Deep Communion

Sunny 33

“Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

There was a note from the landlady, taped to my front door yesterday, saying that “the young rooster is over the fence north side”. I wandered over to and through the gate along the north side but I saw no sign of the bird. When I crossed the yard and went to close the door to the chicken coop I saw that the rooster was inside with the chickens. Of course he was going to go back to his flock. It’s one of his purposes in life. We all need a purpose. Being depressive I sometimes cannot detect a real purpose in my life, but I always rationally know that I have one. Denial, yes. These many days my purpose is to give service to incarcerated cats. It’s a fulfilling job. And when cats get adopted and go to their forever home I get a thrill from the accomplishment of our crew. Sending cats home is what we do. The little intricacies of our job are really not insignificant but they seem so at times. This is also depression talking. My major, overarching view is more attuned to the benefits of being in proximity of numerous beautiful cats. Animals are not given enough credit. My awareness of the complexity of their conscious awareness is my saving grace. We are all in it together, but my cage is invisible. I wonder if they can see it. Maybe they can.

Coyotes in the distance started my day off right. I feel exhausted. Any tidbits of wisdom or erudite commentary will have to wait. I ain’t up to it today. Nor do I feel at all loquacious, although I am not above using an elegant word like “loquacious” to add a touch of purpose to an otherwise drab blog post. My Grandma Olive, Grandma Preston, whatever, instilled me with a love for words. She could also beat just about anyone at Scrabble. But playing Scrabble was a learning tool for me. I only wish I had played it with her more often. I’ve increased my vocabulary immensely since she died but it’s not the number of words I know, and know how to use, it’s more of a spiritual thing for me. I suspect that the world is comprised of words. Language plays shapeshifter in creating our world from what otherwise may be little more than chaos. Yet even chaos contains beauty. Even a cursory glimpse at Chaos theory can show you that. Patterns, fractals, whatever, I am always fascinated when my intellect helps me get out of my own brooding head. Don’t get me wrong, I can still be happy when the dark moody grip of depression is squeezing the bejeezes out of me. The depression has it’s own agenda, as far as I can tell, but happiness can be had, it just takes a lot of hard work to maintain it all day. It’s even not really a facade. It’s genuine. This gnarly mental illness has a certain beauty in its own right. It gives gifts, one of which is the easy understanding of the true value of happiness. When you work hard to achieve something you appreciate it all the more than something that comes easy. Bipolar 2 thus becomes a bearer of wisdom. Maybe it’s not right to attribute wisdom to myself, is it? I don’t care, I’ll do it anyway. Geez, I can even laugh out loud at the antics of the cats in my charge, but depression remains. I think this demonstrates that my hard work in learning to manage the illness has been quite effective. Listen, sometimes when one of the cats gets down and dirty in a bout of depression I might sing to them, regardless of whether or not they like James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, and I can see them soften just a bit, and their wildly rounded pupils slip back into that classic almond shape that cats are famous for. It might be that folks consider feral cats to be just mean, but in their incarceration they are also depressed. Music can heal, no doubt, but I sense that it is the deep communion with the troubled beast that eases their pain. It most certainly ain’t the lyrics. Mr. Taylor’s lyrics, in that song, touch me deeply. So does the melody. So does the fact that he shares his pain or his longing with the world at large. I too like to do that on occasion.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

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