It poured rain last night in Ann Arbor, Michigan, making a soup out of the inches of snow that had covered the ground for most of the week. Today, the lawn was grassy with the exception of a few thin patches of white. The wind has been, is blowing right now. You can hear it whistling outside the house. Winter is official as of yesterday, and the darkest day of the year is behind us.
In thirteen days, I'll be on my way to Portland for my second residency. The winter (or Spring, as I found out they call it) semester residency is held in Seaside, Oregon instead of on Pacific's campus in Forest Grove. When I was weighing factors in choosing which grad school to attend, I admit that a beach in Oregon beat a snowy campus in Vermont like scissors cut paper. Little did I realize that I may see for the first time snow on sand. Still, a beautiful stormy ocean view defeats snow dunes. At least it's a break from the weather here.
For anyone who doesn't know, we lost our two oldest cats about two weeks ago. I haven't stopped crying yet, although I am better than I was at first. I'm sure my parents think I'm a weirdo because all I talk about is our cats. I really think my mom wouldn't think it was so strange if we had kids and I talked about them all the time. The cats are my family and my best friends. As Anne said the other day, they are such uncomplicated relationships. In some ways, anyway. But really, just like any other, they are touched with guilt about not doing enough for them, worry about their health issues, annoyance at their neediness and demands on our time, followed by more guilt. But at least we don't have to send them to college. And I really can't imagine living without them. They define me. They are the sense of permanence that resides in so little of the rest of my life. They are the sun rising in the east, the face that looks back at me in the mirror. They are my eleven hugs a day and then some. They wake Marc and me up when we sleep through the alarm clock, they tell us our arguments are getting out of hand, they nudge us back to the real world when we've been in front of the computer too long. Because of them, I am rarely lonely and never alone. Although I seldom, if ever, use the word "blessing," if there were something I could apply it to, it would be them. I am constantly amazed that those little non-humans offer me their friendship and never get mad at me even though I make mistakes. As the novelist Anatole France said, "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." Recently, they have reminded me that I can indeed cry.
In two days, Marc and I will have the first Christmas since we met without them, our eleventh together. I will be especially thankful as we sit down to carve for the three pairs of green eyes peering over the edge of the table.
In thirteen days, I'll be on my way to Portland for my second residency. The winter (or Spring, as I found out they call it) semester residency is held in Seaside, Oregon instead of on Pacific's campus in Forest Grove. When I was weighing factors in choosing which grad school to attend, I admit that a beach in Oregon beat a snowy campus in Vermont like scissors cut paper. Little did I realize that I may see for the first time snow on sand. Still, a beautiful stormy ocean view defeats snow dunes. At least it's a break from the weather here.
For anyone who doesn't know, we lost our two oldest cats about two weeks ago. I haven't stopped crying yet, although I am better than I was at first. I'm sure my parents think I'm a weirdo because all I talk about is our cats. I really think my mom wouldn't think it was so strange if we had kids and I talked about them all the time. The cats are my family and my best friends. As Anne said the other day, they are such uncomplicated relationships. In some ways, anyway. But really, just like any other, they are touched with guilt about not doing enough for them, worry about their health issues, annoyance at their neediness and demands on our time, followed by more guilt. But at least we don't have to send them to college. And I really can't imagine living without them. They define me. They are the sense of permanence that resides in so little of the rest of my life. They are the sun rising in the east, the face that looks back at me in the mirror. They are my eleven hugs a day and then some. They wake Marc and me up when we sleep through the alarm clock, they tell us our arguments are getting out of hand, they nudge us back to the real world when we've been in front of the computer too long. Because of them, I am rarely lonely and never alone. Although I seldom, if ever, use the word "blessing," if there were something I could apply it to, it would be them. I am constantly amazed that those little non-humans offer me their friendship and never get mad at me even though I make mistakes. As the novelist Anatole France said, "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." Recently, they have reminded me that I can indeed cry.
In two days, Marc and I will have the first Christmas since we met without them, our eleventh together. I will be especially thankful as we sit down to carve for the three pairs of green eyes peering over the edge of the table.
