Scribbles, R.I.P.

Today is a sad day. Our pet cat, Scribbles died early this morning. His illness came on suddenly and we took him to the vet on Friday. They could not identify what exactly was the cause of his illness. We decided against expensive and intensive treatment that didn’t have any guarantees, and brought him home.

Suddenly I missed all the things about Scribbles that I used to complain about. Like when he would jump on the table. His uncanny ability to appear when I took out the can opener from the drawer or some Deli meat from the fridge. How he’d stand up, paws on the kitchen counter, head looking up expectantly. I’d have to keep a pile of turkey to feed him to get a little space to make my sandwich. I missed him chasing Shady around the house, galloping up and down the stairs, waiting at the door when he heard Angel’s car, sitting on top of the rocker while I did my crosswords. I feel so guilty for yelling at him. I didn’t realize how much I loved that little ball of orange fur. How much a part of our family he’d become.

When Scribbles was a kitten, the pattern on his side looked like the letters J-O-Y. Tina named him Scribbles; it was a good name for him. But he did live his life filled with “Joy”. And he brought lots of joy into Angel’s life. And mine.

Angel was so good to Scribbles. He cared for him when he was well and during the two week mysterious illness that claimed his life. Angel said that Scribbles was a good friend to him. Well, Angel was a good friend to Scribbles. He sat with him and comforted him to the end. That’s what friends do. And it’s hard.

What did Scribbles teach me in his brief life? That when you are free to be totally yourself - and he was! - no matter what old lady is yelling at you, then you live a full life, a life of joy. And you bring joy into the lives of others, even though you are a lowly furry creature.

I learned that what annoys me about others may very well be what I miss most when they are gone. So maybe I need to reassess all my relationships. They may not be what I think they are. They may mean a lot more to me than I realize. Thank you, Scribbles. Thank you for being you. For bringing joy into our lives. Thank you for annoying me - I needed that. I will miss you mucho.

Legacy

Many years ago, when I was 8 or 9 years old, my aunt gave me a little pendant. It was a lucite heart with a tiny pink rose inside. She had bought it to help out a cousin who was out of work and selling them to tide his family over. I loved this little heart and wore it all the time.

Last December, I lost the little lucite heart pendant with the rose inside. I was heartbroken. You see, I had planned to leave it to my granddaughter; it was to be her legacy.

Now it was gone. I discovered it missing when I got home from my walk in the Botanical garden. I felt for it and oh no! there was the open chain around my neck but no pendant. I searched and searched. When my husband got home I was in tears. I called Lost & Found and went back to the Café the next day to search, retracing my steps, asking the staff to search. But finally, despite my prayers to St. Anthony, I knew it was gone. I couldn’t even tell anyone at first - I felt the same dull gut feeling of loss, like after my house was robbed, like after the terrible diagnoses of the past years, like after deaths of loved ones.

Why did I feel so devastated about a “thing”? And I came to realize it was really about keep me alive. My memory would live on in Marina, my granddaughter. When she wore the pendant she would remember me, how I loved the little locket, how I loved her. I would not be forgotten. I would live on somehow, through her. Was this a way of avoiding facing the reality of my own mortality? Of avoiding looking at death, time running out, and choosing to live life fully whatever time I have left. What opportunity, what dangerous opportunity did this loss, this “stripping” bring me today in this NOW moment. Humility? I am who I am. Marina is who she is. The mystery of how we “live” in others, the connection - well it’s a mystery to me.

I know I hold Marina in my heart. As I hold my grandmother in my heart. When I pray each morning. When Christmas comes and I think on the old days of Christmas Eves at Nanny’s and midnight Mass. When I do the jumble and think of her at the table each night, calmly and quietly pealing her orange, doing the jumble. What faith and love she (and all my forbears) left to me. What a legacy! How beautiful is the faith and love in Marina. It lives on.

And there’s a wonderful postscript to this story!

On Mothers Day I received a new pendant and it was a gift of love. My daughter Tina, Marina’s Mom, searched for a pendant on the internet to replace the lucite heart with the rose that I had lost. When she couldn’t find one she made me a pendant with a rose inside! Poured the resin into the mold and placed a little rose there. (You can see a picture of it by linking to "my daughter's blog" on the sidebar - then go to "A Heart full of Memories" May 8, 2011.) Just her desire to replace the lost heart that broke my heart fills me with humbling awe. Now this new pendant has an even better meaning and legacy that the 60 year old one that I lost. This new one represents the pure unselfish love of daughter for mother. It is a new symbol to treasure. Legacy. What connects us to the past and to the future.

6/2/2011

Mother Teresa and Too Much Stuff

Lately I’ve been trying very hard to de-clutter. I feel buried by my “treasure”: too many boxes, too many clothes, too many trinkets. And yet… it is so hard to let go. If I could be sure that an individual or an organization would appreciate my precious thingys, it would make it a lot easier to donate them. But each item seems to have emotional baggage and I end up feeling like a prisoner of my possessions.

First of all, they need to be organized or I don’t remember that they even exist, much less where they are. Items with sentimental value – like drawings made by my grandkids (come to think of it, I may have some of my kids' drawings too!) or the last Avon pin that my Mom gave me or a birthday card from my daughter – these are especially hard to part with. It’s like I’m throwing away their love. And then there’s the hundreds of old photos. I can’t breathe thinking of it!

And of course I want to guard all my things, especially the emotionally valuable ones. When my house was robbed last year, I discovered how painful it is to lose my belongings. I felt violated. From time to time, I remember another thing that was stolen and the wound opens again.

The very act of cleaning out forty plus years of accumulations and to whom I should bequeath what, raises the terrifying thought of my own mortality. Bad enough to die but then to have your sweet stuff forgotten too! Oh no! No wonder I am stuck in this house that I think I want to move out of.

Filling up the bottomless black hole with “stuff” enslaves me in a way. Yet no matter how hard I try, I wind up buying more “stuff” I don’t really need. I have been reading Mother Teresa’s letters: Come Be My Light. The beginning reveals how she pestered the powers that be to let her heed the “call” to live in the slums of Calcutta. What intrigued me about this mission of hers, is how much she longed to become one of the poor, to give up all possessions. And I have come to see that this is what truly frees you. Maybe this is not as selfless as it seems – maybe it is just smart to detach yourself from material goods.

Remembering 9/11/2001: Looking back

A few last thoughts about that day six years ago. I dug up my old 2001 journal to do a memory check. Did my 2001 account of the events match the memories I've been posting this past week? For the most part they did, remarkably so. What my memory forgot was the pain and anger that I, and many of my colleagues, felt in the long months following the attack, when our work and agency was changed forever. We were also in grief and it was not being acknowledged, given the overwhelming grief of the victims and families directly affected. I believe all New Yorkers, Americans and the world suffered a great loss on that day. What do you think?

I was surprised to find that I had begun writing that day, September 11, 2001, while we waited for my niece to walk uptown. I share it with you now. You will see the misinformation that we had in this account.

9/11/01 It feels unreal. There is a sadness in my gut, my head aches, my whole body is buzzing. Is this shock? At 8:45 this morning, a plane crashed into the World Trade Center. Minutes later, another plane crashed into the other tower. Within the hour, both buildings imploded. I have no idea how many died. It is incomprehensible. Manhattan is closed off. Bridges, transit, tunnels. We hope they are letting traffic out. Dottie and I are waiting for Damarys to walk up from Houston.

It was a deliberate terrorist act. At least 7 planes were hijacked and were flown into the Twin Towers, Pentagon, other spots in D.C. Other planes were shot down. Hundreds of passengers killed. Fighter jets patrolling the NYC skies. All airports in the whole country closed. It is so unreal. A terrible movie. So much hate. I cannot hate back. I just can't. And that feels right.

L., A., T., A., J., J., J., K., PMc, L. (family and friends) all trying to call, all concerned about me. All worried about me. That feels hopeful. Hundreds of people all lined up to give blood, people coordinating rides for other people. The evil brings out the goodness. And LIGHT and LOVE always triumph.

A wake up call for America. Wake up! You are vulnerable. All your weapons and money and control and possessions and security measures will not protect you. Wake up and SHARE, CARE, let the best in your people shine forth. The only hope. God help us all.

Remembering

It's been awhile since I've written. My Aunt Alice died one week ago today. She married my Uncle Ed, who was my godfather and my mother's only sibling, right after World War II. They lived with my grandparents and great aunt Kiki for awhile while my uncle went to college on the G.I. bill. My family lived downstairs, in the "flat" on the first floor of Kiki's three story apartment house.

I have so many happy memories of those times so long ago. Aunt Alice and Uncle Ed playing pinochle with Nanny and Pop-Pop, with my other Grandma and Grandpa, with my Uncle Val. Accusing Uncle Val of reading the cards in Nanny's glasses. Thanksgivings at the huge table my Dad built in the finished basement. Even after Aunt Alice and Uncle Ed moved to Pennsylvania, they would return each Thanksgiving. I see them around that table: my Dad carving the turkey, my Mom, Nanny and Pop-Pop, Kiki with her home baked pies, Aunt Alice and Uncle Ed, my sister, brothers, cousins and me. Now I am the oldest of that close "first family" of my childhood. And that is a hard place to be.

To learn more about Aunt Alice see my daughter's blog (sidebar).