruby slippers that fortified her resolve. Me? I’m more of an Allbirds kind of girl and when I bump my rubber heels together, well, there’s no magic.

Don’t get me wrong – I was delighted to be back with my dear wife, but it hit me when my return flight approached PTI that my connection to North Carolina becomes more tenuous each time I leave this state. It was dark as we made our descent and I could see the lights of familiar places, but I didn’t feel much different than when I landed in Atlanta on my layover. I realized that Winston Salem is a destination for me, but it doesn’t feel like home. It never has.

I envied those passengers I heard talking about how good it was to be home and I tried to remember when I last had that feeling. It made me sad that I really had to think about it. I suppose I would have to go back several years ago to when my parents were still alive.

The truth is that I’ve always felt like an accidental tourist in North Carolina. I moved here in 1995 when my partner at the time was recruited for a good job opportunity. I was a Virginian for the first 39 years of my life, and I had always thought of myself as a southerner – until I arrived in the Old North State. I’ll never forget my first trip to the post office and after a brief conversation with the clerk behind the counter, he looked at me a bit suspiciously and said, “You’re not from around here.” Not a question. I felt like I was in one of those old Westerns and waited for him to say, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.” He wasn’t unfriendly, but his statement surprised me and before I could respond, he asked if was from up north. I said, “Yes. Northern Virginia.” He nodded slowly and told me he thought I was from New York City. That’s exactly how he said – true story.

My first trip to a NC post office. He didn’t make my day.

That memory is harmlessly amusing and oddly affirming to me today as I ponder the nuances of home. NC is never going to be home to me no matter how long I live here. And that’s okay, because I figured out this summer that for some of us, home is more abstract than an address. Most often for me, it’s a state of mind – and heart.

I talked to Kelly, my hairdresser/therapist/dear friend about this recently. She’s married and has two young children and moved to this area in her late teens. I asked her what popped into her head when she thinks of the word home. She took her time answering and said, “Home is the place I feel most filled.” I think I startled her when I responded, quite enthusiastically, “Yes, yes, that’s it.” I’m so lucky that my hair stylist completes me.

For some of us, home is not an address or a house. It’s a space where we feel in harmony with the world. Maybe it’s not even a space – it can be a sound or a smell. The Episcopal church I grew up in had a musty woody smell when you entered the front door. I left the church for several decades as an adult and when I made my way back to a small church in Greensboro on Easter Sunday in 2007, that same smell engulfed me like a hug. I was home.

The red door of just about any Episcopal church feels like home to me. This one is All Saint’s in Greensboro, NC. Watercolor by Mike Tiddy.

And I suppose that my church here in Winston Salem is one of the physical spaces that feels most like home to me these days. And that was certainly the case this holiday season. Church was a sanctuary for me in all manner of ways.

My mother died almost twenty years ago, but I’m still stopped in my tracks when I smell Chanel No. 5. That was her perfume. The morning after she died, I walked into her closet just to breathe in that scent still lingering on some of her clothing. I felt comforted. I was home.

Tastes can feel like home, too. My father always made oyster stew for breakfast on Christmas morning. Hey, don’t judge, I’m from Virginia and we didn’t have Moravian sugar cake. The first Christmas without him, I steeled myself over the stove to try and replicate his no-recipe recipe. It must have been divine intervention, because I came pretty darn close. I remember taking a deep breath before that first taste and there it was – that familiar briny tang.

I spent some time in Charlottesville over New Year’s – a place I lived for over a decade. Several times during my stay, my heart felt full – most especially when I shared time with my friend of over three decades, Chris. She and her husband Ed live on a farm in Crozet, just outside of Charlottesville. The farm has long been the backdrop for all sorts of celebrations – including a memorable 4th of July when we almost burned the front yard down. Our bad – Ed did warn us that the grass was too dry for sparklers.

Friends since the first Reagan administration. Hoping to live long enough to see a Democrat in the White House again.

Chris and Ed were both so dear to my parents – in life and death – and it is an abiding comfort to me to have such a rich history with them. Their house feels like home. And hugging Ed reminds me of being in my father’s arms – he’s a strong but kind man like my dad and he’s okay with me crying into his warm flannel shirt. And just like my dad, he is always so happy to see me. He greeted me this time with perhaps the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. “Addy, you know we just sort of set our watches until the next time we see you.” I mean, who says that? Ed does. And then I cry.

I often feel at home in nature and what a glorious gift that is. I’ve always enjoyed walking, but after the apocalypse of November 8, 2016, walking became a spiritual practice for me. Yes, it’s good exercise, but it also gets me away from the turmoil of our BREAKING NEWS world. There are just so many screaming words flying back and forth, and I for one would much rather hear the tweet of a bird over one from a president.

It’s taken me a long time to accept that for me, home will probably always be a moving target, a fleeting yet often visceral moment. On my best days, there are several moments when I feel at home and as Kelly said, I am filled in glorious ways.

Mary Oliver, the beloved goddess of poetry who passed away last year, exquisitely captures the feeling of home in the poem below. I read it at my best friend’s wedding several years ago outside on a warm day in May while her dog barked. It was perfect.

Coming Home

by Mary Oliver

When we are driving in the dark,
on the long road to Provincetown,
when we are weary,
when the buildings and the scrub pines lose their familiar look,
I imagine us rising from the speeding car.
I imagine us seeing everything from another place–
the top of one of the pale dunes, or the deep and nameless
fields of the sea.
And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us,
but which we cherish.
And what we see is our life moving like that
along the dark edges of everything,
headlights sweeping the blackness,
believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things.
Looking out for sorrow,
slowing down for happiness,
making all the right turns
right down to the thumping barriers to the sea,
the swirling waves,
the narrow streets, the houses,
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongs
to you and me.

I’m glad Dorothy made it back to Kansas, but I’m going to just keep trying to enjoy the ride home wherever it takes me. You see, for some of us, there’s no home like place.

When a familiar view feels like home. Holidays up on the farm.

Do you hear what I hear?

The Scream

“I have passed through the initial five stages of grief: Denial anger bargaining depression and acceptance. Now I am in fascination–cobra hypnosis, newly apoplectic every day by the latest. I believe I have actually keened within recent memory. At this rate, i may have a flickering tic in my eye by sundown.” ~ Anne Lamott in a recent post-election Facebook post

As usual, author Anne Lamott writes what’s in my head only it sounds almost lyrical instead of the ALL CAPS RAGE AND DESPAIR that marinates inside me these days. Oh, and my eye tic has manifested as a pain in my right arm. No, not the heart attack kind of arm pain. It hurts the most when I undo my bra. Sorry, if that’s too much information from this nasty woman. My doctor, Web MD, says that this could indicate stress in the rotator cuff muscles. My symptoms started shortly after FBI Director James Comey released his now infamous letter to Congress regarding Hillary Clinton’s damn emails 10 days before the election. Coincidence? I think not. Case closed.

Lamott also writes about stress eating during these troubling times. I have no doubt that Weight Watchers will be inundated with an influx of chubby liberals come January. Carbs are one of our sole/soul comforts these days. If it weren’t so unbelievably frightening, it would be funny. Lamott prefers Oreos and Cheerios. I feel for her because her options are limited. She’s been in recovery for over 30 years, so wine is not a viable option for her. By the way, did you know that Aldi’s carries some decent wine? What? A friend told me – just putting it out there.

Limiting myself to just one glass a day.

I ran into a dear and much admired colleague right after the election. I was leaving a professional function as she was pulling into the parking lot. She put her window down and we lamented together about the results and she picked up a McDonald’s cheeseburger sitting on the passenger seat next to her, took a big bite and garbled, “Look, I’m stress eating!” She’s a very petite and trim woman which made the whole thing even more amusing to me.

I’m trying to practice good self-care so I’m pretty much in a news blackout, which I guess is not really that different from the actual campaign, right? There was so little news about policies and issues. It was Reality TV at its very worst and it helped elect the least qualified presidential candidate in the history of our great nation. We were punked. Bigly. Faux news is the new news. (I just got one of those shooting pains in my shoulder.)

So I’m under a TV blackout except for every liberal’s lifeline these days. Yes, on the eighth day, God created Netflix. And it was good. And ironically, the show saving me in this post-apocalyptic election world is one about a monarchy – The Crown. If you’re reading my blog, you’re most likely watching The Crown, too, but for those in the royal dark, the series is about the early reign of Queen Elizabeth II. It’s a fascinating behind the scenes look at her marriage to Price Phillip and her relationship with Prime Minister Winston Churchill. And it’s a glorious diversion from the reality of the Park Avenue president-elect only without as much gilded furniture.

Who needs term limits?

I haven’t been able to give up social media but I’ve made my Facebook world a kinder, gentler place. And for the record, I think “unfriending” is a misnomer. We can be friends in REAL life and not be “friends” on Facebook because in real life, I might not ever know that you get your news from Breitbart or that you really think that all Muslims should be deported. Another irony – people are more their real selves behind a keyboard than in actual conversation. Social media is like HD TV – it makes all your warts and blemishes that much bigger.

And honestly, it makes it easier for me and my wife to worship with you at church if I don’t know that you supported a ticket that opposes our marriage. What I don’t know can’t hurt my heart. And spare me the “how can we ever find unity if we don’t talk about our differences” crap. Tell me what I should have said to a friend I have known since the 7^th grade when she accused Michelle Obama of being a “race baiter” because she talked about the White House being built by slaves. There is no middle ground to find on scorched earth.

I haven’t slept through the night since the Cubs won the Word Series. Granted, that was a short night since the game didn’t end until after 1 AM. I’m not much for drugs but Tylenol PM has been my constant companion. But even with my version of the little blue pill, I still wake up at 2 AM and immediately start worrying about so many of the things I care about. Many – most actually – of the folks closest to me are feeling the same way and while often comforting, it can be an exhausting burden, too – trying to be present to their pain while holding my own.

My best friend from college is a chaplain in California at a large urban hospital. She is a woman and she is gay and she is Muslim. Damn, there goes my shoulder again. She’s struggling and she has to be available to everyone she encounters in her work – there can be no “others” in her day. She has observed that it is only white people who ask her if she’s okay – because she doesn’t seem “like herself”. She’s come up with a brilliant response. She tells people that she is “soul sick”. And there ain’t enough chicken soup in the world for this kind of sick.

I’ve been going to the movies – always a balm for me. I can highly recommend Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Fantasy is so superior to reality these days. And I just want to pinch Eddie Redmayne’s ginger cheek. Spoiler alert: Love really does trump hate in this movie.

But I made the mistake of going to Costco the other day. How can it be time for Christmas again already? The decorations made me feel disoriented – like going into a Christmas shop on the boardwalk when you’re at the beach in July. They seemed garish and out-of-place. Bell ringers are out now, too. I have plenty of valid issues regarding the Salvation Army so I’m never excited to hear those bells, but this year, the tone sounds almost ominous to me. It’s a tolling, not a ring.

A few days ago, my mourning changed to anger – white hot anger about what has happened in our country. My shift was not subtle. It came the moment I read who Trump had appointed as his chief strategist – Steve “Darkness is good” Bannon. Let’s be clear – the term “alt-right” should only ever be used with the word DELETE. Even Sarah Palin knew that if you put lipstick on a Nazi, it’s still a Nazi.

Yep. That was my tipping point. That day I signed up for the Women’s March on Washington – the Saturday following Not My President’s inauguration. Initially, I didn’t think I had it in me – to be in our nation’s capital at such a deplorable time. The last time I marched in Washington was 23 years ago for gay rights. That march changed my life in immeasurable ways. It made me feel empowered to live my life out loud. I hope this march empowers every woman, man and child there to go home and speak up for all of those that this new regime would diminish if given carte blanche. Hell, I might even burn my bra since I may not be able to clasp it anymore by then.

Resistance, my friends.

Jonathan Capehart, a gay black journalist, had a great piece in the Washington Post last week about the palpable fear that many of us are experiencing post-election. A fear that some of our friends – mostly white, mostly male, mostly monied – don’t feel – the fear of being targeted under the new administration. Capehart sums it up here really well: “But here’s what our well-meaning friends, especially those who have not felt the sting of discrimination or even otherness, need to understand. President-elect Trump has made promises that represent a threat to real lives and livelihoods. Some are unconstitutional. All are immoral.”

So, yeah, we others are kind of worked up over all of this. But we still enjoy your pictures of puppies.

Truth be told, it’s all Hillary’s fault that I’m going to the march. Damn her. A week after the election she honored a long-standing speaking engagement at a celebration for the Children’s Defense Fund, a cause near and dear to her broken heart. And God bless her – she showed up looking like – well, me, a few days after the election – no make up, regular going to the grocery store hair and a weary looking face. Twitterverse went wild with commentary – someone saying Hillary had “no more fucks to give” and another speculating that she was raising a middle finger to patriarchy. Whatever, I’m still with her. And it wasn’t how she looked but what she said that kicked my sorry ass.

“I know this isn’t easy, I know that over the past week, a lot of people have asked themselves whether America is the country we thought it was. The divisions laid bare by this election run deep, but please listen to me when I say this. America is worth it. Our children are worth it. Believe in our country, fight for our values and never, ever give up.”

Truth.

I don’t have super powers like Hillary but I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me.

So in January, I will march but what about those damn holidays before us?

Pray for peace, people, everywhere.

And pass the cookies.

I’m still with her and our power’s turned on.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Anne Lamott