Rumblings and ruminations.

Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be. ~Grandma Moses

The other night, I couldn't sleep at all. I got into bed in the wee hours of the morning after a lovely evening with a good friend, a more- then- slight overindulgence in craft beer and a basket of some greasy, spicy chicken wings, which had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time.

Amelia, is my cat rescuer friend. She is the type of woman who lives her life doing what she believes is just. Her adoptable kittens are gorgeous, glossy and amicable and are only allowed to go to homes that will feed them healthfully and love them adequately. Hilary had stayed home. She was another cat rescuer who specializes in adult cats,. Amelia and Hilary have approximately 28 cats and a gentle, bovine pit bull between them right now. They also feed multitudes of feral cats around the area at various 'way stations'.
Amelia herself reminds me of a cat. The kind of cat that sits, folded neatly with one ear slightly forward, missing nothing. We had a lovely evening but I was glad to get home.

I gratefully got into my bed with its fuzzy flannel sheets and closed my eyes with a sigh, only to realize within moments, that my mind was a store with holiday hours, and had no plans to shut down as long as business was going on. At the same time, my stomach gave a lurch and an alarming rumble, letting me know that the chicken wings were going to have a volatile difference of opinion with my stomach.

I had been out all day, so both cats were in my room keeping a close eye on me. They were pretending to sniff everything, carefully hovering over every object in the room, like reading a well-loved book in olfactory braille.
The children were away, so they really wanted to protect their sole 'keeper of the cat-food cans' . They escorted me to the bathroom and sat down to wait until I was done, looking pleased. Their purring abruptly stopped and their ears went flat, as my digestive system went up in flames. They retreated to just outside the bathroom door, before escorting me back to bed with sidelong glances.

My notebook and pen were on the bed next to me, as usual. I opened the book to a fresh page, and starting writing down some of the thoughts and ideas passing through my mind, some of which I approached with trepidation. Thoughts can sometimes be as jarring as a hastily scribbled note propped up against a lamp on a bedside table somewhere.

It was January now and I wondered how I had been marked by 2010.

I know I have come to understand that hopes and dreams follow their own timetable, one never knows when or how or who. Mostly I know that hope is deeply eternal, and might be as a flame, gutting briefly in the breeze, but it will steadily burn again... given a moment or two.

I have learnt that we can pray for something with our whole heart, but not all we ask for is necessarily good for us. It is probably worth praying for "what is best for us, and best for those that we love, in the right time and in the right way."

I have learnt that we can live somewhere for awhile, and it can never feel like home and we can live somewhere for a short time and feel like we have always belonged there.

I have learnt that when a cat gets his legs shaved at the vet, that it will take weeks for the fur to grow back, and until then, they will look slightly like a well worn velvet couch, but their bald patch is soft if you pet it. I have learnt you will probably get bitten if you pet a cats front legs.

I paid another visit to the bathroom, tripping over both cats who were jockeying for the best viewing seat of the disaster that was my stomach.

When I got back to bed, I looked out of the window at the the translucent darkness, like the arcane leavings of watercolor water, after the painting is done. This night was over too, it was 6.am, January 2nd.
Sleep finally stole over me like a sweet shadow and perhaps peace of mind.