All good things...

“…love knows not its own depth 

until the hour of separation.”

– Kahil Gibran

“ It’s been 2 days now, so it’s getting better.  What a hole in the heart Miss Kitty Cat left with me.”

“Miss Kitty…” would be ‘Booger Cat’

‘Booger Cat’ – a hell of a name for a cat.  One of those names for which there is no explanation…one of those names that comes quickly…one only those who feel the love, intimacy and character of the animal, can understand.

I didn’t know her well, but a primal urge led to a “…love the one you’re with…” promiscuity with some long forgotten ‘tom cat’ that, by now, a decade and a half later has brought great pleasure to my life.  Little did she know, in 1998, when she gave birth to a litter of kittens under a trailer at the church where I spent nearly three decades of life, that she would survive and influence so many.

“Watching (on a daily basis) a creature you love die is the pits…”

Survive that young mother did and so did her litter.  She pretty quickly discovered scavenging food was simply a matter of capturing Lizzie’s heart…which she accomplished, by the way, in short order, AND it wasn’t much longer before her litter captured other hearts and found homes with several of the church folk. 

While she (Booger) was white with black markings, some of her offspring were calico, one of which was a tiny…whiny female who wasted no time burrowing into our lives.  We called her Leah, because as we often have told people she was ‘lucky’ to be in our home. 

Leah, in the scriptures was the older sister of Rachel, with whom Jacob had fallen in love and worked seven years to marry.  As it turns out, Jacob thought he had married Rachel, only to find out their father had substituted Leah.  Yes indeed, Leah was lucky to get a husband and Leah the cat was lucky to be with us.

‘Lucky Leah,’ yeah that’s the story we tell.  Truth be told, however, we are the lucky ones…we have been recipients of the gift of her presence…with little doubt, we have been blessed.  Leah…our Leah has brought us unspeakable comfort in the 15 years she has wandered the rooms of our home.

“Last summer, BC [Booger] developed a sore on the lower eyelid of one eye…the vet diagnosed skin cancer…I mean she’s covered with hair…how does she get skin cancer?”

Lizzie, known to her family, as Betsy, an Iowa farm girl who made her way to Moberly, Missouri and for more than three decades has brought a deep and rich friendship to our lives.

Yes sir, Lizzie/Betsy, and Leah, the little creature Booger cat brought to life under that trailer situated on an acre of land, on a country Road, winding its way across North Central Missouri, beginning somewhere west of Hannibal and after passing Moberly, wiggling a little as it makes its way to Kansas City, continue to resonate with my life to this very day.

In April she wrote...

“So today is not the day ... but someday it will be the day that I will have to say goodbye to this sweet kitty cat who captured my heart on first sight and insisted I take care of her (and she of me).”

I have often wondered how animals process things when they are confronted with mortal situations.  What do they know?  What do they comprehend?  Do they just live their lives and then find themselves feeling terrible or simply unable to survive?  What is the thread of consciousness, if indeed there is one, that lets them know?  Robert Lanza writes in his book Biocentrism:

“A cat, even when mortally ill, keeps those wide calm eyes focused on the ever changing kaleidoscope of the here-and-now.  There is no thought of death, and hence no fear of it.”

The day came this past Thursday, as Ms. Booger cat’s life had become so untenable that my dear friend Lizzie made that most difficult of decisions and as she wrote to me, “so I decided…I would watch her die and love her while it happened...”

And so she did…

“ It’s been 2 days now, so it’s getting better.  What a hole in the heart Miss Kitty Cat left with me.”

- ted

Morning remembrances...

“How can you say to a child who's in flight, ‘Don't slip away and I won't hold so tight.’
What can you say that no matter how slight won't be misunderstood
What do you leave to your child when you're dead?
Only whatever you put in it's head…”

- Stephen Sondheim:

“Into the Woods”

The first kid came jogging by as I neared the final quarter of my morning hour’s walk.  It was 06:00 and I was getting the exercise in before the ‘desert oven’ heated up.

The boy looked to be 10 or 12 years of age.  Noticeable was the ease and efficiency of his movement.  His feet hit the ground smoothly…heel-to…heel-toe; arms bent and loose, hands carried just about hip height…not much wasted motion.  In fact, I had not heard him coming.  An early morning run for this lone youngster.

As he got about 20 yards (18.2m) ahead, I heard the ‘flop, flop, flop, flop’ of another jogger coming up behind me.  I could hear his feet and his breathing as he got within 10 feet (3m) or so behind.  As he passed I noticed this kid was not quite so biomechanically gifted as the first.  In addition to mildly labored breathing and noisy footfall, one of his feet angled out just a bit and his arms were held higher and nearer his chest…this youngster was working.

Then came a young girl, another young boy and finally the last kid who was weaving from side to side on the jogging trail giving the impression that he knew he wasn’t going to be anywhere near the front, so he might just as well enjoy himself.  The only thing missing was him singing while he plugged along…that was okay, I had been humming for him.

As I got to the end of the road, to make the right turn toward my street, I saw the coach gathering the kids together, having them stretch and giving a ‘nice work’ pep talk.   

If I were to think about that group of kids jogging by me as a metaphor for talent, I would be that second youngster…meaning, not the gifted star who seemed to move by natural ability rather than hard work.  Not in the front…not in the back…an adequate performer, but one that did not have the leader’s horsepower.  In athletics, that was me.  Good enough to play almost anything well, but not gifted enough to emerge to the elite level.

When I was a youngster, there were times I felt disappointed and mildly jealous that some folks seemed to excel where I found myself somewhere in the pack.  For example, in my high school, we had a truly gifted athlete on our basketball team.  In the flow of time and space, I saw him as something I should aim to be better than and to overcome.  As it turns out, no matter how hard I worked, or practiced, I was never as good as, and certainly not better than, Joe.

Parents shelter and teach…

Once I expressed this to my father…you know, the unfairness of it all.  He thought a little and then asked if I looked like Joe – No!  Were my feet the same size? – No!  Was my voice the same timbre? – No! 

It did not take too many more examples for me to appreciate that Joe and I were nothing alike, and that it was a waste of my time to try to be like him!  In addition my father gently suggested if I focused my attention on trying to be someone or something I was not, how would I ever discover who I was and what my gifts might be?

My mother also taught me that it was not a disgrace to lose.  In fact, she reminded me on many occasions, winning was not the only reward.  She would say, winning at all cost often led one down a slippery slope of moral compromise, setting patterns of behavior that might be costly later in life.  She would say, the best lessons in life come from failing, for here is where the real insight comes…here is where one’s true character emerges…here is where one is forced to face the truth – whatever that truth might be.  She believed paying close attention to failure was the shortest pathway to success! 

Missing the win was not a bad thing…IF, and let me repeat for emphasis “IF” one gave their best effort.  The truth, of course, is that all of us are NOT gifted with the same capacities…no one brings the win in everything, NOR should they be rewarded when standards are not met.  Run the race – she counseled – in the arena I would find my place.

NO, losing was not a disgrace…the disgrace was NOT giving the best effort!  To my mother that is what counted.

Watching those kids on their morning run, reminded me of the energy and effort of youth trying to find its place.  I could almost feel that second kid’s effort as he struggled to catch that more gifted leader…I had intimate and similar experience.  More so, watching those kids on their morning run allowed me a lovely and intimate visit with the voices and loving spirit of my parents, who did the best they could to encourage their son, who with so little life experience, faced his challenges of that day.

Looking over my shoulder, I have found both pieces of advice to be true.  While I am still unclear of exactly who I am, I know how useless it is to compare myself to others.  I also know, from playing in life’s arena that my failures have taught me much more than any successes.  In fact, as my mother suggested so many decades ago…successes were born from failure.

She was right… in the end, my best effort is all that has ever counted.

- ted

Cleaning hearts - not floors...

“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as  Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music or Shakespeare

wrote poetry.  He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of

heaven and earth will say, ‘Here lived a great street sweeper

who did his job well.’”

- Martin Luther King

A petite baguette, a chunk of Swiss cheese and a 250 ml bottle of yoghurt milk…yes sir, for a small breakfast, it doesn’t get much better than that!

Schiphol (pronounced skip-hol) in Amsterdam is an extremely busy international airport.  It is a hub where folk transfer in Europe for destinations far and wide.  It is even busier because it is a train station that carries people in and out of the city as well as places in all directions.

I had come in the day before and spent the night at the airport hotel.  It was up at my usual time and I headed to the British Airlines baggage counter for an early morning check-in and luggage drop off.  It would be three hours before the flight left, so I wandered around the place looking for something to eat.

“…looking for something to eat…” makes it sound like one had to hunt and lift a rock or two to find some nourishment.  In fact, there are so many places to eat that it is like trying to decide what to watch on TV with 150 channels to choose from! 

It was a bit overwhelming…should I go with food I recognize and know, or try something that I would not get or eat for breakfast at home?

Breakfast ala carte…

While trying to make up my mind, I passed a small grocery store.  That’s right a grocery store in the airport terminal!  

This wasn’t a place with just a little fruit, some pre-packaged sandwiches and drinks.  This was a market that had a ‘hot food under glass’ buffet like you might find in supermarkets in the U.S., and a fair number of isles with a significant amount of goods.  Granted, it wasn’t really big, but there were groceries and a pretty good selection! 

After wandering around a little I settled on the small baguette from the freshly made bread section…just around the corner from the cheeses…down the isle from the milk products – hence the yoghurt!  In short order all was in hand and it was back to the terminal to find a seat and satisfy my early morning hunger pangs.

I found a spot on a freestanding circular cushioned grouping of seats in the middle of one of the transfer halls.  In the center of the seating arrangement were some lovely planted flowers.  Even though there were passengers hurrying by, this little oasis was just right!

I had broken off a piece of cheese and slipped it in my mouth along with a little of that bread, when I heard a grunting noise.  I looked up and there was a janitor tasked with mopping the floor, and my size 14 shoes were in the spot he was interested in. 

He was a fierce looking fellow somewhere in his mid fifties I supposed,  and probably African.  There are a lot of foreign folk who come to Holland, and the rest of Europe to work.  This fellow was not taking any, “look pal I’m eating my breakfast” nonsense.  He stroked the mop along the floor a couple of times toward my feet and gave me ‘the look!’

I tried to return ‘the look,’ but this fellow meant business, so I lifted my feet as he did a very thorough job cleaning up the spot where my water-ski sized tennis shoes had rested.  I think he might even have cleaned that spot under my feet with a little more care than otherwise…whatever…I just kept those clodhoppers off the ground!!

The fellow sitting a seat or two away from me tried to ignore this man, but the cleaner was having none of it.  When the chubby fellow could no longer ignore the janitor and looked up, he also ‘got the look,’ and moved his cart away while Mr. Clean did his job.

The fellow then went on to do the rest of his assigned area before climbing on an electric cart, mops and brooms sitting in the back, and moving on to his next assignment.

It’s the end of a thing isn’t it?

As he drove by, we glanced at each other.  It was one of those looks that carried just a touch of defiance – on both of our parts.  I then put my right hand to my heart and slightly bowed my head in respect.  The man hesitated for just a second, smiled gently putting his right hand to his heart with a slight bow.

Two men…no words – the grunts and glares don’t count – found a brief moment of humanity and brotherhood.

And so it was... 

“A petite baguette, a chunk of Swiss cheese and a 250 ml bottle of yoghurt milk…yes sir, for a small breakfast, it doesn’t get any better than that!”

- ted

Early morning musings...

“In three words I can sum up everything

I've learned about life: it goes on.” 
― Robert Frost

“But Ted,” she said with the gentlest of spirit. “The universe is so big…”

The comment wasn’t suggesting I am naive, but rather with a wistful spirit that was one of awe and respect for the magnitude of the cosmos.  This thoughtful and gentle Brazilian woman and her equally matched husband Jose, were chatting during dinner with my friend Uffe and me in Toulouse, France.

The privilege…

One of the things I have come to appreciate on my journey is the people with whom I have been privileged to meet and befriend.  In fact all three at this quiet dinner in the hotel restaurant fall into this category.  Yara is a linguist by training and had been sharing with me that regardless of the language in different countries and cultures, there are common relationships between  nouns (e.g. person, place or thing) and an verbs (action) describing something the ‘noun’ is doing: “Billy (noun) jumped (verb).”

The conversation then drifted toward life – where it might have come from and where it might be going.  Uffe and I find ourselves in this ‘topical soup’ often.  We have a different perspective of where and how, but a common and respectful sense of life. 

He sees it from the bottom up…whilst I see it from the top down.  I think he means that life probably does not come from intelligent design, but rather has emerged from an evolutionary process of lesser building blocks, from which, over time, we find ourselves, in random evolution, able to think and feel and communicate in a physical body that carries the current ‘software version’ of genetic material in our minds…that somehow all of us – whatever culture, gender or race – as human beings are much more similar than we are different, because we have developed through the same pathways.

I say, “I think” Uffe means…because as often as we have touched upon this topic – and there have been many – I am still uncertain I completely get the rationale.  It is possible that I am not clear because of my bias that life as we know it is the result of creative intelligence… that life in whatever form and however it evolves and manifests, came from a deliberate blueprint.  It is more than possible I have reached the edges of my willingness to ‘cross the line’ of my sense of the human condition.  It is more than possible that I am much less open minded than I imagine myself to be.  That, of course, I find both reinforcing and troublesome. 

Reinforcing because each time I am given the opportunity to challenge the things I believe and reflect on my life experience, I feel more confident that the ship in which I sail has fewer and fewer leaks below the waterline.  Troublesome because it is possible the more I think I exercise this thought process, I am less open and therefore, may be less able to embrace a different point of view.  

Perhaps it doesn’t matter.  Maybe like Don Quixote it is just building fences around windmills, attempting to capture the breeze.  Seeking truth may be as elusive as trying to define gravity or magnetism or love or humor…One knows these things when they experience them or see their results, but defining them is another kettle of fish!

So the story continues.  The only thing I am certain about is that I am driven to want to know and understand more about life…I am compelled to ask questions of people I meet and interact with…I feel an obligation to see what others think and what they experience, and yet the more I acquire, the more I realize how truly little I know…

“But Ted,” she said with the gentlest of spirit. "The universe is so big…”

- ted