I sincerely, obnoxiously believe it is totally, terrifyingly all up to me.
Clearly I have not yet spent enough time in the presence of cats.
It’s almost Independence Day, and I’m as American as rubbery vegan hot dogs, fries dipped in milkshakes, and earnestness dipped in anxiety.
I cherish my freedom, and I blow up my independence like an inflatable bounce-castle.
I, the word-bird, can and must write every chapter and verse of every poem that ever purred.
I, the Development Director, can and must single-handedly raise every dollar to feed every mouth and acquire every jingle-ball that ever jangled.
I, Angela, can and must personally ensure that everyone in my orbit (human/feline/walrus/wombat, etc.) feels sufficiently star-spangled and special at all times.
And on Independence Eve, I glimpse myself flapping my spindly arms like sparklers, running off the edge of the cliff like Wile E. Coyote, and looking down the canyon, remembering I can’t fly.
Not independently, anyway.
Fortunately, the canyon is lined with cats, creatures composed of 44% pillow, 4% arrogance, and a solid 51% truth.
(OK, 100,000% arrogance. But feline math is more sophisticated than our own.)
Even if cats could save the world individually, they would decline. (“YOU FULL OF RUBBERY VEGAN DOGS, WOMAN. I ALREADY SAVED THE WORLD EIGHT TIMES TODAY. Write ‘eight times,’ woman.” – Gator)
Boba could personally command the floor of Quinn’s Corner and command all the boats to her, like a lighthouse full of lightning bugs. But Boba knows that extreme independence is a sure path to getting independented and slightly demented. So she hands a sparkler to Espresso, and they light the night and trap the laps together.
(Trap The Laps is also an all-accordion Aerosmith tribute band fronted by Arthur, but they were booked for the Fourth of July months ago.)
Mika could independently free the huddled masses from their pickled fears. She has literally crossed the Atlantic, high-fived Lady Liberty, and live-streamed her own American dream. If Mika can build a career of cuddledom from the rags of neurological disease and despair, there’s a future yet to unfurl for us all.
But Mika is happiest among a family of friends, the better to razzle-dazzle us with every instrument in the marching band. Hip-hip-hooray for Hips‘ oom-pah sousaphone; tootle every flute for cranky-doodle-dandy Olive; all rise for the glockenspiel solo of Grecca Most Glorious.
(“ME TUBA! ME TUBA! ME TUBA!” – Gator)
They laugh, and they play, and they firework because they work together.
They are light enough to rise like fireflies, because they know it’s stupid to shoulder the load alone. Glory is great, but peace is yummier. Castles are compelling, but White Castles with friends are better. Independence is interesting, but interdependence is everything.
Freedom from having to be everything is freedom indeed.
And there’s a funny thing about “everything” — which is one of those things Americans love best, up their with TJ Maxxes and jean shorts.
“Everything” is like one of those crinkle-ball fireworks in the air. It starts out brilliant enough, a burst of blazing blossom. But keep your eyes on the skies, and lo! “Everything” grows, and grows, until it glows in all directions, a wild ball of brightness to remind the night what’s true.
(“I TRULY DID SAVE THE WORLD AGAIN JUST NOW. Too humble to tell them. TELL THEM, WOMAN.” – Gator)
“Wild Ball Of Brightness” is also a Bangles tribute band including every cat who ever lived.
“Wild Ball Of Brightness” is also freely available to dented interdependents like you and me. Maybe.
Maybe, if I unclench my fist, the fireflies will rise.
Maybe, if I unfurl my ego, I’ll see everyone else involved in the “everything” I must do.
Maybe, if I look around Tabby’s Place for even ten seconds, I’ll learn the meaning of brightness, and lightness, and freedom, and ringing.
I’ll see our vet team saving hopeless cats from the red glare of pain.
I’ll see our sanctuary associates bursting in air and bursting into laughter as they medicate and express bladders and express the love that moves the stars.
I’ll see every member of our staff as a member of the Development Department, delighting in our donors and listening to our visitors’ tearful stories. They’re stitching the flag of friendship over Tabby’s Place, in which everyone who ever loved is a star.
(“ME STRIPED! RED AND WHITE! ME WIN THE HOLIDAY!” – Gator)
I’ll see our foster families excelling as the Ellis Island of the Afraid, paving streets of gold for kittens saved from cold.
I’ll see givers and sparklers and storytellers under every umbrella, fundraising and fun-blazing and freeing me from the frippery of feeling either too terrified or too important.
I’ll see every volunteer, donor, friend, and unfurled heart, holding up the sky by my side.
I’ll see my smallness under that sky, and I’ll sing for joy.
I’ll see all of us fireflies together, little enough to be cupped in mercy’s hands.
I’ll finally be able to bounce in the castle, because I don’t have to be queen.
And in the dappled, dizzy democracy of Tabby’s Place, I’ll see that it’s up to us all, and it comes down to being a family.
So bring out the rubbery hot dogs, but don’t blubber over your over-importance. Dip your fries in your milkshake, but drown your ego in community. (“MY EGO SWIM GOOD.” – Gator)
We are splendidly interdependent. We are cradled by cats. And together, we are lighting up the world’s long night.
Happy 4th of July, you wild balls of brightness.
PS: Between my writing and your reading, Mika, Boba, and Espresso have all been adopted. Raise your sparklers high for these wild balls of brightness.