Friday, August 17, 2012

Loss

Our weekends are falling into a pattern.  On Saturday, D does errands and enjoys the pool and the apartment, while I work my 5th day.  That night we stay up late, together, watching movies or reading or going out for dinner.  Sunday, we have a semi-leisurely breakfast time, go to the 9:30  UU service, and plan our afternoon drive.  Often that drive includes pulling over to check out open houses.  We are nowhere near ready to move, financially or organizationally, but we are looking.

Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix.  It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change.  I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.)  The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office.  Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online.  We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.

He has it rough.

So, I was content.  I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke.  Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child."  A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father.  He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people.  The pilot was an ex-Olympian,  so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.

Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer.  It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future.  D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of?  I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad.  And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow.  We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.

I find myself thinking about loss a lot.  I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets.  I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy.  And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.

How much of this is in my control?  And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?

I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes.  While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.

We have no control over the fact of loss.  It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too.  It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve.  In fact, I want to grieve.  I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.

Which brings me back to the real loss.  The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew.  She misses that woman, and I do too.   I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed.  Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.

A room of one's own

D is on a perpetual high, living in this sunny climate, learning a new place and a new job.  He is joyous.  I am not.  I am still struggling with the exhaustion that hit me in 2010, not to mention the long-established sleep disorder (diagnosed in 2008.)  Three years of intense change (new job, layoff, unemployment, remodel, downsize, rental woes, new job, new home, new state, increased rental woes) have not helped.  While I recognize that my life is full of potential and actual joys, I still find myself curled up in a mental fetal position, exhausted and looking for a cave.

Yesterday I worked a long day, and I am going in late this morning to make up for it.  My plan was to sleep until D left for his work, and then get up and do some yoga in homage to AB and BW, who were my one-time Friday morning yoga group.  I then planned to write my morning pages, take care of some business and write this blog, and maybe read a little.

It doesn't work that way, when living in a 2-bedroom apartment with an ADD husband who is high on life.  D got up at some ungodly hour, as is his wont.  In his version of a tiptoe, he went into the living room, shutting the door with his version of quiet care.  Being a clod-hopping 6'4" boy-man, he does not do quiet, but he does try.

I lay curled around my pillow, turned from the doors and lights, listening to music from the computer in the next room, listening to D come into the bedroom, and go out, come back in to take a shower, and go out, come back in to tell me I'm beautiful, and go out, come back in for no known reason, and go out.  And of course I was listening to my thoughts (Portland rental problems, financial problems, plans for work, plans for an editing job, plans to join an orchestra.) Around 7 am I decided to get up and start my day.

He came in twice during my shower to give me a kiss and tell me he loves me.

I went into the 2nd bedroom to dress and decided to plug in the CD player and do some tai chi chuh. I heard his voice from the living room, calling my name with increasing insistency.  I went out, listened to his news, told him I was going to spend some time on personal stuff, and went back to the meditation practice.  He came in, went out, came back in with some coffee, went out, came back in, went out.  I managed 30 minutes of practice, bowed towards Portland, and said "Namaste" to my absent friends and to the universe.

I sat in the 2nd bedroom, curled up on the day bed reading the paper and consuming my coffee and toast. He came in to accuse me of stealing his paper, and then danced to the music in an elephantine version of John Travolta staying alive.  Then he stood in front of the couch, smiling at me until I told him to join me.

Breakfast finished,  I took advantage of the free computer and started taking care of business.  He needed the laptop.  So I took the iPad and began working on that.  He needed the iPad.  I said, let me finish this message.  "Who are you writing to?"  "The Albuquerque Philharmonic."  "Great, I support that."

And just when does he expect me to find the quiet space and time to practice violin?


Sunday, August 5, 2012

A Citizen Scientist wannabe

Many years ago I joined the Cornell Lab of Ornithology as a Citizen Scientist.  What this meant in real terms was that I set up a bird feeder on my deck and counted the visitors for two months one winter.  While I was diligent in recording my observations, I never got good at the identification piece, nor were my findings anything but pedestrian.  To my chagrin, my lovely jungly yard mainly attracted house sparrows and starlings, both invasive species of the most unattractive kind. Juncos were more fun, and I always enjoyed watching them root through the seeds that fell to the deck.  Real sparrows, finches (mainly house finches), also showed up, with the occasional black-capped chickadee (no more than two) and once in a blue moon, the spotted towhee.  And, of course, squirrels.

The cats mainly left the birds alone, which, considering their springtime predations, surprised me. I do remember coming home from a weekend trip to find the deck totally devoid of avian life.  I was inclined to blame the cats, until I looked towards the large cedar overhanging the deck.  There I saw a Cooper's hawk.

I recognized it from previous visits to Chapman School to watch the annual migration of the Vaux Swifts.  For the last few weeks of September, the Audubon Society sets up binoculars for the crowds of picnickers, who settle on the hill above the school, watching the swifts dine on the last of the evening insects before swirling and funneling into the school's tall chimney for their night's rest.  The neighborhood grudgingly tolerates the parking problem, and a nightly show unfolds, ending in a storm of applause as the last swifts whump into the chimney and leftovers take off for the woods in the surrounding hills.  This show regularly includes the presence of a Cooper's Hawk perched on the side of the chimney, biding its time.  Usually it would pick off a swift and make for the nearby trees, but sometimes the swifts would mob it and drive it away.

So, I knew what a Cooper's hawk looked like, and I knew why the birds had deserted my deck. I hated to think of the carnage that took place in my absence, but that too is part of the deal.  These are wild creatures. Predation is the name of the game. While we humans try to mask that part of existence, it's unavoidable.

Still, we do our best to close our eyes to reality.  And in fact, it's difficult to believe that soaring and swooping and chattering is merely part of the birds' hunting and territory-building activities.  It's easier to enjoy the beauty and the variety. So, we set up feeders and baths in our yards and on our decks, we get out our binoculars, we make pilgrimages to migratory stopping places and sanctuaries, we keep journals, we call ourselves Citizen Scientists.  We are thrilled because they are sharing the world with us, but we put them into a mental zoo.

Actually, I cannot truly call myself a Citizen Scientist. I cannot describe birds by the proper terms, I cannot recognize delicate variations in plumage, I mix up their calls, I squint through the binocular lenses but can't find them in the trees.  Hawks, buzzards, kestrels and eagles are all lumped into one category (raptors) and identified by one behavior (soaring.)   Herons are solitary, elegant, sticklike outlines at the water's edge.  Red-wing blackbirds are obvious by their red-wings, and obligingly pose on the barb-wire fences by the roads.

I have accompanied birder friends to coastal marshes and watched the gulls holding their wings out to dry.  A few springs ago,  I joined Holly and M on Audubon's Mt Tabor walks to learn how to identify birdsong, and I kept asking, what's that?  (It was usually a robin.)  I went to an outdoor zoo in Sydney, Australia:  who can help but recognize a parrot?  I have visited Malheur Wildlife Refuge to check out the high desert birds.  My sister and I go to the Mississippi at Keokuk to watch the bald eagles soaring above the dam, my friend Karen and I took an Audubon-sponsored hike on Sauvie Island to do the same. When I first moved to Oregon, I remember hiking up to Nesika with S:  he had a key to the Trails Club lodge in the Gorge, and we would take wild-cat trips.  He soaked his red kerchief in sugar water and hung it from chinks in the log walls of the cabin.  We sat in the adirondack chairs, a short distance away and waited:  sure enough, a hummer arrived to sip on the makeshift feeder, and I took its picture.

It was blurry.

Eventually I owned my own feeder, but I never did manage to lure the hummingbirds to it.  I didn't actually need to.  The deck was surrounded by fruit trees and bushes with large pink horn-shaped flowers.  Clematis flowed up and over the wall, and Oregon grape grew in the jungle-yard.  Hummers became frequent visitors, and it was not unusual for me to be reading in the hammock and hear a buzzing sound.  I would look up and see the hummer, inches away.  I had always thought they could not sit for long without food, and that they didn't like people, but this one was amazingly gregarious.

Now, I'm in New Mexico.  While I'm missing certain parts of Oregon, I don't feel bird-lonely. The apartment complex is home to doves, some small brown birds that I haven't identified, and hummingbirds.  As I walk to the pool, I wade through the aptly-named charm of hummingbirds:  one of the patios has a feeder set out for them.  The doves coo in the morning and perch on the chain link fence by the basketball court.  The little brown birds settle on the grass.  And the hummingbirds hover over the pool, then zip over to the junipers.  They are ubiquitous, and I love it.  (L actually found a newly hatched one, the size of a finger-nail, and nursed it continuously for a few days before it flew off.  Since they need constant nourishment, it was not an easy thing to do.)

Although the New Mexico state bird is the road runner, I think it should be the hummer.  Apparently, New Mexico is home to 17 species of Hummingbirds, summering here before returning to Mexico for the winter.  As even experienced birders find it difficult to identify the various species, I feel off the hook regarding a Citizen Scientist role.  I'm just enjoying them.  A lot.


Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Schrodinger's cat

I am still avoiding my phone.  Mostly, it doesn't matter if I wait a day or so to hear the (usually) bad news and respond to it.  So, I wait.  I wait until I'm not exhausted, not knitting, not watching Judge Judy, not reading, not doing dishes.....in a word, I wait until I feel strong enough to handle the person or problem behind the ring.

I'm not happy about this.  I used to pride myself on my self-discipline and reliability.  I Took Care Of Business.  Now, I take care of myself.  While this is not a bad thing in principle, it is not good in practise.  By avoiding my responsibilities, as represented by my phone,  I take care of myself at the expense of my self-respect and other people's trust.

And, it turns out, at the expense of my cat.

It all started with a call to my voice mail last Friday.  I hadn't looked checked it for two days, hadn't picked up my phone for three.  Wednesday I was charging the phone, and Thursday I was just worn out.  I heard the phone ring around 6:30, and I thought, I don't want to talk to anyone and thus they shouldn't want to talk to me.  (Who wants to talk to a grump with little news and less to say?)  However, on Friday I realized I needed to check back in.  While I'm sure D or people at work will keep me posted regarding the next natural disaster or the beginning of World War III, the more personal things will only be covered by my personal connections.

So, as I left work, I pulled out my phone.  It was 6 p.m., New Mexico time, 5 p.m., Portland time.  Since the New Mexico police are militant about catching drivers with cellphones, I sat in the truck, A/C running, radio muted, and started taking notes.  Oh, I missed sister E's call on Wednesday.  She wants to Skype, and so do I.  Darn.  Someone else called and hung up.  Now it's the Thursday call.....the Woodstock vet?!  Huh? The words are slightly garbled, but it sounds like they have my cat.  How could that be?

Yikes, it's after 5 pm on a Friday.  Most businesses will be closed, but probably not a vet.  I offer up a prayer that the Woodstock Vet is of this enlightened crew and make the call.

The receptionist is confused by my call, which should have been my first warning.  Finally she realizes that they called me first, and I am merely returning the favor.  I have no idea what I am calling about, and I hope she will.

She does.  Ah, yes, your cat Simon (ummm, it's Simone), was brought in Thursday and we found your phone number through her chip.  She is very proud of the fact that the chip is doing it's job.  I'm even more confused:  that chip is 7 years old, and I have not paid the upkeep since the first year.  From all I've read about the chip, you have to maintain the service.  Also, there is no reason Simone should be brought in as a stray.  While she has no collar, she is clearly a pampered kitty with a good home.  (Yes, she has managed to wear me out and I no longer try to replace the collars she ditches within 2 hours of receipt.  It's not the expense, it's the annoyance.)

Besides, I just heard from H this last week.  She sent pix of Simone impersonating a cute internet kitty.  Clearly, E and H are taking proper care of her.


So, what happened?  The receptionist does not know, but she is expecting me to come in to retrieve my cat.  I explain that is not going to happen:  I am in New Mexico.  I ask if she can contact the current caretakers, who I believe should be on file with them.  Louie, their pet of 17 years, was a regular visitor.

Hmmm, that does ring a bell, and she'll make a note that they have permission to pick up Simone, but she is not going to call them.  Nor is she going to call the person who kidnapped my cat and brought her in.  She verifies that the cat they have is a tuxedo kitty, and that's all she can do for me, but she informs me cheerfully that they'll be open until 6 and again on Saturday, 8-4.

So, I panic, trying to reach E and H and spare my poor abused kitty another night in prison.  I can't find their number in my phone, because it's D's old phone.  (I had replaced my laundered phone with his phone, and while they changed the phone number, they did not replace the contacts info.  He has a lot of contacts, but I can't find E and H under any permutations of names and nicknames.  Later I discover that the phone converted Hollybeth into Beth, Holly.  Stupid elecrtonics.)

I call D.  He is en route, having picked up sopapillas and green chili stew for our dinner.  I beg him to call E and H, and when I get home I call their home phone.  Neither of us can reach them, and, as a last ditch effort, I leave an e-mail.

H calls me, but again I miss the phone call.  So, she e-mails me at 12:14 am, and I get that message when I wake up.
So E says there was one day this week when she remembers wondering where Simone got to. (Usually if the weather's nice she's in and out, every couple hours.) And right before Simone came to stay with us, E had to persuade a neighbor across the street that Fela the neighbor cat is a local and not lost. So I guess the vet let neighbor lady take Simone away again and quietly release her back here?
That kitty has her secrets, doesn't she. :)

I reply:
I guess the vet released her, if Simone was back in your hands last night. I talked with the vet at 5 pm yesterday, and Simone was still there, so I frantically was trying to reach you. Apparently she had been imprisoned since Thursday, when the first call came (I seem to be ignoring my phone and my email lately.)
I'm confused.
but as long as she's safe, that's all that matters. Thanks!


H adds to my confusion:
No, she was definitely here every morning when I got up; she's very prompt because I give her wet food for breakfast. And there hasn't been an entire evening when I never saw her, either. I am confused too.
What will be really interesting is if you get another call from the vet saying she's still there.
Simone had a nice day rolling in the dirt in the backyard (why, cat, why?) and playing with Elizabeth's sunglasses.


I had plans to call the vet back and ferret out what happened, but my usual inertia kicked in and I dropped the matter.  However, last night E found me on gmail and we had the following chat:
E: Went down to Woodstock Vet today to see if I could sort out what was going on.  The receptionist was as confused as I was. But we all agree that they don't have Simone.
10:52 PM (Although they apparently did at one point?)
10:53 PM In any case, Simone is having a lovely time in the litterbox as we speak. :-/
***********

11:01 PM me: thank for checking up on that. Weird.
11:02 PM E: Yeah!  For a while, we were all, "Do we have a faux!Simone?"
11:05 PM me:...a faux Simone? not possible, she is unique!
E: I was quite nervous that I'd go down to the vet.....and they'd have a petite and graceful tuxedo kitty...who was quite social and liked to sit on shoulders.
11:06 PM At which point, I'd be all, "So who the fuck did we kidnap from refgoddess' house two months ago??"

me: :)
E: H was all, "If they do have another Simone there, you have to call me RIGHT AWAY."
11:07 PM In case, you know, there were alternate reality implications.  Wouldn't want to catastrophically collapse one reality into another by bringing the two Simones into close proximity.
THAT MIGHT END THE WORLD.

11:11 PM me:  So, did the receptionist actually call me? Did I talk with her? I was under the distinct impression that she had S right there: I asked for a verification and everything. but maybe she was just looking at the report.
11:13 PM E: I never talked to the receptionist that talked to you.  The receptionist I talked to was looking at her notes....and her notes seemed to indicate that Simone was there, even though she wasn't. And the receptionist I talked to didn't understand how Simone could have been there, and then just somehow ended up back in our neighborhood again.
So. Dunno.


And that's where we decide to leave the mystery.  It's late, and I need my sleep.  But the next day I look up the "Schrodinger's cat" thought experiment and I try to explain it to D.  He is not interested, but I think quantum physics might have the answer.  Much as I like alternate reality theories, I don't think they are going to explain how Simone was in two places at once, nor how she teleported herself home.  I am convinced it has something to do with the Copenhagen interpretation.