Reflections and the Rainbow Bridge

Tully, age 12 and Dante, age 6 weeks

Grief is an old friend. We've had many, many cats and a couple dozen are buried on our property. But the passing of Tully hits especially hard.

In the mid nineties I lived a very different life. I had just begun my Pagan path, and was not on speaking terms with the Christian God. I had crawled out of my fourth, and very abusive marriage. I had disowned my biological father due to his toxicity in my life. I had found yet one more knight in shining armor, who later proved to the most abusive of them all. I finally gained custody of my sons, and was desperately trying to keep them with me. For a couple of years things looked rosy. It was during those years that Tully came to be.

A few years later I lost my grove, my friends, my sons and all hope. It was one of the darkest times of my life. The knight in shining armor turned out to be a very dangerous sociopath and his extreme charm and manipulations had everyone believing his stories. After destroying my life, he went on to destroy even more lives. But that's an entry for another day. The cats were the only constant in my life. Their need for me, for affection, for care, for cat food, kept me going when I wanted nothing more than to give up.

With no where to go, I moved into The Fiber Geek's basement with my sixteen cats, including Tully and his littermate, Temptation. Later, the cats and I moved to North Carolina and eventually into the trailer I now share with Cameron. I think part of the reason I grieve Tully so deeply is because he represented a tie those days when my sons were with me, when my eldest son had not stopped talking to me, when the world was still filled with those possibilities of normalcy and family. Losing my cat is like loosing the hope I've carried all these years of a strong connection to my sons, to my grandchildren. The years move on, and the distance between us grows. And I've no power to change it.

Looking back, I saw the symptoms of Tully's illness. But my income is half of what it was in the nineties and cost of living has doubled. Vets and chemo are not an option. So we've loved Tully while we had him, and he was utterly devoted to us.  We went to the vet a few weeks ago for antibiotics, and he gained weight. He's spent every moment he could in my lap at the computer or on the bed. I think he's known it was almost time, and he poured out his affection. He's always been affectionate, but these last few weeks even more so.

Yesterday he didn't find his way to my lap. He slept most of the day. Today he refused food. This evening, he crossed the rainbow bridge. 

Tully has been a life lesson to this old, disillusioned witch. He was determinedly cheerful to the end. Indeed, he was the most joyful cat in the house. Only a couple of hours before he crossing, he was "smiling" with his customary cheer. He went swiftly and easily, and is buried beneath the pussy willow.

 Son of Brom, son of Isis, I give the cat goddess Bastet thanks for your life and your joy in living. I miss you desperately. May you please find your way back to me with the turn of the wheel. So mote it be.

Tully Cat

Grey cat: Tannis, in the middle, Marmelade,
Tabby: Tully, and Orange Cat: Rascal (2007)

It's Sunday afternoon and my cat is curled up in my lap asleep. He was asleep the day I found him, 12 years ago, curled up with his momma Isis and littermates, less than four hours old. I initially planned to have several of the kittens adopted out, but couldn't stand to let him go. My best friend, Fiber Geek, named him Tully for Tullamore Dew. It's our drink of choice during late night Filking.

I know the day he was conceived. I did not know, until then, that cat sex is a spectator sport! We had an evil bout of upper respiratory infections run through the house. A neighbor moved out of town, abandoning Isis on the doorstep. She and Brom were the only unfixed cats in the house. She went into heat, and neither cat could be taken to the vet for surgery until they were well. Initially, Brom was too young and inexperienced to know what to do. He definitely was not making the right approach. Firedancer the First solved his problem. With every cat in the house (12 back then) in a circle around Isis, crouched in position, my very neutered Firedancer stepped up, demonstrated how to pleasure a lady, and stepped back. I had no idea he has such knowledge, as he had been neutered very young. Brom watched with deep attention, and then took his turn. I counted the weeks. Four kittens. Three survived.

For the first three years of his life, we called him Tully of Little Brain. He just didn't seem too bright. He raced around like a maniac, got into things and fell off high places. He brought me joy and laughter during a very dark time in my life. He grew so fast he never knew where his feet were. He had me fooled. He had learned playing dumb got him extra treats and attention. More recent years revealed a very elegant, very intelligent cat. Never any problem, gentle and loving.

Two weeks ago Tully was diagnosed with end stage cancer. The vet said to take him home, love him, feed him anything he wants. My rail thin cat, who lost all his teeth a year ago to the cancer, has gained two pounds. Yesterday I found the swollen lymph node in his neck, an inch away from the cancer. We count his life now by breaths and purring.

Yesterday I had to run to the store for cat sand. The check out clerk inquired how many cats I have. When I replied 22, she asked, "Do you know all of their names and personalities?" How offended she might have been if I asked her children's names and personalities. I simply replied my sons are grown and gone, and of course I know the furchildren's names. Yet even as each is precious and unique, some do bond more tightly than others. Tully is very near my heart indeed.

When it's my time to cross into the Summerlands, I want to cross with the grace of my cat. I'm sure he knows he's dying, yet each day he is cheerful, enjoys laying in the morning sun, and devourers every bite of food I give him. Tully has always been an easy cat, happy to have attention, cautious with his claws, delighted in the moment whether it included cat nip, cat food or attention. He is a study of Mindfulness. My clients at the clinic and I could learn much from him. Soon he will cross the Rainbow Bridge, joining his poppa Brom and momma Isis.

May the Goddess Bastet keep you and hold you, and love you like I do, Tully. May she guide you gently to the Rainbow Bridge when it's time. Know my heart goes with you, and you will be welcomed back again with the turn of the wheel.

I love you, Tully Cat. I shall miss you more than I can say.

Chronic Pain

I've worked as a substance abuse counselor for the last three years. We treat opiate addiction with methadone. I wasn't sure how I felt about that in the beginning, substituting one addiction for another, but seeing the remarkable transformations in the people around me has made me a believer.Needless to say, I cannot take opiates for pain without a prescription. Ibuprofen is loosing its effectiveness.

My partner struggles with chronic pain. Neither of us have insurance, so Cameron cannot yet have the much needed surgery that would transform her life. Recently, I injured my right knee. It's not healing. Did I mention no insurance? Chronic pain dogs my steps, rides my temper, waits in the shadows to goad the darkest parts of self.

Chronic pain has become yet another part of mind numbing poverty. You know, choosing between the electric bill and grocery money. Some days it is all I can do to roll out of bed and go to work. What good is a substance abuse counselor or therapist when I hurt too much to filter other people's stories?

Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

I first read Annie Dillard's book in the mid to late 80's as I stumbled my way into Paganism. I think of Dillard an a word artist because she paints with words across a broad canvas of science, introspection and reflection of the world around her. I dream of taking a year, or a lifetime, to live beside water and watch the passage of seasons on its surface. She's done it.

Growing up in Southern Indiana, the daughter of a schizophrenic mother driven by her psychosis, the woods were a refuge, a sanctuary. Hot humid summers lured me into the depths of shadow to walk the dried water fall, to follow the path to the creek, to wade in its shallow waters. Our home was filled with sharp edges, narrow spaces between trouble and anger. The only predictability was the unpredictability. My mother's retreat to her bedroom let me wander those acres of woods unsupervised. Our cats birthed their kittens in the fallen logs beneath towering oaks and maple. To find the source of those tiny "meeps" was a game.

Always there was the edge of the sacred and the profane. Tiny bundles of life become tiny lessons in death when the tomcats found the little boy kittens. I hated the neighbor's orange tomcat who culled our population. I hated my mother even more when we moved to Arkansas and abandoned all twenty cats and kittens. I've always wondered if any still survive in the woods or barns of those neighboring acres.

Eight years ago I found my way back to water, or almost. I can see it from my modest 30 year old mobile home, but I don't own the property with water access. That doesn't always stop me, though. I've found the paths of the South Carolina fishermen to the rocky shore of our modest lake. And I dream of something more.

Little Brown Feet

So I'm sitting on the couch and look up to see a little brown foot hanging over the stairs, and I call out, "I see a little brown foot." My godson replies, "No, there are two little brown feet." Guard my heart, Goddess, I'm falling in love with a three-year-old. Bittersweet thought, that.

Four hours from home are two children that I've only seen a few times. They don't know I'm their grandmother. My heart breaks for the loss. I dream of the day my younger son has children, and I have the funds to see them on a regular basis.

Atlanta

Yesterday The Fiber Geek called and told me her daughter has experienced trauma. She's in New Jersey on a job, and won't be flying back to Atlanta until really late Thursday. The sound of the concern in her voice was enough. I took three days off and I'm in Atlanta. I type this from the basement bedroom of her condo. Her daughter and Little Raven, age three, are upstairs taking a nap.

It's strange to occupy this space. It's time to revisit the past and heal old wounds. The new few days will be an interesting journey. I think I'll use the time to put some old things away that I've carried for many, many years.

It's strange walking around the house. So much has changed. But that's still my Disney plates on the walls. That's still Cameron's mural in the corner. This was the place I came when my life imploded. When neither son would speak to me. When I lost my home, my grove, my life as I knew it. When the world of technical writing and steady pay checks ended and all I could find for work was nannying for $20 an hour.

I read a book once called The Winnowed Woman. She talked about the same things happening, and her life was separated like the wheat from the chaff.  It's been nine years since my life imploded. When I traded dreams for survival. When I had to accept I would never be a part of the boys' lives the way I wanted to. When I realized that I cannot choose a good man, and before I realized I could choose a good relationship with Cameron. When I learned that spirituality is breath, not a grove, not a priest and not a priestess. And that they, too, can be fooled by illusion. It was a time of bitterness, pain, and loss. I still grieve. Perhaps I always will.

And yet, like the Phoenix, I live.  We have an extraordinarily modest home in desperate need of repair. But we have a home. And we, Cameron and I, share a miraculous relationship of joy, appreciation, depth. I have become a priestess, a therapist, a partner, and a better friend. Not such a bad outcome...

Where I am Now....

I seem to be waiting...change creeps along, promising transformation. But life happens while we wait. I continue to work as a substance abuse counselor. I never stop marveling at the stories, the lies, the illusions and the surprises my client present on a daily basis.

I'm also working with Safe Homes Rape Crisis as a therapist. My hours of service pay for my supervision to complete my licensure requirements.

I miss blogging. I miss the words, the keyboard yielding thoughts, ideas, and moments of transformation. But exhaustion dogs my steps, and the most I seem to manage is pushing a mouse around Facebook games. Maybe this weekend, for a few moments, I can find my voice. My best friend called saying her daughter was experiencing life in high gear, and the results were not good. The Fiber Geek is New Jersey for a couple days more, so tomorrow I drive to Atlanta to spend some time with her adult daughter and grandson.

The next few days promise to be interesting.