Kitty Quiet Time

I love when I'm home to enjoy quiet time with our cats ...

The house becomes very still in and around 1:00 and I enjoy seeking out our cats to find them in their preferred resting spot for the day.

Quiet time goes on. 

With or without my daycare. 

My daycare kitties are holding space for this sacred time. 

I love the days when I can join them in their place in the sun.

Something is in the Air (it may be change)

Something is about to change. I can feel it in my bones ...

I may have mislabeled the feeling as anxiety. I put words to it as I spoke aloud yesterday morning. "I feel like my fight or flight mode has been activated."

My vivid dream about Mom wandering around and ready to go home a few nights ago, coupled with two of Mom's favorite people in the world coming into focus lately has ignited a fire within me.

Just be there. Show up.

I am looking at our home and focusing on making it feel like a safe haven. A soft place to land. A place of comfort and peace.

After I closed my daycare, I was driven with a force of energy I haven't been able to summon since. I had a very strong feeling I was making room for change. I emptied rooms, cupboards and storage areas. Our home was open to whatever came next.

Then Mom died. Little did I know I had made room for some of Mom's belongings. They had a home here long before a home was required. This was not what I expected but it calmed me to know I had already made room for what was to come.

Our home has been undergoing a bit of an identity crisis ever since. "I have three spare bedrooms," I would tell those who were facing a fork in a road where relocation may be an option. I have room. No one came.

My bedroom availability has shifted and changed since that time. I still have the ability to house a lot of guests for a short or long time period, offering privacy, space, quiet and (unfortunately) a fair bit of cat hair to go along with it.

I have made the offer again. This time the answer was yes.

The tides are shifting. They may ebb and flow and it is quite possible life will go back to a slightly revised new normal for those who touch my world.

I am simply grateful to have something to offer.

Mom would be pleased...

She Came to Me in a Dream

She was ready to go home. She had been visiting family and friends but now she was heading home. All she had was an empty dresser ...

Dreams are liquid, ever moving and illogical at times. This dream was so vivid I could have sworn I was living it.

Mom was ready to go home. For some completely unknown reason, she was packing up an empty dresser she had loaned to my cousin's wife. The dresser was used in the same fashion as a Tupperware container is used to give someone a cake or batch of cookies. The dresser was simply the vessel used to give what was inside. She was taking her empty dresser home with her. The dresser was in the back of a truck and Mom was going home. At last. 

My sister and I looked at each other with a mirrored expression of horror and disbelief. Mom didn't have a house to go home to. Her house has been emptied and sold. How could we have done this? We thought she died. Not only did Mom not have a home, she didn't even have a pair of underwear to put inside her empty dresser ...

I was wracked with guilt, disbelief and horror. My heart was shattered with the very idea that we gave all Mom's belongings away.

I woke up and it took a few minutes to shake myself into reality. Never have I felt so relieved to be reminded of Mom's death. It was okay. We had to empty her home and distribute her belongings. It was necessary.

This is a recurring dream I have had sporadically since Mom died. She wants to know where her belongings are. She is wandering. Wondering. This time she was heading home. With an empty dresser in tow.

The dream is most likely rich with symbolism. Those who believe in a loved one's presence in a dream may weave some logical explanation into this distorted dream sequence. All I know is I woke up feeling "Mom" all around and within me.

I have never been so pleased to have an oasis within my home where I can simply breathe in Mom's essence. I sat on Mom's love seat, held my coffee to my heart, was conscious of my own heart beat and wrapped my other arm around myself. I felt her. I missed her. Her essence was so strong within and around me.

I couldn't shake the feeling, nor did I want to. I let myself be still and simply breathe. I held my warm cup of coffee and let my thoughts wander.

My thoughts have been wrapped up in all things family recently. It is no wonder thoughts of Mom trickled into my subconscious mind.

She came to me in a dream. She wants to go home.

No Words

So many thoughts ... so few words.

Life is like that. We think. We feel. We process. But at the end of the day, words are not enough.

Owning the Age We Are At

I was delighted to discover that Jamie & Paul Buchman were dusting off their TV series "Mad About You" and allowing their audience a glimpse at their lives twenty years after the series ended. I was even more excited to discover a cable channel I have is airing this comeback.

I loved this show when it was new and fresh. Jamie (Helen Hunt) is only a few years younger than me and they were living the dream I was never able to attain. They were married, mostly happily and we got to watch this brand new marriage evolve over the seven years the series aired.

I read a book Paul Reiser wrote (Couplehood) and enjoyed every word. I liked the characters these actors portrayed and enjoyed Helen Hunt's movies  in the "after Mad About You years".

I couldn't wait to sit and watch the reboot of the old series.

The story line didn't entirely captivate me so I found myself scrutinizing the appearance of Paul and Jamie.

Paul (Paul Reiser) looked his age. A distinguished bit of graying, a little heavier than my memory of his appearance from twenty years ago. I watched Paul and enjoyed his look. He simply wore his age well.

Jamie (Helen Hunt), on the other hand, appeared (only from where I sat and I do not profess to be an expert on this subject) to encompass the way I feel about aging. If I could, I would like to look the way I did twenty years ago. I liked my weight back then, I enjoyed a face that had fewer crinkles, skin that was tighter and a hair color that didn't come out of a box.

Jamie's face was taught, her body looked lithe and youthful, she has good hair ... but (in my humble opinion) she didn't wear her age as well as Paul.

I relate far too much to Jamie. She looked the way I wish I looked. But she doesn't look natural. I admire how Paul simply "owns the age he is at" and wears it so naturally.

I have looked in the mirror a little differently since this revelation.

Yes, I like the fact that I can dye my hair and maintain the illusion I am in control of some part of this aging process. But how long do I really want to continue doing this?

My sister set the bar for me when she decided to "go natural". She looks good. She looks natural. She looks right. Her youthful outlook on life, the twinkle in her eyes, a ready smile and her natural good looks (oh, how I hope that I have inherited a few of the same genes) make her beautiful.

I want to own the age I am at. Presently I am gazing at the "root situation" in my hair. I have one box of hair color in the cupboard and wondering...am I brave enough to let go and let my hair color define me?

Juggling Time

My world has shifted on its axis just a little bit in the form of a revised sleep schedule which has left me scrambling for time when I savor it the most.

My son will be performing in a play which has comes with a great time commitment. Since parking in and around his place of education comes at a hefty price, I have been on "pick-up" detail. This has been ongoing since his first day back to school. Four weeks of rehearsals plus one week during the performance. Rehearsals are a four to five hour commitment, Monday through Saturday throughout the duration.

This has required me to shift my preferred sleeping hours by about two hours. My early morning wake up time which gave me most of the morning time I crave is lacking. Yes, I have gained that time in the evening but I come home at the end of my days thoroughly depleted. Two extra waking hours in the evening are lost on me.

I am not making the most of the hours I have at my disposal. This is not new. It is simply an adjustment of what I had made work for me in the past.

I have not carved out time to write "just for me". I tried adjusting writing three, 8-1/2" X 11" long hand morning pages routine into a half hour commitment. Or three small pages. Or listening to inspirational podcasts or videos. I can't do it all. I have a hard time honing in on one of the above.

This week, I thought I would try to write during the time it takes my son to shower. Approximately fifteen minutes. This morning I have squandered my time explaining one of the many varied excuses I have for not showing up.

Life is fluid. The need to change, shift and adapt is a requirement. The ability to be flexible has been challenging me for a very long time.

Perhaps it was time to try out a new morning schedule. The need to have an after work hours life would most likely be beneficial. We'll see how this goes. Two and a half more weeks to go. Then the schedule will morph into something new.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I hate change. I know change is good for me, a requirement for living and being adaptable is a positive thing. I'll focus on the positives.

Tomorrow, nothing but positive energy will flow out of these fingers of mine.

Fifteen Minutes

I have completely gotten out of the habit of writing. My excuses are varied, multiple and quite lame. No time. No space. No thoughts. Nothing fresh. Nothing inspirational. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Who else feels this way in the depth of winter? The days are getting longer but have also been colder. January is speeding by but spring feels far off and illusive at the same time.

I long for what I don't have. Then I get it and squander it away.

I had holidays over the Christmas season and I let them slip through my fingers. I regretted making plans as soon as they were made and never really got past that. No one's fault but my own. I am accountable for my actions but I wasn't even finished my holiday and I was already longing for my next.

I read a book (two, actually!) this past weekend. One was a biography based on someone who survived and thrived after a stroke. As the story of this journey progressed back to a semblance of "the before", his "executive thinking" was compromised and he was completely content in this state of not planning, not doing and not caring about goals and achievements.

"That's me!!", I thought. My executive thinking powers are waning. When I am on vacation, I relax in the knowledge that it really doesn't matter. It's okay to squander the days because (here come the excuses) I have to work outside my home ten hours of every weekday. Poor me.

I console myself with the thought "whatever I accomplish will be enough". I accomplish very little. I am completely okay with that.

How many holidays would I need in order to find the energy, motivation and desire to do more than nothing?

That is an experiment I'm willing to take! In the meantime, I must (like everyone else in the world) get up, get dressed, get moving and get to work so I can come home, climb into my pajamas and turn off my brain.

This too, shall pass. The goal is to make the best of the winter days that are looming ahead.

Just keep swimming ...

P.S. See why I haven't been writing?