BANISHING FEAR WITH LOVE

Putty was injured and I didn't know how to help him.    

Nine years ago, this gravelly-voiced, black and white stray showed up on our deck begging for food.  My husband and I have been feeding him ever since.  

Over the years, I've noticed minor cuts on Putty, nothing serious.  But one day not long ago, I noticed Putty was limping.  At first, I thought he had broken his leg.  There wasn't an apparent wound, yet he could only walk on three paws.  Putty squinted.  His wounded leg quivered.  He showed little interest in food.  I could sense his pain.  Being Sunday, I had to wait a day to call my vet.  But when Monday rolled around, the veterinarian was unable to make a house call until Friday.  I didn't think Putty could wait that long. 

I called my neighbor Sherry who also feeds Putty.  She gave me the name of her vet because he makes house calls.  But when I phoned him, I got an answering machine.  Dr. MacDonald wouldn't be back in town until Wednesday.  I left him a message about Putty's condition.  My poor kitty appeared to be suffering, he was barely eating, and he would have to wait two more days for help.  

On Wednesday, I noticed a smear of blood on Putty's hip.  As he limped on our patio, I finally saw the cause of his injury.  There was bloody abscess about the size of a half dollar on his hock.  I was sick with worry.  This did not look good.  Luckily, Dr. M. returned my call.  He could come out to our house, under one condition:  I'd have to trap Putty.  

This was easier said than done.  

"Can you pick him up?" asked Dr. M. 

"Uh, no."  And in my head, I'm thinking:  Are you kidding?  This is a semi-wild cat who didn't always trust me.   

But the vet needed Putty in an enclosed area so he wouldn't run off.  I told him I'd try to trap him.  I loved Putty and was determined to get him the medical attention he needed.  

My husband and I backed our cars out the garage.  I moved bins and tubs around on shelves and blocked places where a cat could hide.  When every area of the garage looked safe, I pulled out a can of tuna.  Putty was in the backyard.  I wondered if I could tempt him with the tuna and get him to hobble over to the driveway and into the garage.  I worried how to keep him contained in the garage once he was inside.  Luckily, he did manage to follow me.  I got him as far away from the garage door as possible so he wouldn't make a run for it and motioned to my husband now, quick, close the door.

And we had him safe inside.  Dr. M. arrived in five minutes.  Finally, Putty was going to get some attention.  But when I opened basement door to the garage, Putty was nowhere in sight.  Sh*t!  I walked the perimeter of the garage.  No Putty.  I was so embarrassed.  Where was that cat?  Had he squeezed out of the corner by the garage door through an impossibly narrow opening?  I looked again on the verge of panic.  But there he was, trying to hide against the back wall of a shelf.  After coaxing him down, he moved to another corner of the garage, where the vet could work his magic.  

I was concerned Putty would not be a cooperative patient.  But Dr. M. wrapped Putty in a blanket and then in a calm voice, he told me I'd be his assistant.  My job would be to hold Putty while he prepared the injections.  I slipped on garden gloves to protect my hands, but Putty hissed at me.  The vet said the gloves were probably scaring him, so I had to help bare-handed. 

Putty's razor-sharp claws had scratched me more than once and now that he was scared, he was likely to bite.  I was terrified.  Mortified.  I really, really did not want to do this.  And there wasn't much time.  Who knew how long Putty would stay put?  I was a nervous wreck.  But I had to pull myself together.  So rather than stressing, I focused on how much I loved Putty and centered my attention on helping the vet. 

Dr. M. showed me how to grab onto the scuff and wiggle it to distract him as he inserted the needle.  Believe you me, I wiggled the hell out of the scruff.  After the antibiotic and the pain shots were given, he removed the blanket.  Putty was free to go.  With that, I opened the garage door and he limped away.  

Before Dr. M. left, he handed me an oral antibiotic that I would need to give Putty twice a day.  Good luck, I'm thinking.  If Putty was traumatized, he may never come back.  I could have scared him off for good.  My sweet little stray.  

But that night, Putty returned and he wolfed down all of his food with the antibiotic in it.  I was so relieved to see him come back the next day and get more antibiotic into his system.

Surprisingly, within a day after the injections and a day's worth of oral antibiotics, Putty looked better.  His eyes were brighter.  He could put weight on all of his paws.  

Putty still has a long way to go, but he'll get the care he needs and all of the food he craves.  Looking back, I was surprised how frightened I had been.  I was scared of being hurt and afraid of letting Putty down.  But through this experience, I found determination can conquer fear.  And anything is possible with love.

 À la prochaine! 

 

                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Simran Sood

ENABLING, DEPENDENCE, AND GUILT   

I let others burden me with guilt.    

It happens because I allow it to happen.    

Back in my twenties, I was stronger.  I dated a guy who threatened to stop seeing me if we didn't become intimate (I was a virgin and we had only been dating for a few months).  I wasn't even sure he loved me, at least he never told me.  Then he had to nerve to say, and I'm not making this up, there was no guarantee that afterward he'd still date me.  Really?  That was going to convince me?  I told him to get lost.  Screw him (pun intended).  I wasn't going to let him lay a guilt trip on me.   

But I've softened over the years.  Become a pushover.  It's really not becoming.  It's not strong and it's not who I want to be.  

Having no backbone, I allow people to lay guilt trips on me, like the person I'll call Tim.  Tim volunteers to run errands for elderly members of our family.  One time, Tim notified me that he had a scheduling conflict.  Not wanting to disappoint Tim but wanting to be supportive, I filled in for him and drove 160 miles to help.  A few months later, he needed my assistance again.  I hesitated to reply.  

This time, it bothered me.  Why hadn't other options been explored?  Couldn't he have asked someone who lived closer to help out?  I needed advice.  One girlfriend basically told me to suck it up.  Wow, that surprised me—I thought she would rally behind me.  But another friend told me (and let me preference by saying she's super honest and blunt) I was being used. 

I finally realized that Tim had enabled elderly folks to become dependent on him.         

An enabler is not necessarily a negative label.  According to Healthline.com , the term “enabler” generally describes someone whose behavior allows a loved one to continue unacceptable patterns of behavior.  

Healthline.com says, "Many people who enable others don’t do so intentionally. They may not even realize what they’re doing.  Most people who enable loved ones don’t intend to cause harm.  In fact, enabling generally begins with the desire to help."  

But how did helping get so out of hand?        

I don't have an answer for that.  But I needed an answer for this troubling situation.  Fortunately, the article gave me some direction.  I learned it's okay to support the enabler, but not in ways that back the dependence.  

So, the big question is, what's going to happen if Tim has another conflict?   

In the past, I've said yes to appease and to avoid arguments.  I let myself be imposed on because I wanted to be a team player and didn't want to cause hurt feelings.  But if Tim won't consider other options, the best thing I can do for myself is to set boundaries or say no if need be.   

I'm sure my behavior will be looked upon as heartless and selfish.  But I have to stop worrying about how others will perceive me.  I want to focus on becoming stronger.  It will take practice to remain firm.  But if I want to be happy, I have to put an end to being burdened with guilt. 

À la prochaine! 

 

WAIT, WAIT, DON'T TELL ME

I'm not a fan of surprises.  

But recently I attended two events with my husband where I let myself be open to surprise.  I didn't read any reviews or research the shows to find out what to expect.  All I knew was at the van Gogh venue we'd be seeing Vincent's art, and at a historic home in Lexington, we'd be watching a play written by Chekov. 

The Van Gogh Immersive 

I'm a big fan of van Gogh.  I've read about him extensively, and I've gone to many museums to see his famous works.  My husband and I even had the opportunity to go to the van Gogh museum in Amsterdam (one of THE best art museums I've ever visited).  But here, in Cincinnati, there was uncertainty and excitement—we didn't know what paintings would be displayed and how they would be presented.   

At the entrance, we found a bust of van Gogh suspended in midair and on it, paintings were projected onto the face.  A little further down the hall, we discovered a wall covered with 3-dimensional golden sunflowers, where people posed to have their pictures taken.  Of course, we obliged.

Onward into the next hall, we viewed his most famous works: canvases of sunflowers and self-portraits.  Besides each one, little cards gave details about the paintings. 

We shuffled into the adjourning room where the The Bedroom had been recreated.  No doubt, Vincent's spirit welcomed me to sit and rest my feet.  After we posed for pictures, we went into a stairwell where the steps and walls were painted in deep blue with yellow-glowing stars.  It was as if we were floating in the skies of the painting The Starry Night. 

And then, we opened a curtain and stepped into a large room where scenes of his paintings were projected on all four walls.  But it didn't feel like we were inside a room.  It felt as if we were outside in a field at dusk with people sitting on lawn chairs and benches.  We dropped to the floor on a blanket and watched the images flow from the left wall to the front wall and around to right side and then to the back of us.  We were awash in the art of Van Gogh.  And as the music played and Vincent's quotes were read, I felt his highs and lows, a full range of emotions of a man who suffered for his art. 

Uncle Vanya

Like the Van Gogh Immersive, I had no clue what to expect from this play.   

On a hot summer night my husband and I were greeted just outside the parking lot and escorted to the garden of a historic house in downtown Lexington.  Twenty chairs had been arranged alongside a flower bed.  We were invited to take a seat.  And then, the action began and we were part of the set! 

Two cast members were seated at a table while another actor slept on a blanket on the grass.  Casual conversations began and slowly the plot was revealed.  As other actors entered the garden, the drama unfolded.  With every line of dialogue, we were getting to know these characters, their relationships, their troubles.  After the last line of the act was recited, an usher led us into the house and upstairs through a darkened passage. 

Upon reaching a bedroom, we heard thunder rumbling as we were seated against a back wall.  A storm was brewing (figuratively and literally).  Actors burst into the room venting and sobbing.  The tension had increased and each character grew more miserable—many of them having fallen in love with someone who didn't love them.  

When the act concluded, we were ushered back to the garden for the intermission and refreshments.  Afterward, we were escorted to a dining room.  We sat against a back wall watching as the tension came to a climax.  So much emotion and unease.  So much gloom and doom.  Just when we hoped things would get better, a character waved a gun, and we were abruptly led to a parlor for the last act.  I wanted the play to end on a happy note without a murder.  At least one of my wishes came true.  There was no violence.  But as the final lines were recited, we found that the characters had changed.  Their lives would be harder and probably sadder, and yet somehow a gleam of hope prevailed.   

Upon reflecting on the play, I found that though the audience was a feature of each scene, we didn't participate.  We were merely dropped into the middle of a Russian manor.  But we did have a role—to observe the actors up close.  And being part of the set, I got to know the wants, loves, goals, missteps, and misfortunes of each character.  

What one gains in an immersive art or theatre production is personal.  There really isn't a middle of the road feeling.  You either like it or not.  For me, the experiences will likely stay with me for a long time because I allowed myself to welcome something new, something original, something daring.  By being surprised and not knowing anything in advance, I experienced the art and the drama more deeply.  I became aware of the energy and creativity needed to pull off these shows, and I left feeling humbled by talent.    

 À la prochaine! 

 

 

It may not look like it, but they really do like each other.

THE KING AND THE QUEEN RULE THE CASTLE

I never imagined I'd be taking care of two cats. 

That wasn't the plan.  Though I believed Ozzie, our adopted tabby, would want a brother or a sister, my husband Jim convinced me that Oz would never want to share his domain with another cat.  We were a one-cat family and Ozzie was king of the castle.  

And then Ozzie abandoned the castle.  The basement door was accidently left open and just like that, he disappeared.  

From the day he was adopted, Ozzie had always been an indoor cat.  He didn't possess the skills to survive outside.  I was devastated and heartbroken.  I imagined the worse—it was November and the temperatures were plunging.  How would he stay warm?  How would he find food?  How would he make his way back home?  

After ten days, I was beginning to lose hope that he'd return.  Nevertheless, my husband and I drove to the Humane Society hoping someone had found Ozzie and dropped him off.  But Ozzie was not in the room for lost pets.    

On the way home, we stopped by PetSmart.  I wanted to see if a kitty would brighten my mood.  And then I spotted a black and white five-month-old kitten named Abby.  I couldn't resist.  She had the same name as our daughter.  We adopted her on the spot and changed her name to Lizzie (double z's in honor of Ozzie).

It was an impetuous move.  I didn't know if I could love Lizzie as much as Ozzie.  

Seven weeks later at the end of January, I got a call from a neighbor who saw a picture on Facebook of a cat she thought looked like Ozzie.  When I took a look, I wasn't sure if it was our pet. The picture was fuzzy.  Still, it was worth looking into.  My husband located the address of the person who had posted the picture.  To our amazement, the address was only a half a mile away.  We dropped everything and raced to the townhouse.  We were ushered to the basement and there was Ozzie, all skin and bones, too weak to meow, to limp to hold his head up.   

When we brought him home, our plan was to take him to the vet to have him checked out, feed him so he could put on weight, let him rest, and keep his curious sister away.  Which she obliged.  She must have sensed he was in bad shape. 

In two weeks, he gradually got stronger and Lizzie was over with being patient.  She had to check out her new playmate.  Which for Ozzie, was something he hadn't anticipated.  He had overcome the ordeal of living outside in the freezing snow and ice, trying to forage to find food, and now he had to contend with an energetic kitten.  Let me tell you he wasn't in the mood to be pounced on by Lizzie.  This was new to him.  He had never played before and having no claws, he had no way to defend himself.

Gradually, and upon Lizzie's insistence, he got the hang of rough-housing with her.  As he put on more weight, he grew bigger than Liz and he could wrestle with her, pin her down and nip at her paws.  From the sound of her squeals, you'd think she was in pain and she's had enough, but she always came back for more.  

On top of Lizzie's playfulness, Ozzie has to put up with her piggish eating habits.  If I'm not present to guard Ozzie's food, she would gobble her kibbles and then shove him out of the way to eat from his bowl.  Being a gentleman, he would simply sit and watch her chow down. 

During the day, Lizzie climbs into my lap as I write and Ozzie hangs out behind my computer.  At night, Lizzie gets more wound up and nips at my toes and calves.  Ozzie snoozes or watches his wild sister.   They may wrestle a bit, and Ozzie may even instigate it.  And when they settle down, I give them both chin and belly rubs.  I gaze at one and then the other, at one who survived the unimaginable and at one who had been called Abby.  Who would have thought there'd be two cats in the Mrvos household?  Life in the castle changed.  The king lives peacefully (for the most part) with the queen.  

Things come and go and come back.  Things grow and grow and what's left is love, an abundance of love.

 À la prochaine! 

WHAT UP WITH DAT?

I get pissed off when people can't say thank you. 

For instance:  Several years ago, my husband and I received a graduation announcement from the son of a couple we used to see on social occasions.  We had lost touch with them.  But twenty years later come one May, we received the announcement that their son was graduating.  We sent a check and a card.  But the graduate never bothered to send a thank you note.

More recently, we received a graduation notice from the son of a couple we had known three decades ago.  Three decades ago!  We only stay in touch with Christmas cards and they live hundreds of miles away.  WTF?  Or as Kenan Thompson of SNL would say: What up with dat?  

Maybe they sincerely thought we'd like to know about his achievement.  But honestly, it felt more like they were asking for a gift.  And if we were to send a check, what are the chances we'd receive a thank you note?  I'm pretty sure the graduate would never acknowledge the gift.  Now, I could be wrong.  He may be a very nice kid who plans to tell friends and relatives he's grateful they thought about him at this momentous occasion. 

But my gut feeling (and cynicism and experience) tells me otherwise.  

Ingratitude happens on many occasions.  Take weddings:  My husband and I drove nine hours to Washington, D.C. to celebrate a cousin's wedding.  We sent them an expensive gift and never heard a peep from them.  Take birthdays:  We sent generous restaurant gift cards to our nephews.  Neither one of them wrote a thank you note.

I'm not sure why ingratitude is so prevalent.  Have parents forgotten to teach their kids to say thank you?  Or do kids feel they don't need to say thank you?

According Theology of Work, "ingratitude wrongs the one who should have received thanks. But there is another penalty that is paid when we are ungrateful. We lose the opportunity to delight in the blessings of our lives. We deny ourselves the joy that comes to us when we give others the joy that comes from our thanks. Ingratitude deprives the one who should offer thanks of a deeper, richer, fuller experience of life's goodness. So, ingratitude hurts the one who should receive thanks and the one who should give it. Not surprisingly, therefore, it also fails to nourish the relationship between the two parties. Whereas, a word of thanks can build intimacy and trust; thanks neglected creates distance and guardedness."

When I was young, my mom insisted that we write thank you notes for the gifts that we received.  My husband and I taught our daughter to do the same thing.  This may not be the practice these days.  Attitudes have changed.  And then again...

My husband thanks me for the meals I cook each night.  Writers thank me when I waive the editorial fee.  Friends and grocery clerks thank me when I surprise them with flowers or a gift card. 

So, when I think of those who are less grateful, I remember others who are appreciative.  They may say thank you by writing a short note, giving me a call, or sending an email.  They get it.  Showing gratitude is not hard.  It's a beautiful gesture and it's the right thing to do.     

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                 Photo: Fine Mayer from Pixabay 

     

I'VE GOT THE MUSIC IN ME*

Whenever I hear certain songs that play repeatedly or strike a chord with me, I believe spiritual synchronicities are at work delivering a message, providing guidance, or giving reassurance that I'm on the right path.   

The best way for me to explain is through some examples.

Before the pandemic, I used to listen to music as I worked out in the gym.  I never made a playlist.  I'd listen to whatever played on Spotify.  Whenever I rode the bike or lifted weights, I'm Turning Japanese by The Vapors would play ninety percent of the time.  It was crazy.  Mysterious.  And predictable.  Back in 1980, it was the favorite song of a former boyfriend.  

So why did I hear this song—forty years after we dated—fifteen years after his death?  Perhaps his spirit had always been trying to send me a message.  Now this song easily reached me through Spotify.  Hearing the song played repeatedly made me feel like it was his way of emphasizing how sorry he was about our messy breakup and for my heartache.   

Another song caught my attention recently.  My husband and I enjoy the show The Charismatic Voice.  Producer and vocal coach Elizabeth Zharoff discussed the song Kashmir sung by Robert Plant.  While watching, we learned about the compositional structure of the song, the boldness and carelessness of Plant's style, the timing of the vibrato, the decision to slide or stick a note, and the giving of generosity (of his voice) when he approached the microphone. 

A day after watching The Charismatic Voice, I went to physical therapy.  As I warmed up, Kashmir played.  This coincidence registered with me.  But why did I hear this song again?  Was there a message?  I took a closer look at the lyrics and found that the song is not merely about a place, but about a journey.  After having received a rejection on one of my beloved manuscripts, I found that the lyrics served to remind me that writing is a journey, so be patient and enjoy the steps along the way.

While on the subject of the writing...my husband and I attended an Elton John concert last month.  When Elton sang I'm Still Standing, it resonated with me more than ever that night.  Hearing him sing the song gave me chills.  But why this song and why now?  The power of the song reassured me that I am still standing, still persevering despite rejection.    

I haven't been back in the gym since the pandemic or go to concerts often, so listening to music regularly doesn't happen often.  However, while grocery shopping, going to PT, or watching a television show, I may have the opportunity to hear a song that can be meaningful.  And if I hear that song frequently or if it touches me to the core, I attempt to find the spiritual connection to the music, to be more in touch with my life journey, to 'get' the message.  

Amanda Meder of the Spiritual Living Blog says, "Songs can elicit in all of us intense positive emotions and stir up wonderful memories, so they can be a great way to get a message across.  Songs can also cause you to rethink things, too.  They can shift your outlook, mood, and entire day—which is why they are a very typical ‘sign’ that is sent.  They activate the soul.  If you hear the song synchronistically, this is a sign that you are becoming more in touch with your life path, keep going."

That's what I aim to do, to be aware of the synchronicities and the spiritual power that they hold. Synchronistic experiences give comfort, guidance, and faith.  And if I pay attention, I may understand the perfect timing and the deeper meaning of songs. 

À la prochaine! 

* The Kiki Dee Band  

GETTING IN THE MOOD TO WRITE 

I love coffee.  There's nothing like a hot cup of French Roast to put me in the mood to write. 

This caffeine craze began when I was six years old.  Every time my family visited my grandparents, I'd beg Bubbie for a cup.  My grandmother always gave in.  She spooned three teaspoons of Folgers coffee into my mug of milk.  It wasn't like I needed to feel like a grown-up.  It was the aroma and taste that I craved.  That coffee-milk concoction was the best thing ever. 

I began regularly drinking coffee with cream and sugar after I graduated college.  Now days, I drink black coffee and my favorite flavors are French Roast, as well as Guatemalan or Columbian coffee.  Holding a steamy cup warms my hands and fingers and the taste gives me a little caffeine buzz.  After a few sips, I'm ready to edit my manuscripts, do some marketing, and respond to clients and critique partners.  I'll sip coffee throughout the day, less than 2 cups, which is a fairly harmless custom compared to the habits of some famed American authors. 

I did a little research.  According to Tom Dardis, author of The Thirsty Muse, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Eugene O’Neill got in the mood to write with alcohol.  Dardis reveals that these writers inherited their alcoholism from their parents.  Dardis states that the first three burned themselves out before they reached their creative potential.  I'm not sure I agree with him in regards to Hemingway.  

Judy Reeves, author of A Writer’s Book of Days, observes that several famous authors had healthier “getting into the writing mood” methods.  She notes that Alexandre Dumas (the elder) ate an apple early each morning.  Charles Dickens took long walks every day.  Modern day novelist Stephen King has a glass of water or tea, takes a vitamin pill and listens to music. 

So, it seems common that many authors rely on some stimulus to prepare themselves to write.  A cup of java usually does the trick for me.  But on the rare occasion coffee doesn't get my creative juices flowing, I put my writing for a little bit and:  

• study French     
• answer emails
• work on client's manuscripts and query letters   
• take a walk and mull over ideas
• read inspirational quotes on writing
• go to Pinterest to get visual writing ideas
• read Facebook posts until I figure I've got better things to do with my time 

Putty Cat

Taking a break works wonders.  I am refreshed and ready to write.   

While the water boils for a fresh cup of coffee, I take care of the cats; otherwise, two of them will be hopping on the keyboard.  First, I feed our kitten Lizzie (to distract her from Ozzie's bowl because she's a bit of a food hog), and then Ozzie, and lastly, Putt-Putt (our lovable stray) because he's staring at me through the screen door,

and then feed Ozzie and Lizzie again because they see Putty is eating, so naturally, they want more food.

Whew!  After making sure all three of them are well-fed, I pour myself a cup of steaming hot coffee. 

I turn on the computer and I'm relaxed, open to the flow of ideas, and in the mood to write.

À la prochaine!