A Broken Vacation In A Broken World

It was a warm, sunny day that late August 2001, when, out of the blue, my then husband of two years announced that he didn't want to be married to me anymore. I never saw it coming. It's as if I was cold-cocked by a prize fighter. The force of the words knocked the wind out of me.

Worse yet was the timing of this brute-force sucker-punch. We were early into the three-hour-plus drive to my parents' house to pick up gifts we were to distribute to my relatives in Germany. Our three-week vacation to my mother's home land was months in the planning. The last time I saw some of my aunts, uncles and cousins was in 1974, when I flew alone at 13. In those days $350 bought you a round trip ticket from Colorado to Germany and back. In those days there were also designated smoking areas on airplanes.

In my kerfuffle I screamed and cried in spurts during much of that drive. I wanted answers. I didn't think things were that bad between us. With my heart so heavy, how would I feign the happiness I'd felt when I woke up that morning? How would I fake "happily married" for the weekend at my parents' house, much less the entire month of September in front of relatives I hadn't seen in so long? Could he not have waited until after the monumental vacation to make his announcement?

We flew into Düsseldorf, September 7, where, after a 13-hour flight we were greeted by one of my aunt's boyfriend. His English was as rusty as my German but we managed to eek out plans for the afternoon. We would have a late lunch, then take a mini-tour of Düsseldorf. Jet lag hit us so hard that we were back in our room, ready for sleep by 7 p.m. Our gracious host bid us adieu. He would pick us up for an early breakfast at the train station. He would keep the luggage we didn't need for our three-day trip to Amsterdam. On the return he'd meet us again at the train station with the rest of our luggage before continuing on to Stuttgart.

September 8-11 was to be our alone time, spent in one of the most intoxicating cities in Europe. By lunch, we disembarked at Amsterdam's Centraal Station. Feeling rested, we walked the mile or so to the Bridge Hotel, an out-of-the-way hotel overlooking one of the city's many canals. We would cover a lot of miles on foot over the next three days. Our marital woes seemed to vanish as we trekked through the phantasmagorical city. The old, droopy apartment buildings were a surreal backdrop for a city brimming with youthful energy. There was something almost comical about the way the buildings leaned against each other, like drunks holding each other up.

Leaning houses and house boats in Amsterdam.

Opposite to most places I've lived in the U.S., Amsterdam was very much a pedestrian – or should I say "pedalestrian" – society. Those on foot were outnumbered by those on bicycles. And boy howdy, these people were experts on those bikes! In work attire (men in suits, women in dresses) these shiny, happy people gave new meaning to "the morning commute". Most all of the cyclists were juggling umbrellas and a cup of coffee in one hand, while conversing on their "handies" (cell phones) held in the other. They didn't miss a beat. Everyone was fit and healthy. I was surprised I didn't see any accidents.

The wee morning hours of September 11 were busy with last minute packing, having our last Danish breakfast (yoghurt, fruit, granola, soft-boiled egg, juice and strong European coffee), snapping last minute photos and high-tailing it back to Centraal Station. Once on the train we would be able to relax and absorb the last three days. In a few hours we'd be back in Düsseldorf to collect the rest of our luggage. From there it would be another three or so hours to Stuttgart.

A moving-train shot of the cathedral in Köln.

Beings it was my first trip on a train, I was entertained by the scenes that flashed by outside my window – patchworks of hillside vineyards, tiny villages with that unique German flair, and the ever-present view of the Rhine River, where cargo boxes stacked two to three high sat on big barges. The wheels of commerce meandered slowly but surely.

We arrived in Stuttgart a little after 5 p.m. Most of my aunts, uncles and cousins were there, eagerly awaiting their chance to hug us and tell us everything was going to be all right. At that point we had little reason to think otherwise. Everyone spoke at once. I thought it was because we hadn't seen each other for so long. That was only partly the reason.

One of my aunts spoke excitedly in broken English, describing planes crashing into buildings. I nodded, wondering why she was bringing up scenes from a movie. The direness of what she was trying to tell me was lost in translation. Then my cousin, who speaks very good English, said earnestly, "Yes, Kimmie. It's true. Did you not hear about it?"

"Hear about what?!"

She told me what they knew about the unfathomable story unfolding before the world. In one moment a few spoken words changed life as I knew it. Fear and nausea washed over me like a tidal wave as a deep sadness crept in and settled into my heart for the duration of the vacation. It got to all my relatives. One uncle was so distraught he canceled plans to take us to Munich's Oktoberfest, saying he wasn't in the mood to party. It hit me particularly hard because my husband was a firefighter.

One of many horrific images that will forever haunt us.

I was obsessed with catching as much news in English as I could. Fortunately, the U.S. Army's Ramstein Air Base was nearby with a radio station that cranked out news and music in English for the Americans stationed there. So much was up in the air. There were times I thought I'd never get to go back home. Everywhere we went, ads for newspapers and magazines featured posters of one of the planes exploding into one of the twin towers. Every newspaper and magazine had the picture on their front page. It was hard to escape, yet I didn't understand much of it.

A poster ad for a magazine in Strasbourg, France.

The rest of our itinerary played out as planned, where each set of aunts and uncles took turns taking us to the castles and villages that I so love about Europe. We made do with what we were dealt. The happiness was in seeing them after so long.

Elementary school students in Freudenstadt, Germany, drew pictures for therapy. "Das Attentat" means "The Assassination".

There was a palpable collective sadness in the air. Once people figured I was American, there was that collective, but silent, pity. As our country seemed to fall apart, our marriage seemed to solidify. It was the glue that held us together for a couple more years. If we are only able to grow closer through chaos, then we are doing it wrong. Unfortunately, the feeling that life was too short was only short-lived.

A tired smile at the Hundertwasser house in Plochingen, Germany.

Free Austin Tice Now!

Austin Tice, 2012. Photo via CNN.com

August 13, 2015, marks the third year that my fearless reporter friend and fellow Texan, Austin Tice, has been held captive in Syria – by whom and where, no one but his captors and a select few know. It was also the last day we chatted briefly and privately on Twitter®. Two days earlier he'd celebrated his 31st birthday with some of the Free Syrian Army (FSA) guys who were his embed hosts. He hit the road later on the 13th, eager to take a much-needed break in a safe place, far from the intense situation brewing with Syria's civil war.

I could sense in Austin's Twitter® feed and in his stories that things were starting to unravel in that late summer of 2012. Austin's last article, in a shared byline with McClatchy News' Hannah Allam, lay witness to the calamity taking hold of Syrian's civil war. It confused me enough to ask him on Twitter® to clarify just who, now, were "the good guys"? It was the beginning of the Islamic State's (IS) hostile takeover of the FSA's fight against Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad. His tweets a week before his disappearance were a foreshadowing of what was to come.



Oddly, you don't hear much news about Austin, almost as if he didn't exist. There's a strange refusal to utter his name. There's not a lot of hubbub about him or Syria's civil war, except for now on the eve of his third year of in captivity. On the one hand, maybe it's better that way. Why put a spotlight on his plight, enticing the IS and their thirst for their dastardly PR campaigns? Sadly, the other side of that coin is the ex-marine's seeming anonymity.

People started talking again when a video of Austin appeared on youtube on September 26, 2012. In the video, a blindfolded Austin is forced by unknown captors to recite a prayer to Allah. It was heart-wrenching to watch and to hear his distressed "Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!" between the recited Arabic prayer, but it was proof that he was still alive after no word for more than a month. The intel community was able to determine that his captors were dressed in Afghan chapans, not typical Syrian garb, but offered little less.

Then it got quiet again until the IS' high-definition videotaped brutal execution of captured journalist, James Foley, on August 19, 2014 – shortly followed by a September 2, 2014, execution of journalist Steven Sotloff. (I did NOT link those videos.) It shook the journalistic community to its core. James' and Austin's parents formed a bond that day.  And his parents work tirelessly to try to change U.S. foreign policy in hostage matters and to implore our government to bring Austin home. One of the most compelling articles to date is a May 2014 Vanity Fair article  written by James Harkin. Harkin's riveting article offers a glimpse of what Austin might be going through in one of Assad's prisons, where it is believed he is being held captive. In February 2015, Reporters Without Borders teamed up with Austin's parents to launch the "Free Austin Tice" blindfold campaign to bring new attention to his plight.

My take on "Free Austin Tice" blindfold pledge. 

A collage of world journalists and supporters who took the "Free Austin Tice" blindfold pledge.

How is it that the young Austin Tice became my cyber friend? Our common bond besides being long, tall Texans, was journalism – in particular, foreign war correspondents and their ballsy reporting from dangerous war zones. I, myself, had set my sights on becoming a foreign correspondent while in journalism school, but life had other plans for me. Besides, I've been told more than once that I was not thick-skinned enough to be a journalist, period. I had difficulty navigating the war zones within small-town gossip and politics of weekly newspaper reporting. Thus, I lived vicariously through other pros reporting in foreign lands.

The closest I came to being a foreign correspondent was playing one as an extra in the pilot "War Stories", which never went to series because its debut coincided with Bush 2's invasion of Iraq. Jeff Goldblum & Lake Bell discuss scenes behind me.

Me with some Uzbeki soldiers and hotel staff. "War Stories" set.

Austin found me on Twitter® through the follow-list of a high-profile, internationally renowned war correspondent veteran and author. He thought I was "somebody" for having the honor of such a prestigious Twitter® follower, but alas, I was only a highly astute Twitter® user, having taken the crash course tweeting the 2009 Iran revolution. On St. Patrick's Day 2012, Austin broke the ice by asking me if I knew our idol. "Not yet!" I told him.

As we privately chatted about journalism, I was tickled that he asked me for advice on his plan to go to Syria and cover the war there. I was surprised because I was out of the loop. It'd been awhile since I'd written for any newspapers. I told him his military experience should serve him well there. He asked which news agencies he should send queries to before leaving. I threw out the Rolling Stone and Time magazine. Then, finally, I told him something along the lines of, "Heck! If you've got the means and can go, then GO! You'd be the only one over there so news agencies will be vying to buy your stories!"

On May 20, 2012, Austin emailed me asking if I would mind "taking a look" at his first story that he was trying to get published. The eagle-eyed editor in me jumped at the chance, and to be honest, I didn't expect much. But, man, was I wrong! I was blown away by the poetic flow of his story from within a war zone! Not only was his story just about perfect as it was written (which is rare in journalism, trust me), but it was a compelling read chock full of imagery the world had yet to open their eyes to. I've edited many a story and very rarely have I come across the natural gift of word that Austin possesses. His dispatches were quickly picked up by Al Jazeera, McClatchy, The Washington Post and CBS, who, like I, saw his inherent talent as a writer.  I know that when he finally does come home, he'll emerge with a Pulitzer prizewinning book that only he will be able to write.

I think of Austin often. My heart aches for him and his parents and his family. I don't know how they get by day to day with so many of them ticking by. So many missed birthdays and holidays. So many seasons and celebrations. So many awards given in absentia for his Syrian stories. I wrote this today with the hope that all who read this keep Austin and his family in their thoughts and pray for his safe return. The world will benefit more with Austin here, at home, telling his stories and sharing his passions and talents. And I truly miss our funny chats.

Austin Tice links:

Austin's Twitter: @Austin_Tice

Austin's Flickr: A.B. Tice photos

Tice Family website

Reporters Without Borders "Free Austin Tice" website

Sign the petition to bring Austin home

Follow @freeaustintice  for the latest, up-to-date information on Austin.

The Badlands: Life Imitates Internet

In this age of TMI, with so many ways to over-share our personal business in the fishbowl of the cyber-world, you'd think we'd have bridged the gap between our differences and in real life transformed into kinder and more cohesive life forms. But au contraire, mon ami. Methinks the divide has grown wider, with everyone grouping off into big cyber-cliques divided by race, sex, creed, proximity, disease and political persuasion. Strangely, we're quite cohesive in our disconnect.

We are the Selfie Stick nation. (Screen grab from Samsung commercial.)

One cannot begin to fathom the depth of the myriad subcultures that exist in cyberspace. The cliques range from those addicted to extreme couponing, to those searching for Big Foot or the Chupacabra. Then there is the seedy and dark side of cyberspace, where any or all of the 7 Deadly Sins are amply represented for the cruel and/or sexually depraved. If Asian sex tourism is your thing, you're not alone. If you never miss a chance to have sex doggie style while watching Scooby Doo and shouting, "Rooby Roo! ... Rooby RooOoo! ... Ruh Roh!" you'll probably find find at least another who shares your passion.

There is some positive and useful stuff out there. You can trace your lineage. You can  "visit" the grave site of a loved one who has passed, or start your family's own grave site memoir. You can even look at graves of the dearly departed famous on the site. (Fancy thee William Shakespeare? Or are you earnestly seeking Oscar Wilde?). You can verify almost anything with your geeky friend Google.

Unfortunately, these useful sites share a common problem with the seedy ones – trolls and bullies. Being the lowest of all forms, trolls hide under the blanket of anonymity to permeate every site out there with their cowardly hatred. It's this brazen online bullying that I think has crossed over into the real world.

We are a rude, thoughtless and self-absorbed lot. We kill beautiful, rare and majestic things for "sport".  RIP Cecil The Lion. And where are you Walter J. Palmer? We kill innocent things for no reason. I mean, what was the motivation for killing the harmless and lovable hitchhiking robot, hitchBOT? Seriously?! What gives? Way to rep it for the USA, 'bot bully!

HitchBOT Crime scene photo. He never made it out of "Killadelphia", as one Philly native said.

Customer service in far too many businesses is almost non-existent these days. Many times I feel like I'm interrupting someone's private dinner conversation when I'm checking out at the grocers. Sometimes there's no acknowledgement of the customer at all! When I get treated rudely trying to fulfill a necessity in life, I feel violated and dirty for having given the establishment any money at all.

People in traffic are rude or inconsiderately too preoccupied with texting and/or gabbing that they don't see how they're messing it up for the others around them, or how they endanger us all with their half-assed attention to the task of driving. There are those pants-on-fire jerks who zigzag in and out of lanes, switching back and forth between two lanes like a yo-yo, up this person's tail and up that person's tail. Their raison d'etré is to arrive at their destination one car sooner.

And then there is the equivalent to impatient road trolls and that is grocery line trolls. These are the impatient whiners who work passively-aggressively behind you to let their presence with their one item be known. I am keen to the signs and ignore them – the loud placement of their one item on the conveyor and their over-dramatic sighing, clearing throat and coughing spells. It is the quiet folk with one item that I let go ahead of me, those ones who don't feel entitled to cut in front of me.

Early one Sunday morning a few weeks ago I had an encounter with a impatient misogynistic jerk in the grocery line. There were only two lanes open as I got in line behind a man whose cart was loaded down while he waited for the woman ahead of him with the same. None of us qualified for the other lane that was open – the "15 items or less" lane. The elderly woman who came up behind me made a beeline for the 15-item line at the same time a man with a cane and a 12-pack of Blue Moon beer. A few people with only a few items went for the lane, which the cashier all-of-a-sudden closed.

My items were almost loaded onto the conveyor belt as I watched the mean cane man cut the elderly woman off with his stick as they both made their way back to my line. He said to the woman, "Uh, no. I was actually in line here first." A liar on top of it! No, he was not! Any man who cuts off an elder woman for any reason is not worthy of my acknowledgement. But, oh, how he tried to get my attention with the opening act of the passive-aggressive hem and haw and slapping down his 12-pack a few times for good measure. The moment my head was turned slightly in his direction to reach into my cart for the last items in the basket, he said, "Hey. Do you think I can cut in front of you? I've only got this."

"Ummm. No, you can't," I said, "I've been standing here for awhile and I have to go pee!"

I lied. I did have to pee but it wasn't that urgent of an issue at that moment. What he did to the woman and his whole aggressive demeanor was unacceptable to me. I may have been the first woman to tell him "no" because he mumbled curses, trying to get the people in line behind him to nod in agreement and form a small, temporary grocery line lynch mob. Then he spoke at me.

"Well, my dog thanks you."

*Screech!* OK, first of all, it was early morning and cooler than usual. Secondly, how dare that man's sense of entitlement, thinking the seas would part because he was thoughtless enough to drag his dog along?

"Well, and my bladder thanks you!" I replied. I could feel the man's seething hate vibe fry my backside. I imagined, given the right circumstances, he wouldn't have hesitated to deck me one.

It's gettin' hot in here...

As I loaded my groceries into my car, still in a kerfuffle about the whole encounter, a voice out of a passing mini SUV said, "I hope you piss yourself!"

What?! I was in such shock that I threw back choice words I never utter loudly in public: "Fuck you!" I threw in one of those Italian "up yours" hand gestures for good measure.

Yeah, I know, not very zen of me. I'm pretty much a conflict-avoiding peacenik but rudeness and bullying set me off! As a highly sensitive person, I was the victim of bullies from the fourth grade on through high school. It didn't stop there. Ten years later, I was bullied in college, though it didn't affect me much then because I was kicking butt winning prestigious scholarship after scholarship and receiving written and verbal accolades from the college higher ups. Professors loved me. I sat in the front in class, asked questions and participated in my higher education.

Then there were the battlefields of brutal workplaces. Even within the ranks of the professional, I was bullied. It affected my health and well-being. I'm not the only one who's been at the receiving end of workplace bullying. There are articles in popular business magazine addressing the issue like this one by Adam Piore for Bloomberg, "Taming The Workplace Bully. And there are entire websites based on books addressing the issue, like Tim Field's "Bully In Sight. 

I collected my composure as I burned the image of the mean man's mini SUV into my brain. As I drove home I thought of gentler responses I could've thrown at mean man that would cut a little deeper, like, "Your dog thinks you're an asshole!"

Broken Lion Heart

Well, I was in the middle of a blog draft about the rise of the troll in the cyber world that is spilling over into the real world, when out of nowhere I was thrown a delayed #2 punch while still reeling from the major #1 that knocked me down not even a month ago. (I'm just throwing this post together so I can take a break and process things.) In a day under three weeks I lost a second kitty to a mysterious, sudden-onset fatal illness. Needless to say I am numb. I don't deal with grief and intense emotion real well so I'm in a sort of altered state, like my limbic system kicked in while I go about my day-to-day in auto pilot. I feel quivery inside and unable to focus. So I try to keep moving to get through it. Releasing some anger through writing this might help. ...

Blazer reminded me of the BKliban tabby.

Blazer was one of two kitties I took in after my elderly neighbor fell and broke his hip early one morning. He was an ornery old man who didn't allow help or intrusion, but we both shared a love of kitties. I took care of his kitties in his house for two months while he was moved from ICU to assisted living and back to ICU for dialysis due to kidney failure due to untreated diabetes. I thought he would eventually come home but his health took a nosedive. The man was so stubborn he suffered silently with his diabetes because he hated going to the doctors. No one could force him to do anything he didn't want to do. Period. I always listened for signs of life from his house because I knew he'd be the type who could otherwise die and go unnoticed for weeks until the smell of rotting flesh finally brought attention to his predicament. Without me there, that could have very well been the scenario. I'm up early so I did hear his cries for help.

Blazer couldn't wait to try out the new catio entry way even though it wasn't finished.

Blazer was a 17-lbs. lover boy with perfect tabby markings.

When it was apparent my neighbor was not coming home, his out-of-town estranged son, family and a few church mates drove up with a big dumpster to dispose of everything in the man's house ... except for the refrigerator, of course. The good pastor wanted that freebie. Another churchie took the free old Chevy Blazer in the garage that the owner didn't have the means to fix. The rest went into the trash – personal papers, pictures, his old Marine uniform. They wanted to do the same to the cats – toss them out! I didn't take care of them for two months just to have them killed! I desperately networked, trying to find Blazer and his old woman kitty partner, Hoodlum, a home, but to no avail. I took them in and continued to foster them, hoping to find them good homes when I moved to where I currently reside. I did what I thought was the right thing in my heart. I did the best I could with what I had. RIP my big Blazer boy. :(

 To throw salt on my unhealed wounds, the news of Minnesota dentist Walter J. Palmer and his cruel, profligate killing of Zimbabwe's Cecil the Lion spun me way off orbit. The fallout of this atrocious act echoes the sentiment of my last blog post about sentient beings, dominion and entitlement. (Synchronicity strikes again!) Palmer, like every trophy collector, was apparently not going to be happy until he had an entire representation of African wildlife in his … living room?! … garage?! … *gulp* … bedroom?!

Calvin & Hobbes fan forever!

I kid you not, Palmer wanted more, asking his guide about his next fix – hunting the biggest elephant on the planet – while still brutally finishing off Cecil the Lion.  He needed yet another wastefully ostentatious "prize" to add to his collection of ill-conceived and ill-gotten "trophies", which Jimmy Kimmel so aptly noted, "…he killed like half of Noah's Ark! …" I'm with Kimmel on the emotion and the loss of words for why people indulge in trophy hunting – and especially canned hunts. What is so manly about shooting fish in a barrel. It's just nasty and inconceivable to me. I'm a vegetarian so I don't need meat for my sustenance and I feel for the factory farm animals that are hyper-bred to keep up with the over-indulgent humans' insatiable appetites.

The majestic Cecil had a unique black mane. Source BBC.

A few of my favorite consistent rights activist celebrities have chimed in with their outrage against Cecil's senseless killing.  Mia Farrow came under fire for tweeting Palmer's work address, which was easily googled anyway. The always lovable animal champion, Betty White, is stunned and at a loss of words about Cecil's killing. Then there's Ricky Gervais, who's loudly and publicly been outing trophy hunters, posting their ridiculous selfies with their kills and shaming them. (Just scroll down Gervais' Twitter® timeline for some lulz.) Countless other celebrities have had their say. Surprisingly, among them was conservationist Jane Goodall, who said that she also had "no words to express" her "repugnance" about the heartbreaking incident.

Sweet Cecil head-bonks the mother of his cubs.

But, oh that equal opportunity Law of Karma. It's like the Law of Gravity: "It's not only a good idea! It's the law!" It's echoes Newton's Third Law Of Motion: "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." It doesn't discriminate and no one is above it, not even the rich. It's an unavoidable but necessary part of life. And now Palmer is getting much deserved fall-out for his apathy and depravity.  How does the hunter now feel as the hunted? This coward is now in hiding and has the chance to escape to a country that won't extradite him for his cowardice act – a chance not given to Cecil. Is there not a tinge of justice here? Is it not odd how the tables have turned? That man's killing of Cecil is the most expensive lesson he will ever learn in his life, whatever is left of it. Unfortunately, he took an innocent and majestic creature down in the process. Was it worth it, Mr. Palmer? What becomes of the beloved Cecil's head and remains? Just pondering these questions reveals the pointlessness of killing for a trophy head.

Whew! I've got to lick some wounds and eventually finish the blog post I began, which, in a bigger-picture sort of way, ties in with all of this human apathy. Be kind to all living things.

Demand Justice For Cecil The Lion In Zimbabwe. They are very close to reaching their million mark and will probably have surpassed it by the time some of you read this.

Also, please sign the White House petition to  Stop Exotic Animal Trophies From Entering The Unite States.

 

Ode To Opie

It was 13 days ago that I had to abruptly say goodbye to my big, sweet, handsome, boss-man ginger cat, Opie. Rescued nine years ago from the death row of a small-town high-kill shelter, he was the most gregarious character I've ever known. 

Opie sedated & out of pain as I say my goodbyes.

Opie took it upon himself as the Alpha kitty to groom his fur-mates and his human (me) … and just about any lick-worthy surface around. (One of his nicknames was OCD Cat). He was Mr. Personality – the talker, the kisser, the cuddle bug, the lover. He was such the charmer that he quickly gained celebrity status during his 3 1/2 day stay at the emergency veterinarian clinic those last days of June in the beginning of his quick decline. (I won't go into detail about everything that led up to Opie's demise, as it is still too painful. Suffice it to say that I feel immense guilt for not trusting my intuition about finishing out his expensive antibiotics and trusting the vet's recommendation that he didn't need the antibiotics anymore – going against the emergency clinic vet's orders).

Opie & me at the emergency veterinary hospital visiting room, June 27, 2015.

Opie's absence is painfully felt by all in the household. To watch his fellow fur-buds grieve the loss of their lion king slows my grieving process. The whole dynamic changed within my home but it's hard to define exactly how. There's a deafening silence. The energy and vibe here is … pensive.

The three boys closest to Opie occasionally still sniff around the hiding places in search of him. They meow at me as if asking, "where is he?!" And much of the time lately, they are depressed and mopey. Or clingy. I catch myself calling out Opie's name at feeding time, which probably confuses the others. Our day-to-day lives were so intertwined, the void left now is a gaping wound in a bleeding broken heart.

Opie & Dokken, July 10, 2015.

I'm not sure how long it will take to arrive at acceptance and peace in the grieving process. But it's sinking in now that Opie's not coming back. He has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge and waits for us there. I dedicate this blog post in Opie's honor. RIP my little man.

As I grow in maturity and become more self-actualized, I see now more than ever the inter-connectedness of all life – even at the quantum level. My intuition is in overdrive and the universe continues to roll out synchronous gifts like a red carpet, made to ease my path and deepen my understanding of my place in the grand scheme of life. Or sometimes the gifts confirm the seeds of thoughts and ideas germinating in my conscience, letting me know they are valid and that I'm dialed in and on track.

My funny little man.

Not even a day or two after Opie's passing, The Pussington Post re-upped one of their August 12, 2013 articles, "Do Cats Grieve For Lost Companions?". I was witnessing firsthand that cats DO indeed grieve for lost companions. I'd seen it many times in my hellacious two years as a shelter volunteer, racking up 2,500 hours in that time. I was deeply submersed and gave it my heart and soul. Most of the time it was all for naught. Cats I'd cleaned up and socialized were killed anyway to make room for more that would meet the same fate. Among the saddest cases were senior cats who have only known one loving home perish when they are brought to the shelter after their person dies. They are obviously grieving about their human and then they are thrown into a noisy place that smells like death. They get sick and are put to sleep. It is heart wrenching.

Opie was my yoga buddy.

The article was based on studies and observations by Barbara J. King, professor of anthropology at College William and Mary in Williamsburg, VA, and documented in her April 2013 book, "When Animals Mourn." King penned a book preview that same month for NPR: "When Animals Mourn: Seeing That Grief Is Not Uniquely Human".

My first response to reading the headline was joy. Thank Goddess the scientific community is getting on board with this "discovery"! Cats, in particular, get a bad rap. I attribute that to some deep-seated ailurophobic asininity left over from the crusades. Contrary to misguided popular belief, cats are capable of deep and loving bonds with humans. They aren't subservient. You have to earn their trust and respect. But don't mistake their independence for indifference. (Cats are like women, no?)

My second response was: They're finally figuring this out?! What took them so long? We INFJ/INFP* sensitives – we earthy hippie types who seem to relate better to nature's 4-legged critters than with the 2-legged variety – we knew this all along! We've been saying it for decades now. We basked in tour furry friends' non-judging unconditional love by being kind, understanding and nonthreatening. We recognized the sentience of our fellow mammals. This understanding grow more profound as my maturity ripens.

Opie was a cuddle bug, & apparently, a boob man.

Sadly, the majority of humans are no where near this level of compassion and empathy. They're stuck in the crusades mentality or in whatever other modality that dictates that MAN REIGNS SUPREME & SCREW EVERYTHING ELSE! I truly believe we have this all wrong. It's a proven fact that people who are cruel to the smaller creatures are also cruel to us larger ones. I was elated to come across Chris Hedges' recent truthdig® article: "All Forms Of Life Are Sacred." You can't love one without loving the others.

The subject of cat rescue came up in a yoga class I taught years ago. The church lady in class said, "We don't care about that stuff here. [yadayada something about the bible]."

"Why?" I asked, trying to speak her language. "Animals are God's creatures and we're supposed to take care of them. Animals have nothing but loving souls."

"No! Animals don't have souls!" she snapped. "Only man was made in the image of God."

Opie also facepalms at the stupid.

I was so dumbfounded and stupefied by her comment that I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry or walk out of the room. I paced to gather composure. Then, "Well, I think that's all taken too literally, like many things from 'The Good Book'. … Besides, why did Noah build the ark to save the animals? So we'd have something to treat like shit when all was said and done?" …

That's the problem with the human condition. We are so myopic and egocentric, but grandiose about where we think our place is in life. We want things to be easy. We like to condense everything into a tiny, labeled box, so we can put it on a shelf that never gets dusted. How do we know we aren't going about life all wrong? We've been conditioned too long to know otherwise. Suppose our dominance is self-appointed? So what that we walk upright, have opposing thumbs and the power of reasoning and complex communication? Look at how we've trashed our planet and divide our peoples. This was the best we, the grand poohbahs of the universe, could do?

Perhaps we could learn from the animals and humble ourselves a little. We must! Our tiny egos and capacity to hate – something animals do not possess – will do us all in one day. Not even the innocents will be spared.

Until we meet again, my handsome little prince.

All that red-orange! Ginger cats rule!

Want to watch proof of animals' capacity to love and mourn? Watch "Animals Mourning Over The Deaths Of Loved Ones"  compiled by Spirit Science and Metaphysics. Have the tissue paper handy!

* Myers-Briggs test: What is your Myers-Briggs?

 

... But We'll Try Best That We Can To Carry On ...

(Tuesday, July 7, 2015)

This is the most emotionally charged version of Styx's "Come Sail Away" I've ever heard. It struck a vein so deeply I could not stop the flow of bleeding tears.

I was a high-schooler in the last three years of the 1970s. Styx was one of the many bands whose soundtracks filled my reverie – a concert in my head for every occasion. I sought clues in those songs, hoping to end my own struggles in my search for a meaningful life. (I was one of few who had their existential-crisis meltdown before I was old enough to drink legally.)

The course I set sail for back then was rife with a mix of conditions ripe for a perfect storm, which threw me way off course into no-man's land. My endless battles at sea made Jason's battles in "Jason and the Argonauts" look like scenes from Chevy Chase's "Vacation". I'm sure the gifted homeless ex-veteran pianist Donald Gould can relate to my sentiments, and then some.

There's always been a soft spot in my heart for our broken veterans of war. Many of the people I befriended in my early 20s – during my own dance with homelessness – were Vietnam veterans. Some were homeless, others one step away from it. All were mentally and/or physically "damaged". And all had a void in their souls, evidenced by the abyss I saw in their eyes when I caught them drifting off in thought. Also discerned was the deep hurt & betrayal they'd built up after coming home from the war beaten, broken and scarred, only to be rejected and vilified by a seemingly apathetic society. Humans still have not yet discovered the empathy needed to deal with the broken people. We perceive them as weak and we throw them away.

So I got goosebumps as I watched Gould – once a strong marine, now emaciated – give his heart and soul to the music he played so passionately he played on his piano. I lost it immediately upon realizing what song Gould chose to play. "Come Sail Away" was one I could totally relate to. At 51, Gould is old enough to have heard it in its day. I wondered if the song held meaning for him in those innocent days as it did for me.

In my own long and painful journey to the wisdom that maturity brings, I remember clearly the emotions certain songs of my youth evoked. In fact, I found it somewhat therapeutic to listen to those '70s songs. The chronology of my life is meshed within the soundtracks of that musical era. I listen to those songs with wise new ears, trying to pinpoint where it was I lost hope. I try to recapture the spark I lost before the breaking point – before I capsized and lost control.

"Come Sail Away" got heavy play after its 1977 release year on the album "The Grand Illusion". As an invisible sophomore in high school, the song – oh, heck, the whole album – carried me through the choppy waters of high school with its invitation to transcend the daily travails of life and seek that which was greater than ourselves. A drive to and from my high school job was a chance to belt out entire albums with conviction. (Thus, car karaoke was born). I'd sing along loudly, sometimes in awe, sometimes in tears.

Setting sail that first time felt like a challenge we could easily rise to in our vibrant youth. Some of us lost our bearings and got thrown off course for what seemed like a life-time of treading water to stay barely afloat. Some never got back on course. Some perished in their sinking ships. And some of us were lucky enough to jump our sinking ships and emerge with renewed strength. The takeaway here is accepting that we are indeed our own ships' captains. We are the master of our domains. It is only our truths that will steer us if we listen to our internal dead reckoning compass.

The passion with which Donald Gould plays "Come Sail Away" seems to me to be his ode to the acceptance and surrender to life's harsh realities. He's got nothing left to lose, but so much to give the world. So much was taken from him, but his last stand is his inspired musical talent. It's the one thing no one can take from him. His gain is our gain.

I wish Donald Gould the right kind of success during his new-found celebrity. I hope he's not exploited, used up and thrown away by next weekend, when the next "latest internet sensation" materializes. May the wisdom of his songs and his experiences lead him to the peace he seeks and deserves. May his son forgive and embrace him. We should wish this for ourselves, Mr. Gould and every living thing on this planet! Everyone should be allowed the gift of following our own bliss. Safe travels, Mr. Gould. Namasté.

Hey Diddly-ay!

I'll try to write in the blog. I need to keep writing. But much of what I want to say requires anonymity, so we'll see how it goes.