betaphilings

When my son was in third grade, his teacher told me that he was her classroom barometer. If she wanted to measure how well things were going in class, she would look to Jay for an accurate reading, not because he was overly sensitive to his environment but because he represented the general strength and character of the group. Her observations of him helped her to regulate the classroom climate.

We are all sensitive to our environment in varying degrees. Schizophrenics, for example, are very out of touch with what is going on around them. Children, on the other hand, tend to react to every dropped pencil and cough and crumpled paper. That’s why classroom teachers rely on students like Jay who can remain focused through most of the distractions. When he loses focus, she knows something is amiss.

I’d like to think I used the same technique in my teaching and parenting. My kids certainly seem happy today. I’d also like to think that my son inherited his barometric abilities from me, but that may be a stretch. I have been told many times that I am “too sensitive,” usually by people lacking sensitivity.

Lately, however, I am feeling what might rightly be called “too sensitive.” Something’s going on that is really bothering me, and I don’t know exactly what it is. If you don’t want to risk being saddened by my attempt to work this out, click now. I don’t know where this is going.

Looking back at some of my old posts, I realize that I’ve gotten away from the funny/cutesy/inspiring sorts of things I used to post. Janice’s comment back in February reminds me of this.

I wish every site I opened had a giraffe, giggling baby, kitten, puppy or something cute and uplifting on it. I suspect folk would be an awful lot more light-hearted!

Of course, in February my pregnant daughter and her husband were still living with me. I felt much more connected to life and love than I do now. That may be part of it, but also in February we didn’t have a thick flow of crude oil pouring into the Gulf of Mexico.

I think the oil spill is what really kick-started this general feeling of discontent I am experiencing. The Deepwater Horizon exploded on April 20th, a few hours after my granddaughter’s birth. Emotional highs and lows like those rarely occur on the same day. I have been up and down ever since.

I know this disaster weighs heavily on everyone’s heart, but I grew up in Louisiana. A part of me will always be attached to the highs and lows of that state. Most of my family still lives there. Louisiana has taken such a beating, first from Katrina and now with this horrendous oil mess. It is all so bewildering and sad.

Despite these double tragedies, I try to tell myself that these hearty people will be fine. They still have some of the best cuisine in the world. They still have their community spirit and devotion to family. They still have access to fresh running water and clean toilets, which forty percent of the people on the planet do not have. Isn’t that enough to make those who’ve lost their homes and livelihoods feel better about their situation? Probably not.

Psychic pain doesn’t have degrees and increments; it hurts all over when it hurts at all.

Considering the pain of others does not help me feel better. It makes me feel worse. Considering the state of the nation and our failing economy and endless war and on and on is robbing me of joy.

What makes me feel better is seeing how both of my children have managed to surround themselves with things that give them joy.

My daughter has a new baby and a great husband with a large extended family who work together to insure each other’s success.

My son just moved from the high-rise district to the historic district in San Francisco. He is masterful at keeping himself happy.

I think happy kids grow up to be happy adults. My two were happy little children, despite losing their dad at such young ages. Jay was such a calm, focused child. Jill was so full of energy. We were a happy little trio.

Now I am home alone and having difficulty finding my joy. I don’t know exactly what it will take for me to shake this current malaise, but I know it will eventually fade. Meanwhile, I remain open to the possibility of finding joy right where I least expect it.

What’s bothering me is what bothers anyone. You get older. Your children grow up and move away. You lose people you love. Natural and man-made disasters happen. Sometimes these hit close to home. You have peaks and valleys, highs and lows. My mother’s home-spun wisdom speaks to this.

Be grateful for the valleys because that’s where the crops grow.

I think I feel a little better now. Thanks, Mom. I look forward to coming home for the 4th. I’ll try to bring my smile because I know you guys could use some over there, and I could sure use some hugs.

OF COURSE there’s no such thing as magic cats, right? Cats can’t just suddenly appear inside a locked house, and even when they do, you can’t blame them for the feeling you might get that you are losing it, that you’re slipping into some other realm where such things as magic cats are possible.

I thought I’d put her outside, yet there she was, sitting on the floor staring at me. Obviously, I only imagined putting her outside.

And there she was again the next day, sitting there staring at me when I knew I’d put her out.  Obviously, I have a hole in my house. The guest bathroom is under renovation. I check it. The new bathtub is sitting soundly atop the drain hole.

I’m just tired from scoring, I decided. I’m stuck in my head and not paying attention to what’s going on around me.

Third day, same thing. Mama is sitting there staring, getting my attention. I’m baffled. Twenty years here and not a single animal break in. What’s different now? How is she getting in?

I go to my bathroom and check everything.

Aha!

She’s managed to tip open the trapdoor to the plumbing. I see how she got in. I secure it thoroughly with duct tape. Problem solved.

Clever cat.

Next day, same thing. Mama’s suddenly sitting there staring at me.

I check the trapdoor. It’s still taped securely. I check the other bathroom. The tub is still there. I call my son-in-law, who started this remodeling project.

Mama’s getting in underneath the bathtub, I say.

That’s impossible because the tub has a flat bottom, he says.

I continue scoring, although now I’m getting spooked about this cat that keeps magically appearing in my house. I’m getting tired too, and I’m losing my focus, distracted by all the mystery.

Maybe she’s not sneaking in, I think. Maybe she’s materializing or astral projecting or teleporting. I ponder transmogrification and other such silliness. I wonder if she has supernatural powers. The ancient Egyptians worshiped cats for some reason, didn’t they? Why?

I think about The Golden Compass and The Temple of My Familiar, stories where animal familiars appear out of thin air to do whatever it is they do. It’s all witchy and arcane and absolutely impossible. At the same time, I can see how a highly imaginative or a highly superstitious person could get those notions if an animal or bird sneaked into their house.

Magic!

Yes, animals sent from the unseen to serve you will always cheer you up.

I keep scoring. I get a call about the death of my friend. I start to feel a bit unglued. I can’t think clearly. I wonder if I’ve injured my brain with  this chronic scoring. For example, when Hitler outlawed jews it would have been unfair for him to hide one himself. Too many sentences like that can hurt your brain. So can grieving.

This brain freeze/mind warp cat/scoring thing wrapped itself around the death of my friend and started to feel really heavy. When Mama showed up on the fifth day, I’d had it! I called my son-in-law to come over. I made him undo the new bathtub drain connection and pull the damned tub out. It wasn’t flat after all. It was curved. I made him stack boards over the hole where the drain pipe is until I can get someone in here to finish it.

That’s all it took. Mama hasn’t materialized her familiar self since. I imagine her sleeping better now, curled up in her pink chair, knowing the house is safe from invaders. Such a helpful little kitty.

Here’s 47 seconds of another magical cat.

“Thou art the Great Cat, the avenger of the Gods, and the judge of words, and the president of the sovereign chiefs and the governor of the holy Circle; thou art indeed the Great Cat.” — Inscription on the Royal Tombs at Thebes

“If animals could speak the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow, but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.” — Mark Twain

“From so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.” —Charles Darwin, 1859

“It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety.” —Isaac Asimov

“I am often amazed by cats. They are graceful and calm, and very much at peace with themselves.” —David Cain, Raptitude

These beautiful striped Bengals are the most expensive cats in the world. Kittens sell for $1,000 - $1,800. Adult breeders can fetch as much as $3,500 or more. Part of that hefty fee no doubt goes to photography shoots like the one above, where this prized Silver Bengal could just as easily have been a dog or a baby. The focus is on the girl rather than the cat.

Less ambitious shots can be found on the site Bengal Cats of Adventure Beach. These breeders really have an eye for the exotic.

Exoticism is an extreme form of romanticism. All things living, natural, earthy, soft, and colorful are romantic. Romanticism contrasts with classicism, which is black, white, grey, hard, traditional, and man-made. My affinity for cats and kids and color makes me and others like me largely romantic in nature.

If I were still teaching, I would use this photo as a prompt for a writing assignment.

Describe this photo shoot. Where are they? What are they doing there? Who are the people involved in the shoot? Who are the girl and the cat? What makes this picture romantic? Is this a great shot or not?

I think it’s awful but even awful has its place.

(more…)

Fish found in Orange, Texas, after Hurricane Ike.

“Thousands of years ago, cats were worshiped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this.”

Photo by Jodie Black at pbjphotos used with permission.