Bedtime Rituals

When my sons were growing up, they had bedtime rituals that had to be faithfully observed.

My sons are grown now.

I have two cats, with bedtime rituals that must be faithfully observed.

When I go to bed I make sure I carry two cat toys with me. One is a long rainbow colored felt ribbon attached to a plastic wand. That’s for Herbie. The other is a slender plastic tube through which a cord is strung. The cord has a feather at one end and a small wooden bead at the other. Guinness prefers the bead.

Both cats wait outside the bathroom while I wash my face, brush my teeth and take the required pills.

They watch from the hall while I climb into bed.

They wait.

Then I start using the plastic tube to fling the bead across the top of my bed. Guinness springs into action and onto the bed, eyes wide and alert. He chases the bead and pounces. I never let him get it in one try. But he’s fast. In a few minutes he has captured the bead and, clamping the bead and string in his mouth, he jumps off the bed and hauls the bead/string/tube/feather out of the room, out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen and into the laundry room where it rests until I retrieve it the next morning.

Herbie watches all of this, waiting. When Guinness and the bead have disappeared, I dangle the rainbow ribbon over the edge of the bed. Herbie moves closer. He bats at the ribbon, sometimes even moving a little as he chases it. When he has had enough frivolity, he jumps up on the bed, ready to snuggle.

I turn off the light and Herbie moves up toward my head, gently moving me around until he is enthroned on one of the pillows. I shift to the second pillow and prepare for slumber knowing that sometime during the night, Guinness will return and settle somewhere around my knees.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. And sometimes that’s okay.

Winter Break

This week – the very last week in January – deep into the northern hemisphere’s winter – we had a gift of two balmy days (near 70 degrees Fahrenheit) plus several others with temperatures well above freezing.

For weeks and weeks my days have been crammed with things I had to do. Important things. Things I had promised to do. Places I had to go. Meetings I had to run or to attend. Reports or minutes I had to write.

I am supposed to be retired. But there was no leisure. Not that I noticed.

The first 70-degree day was filled, as usual, with obligations. The second 70-degree day was, after a brief morning appointment, completely open.

I live on the high plains only an hour from Rocky Mountain National Park. There were things I could have worked on but Rocky Mountain National Park is only an hour away.

I drove west, through one of Colorado’s most stunningly beautiful canyons, into the town just outside the park. There I had lunch in a restaurant near the river. The water surging beneath, and sometimes over, the ice was worth the trip.

But I was not yet in the park.

As I drove into the park I suddenly knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to sit in the sunshine on a rock in my favorite meadow. So I did – letting the rock and warmth and grasses and trees and the spectacular vista heal me.

Surrounded by growing and eroding things, my soul was restored. I drove slowly through the park and coasted home. Ready to resume my obligations.

Grateful for my winter break.

Four AAA Batteries

It had been a long day and I needed (or felt that I needed) a television break.

I now have three remotes to use if I wish to be electronically amused.

One, turns on the machine. That worked.

Another, connects to the satellite feed. That did not work.

Another, connects to DVDs. That might work.

The satellite feed remote had dead batteries – four AAA batteries.

Nothing in my battery drawer sufficed. Therefore, if I was going to be electronically amused, I would need to find a DVD.

Long ago, during a PBS station pledge drive, I bought the documentary, “Pete Seeger, the Power of Song.” I put that in.

And played it.

I don’t cry at movies or much of anything. That documentary brings me close to tears.

One person, one talent, one passion for justice -- for people, for the earth – the closest thing to a saint any of us will ever know.

Watching a documentary on Pete Seeger’s life is watching a template for what a life can be.

I am so grateful that I was out of AAA batteries. I needed to be recharged.

Book Report

I bought the book, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, on the recommendation of friends . . . and because I knew Ann Pachett to be a fine writer . . . and because I thought it would be a full-length narrative describing the condition of its title.

When I discovered that, instead, it is a collection of personal essays reflecting various periods and conditions of the author’s life, I was annoyed. So annoyed, I actually stopped reading it.

[At base, I wanted to read a full-length narrative about a happy marriage because I had not had one and do not expect to have one but still kind of want one although I would never admit it publically.]

Then I got some kind of flu and the only method I could think of to get better was to get as much rest as possible and I had just finished another book and needed something to read so I would stay in bed and rest and maybe recover from whatever was making me feel so lousy.

So I finished Ann Pachett’s book. And I’m glad … although I still have a sore throat and some vertigo. It’s a good book. And there is, toward the end of the book, a chapter on her happy marriage. Somewhat heartening.

But it has been a good lesson for me, on many levels. Number One: Don’t abandon things just because they are different than your expectations.

It’s true of books . . . and probably true of marriages as well.

Power Play

All living beings like to feel as if they are in charge of something. Not necessarily dominant. Just in charge of something.

Look at the pride on a four-year-old’s face when she creates a work of art in crayons. Or a bride when her second meatloaf turns out to be delicious. Or any kid when they learn how to ride a bike.

You’d think it would be easy for cats – especially my cats. They’re pretty much in charge of everything in my house – where to sleep, when to eat, when to get my undivided attention. Yet they still want more.

At least Guinness does. He’s a 13-year-old grey-brown tabby. His adopted brother, Herbie, is a 14-year-old quasi Siamese (same coloring, blue eyes but an absolute snuggle addict) who sleeps a lot. And I spend too much time at the computer.

An inventive animal, Guinness is always thinking up games – fetch, catch and other romps. But none of this was enough.

In my upstairs bathroom, I have curtains suspended on tension rods hanging in front of three shelves. Once a day, Guinness has walked into that bathroom, walked over to the curtains and quite deliberately knocked the bottom curtain down. Then walked away.

The other day he came in only to discover that the bottom curtain was already down.

He sat there for a moment. Pondering.

Then he got up on his hind legs and, after several attempts, knocked the second curtain down. Then he walked away. In charge. Empowered.

And pretty funny.

Are You Still Sad?

My good friend died – how long has it been now – about ten days ago.

Someone asked me if I was still sad.

I didn’t know there was a time limit.

I don’t think I answered. If I had I would have said ‘not all the time’.

For obvious reasons I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately.

One of the things that people say is that death is just part of life. I know what they mean but it doesn’t really make sense. And then it does. As in winter is just part of the year.

And I have been privy to several deaths. My sister-in-law’s three years ago. My good friend. And (at various physical distances) my mother’s, my father’s, my grandparents, other friends. And at greater emotional distances: John F. Kennedy, George Solti, Mother Theresa, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Bobby Kennedy. And the hundreds/thousands who die in wars. And hundreds of blacks from police or other violence. And the Ebola victims.

No. I’m not going to name them all. I can’t name them all. But they all contributed in some way to my world, to my understanding of the world, to my understanding of myself.

This is the Solstice eve, the eve of the longest night in the northern hemisphere.

I think it’s okay to dwell on death in this darkness.

And to remember that the light always comes back – however slowly, it returns and we bloom again.

And it’s okay to be sad because people we loved and/or admired are no longer with us. [Except that they are part of us.]

So, yes, I’m still sad some of the time.

Another Holy Night

I have a neighbor friend, Judy, who has been the one I go talk to when I need to go talk to someone. She went into the hospital Nov. 17 and came home on hospice Nov. 19. Her older son flew in from Rochester, New York (he had to return home on Dec. 2) and her younger son lives about half an hour away.

At Judy's request I staged an early (potluck) Thanksgiving on Nov. 25 for 10 members of her family. At Judy's request, the tree was up (her sons did that for me) and everyone who came put an ornament on. When they wheeled her into my living room, her whole being lighted up.

Since then, I've been visiting her almost every day. I didn’t really want to visit her yesterday. I was tired. And it was hard to see her fail … and to watch Eldon, her husband of more than 50 years, see her fail. But I went.

There were other people there—a couple. I could immediately see that Judy was much worse – unresponsive. The couple said they were expecting the hospice musician. (I didn't know there were hospice musicians but it's a great idea). They left when the musician arrived. Eldon and their local son, Star, arrived almost simultaneously.

Once Eldon found an extension cord, the musician (I believe her name was Jungshea) set up her Casio keyboard and tablet and asked what Judy might like to hear. None of us could think of anything. The musician played something somber and we struggled to remember happier songs. I think we came up with The Tennessee Waltz, Green Sleeves, Deck the Halls, Country Road, and She’ll Be Coming ‘round the Mountain When She Comes. Oh, and Ode to Joy by Beethoven. We were in their bedroom – Eldon sitting next to Judy’s hospital bed, stroking her hair, Star in a chair at the doorway, me on their bed. Their cat wandered around the doorway every once in awhile.

I could see and feel the love in Eldon’s touch and Star’s focused attention and the compassion in the musician’s face. Love permeated the room. It felt holy.

When the session was over, I walked the musician and her Casio to her car and walked home.

Judy died last night. I wouldn’t have missed a minute of her last days. And will be forever grateful that I sat in on a portion of her holy night.