Another mind, another cup of coffee...

“You never know, what you don’t know. And it’s

certain that if you don’t lean in, you never will.”

– Anonymous

It started with a voicemail out of the blue saying I had crossed his mind. If I were still in town, how about getting together. After a return call or two and a text, we arranged to meet at a breakfast place on the East Side. This has been a habit over the years, meeting the unknown – big and small. It had been a while.

Josh is my young cousin by marriage. Behind his open expression and brown eyes, is a mind that is poking around with the interest of a young child. You know, all things requiring exploration. I got the feeling he was programming everything like a quiet, but powerful vacuum cleaner. We chatted for a couple of hours, each pushing and probing a little. The food was okay the conversation better.

Act two…

Saturday morning, we met again. This time in my part of town, at one of those small, but exotic coffee shops – Savaya Coffee Market. I might not be the sharpest tack in the box, but any liquid producing, caffeine dispensing business named ‘Savaya' in Tucson Arizona, and designated as a ‘Coffee Market,’ would definitely be a turn from the ubiquitous Northwest coast chains. Coffee shops, on the other hand, are by any other name…

Once Josh and I got past the ‘hi, how are you,’ and the newspaper reporting as to what was going on in our lives, we dug a little into the things we were interested in. We’re new at this, touching briefly on the ‘opinion pages’ of our lives. It was part of the process, best expressed by the Rogers and Hammerstein lyric, from “The King and I” (sung originally on Broadway by Margaret Landon):

It's a very ancient saying
But a true and honest thought
That if you become a teacher
By your pupils you'll be taught

As a teacher I've been learning
You'll forgive me if I boast
And I've now become an expert
On the subject I like most - Getting to know you

Somewhere in the past couple of years, Josh has discovered he is the one responsible for his own life. This has resulted in significant weight loss, increased physical fitness and healthy choices in the food he eats. He is a writer – prose, and poetry – a guitar player and apparently a writer of songs. The undercurrent of these actions in his life, a deep faith in God and belief in the importance of helping his fellow man.

He didn’t quote writers (though it’s clear he is well read), nor worked to impress his older cousin’s husband. He was free flowing, the way thoughtful people who have spent a lot more time on planet earth, express themselves. Kind of like ‘old money’ – no need to show off…keeping in neutral and going with the flow.

So, there we were, getting to know one another. As with our earlier breakfast, the conversation was good.

Our time together ended, it seemed, almost before it began. We agreed to meet again at a yet undetermined time and location. I walked away from that young man having experienced two of the things I love most about life:

- “…That if you become a teacher…By your pupils you'll be        taught.”

            - “…And I've now become an expert…On the subject I like                   most - Getting to know you.

I expect there will be much to learn…

ted

All she's had to give...

"It's the waiting, isn't it. 

It's never the end."

– Anonymous

The pitter patter of her tiny feet across the wooden floor pulled me reluctantly from my night visions. Suddenly, there she was, sitting by my shoulder, staring in my face, giving me 'the look.' You know, “Listen, buster, I’m going to give you a few minutes then you gotta get up.”

She climbs on my back, and like those expert log rollers of the Canadian north woods somehow manages to remain ‘top up’ until I’ve turned from tummy to back and we are face to face. Settling in, her purring engines hit maximum rpms. It is hard to describe how I love these wonderfully intimate moments. Yep, it has been a love affair from the beginning.

Wait! No!

This is still a dream and what I am actually hearing in the recesses of my waking moments is the gentle scratching as she hobbles across the floor to the steps that help her climb to the bed. She struggles her way up until she slips beside my head, giving me the “Whew, I made it, but it was tough,” look. The engines are muffled by time and gravity, her gentle purring a mere echo of her youth. There is no back climbing and chest lying anymore. Her arthritic hips and rigid spine make it uncomfortable for her to lie flat on my chest. Anyway, she just wants me to get up so I can lift her to the sink (her preferred method of drinking water these days).

She sleeps in the living room on a little padded bed yet has the uncanny knack for knowing when I am up in the night for, well you know, personal reasons. As I sit briefly, expressing myself as it were, she unsteadily wanders into the bathroom and plants herself between my feet. When I pick her up holding her close, she purrs, but ever so more quietly now. The bottoms of her paws cool against my hands and shoulders. In the intimacy of those nocturnal moments, she feels so frail and light – her spine humped and rigid – her shoulders bony and weak. It is almost more than I can bear.

Leah is now in her eighteenth year (the late eighties in human time) and I am in pre-loss mourning. She sleeps more, and when awake, wants to be with me. She comes to my lap and sits, sorting a ‘comfort calculus,’ before snuggling and settling in. In the office, I almost always hear soft scratching as she paws the cardboard box beneath my desk. Once lifted, she curls on a multi-folded towel by the keyboard where her arthritic bones absorb the heat from a warm lamp.

I have watched this gracious creature, who in the beginning, fit the palm of my hand, move through the stages of her life, giving so much more than she ever got. It is so often said it is the memories that are alive. I don’t think that is right. While it is true the memories are there, they are not alive. Rather they are shadows residing in the hard drives of my mind, merely liquid images of events gone by. What is alive, is this moment, the quiet sorrow I feel, the silent tears that fall and the love I feel for this soul, who is softly pawing the cardboard box beneath my desk.

-ted