It is just over 1 hour into my 51st year on this planet (no need to mention other planets where I may or may not have spent any time). Once again, Morpheus is elusive, so I am sitting at the foot of my mother’s bed (we treasure having her with us again!), and I am […]
It is not all good. It is not all bad. I’m talking about this day, this week, this year, this life we share, like it or not.
It’s in the jokes-in-your-head that no one else hears. (“This new loofah just might be the LOOF OF MY LIFE!”) It’s in the perfect hair days seen only by the Amazon delivery man. (“Lookin’ spiffy, Ma’am.”) But is happiness unshared ergo unreal?
Nineteen years. That’s how long it’s been since the invincible towers fell. This grief is two years older than Tabby’s Place itself.
Public service announcement. For the wretched of the earth, there is a flame that never dies.
We humans are hopelessly “gifted” at flinging our own interpretations and insecurities onto the cats. And so we wring our hands over the overlooked.
True fact: you may, someday, be more renowned than Taylor Swift. Equally true fact: you may labor and love in obscurity for all of your days. Most factual fact: either way, you’re in good company.
I hope, even in the midst of All These Things, you’re still able to get your Friday on. I wish you feisty joy. I wish you rebellious love. I wish you the Friday frippery of cats and children and saints and sages.