Digital Demolition

Edited to add: yes, the title is cheesy and overused and on posters and motivational calendars everywhere. But cut me some slack, OK? It was four in the morning and I wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Dave and I were on our way out of Crescent City, CA. I was driving because he hadn’t slept well the previous night. (Something about a beeping lighthouse…) Near the edge of town, I saw a Walgreens and quickly pulled into their parking lot. Most of these chain stores carry similar stock, so I was pretty sure I could get a new blanket and a gallon of Red Bull there. Yay! They had the “too small to cover a person but exactly the right size to protect hotel pillows from Casey’s red hair” blankets, and the required amount of Red Bull for a road trip, plus this blanket was extra soft and came wrapped in a pretty red ribbon. Score! We were soon back on the road. Taking Highway 101 North to Newport OR (Rogue Ales Mothership, we’re almost there!)

Ten miles out of town we approached a black and white kitty who had been hit by a car and was laying in the tiny double-wide-double-yellow-line center-divider of the highway. I went around him, and as we passed, he lifted his head and looked right at me. At us. Oh deities of all faiths, please tell me I didn’t see what I just saw. In the car, a moment of silence, then…. Me: “He’s still alive!” Dave: “He is! Should we go back? What do we do?” I thought for a couple of seconds, pulled the car over to the shoulder. Glanced left then right and pulled a high-speed u-turn back toward the kitty. Dave: “What are we going to do? What can we do?” Me: “Something. Anything. See if he’s still alive. Check around for owners. Call a doctor.”

As we approached the spot where the kitty was still laying, I slowed, then stopped on the shoulder, the nose of our car nearly parallel to the little injured guy on the highway. I was out the door and tearing into the trunk as fast as I could move. Yanked the new blanket out of it’s bag, tore it open, and tossed the cardboard sheets it had been wrapped around aside, in time to hear Dave yell, “It’s running over here!” And he had – this battered little guy had overcome the fear of being struck again and summoned the strength to move; and he’d run right to us, then collapsed into the gravel right at our feet. Blanket in hand, I cautiously approached; crouched and made myself small; spoke softly and gently touched him. I assured him that we were going to help and that he could trust us. I spread the blanket around behind him, then scooped him up, so that his weight was supported all around, but that he could see out and we could see in. He was surrounded in softness and warmth and love. Then we got to business.

One car and one truck had also stopped. No, the cat didn’t belong to them, and no, they didn’t actually think they could do anything. The car folks left right away, while the Cowboy hat-sporting gentleman from the truck went into the trailer park and asked one of the residents if he knew whose cat it could be. Cowboy hat to cowboy hat, they conferred in Spanish about the situation. The resident’s response, essentially, was “who cares?” The woman traveling in the truck with Cowboy-hat-man (and two dogs) suggested that we could take him to one of the vet hospitals back in CC, but there was no local SPCA or anything that might help for free. Cowboy-hat-man gave us lengthy directions to take the kitty to “county” – which we took to mean “sheriff” and, therefore, “someone to end it.” “OK, thanks” we say as Dave helps get me into the car so we don’t jostle the kitty. We head for town FAST. I’m holding the kitty as gently as possible, stroking his ears, and trying not to dissolve into a pile of tears. Dave’s on my iPhone dialing the nearest veterinarian. Convincing the receptionist that even though it’s not our cat, it desperately needs some help, and could they please please please be the place for us to bring this little guy.

The kitty starts to pant (his nose was clogged with blood, so maybe he couldn’t breathe?), so I turn on the air conditioner, thinking maybe he’s in shock and is getting too warm? I hold a paper to keep the sunlight from hitting him directly. I’m openly crying now. The small drops of his blood on the blanket are just SO red. Hic-hic-hiccup. Soothing noises to the kitty; a few for myself. Actually, aside from the road dirt and the blood from his nose, he looks OK. His eyes are bright and he’s paying attention to things moving and changing. He tentatively licks his nose. He’s got longer hair and cute little tufts coming out of his ears, but he has the same B&W markings as our two cats, safely back at home.

We arrive at the vet’s office. Dave helps me get out and lets us into the office. The receptionist says that every doctor and nurse is out to lunch, but are due back soon, so if we could leave kitty in one of the back kennels, they’d tend to him as soon as possible. I gently placed kitty, still snug in his new blanket, into one of the waiting cages. Asked the receptionist to please get some water for him. Offered some money to “help with the exam costs plus … you know, if…” More crying. Kitty starts to pant again. Receptionist says that’s a natural reaction to pain. She asked for details of where we’d found him and we had only a tiny bit of info. Because we were heading back that way, we assured her that we would call with road names, trailer park names, whatever we could get. I touched the little guy through the cage bars and said goodbye.

Back in the car now, Dave was driving now because I was in hysterics.We got back to the cross roads and I started taking notes to call the vet office back with details. Dave looked in the trunk for something to make signs out of and, behold, there were the two pieces of cardboard around which that blanket had been packaged. Dave wrote two copies of a note, with the details, that the cat was still alive, and could be found at the Vet Hospital, and the phone number and address of the hospital. He attached the note to the bank of mail boxes by the trailer park, and put the other note on the gate of the house across from the trailer park. I called and gave the receptionist all the information we had, and told her that we’d left notes, and hoped for the best. She told me that the vet was examining the kitty right then. I didn’t ask for an update, but I thanked her profusely for taking care of a cat who desperately needed some kindness.

Dave’s still driving, because I can’t stop crying. Bawling for a cat we barely knew, whose life had taken such a horrifying turn, and who we helped find some comfort, maybe a little less fear, and hopefully some care or at least a humane ending. Tears of sadness for the little guy, so scared, but brave enough to run to us for help. Tears of anger over the negligent parents. When you bring a domestic animal into your home, you agree to love them, to feed them, and to take good care of them. Their little lives are in your hands. And some asshole broke his agreement by letting an 8-pound animal outside within 100 feet of a freeway. Jerk.

The red ribbon that had been tied around the blanket we used to comfort the kitty? Pinned to a wall in my living room as a reminder that no matter how heart-wrenching it is to stop, it is the only possible thing to do. We all need kindness, we all need comfort, and sometimes we just need friends to scoop us up in softness and whisper gently to us that things are going to be all right.

I spend some time in a cabin in the woods. Its snowy and quiet and lovely (except when the cabin mates decide to all come up simultaneously, which is makes it crowded and not so relaxing). Last night’s drive was an exceptionally hard one – a three-hour trip took nearly seven hours. This included more than an hour of sitting in the cold in the dark in traffic on Highway 80. No explanations, no ETA on when the suffering might end. We finally edged our way over to the on ramp, backed up the damn thing, past giggling 20-something chicklets scampering down the road in the dark exclaiming, “careful, you almost got killed!” It probably would have been a blessing – they looked like breeders and that’s bad stock. But we had an all-wheel drive car and just the movement made us feel better. We did get around the no-reason block and eventually found our way to Truckee around 2:30am.

We finally got to the house and hit the hay. After about seven hours of sleep, I got up and started meandering around the house looking for caffeine and food. I discovered that the power was out, which threw me into a crying jag because I’d packed for a very short trip, which did not include those things I like to do when there’s no electricity. I wandered the house, admiring the snow that had fallen since my last visit, and paying special attention to the circle between the trees (now filled with snow) where I did Shivanata one day. It was a most powerful practice that day and it’s given me lots of new thoughts. About boundaries. And making your own space. And claiming your space. Jumping up and down saying “mine mine mine!” Though I’m too exhausted this trip to repeat the experience, the lessons have stayed with me. Stating my boundaries to coworkers. Explaining that on a given day, I might be cranky and that it has nothing to do with them. Engaging the Hippie Hubby in painful conversations about his mom’s failing health when he gets snippy at me. Trying to use NVC. But mostly knowing (in my gut) that I have established my sovereignty and am starting to own my space in this world. It only took 42 years. Heh – only.

The point here is this: stamping out your space in the snow (or the beach or even your living room) is a powerful thing. It gives this sense of rightness in your heart that helps to make other aspects of your life easier. You have the right to be here. You are important. You have a place. You have a you-ness that you previously lacked. And it feels like I’m headed in the right direction because I’ve taken this step. Our future has possibilities. And choices. And no matter what else is Hard in my life right now, I know that I have my space. And from this space I can conquer anything. It’s there for me. It is me.

Today, over at the Fluent Self, Havi asks the question, “where is the bridge?” I read her post and the comments right before my morning meditate-y thing. Even though I was trying to intention myself into calmness and strength, that bridge question lurked around the back of my head, like the monster that hides just beyond the treeline in the woods. (But not as scary – more like a mouse in the house, sneaking along the baseboard, just out of sight.)

I started to answer in a comment to her post and quickly realized that I was going to take up far too much room. So here we are. My bridge.

This version of my bridge is pretty damn new. We hastily built it within the last three weeks, out of recycled materials and combined purpose. It’s not exactly rickety, but it’s clearly not meant to last forever. It’s strong enough to carry us on our quick, unexpected move.

I don’t know what this bridge looks like, except that it is wide enough for Dave and I to walk side-by-side comfortably. It has intermittent spots with overstuffed chairs, soft blankets, classical music, and tissues. It starts at our current apartments (we have two, across the hall from one another) and vanishes into a fog. It’s not a cold fog, just a haze that obscures the other end. My bridge starts in a sad place, once filled with homey safety and now filled with fear and uncertainty. It ends at our Happy New Home. We have a vague idea of what might be there, but we haven’t fully seen it yet.

Dave doesn’t have time yet to start across the bridge, but he’s right there, ready to go. I’ve been foraging ahead – exploring – a little bit at a time. Finding those little comfort stations, having tiny breakdowns, giving myself permission to fall apart for a few minutes, but also to be scared and to go running back to Dave for hugs and support. I know I don’t have to cross this one alone. Together we are stronger.

I’m actually pretty happy with the bridge. I see that in creating the comfy rest stops, I’ve learned to start building the need for comfort and safety (and the ability to ask for them) into my life. It’s a surprise to see this progress when the last few weeks have been so chaotic. And I’ve been exploring this bridge, seeing glimpses of our Happy New Home, and considering exciting new possibilities (a garage! a garden! no bums! no sirens! the hilarity of cats sliding around on hardwood floors!).

So, yeah, that’s my bridge. At least for now. I suspect I’m secretly (even from myself) already building new bridges in new directions. New ones that will start once we’ve found the end to this one.

Sometimes when I’m doing the Dance of Shiva in the mirror, I feel like a fucked-up cheerleader. It’s hard to resist the temptation to snap into every position (three years of marching band in high school will do that to you). Most of the time when I start feeling really cheeky and flow-y, I throw myself off balance within moments.

I was a contrary child. Best way to get me to do something? Tell me not to do it. Before I left for college, mom told me to be careful and please please please not to try this one drug. Of course, that’s the first thing I looked for. If she said not to do it, it must be good, right? (It was definitely interesting, but I’ve gotta wonder if she was just recommending against it because that was the “right” thing to tell your kid or if she had actual experience. I suspect the former.)

That’s probably the reason I’m enjoying the Dance thingy. The right way to do it doesn’t really exist and even people who’ve been practicing for years can still throw themselves off balance. Being off balance has been my modus operandi forever. After I had the stroke, the doctor asked me if my balance was uneven. “More than before?” I asked. (Yeah, even under the worst situations, my odd sense of humor remains. I suppose it’ll die when I do.)

But when you start exploring all these get-yourself-back-after-a-tragedy methods, they talk about being grounded and being centered. After a little research on how our bodies work, I found that it’s a literal thing – our inner ear dictates our ability to judge where we are in relation to the planet and gravity and everything. Understanding your place in all of this madness and owning your own space is related to the reality of actual balancing in this world. And I’m off. Maybe you are, too.

Quite a few things I read have lately talked about being normal and how there is no normal. Every person has issues (stuff, stuck, triggers, whatever you want to call them) and no one feels normal. Ever. We’re struggling to fit into a nebulous place that doesn’t exist, except in our heads. (And probably our hearts, too, if you want to get all hippie about it.)

The more I consider this current thread of “there is no normal” and my observations about my off-balance-ness, the more I think that I’m heading the right way. Dave has this theory that when serendipitous things start happening, it’s the universe’s way of letting you know you’re on the right heading. I like to believe him.