Sometimes...

Sometimes, late at night, or when I find myself suddenly awake in the middle of the night, I can feel how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things.  It is more than a feeling, it is a knowing.  I know.  Deep in the recesses on my mind, I know that my life has no significance whatsoever.

Sometimes, when such thoughts and knowings are saturating my consciousness, I realize I am not sad.  But I do feel alone.  Terribly alone.  My sweet daughter. The man who I thought might love me. That friend I adore, or my sisters who connect me to my past...they all fall away.  And I am left alone.  So fucking alone.

Sometimes, when I accept how alone we each are in this world, and how futile is our effort to make a connection with another, I can sense my mind hurtling through space and time.  I am tumbling.  There is no place firm to land.  As I free fall, my heart races, my breath is shallow and I wonder if "this" might be it for me.  There is nothing holding me here on this side of the infinite darkness that surrounds me.  I am lost, yet found, at the same time.

Sometimes, as me and my nothingness hurl thru space and time, one of my cats will jump up on the bed and burrow in close to me.  The soft fur, the breath falls, the warmth of the cat's body...all bring me back.  I'm no longer hurtling into nothingness.  I am here.  With a soft warm purring cat lying next to me.

And sometimes, this is enough.

Potty Brown Creek Ranch

I walk with the dog across the pockmarked drive still moist with dew.  The musky sweet scent of sage, dirt and autumn’s dried leaves fill the air.  Birds are chirping gleefully in distant trees.  The dog stops her eager trot long enough to lift her nose.  I’m certain whatever she smells is much more than morning dew and dried leaves. 

Sunrise streaks across the endless sky, casting its brilliant colors far and wide.  It is possible to see the curvature of the earth out here on the high plains.  I stand at the end of the drive, looking west down the road.  This narrow strip of bare dirt travels in a straight line, piercing fields and pastures and dipping down into arroyos only to rise again to crest another hill.  Power poles dot the horizon.  They and this lonely dirt road are the only signs that maybe there are others out here in the sea of grass and stubble. 

I am filled up by this nothingness.  I drink in the orange streaked endless sky and wrap my body in the barren fields that surround me.  My insignificance, so ardently felt now, somehow nourishes my soul.  I am filled with wonder and hope. I want to drink in the sky's colors and swallow the sweet musky air.  I want to lie down and be absorbed whole by this barren land.  I want to feel it in my bones, and have it course through my veins. 

I don't know why this empty place feels so familiar to me.  Yet, it does.

Watching the ship sink...

You know that terrible feeling you get when you see someone you care about make a series of bad decisions? I’m there now with him and it feels like I’m waiting for a trainwreck.  

This path is well-worn for him.  I don’t know, exactly, what will happen or when, but I do know he can’t keep going the way he is without something giving. Maybe it will be his heart; He hasn’t taken his meds since August.  Maybe he’ll get fired or he’ll fall asleep at the wheel?  How many nights can he go with only two or three hours of sleep?  He’s late getting to work more often then he’s on time.  Maybe he’ll get fired? His cough is relentless.  He hacks and he hacks and he hacks some more - - several times an hour.   People turn their heads to see who is making such a horrid sound. And he can’t seem to catch his breath.  He had to stop for several minutes to breathe while spreading out a blanket the other day.  I exchanged worried glances with the others in the room who witnessed this, but nobody said a thing. 

We all seem to know we are powerless to stop this downward spiral he is in.  It sickens me to observe his unraveling. 

Marcos

I met Marcos when he knocked on my door a couple of months ago as spring was trying to become summer.  He wondered if I had any work he could do.  I never saw him before. He said he lived in the neighborhood and was willing to pull weeds, mow lawns, haul dirt or whatever.  He said he was saving up to buy a car.  I told him I didn't have any work that day but to come back the next week.  I doubted I would ever see him again.
 
A week later my doorbell rang and again there stood Marcos, ready to do whatever job I may have for him.  And again, I had to tell him to come back the next day at 9:00 AM and I promised to have two hours worth of some kind of work for him.
 
The next day Marcos arrived right on time and I put him to work pulling weeds.  I pulled weeds with him and we talked easily with one another as we worked bent over in the back yard.  He talked about the fecal coliform count in the lake, the history of State of Colorado, about bicycles and about the Broncos.  He was somewhat vague about where, exactly he lived.  "Over there a couple of blocks," he'd say, pointing west.  "On Wolff Street?" I asked.  "Yeah.  But closer to the lake."   As one can't get much closer to the lake the Wolff street, I surmised Marcos didn't want me to know where he lived and I dropped the subject.
 
Marcos is a large boy.  Chunky.  And he's very articulate.  As he said he was saving for a car, I figured he was maybe 14 years old.  At the end of our first day working together, however, I learned he was only twelve, leaving me more impressed than ever by his confidence, drive, work ethic and charm.
 
Marcos and I worked out an agreement that if he showed up on Saturdays at 9 AM, I promised to have two hours worth of work for him.  Marcos showed up ever single Saturday on time, often early, and always eager to work.  His was easy company.  I began to look forward to my Saturday mornings with Marcos.  He helped me lay flagstone, plant flowers, weed a garden, stain the back porch and have a two-day yard sale.  I let him manage the cash box for the yard sale.  He was a shrewd salesperson, and was able to accurately calculate the sum total of each sale and make change in his head without error.

During our second Saturday working together, Marcos revealed he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, so I started to provide him with a breakfast burrito along with the $20 he earned.  A few weeks later he said he preferred chili rellenos, so I began leaving him to do the work on his own, while I drove to Santiago's to get him a chile relleno dinner. He always shook my hand and thanked me at the end of each of times together. 

The Fourth of July weekend had us driving Marcos to a firework stand where he spent his hard earned money on fireworks he planned to light that night.  On another Saturday he brought me a spoon rest from Mexico as a thank you gift.  As the summer progressed, I learned a little bit more about his family life.  His was an intact family with both his mom and his dad and a younger sister and an even younger brother.  They were always moving, though, it seemed.  From living "closer to the lake" he moved to a house that required he take a bus to get to my house.  A week later he was asking if I could drop him off at a motel off West Colfax where his family moved to when there was a gas leak in the home they rented the week prior.  Another week found him living with an uncle as the apartment they wanted to rent wasn't available yet.  I began to think Marcos was homeless, but he didn't know it.  He was so smart, and witty and he worked so hard, that I couldn't fathom how such a chaotic situation produced such a delightful young man.  I never saw or met his parents.  Marcos said his dad drove by my house to confirm where his son was going every Saturday morning.  That made me feel a little better about his home situation.

I began enjoying Marcos' company so much, that I kept finding more projects he could help me with.  I networked for him and he started working also for another neighbor.  She, too, was equally impressed with his mature demeanor and with his obvious manners and intelligence. 

But this all came to an end this past weekend.  Saturday I waited for Marcos to appear, but he didn't arrive by 9.  I texted Dan telling him Marcos was a no show.  He shared my concern, as Marcos was punctual about everything.  But several hours later, the doorbell rang and there stood Marcos.  Unable to make eye contact he apologized for being late and hoped he could still do some work for me.  He looked so troubled.  I asked him if everything was okay.  He shook his head "no" and burst into tears on my front porch.

After bringing him inside and getting him a glass of water he was able to finally explain his distraught state was because his dad had been arrested and, "deported again."  He said as this was the third time he was caught, that he'd have to do fifteen years in jail.  As with most of Marcos' stories about his home life, not everything added up.  I knew what shame was like as a kid, so I never pressed him for details and allowed the dots to not connect, trying to accept him at face value.  He was afraid that he'd never see his dad again.  He said all of his dad's bank accounts were frozen and now they didn't have the money that they saved for the apartment.  They were back to sleeping in run down motels along West Colfax.

Marcos was so very distraught as he told me his story in between snot-filled sobs.  My heart broke a thousand times over hearing how much weight was on this precious boy's plate.  He was trying to be the man of the house and come up with solutions.   He wanted to get his brother and sister back-to-school-clothes but his mom was too sad to even get out of bed.

I listened and consoled and wondered silently in my head what I might be able to do.  I resolved to help by getting Marcos a gift card so he could get himself and his siblings those back to school clothes.  He and I drove to the store to get the gift card, and then stopped to get him some food and I dropped him off at his uncle's where they were staying for now, promising that I'd be thinking of ways to help his situation during this next week

Four hours later Marcos calls my on my phone excited because they know where his dad is and all they need is someone with ID to sign him out of jail.

"Whaaaat?"  I asked.  He put his reluctant mother on the phone to explain.  In this first ever conversation with his mom I learn his dad was arrested because he was supposed to go to court for a J-walking ticket he got.  He didn't go to court and the police arrested him because he had an outstanding warrant for failure to appear.  As something similar happened months before to a friend of mine, so the story seemed almost plausible to me.  The mom explained she had all the money to geth im out, but she didn't have ID to sign for him.

Whaaaat?

She said I if I called this other woman, Alma, that Alma could explain what I needed to do to get the dad out of jail.  So I called Alma.

Alma, as it turns out, is a bail bondman and Marcos' mom was wanting me to post bond for her husband, Marcos' dad, a man I never met.  After talking with Alma, I learned the bail had been set at $5500, and I needed to sign a promissory note for $5500 saying I'd pay that amount if Marcos' dad did not appear in court for this violation.

$5500.  Wow.  That was a serious chunk of change for me to put at risk on someone I never met.
I texted the mom what I learned and my reasons for hesitating.  She sent a series of texts begging me to please help them.  The dad had never been in any trouble before, she texted.  He didn't party and he didn't drink.  Said that she didn't even own a car so they weren't a flight risk.  She said they had no family, only his 92 year old mother in Mexico.  She pleaded with me, "for the sake of the children," that I sign the promissory note.  I promised her I would think about it.

And I did.  All evening long.

I considered how Marcos' good manners and work ethic had to come from somewhere.  I considered how Marcos said they were staying with an uncle, how he talked about going to aunt's birthday party and how the mom said they had no family.  I considered how I was on the precipice of selling my house for a $150K profit and how this was one of those very rare moments in my own life in which I did have, in theory, $5500 available to put at risk.

Then I considered how little I really knew about this man, this family and their situation.  I considered how I might explain to my friends and family why I decided to risk $5500 on a stranger.  The bit of good karma I stood to gain was outweighed by all the chump potential this request reeked of.  I resolved I would bail out Marcos in heartbeat for $5500 - - but that I couldn't get comfortable doing this for his dad I never met.

At ten o'clock that night I texted the mom my decision to not help.  She text a simple "thank you."  And that was that.

I am sick inside.  Sick, sick, sick. 

I hope as I put some distance between me and this difficult decision, that I will be able to confirm I am being prudent...and not paranoid.

The fine line between adventures and nightmares

Background:  My older sister, Martha, lived in Cuenca - Ecuador for 32 years, from approx. 1968-2000.  During those years, I traveled twice to live with her and her family.  The first time was when I was 14 years old and the second was when I was 20. When I returned from my first extended stay in Ecuador it was 1972 and I was 15 years old.  Everything in my life was upside down and completely out of control.  My parents divorced. Dad drifted out of the picture.  Mom, my little sister and I were broke beyond belief.  We found ourselves homeless more than once during those months after I first returned.  I remember this as being a desperate time. 

I can still feel the fear, the loneliness and the uncertainty whenever I think back to those years.  I have made choices throughout my adult life that (I thought) were inspired by my never wanting to experience that degree of uncertainty ever again. Those years are why I delayed having children.  Those years are why I stayed married long after the love was gone.  Those years are why I chose a career that was solid and stable - - albeit plodding and dull. 

Last week I was going thru some things of Mom's and found a stack of letters I wrote to Martha after I first returned to the U.S.  Why Mom had them and not Martha, I don't know. 

Like I said, my memory tells me that this was a forlorn and bleak period.  But these letters make my life sound almost gleeful.  I've attached the first letter I wrote during that time.  In it I write about being lonely, having to sleep outside in the cold, not having money for rent, etc.  but it is served up in a basket-full of exclamation marks and teenage humor.  Like, I was living an adventure.  Like, it was all no big deal. 

Which is true?  Have I conjured up that time to be worse that it really was?  Or, did my youth and hormone-infused bravado keep me blissfully unaware of our dire reality?  Which was it... a scary chapter in my life?  Or an exciting adventure?

Ayla

I've been writing you a letter every year since your first birthday, chronicling your journey the past year.  Tomorrow you will have completed twenty two revolutions around the sun,  In that time you have learned to talk, walk, read, write, add, subtract, play the piano, drive a car, achieve a goal, get a job, fall in love and do the right thing. 

This year, I thought your birthday letter should look ahead, instead of back, and muse upon what still lies before you:   A career, a home all unto yourself, a car you want instead of one you can afford, maybe a husband, maybe a child, or two.  You have yet to experience the death of a dear friend.  You haven't faced cancer or some other terrible disease.  You haven't watched your parents fade and become frail - - slow, yes.  But not (yet) frail! You haven't been published, or had a room full of people applaud you for your words.  You haven't become your own best friend. 

Yes.  There is still much loss and heartache before you, but your next decade will be focused on defining who you are in this world.  Your career.  Your most intimate relationships.  Finding a comfortable compromise between your dreams of youth and the realities of life is still ahead of you.

You have built a solid foundation, my sweet thing.  You are a compassionate, hard working, fun and spirited young woman.  You embrace life and all of its diversity with a passion and have a delightful, self-deprecating way of retelling your struggles.  I'd like to think you believe in yourself.  I know I do. 

But so much is unknown to you right now.  I hear your uncertainty.  I sense your fear.  And all I can say is: Don't worry, dear daughter.  I know you will be fine in the years ahead.  You have what it takes to survive.  More than that, you have what it takes to flourish.    

Here's to many years that still lie ahead.  May they be best yet!

I love you more than all the stars in all the universe, and beyond.
YRM (Your Real Momma)

Filling the Void

This is Mama Kitty.  Mama,  for short.  She is our third cat.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Three cats. I know.  But this does NOT make me a Cat Lady.  I checked.  It takes at least four cats (4) before one can be considered a Cat Lady according to Wikipedia.  

But I digress....

I got Mama Kitty shortly after my Mom died.  I was perusing cute puppy and kitty videos during my lunch hour as I (too) often do, when I decided to take a peek at the local shelter's websites.  I like to consider the older dogs.  Dogs over seven years old.  Thankfully there are never many of this ilk, so I can log on, view, and log off - - and still sleep at night.  But that day I decided to look at the cats too.

There are so many cats posted on the shelter sites.  Often twice as many cats as there are dogs. Page after page of felines.  It becomes difficult to differentiate one from another after looking at thirty or forty of these photos.  But on one website, Mama's picture and description, made me pause. She is nine years old and was sheltered in a cage at a nearby pet store for the past two months. She was described as being a sweet and loving cat and, most important, it was said she was used to living with other cats and dogs.

But it was her age and her name that drew me in the most.  Mama.  An old cat named Mama.  This registered as a "sign" to me.  I kept this encounter to myself.  But her picture and description continued to resonate and I found myself logging on to the site every day to see if she was still there.  I felt my heart race as I searched the website hoping (hoping, hoping...) that she was still there.

Several days later I told Dan about Mama and how I wanted to adopt her.  He encouraged me to go get her and after work that day I did.  I drove to the pet store after work only to learn she was no longer there. I felt so sad hearing this.  But then it was explained she developed a respiratory infection and was returned to the shelter that same day to have the infection treated.  I immediately drove to the shelter and, sight unseen, I put $10 down to "hold" her and waited for her to get better.

A week later the shelter called and Dan drove me there in a blinding snowstorm, cat cage in hand.  We visited the roly poly cat who was too frightened to come out from under the table.  Undeterred, I signed the adoption papers and brought her home.

We kept her in the spare bedroom the first week, spending time with her there.  Then we brought the other animals into the room to meet her.  She hissed and postured and hid under the bed.  We started leaving the bedroom door open hoping she might venture out. When she did, she promptly beat the holy hell out of our alpha male cat.  

Mama wasn't a frail older kitty.  Nope.  She was a bad-ass bitch cat. 

The two other cats gave her a wide berth after that and she soon claimed ownership to the entire upstairs.  We waited day after day for her to venture downstairs to the main living area, but she didn't seem to have any interest to co-mingle and be part of the family.  

This wasn't what I had envisioned when I considered adopting her. I thought her age and her gender would make her the bridge between the other animals.  The soothing water.  The neutral zone.  But what she seemed to be, instead, was another source of stress and jealousy.  When I told my good friend Grace about adopting a third cat so soon after Mom's death what Grace said was profound:  "Isn't it curious," she said, "How we can't seem to be comfortable with calm in our lives?  How we alway seek a source of chaos to fill the void?" 

So true.

I reasoned that Mama was more afraid than she was anti-social.  I decided to put her in the dog crate in middle of the family room. Inside the crate she could observe the family activity and be in closer proximity to the other animals - - without me risking another costly visit to the vet. This process seemed to go well enough.  Encouraged, we left the crate door open.  Mama Kitty soon learned to nudge the door open all the way but, rather than cautiously explore this new space, she promptly ran upstairs instead.  I crated her again the next day and brought her back down to the family room only to have her run back upstairs at the first chance.  And I did the same the next day.  And the next...

But after much patience, persistence, cajoling (and slivers of real tuna) I am happy to report that Mama Kitty now wanders the full house and has formed a truce, of sorts, with the other animals.  She takes her assigned place in line to eat - - second, after the alpha male cat.  She runs everywhere.  We delight in hearing the soft tinkling from her tag on her collar as she runs thru the house.  She runs to greet us. She runs to the food bowl. She runs to the sand box.  She runs down the stairs when we call her name.  She has claimed a space in our bed to sleep every night:  Next to me.  She burrows firmly against me and I feel her warm body, soft fur and hear her gentle snores next to me every night.  

The void has been filled.  I am endeared now to this soft, furry ball of chaos.