My Day... mourning for a cat.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I had to dig a grave for a cat today.  Her name was Dali.  I met her last May... and she was skinny-thin then. Sixteen years old and wasting away.  But I grew to love her.  She had a really sweet spirit for a cat.  I remember the feeling of her frailty as she climbed on my lap.  But now she is gone... and I had to dig a grave.  I shed some tears in the process.  We'll miss you Dali.  You'll be mourned.

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My shoulders are sore.  After the grave-digging... and the burden of sorrow there, I helped some friends move.  Thank goodness I was only a secondary source of muscle.  Two younger guys shouldered most of the load.  The small share I took is causing a serious burn in my upper trapezius.
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But I have my 'trade secret' project that I am working on... I did a little research.  I think I need a stainless steel nut with the following specs: 1/4"-20.   

Mr. Pathetic

As we drove away from the concrete jungle of BWI and into the wooded rolling hills, the love of my life asked me how often I cry.  She had written a story on crying and her sources had said there were benefits to crying.


She asked me: had I cried this year?  Had I cried this decade?


Boys aren't supposed to cry.  I wondered if she had seen me in the movies.  Surely she had.  I had tried to hide it.  But I tear up at the stories.  When the "awwww" moment comes, I can see sadness... the beauty ... and the hope.  And I cry.


Maybe she hadn't seen it.  The theater is dark.  But the truth was I had read a really sad book that day named 'The Lovely Bones'.  A fourteen year old girl had been murdered by a serial killer and it tore her family apart.  There was so much sadness, I couldn't help but tear up multiple times.


So I told her: maybe you should ask me, "how many times have I cried today?"


She had loaned me the book so she understood.  She told me I was empathetic.


But boys aren't supposed to cry.  So I asked her: did you spell that like M. Pathetic?  Monsieur Pathetic.  Mr. Pathetic.


It has been a long time since I have cried for myself.  I've whined and complained for my lot, but not cried.  I shouldn't have even whined and complained.  My life has been one of very many blessings.


I have never been truly hungry.  I have never felt unloved.  I've been blessed with the opportunity to self-actualize.  I cannot cry for me.


But... if you've ever been truly hungry?  I have cried for you.


If you've ever been truly oppressed... or beaten?  I have cried for you.


For those innocents killed?  I cried for them.


For those who grow up only knowing hate and misunderstanding?  I cry for them as well.  And then I cry for us.


Call me pathetic if you will, but this boy cries.

Perfect is the enemy of good...

The love of my life tells me I should write.  But there is the hassle of the need for a perfect product.  Well, maybe not perfect... but at least well-polished.


But even the standard of well-polished can be overwhelming.  Daunting.  Forbidding.  At a minimum, an obstacle to progress.


So my perfectionism has been an enemy of good.  I have not produced nearly enough.  How much time have I wasted because I was afraid to share?  Or because I feared the response?


But this blog, 'Chillaxing With a Drink'... is my response to that.  If I write anything that I later regret... I have a built in excuse: I was probably under the influence and not thinking clearly.


So I've given myself the grace to make a mistake.  And that is empowering.  You should give yourself the grace to make mistakes, too.  Be empowered.


So in this blog I intend to share my semi-filtered speculations about truth.


One guarantee I am willing to make: In life, there are no guarantees about the truly important things.  Some things you just have to accept on faith... and that makes it better.


So I will write this blog with love in my heart... Peace out, baby!