Storm Stayed

 It was January 1980. My (then) fiancé and I were sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace at my brother's apartment. Each of us sipped on a hot chocolate. All the lights were off, and the fireplace exuded wave after wave of nice, dry heat through our sweaters, soaking us in hearty, healing warmth.

It was over 40 years ago. But the memory is just as vivid: the taste of the mini-marshmallows smooth on our tongues, the warmth of the hearth making one side of our faces hotter than the other, the utter peace and joy in that moment, nestled in each other's arms, the crackling and asymmetric thrumming of the flames, the only other sound being our own breathing or the occasional whispered confidence as we gazed into the dancing tongues of fire behind the mesh grate. 

The storm was raging outside: one of those come-out-of-nowhere winter storms when the snow gets into cracks and makes ever-changing desert scenes in swirling snow-devils barely visible in the starlight. That we would possibly not make it to church the next day was the farthest thing from our minds. We were lost in the dwindling flames, kept just as hot by the glowing embers as the clock slipped past one o'clock, then two. We were loath to leave it, because it meant I would head to the guest room and he to the sofa. So we lingered.

Free image by Capri23auto at Pixabay.

That scene flashes into my mind when there's "nothing on TV" and I see that the Fireplace channel is featuring a roaring fire in Banff or les Laurentides... without music. The decision to change the channel is not hard! 

With just the sound and appearance of the flames, without any of the deleterious side effects of wood smoke (stuffy nose, watery eyes, etc.), somehow my body feels warmer, and that peaceful, relaxed feeling slips over my tired soul and lulls me into an extreme state of mindful gratitude. Sometimes I even drift off into a doze and catch myself nodding off. My head jerks upward - did anyone see? Nobody would care anyway - they were doing the same thing.

I even enjoy seeing the wood become charred, like rows and rows of charcoal, black alligator hide all aglow with dancing fire-creatures, the flames burning lower and lower until the embers seem lit from within: last, brilliant jewels of their former glory. 

Other memories surface. Sitting in a cozy living room in Dorchester, New Brunswick listening to the flames inside a wood stove and enjoying their heat to the music wafting up from my brother's Ovation guitar. Singing along with him in harmony ... and wondering if life got much better than this. I had long since put my own guitar down, fingertips throbbing, but he kept going - joying in a gift re-given when he recovered from a woodworking accident enough to be able to play his "axe" again.

All those images, sensations, sensory memories of times gone by, swirl around me like the flames swirl around the logs they consume. I am in the fire, and I AM the fire. I both consume and I am consumed. There is no difference. Past, or future, only feeds into the now. I bow my head and fuel my own flame. 

And here, surrounded by the crackles and the wisps of smoke, I am more easily able to wait. Time becomes an abstraction. Minutes, hours, days ... all meld into the moment of becoming who I am. 

Fuzz Buzz

 Fuzz Buzz.

My husband has nicknames for all of us. I'm Pixie (usually; the other stuff is too personal). My daughter is Krysta Sockeroff (she kept kicking off her left sock as a baby.) The dog is either Fuzzybuddy or goo'bOY. And the cats? Let's see, our newest member (a grey British shorthair) is Little One or Pretty Girl; the other female (a tortie) is Fizz-bizz or Little Girl, and the oldest, Loki (a Bombay), now 8 years old, is (among other nicknames) Fuzz Buzz. 

When he first came to us in January 2014, at the age of 2 months or so, he looked like a black bottle brush. His hair was sparse around his ears and face, and stuck up all over him even though he was short-haired. His eyes were brilliant cornflower blue. (They are now yellowish green, and his coat is silky soft and majestic; he looks like a slender panther with a belly-wattle!) And as a kitten, he raced around here like a buzz saw, knocking over everything in his path. It took him very little time to cut through a room and leave toys and blankets and balled-up candy wrappers in his wake. 

And he's in his glory years now. Eight years old, he's much more sedate, far more regal, and definitely the Enforcer of the bunch (including the dog, whom he lets THINK he's in charge). 

Loki fully grown. 2014-12

 He is the heart and soul of our little menagerie. All of our cats are indoor cats. It's statistically proven that they live longer that way.

 Loki doesn't do much 'buzzing' anymore, unless he's chasing Eris (a.k.a 'Fizz-Bizz') especially in the spring and fall, for some reason. But we love him to distraction.

A few weeks ago he slipped outside in the middle of the night when the dog wanted outside to do his business. We were distraught!  

 He was missing for 3 days - we had his photo on LostPetsPEI, Facebook, on posters we printed off and posted on nearly every corner of our subdivision, and finally, FINally, Krysta found him at 1:30 in the morning, almost 3 days from the hour when he disappeared. We were overjoyed he was safe! Of course he didn't learn his lesson, but he was terrified under someone's deck not 75 yards away from our back door, not knowing how to get back inside.

A couple of days ago, he gagged on some plastic he was chewing. Krysta got it away from him, but his body had decided it was going to rebel. We're not sure what caused it, but he got a blockage in his small intestine. Such things can be fatal within days, so we are glad we got seen by a vet when it was still early. Right now he is under observation, and we're not sure if he will need surgery or if it will "pass." In the meantime, he's on IV fluids and they are trying to feed him. If he refuses ... it's another X-ray, then surgery. And a fairly long recovery (at least a week until the sutures heal plus more time for the belly muscles to reattach themselves to each other.) The vet bills are piling up and will soon need to be paid. We are looking at four figures here. He's worth it, but we aren't made of money (contrary to some people's beliefs about us). I have committed myself to spending at least $500.00 ... which I donated to the GoFundMe I set up). Anyway, all that to say that there is one thing that bothers me the most about being a pet owner.

Or should I say being owned by a pet?? 

It's this: having a pet is a lifelong commitment. You don't throw away a child; you don't throw away a pet when it becomes difficult to care for them. A pet is like a child; it becomes part of you, a member of your immediate family, a confidant, a friend, a hug-buddy, and a comforting and calming presence in your life. So when I hear someone say, "It's just an animal," I get irritated. Mostly because that's not my attitude AT ALL. But also because I could just as easily say of their offspring, "It's only a kid. You can make another one." How calloused is that!? So of COURSE I don't say that because I'm not that kind of person. ...  and I let what that person says roll off me because they just don't understand how important our fur-babies are to us.

My thoughts, my prayers, my positive declarations are for Fuzz-Buzz today. He's at the Crossroads Animal Health Centre (shameless plug for these dedicated people!) and I know he's in the best possible hands. 

Here's hoping I have good news by the end of the day. :)

For a Warbler

While out walking the dog today, we happened upon a small lump in the road that didn't quite look like a rock or clump of dirt. As we approached, it became clear that it was a little bird, barely 3 inches from beak to tip of tail. 

It was dead. The little body was still slightly warm.

To keep the dog from defiling the body, I picked it up. It was mostly the colour of dust, light grayish brown, slightly darker on its back and wings, created to blend into its natural surroundings (shrubs and trees) perfectly. But it had not counted on a sudden encounter with a car windshield.

This is the closest image I could find. Image
provided by "The Other Kev" at Pixabay

It had been an insect-eater: the beak was narrow and pointed. Its crest (top of its head) was yellow with brilliant orange feathers underneath. A little male! The tiny legs with still-clutched feet seemed like pencil leads. I marveled at the intricate design, milliseconds before my eyes stung and tears spilled over. 

"The poor little thing!" I exclaimed. "What a shame!"

Hubby asked if he could see. I laid the tiny body gently in his hand ad stroked the little head where I found the orange underfeathers that would only show through the yellow if it was agitated. 

"Its neck is broken," he said. "Death was instant." 

"...but still...!..."

He gazed at it a few more seconds, and carefully and respectfully slipped the little body into his coat pocket. "I'll bury it at home," he murmured, more to himself than to me.

As we walked along in silence, a little Sunday School song came to my mind: "God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets His tender view. If God so loves the little things, I know He loves me too." And it's like I heard in my quiet core the still, small Voice of that God say to me, "I saw him fall, too." 

And I cried.

She believed ... and she did

 (yes, she is me.)

She didn't believe at first. She thought she was "stuck fat." 

She believed her genetics, her physical limitations, her inner critic. She believed her fears. Until, through others' belief in her, she believed too: believed she could learn to understand her emotions, her thought, and her own desires enough to take one day, one meal at a time.

She'd lost weight before, five years previous (after a diagnosis of type II diabetes) and gained a third of it back: very discouraged, she gave up. On herself, on her hopes and dreams. She embraced body positivity to the point where she had herself convinced that the number on the scale didn't matter as long as her sugars were low enough to treat with pills ... and hid from the fact that it DID matter:to HER. 

But, it was only a symbol of something more significant: a lifestyle she had given up believing was possible, one she'd dreamed of since she was much younger, of freedom to own and ride a horse, to go golfing again, to hike (or ride) through forest trails, one with nature. 

Image free from Pixabay

And then there was a point when she got tired of being resigned to a life of feeling "less than" in her own skin, of having given up. And she heard about Noom. 

And she tried it. Being a therapist, she knew the psychology piece, but she remembered how very Hard it was to lose weight because, you know, history, plus diabetes ... and she hesitated.

But ... she remembered the one-day-at-a-time process of her deciding to go back to school. And so she downloaded the app, and she began to apply the psychology she'd learned. And she lost weight. Not much, but about half to three quarters of a pound per week, if at all. 

And she learned that foods could be dense - in calories. The amount of water in a food lowered caloric density and made feeling full take fewer calories. And that no food was "off limits" - even ice cream! ... just taken in moderation. and that she could tame her inner impulses and increase control over them. AND ... most important: she could DO this. She learned that a goal didn't have to be a number on a scale, but the freedom to dream again. One meal, one walk, one day at a time. 

Best of all, she learned that she could enjoy the process!!

The Power and the Price of Love

 "Mom. They took Tux off the shelter site." She was crestfallen.

"Really?" I tried to look surprised and concerned at the same time. 

"I'm really glad I went to meet him in person."

"So am I sweetie. So am I."

What she didn't know was that I had gone to the site and put in an adoption form for this cat she fell in love with from his picture and his story on the site, right after we went in to see him, "to prove to myself," she had told me, "that there won't be a connection with me in person."

But there was.

He was about 4 months old, and he had been at the shelter for two months. He was so shy and fearful that nobody wanted him. But my cat-whisperer daughter saw something in him. And we had just lost our older cat - perhaps to an eagle, we couldn't be sure.

His back story was heartbreaking. He had gotten stuck in the fan-belt of the engine of a summering snowmobile ... at just eight weeks old. His mom couldn't get him out so she abandoned him there. A neighbor was out walking and heard his cries, so she set about trying to get him out. The rescue process was long and tedious, and many hours later, the woman called the PEI Humane Society. An Animal Protection Officer came and helped free him from the belt. But the damage was already done: with so many hands coming down from above, the pain of being stuck, and the sight of work boots and sound of raised voices, he was traumatized and was a black and white bundle of hissing and spitting. 

They put him in a crate to transport him to the shelter. Then they transferred him into a cage in the receiving area, where they assessed him. After his quarantine, they transferred him to another crate to go to the vet to be neutered. Another crate to get back to the shelter. Then transferred into his cage, then to another cage to be available for adoption. Nope. A foster family took him in (more crates to and from) as well as another kitten about his age. He and his foster brother lived with a couple of large dogs and a couple of cats; he liked another cat that was there. When he was four months old, they took him back to the shelter (yet another crate). No method of transferring him to a crate worked. It just added more things to be afraid of: blankets, towels, clothing, you name it. 

But then my daughter saw his pic and read his story. And she fell head over heels for him. We went to see him (as I mentioned, above) and she had resigned herself to leaving him there. So unknown to her, I got the adoption ball rolling, and the conversation happened, the one I shared at the first of this post.

A few hours later, she got an email. She opened it and started to read. It was from a friend of hers at the shelter, who was thrilled that this cat would go to her and who was congratulating her! When the realization came that he was coming to live with us, and that was the reason they took his profile off the website, she was so happy that she cried.

We picked him up the next day. Poor kitty - still another crate experience.  My daughter took him to her room, where she had set up a litter box and a feeding station, and spent the next few weeks doing nothing else but teaching him that people were okay, that it was safe here, that he would be fine, that he was loved and that it felt good to get petted.

We all changed his name to Callum - which means peace - and it soon got shortened to Cal.

I remember the first time she allowed me into her room to give Cal someone else to interact with, to teach him that it wasn't just ONE human he could trust. She told me how to sit, what to do, and how to talk. Within minutes, his terror ebbed away, and I had a tuxedo-clad kitty rubbing up against me and purring. He drooled, but we figured that he had been rewarded with food for letting people handle him, so he associated being stroked with receiving food. He never got over that habit. After a while, it was one of the endearing things about him, as he got to know us all, including the other cats and eventually, last year, the dog. (Well, okay, he never really enjoyed the dog, but you can't have everything.)

There was a one-sided 'bromance' between him and our black cat Loki, who was about six months older than he was. The first time he saw Loki, he ran right up to him and head-butted him so hard it knocked Loki into the wall!! Loki was taken aback, and gave one short hiss - out of surprise more than anything else! 

He never knew his own strength. The largest of our cats, he was the resident scaredy-cat. So he let Loki rule the roost. And he and Eris (our female cat, around his age) played together. They'd play chase, take turns running after each other, and sometimes Loki would join in. When he finally stood up to Loki (after Loki had been picking on him too much), the fur flew, but Loki respected him more after that. 

And so did the dog - he had to swat at Bullet a few times before the dog got the message.

Cal at about a year old, 2015

Cal was a big fella. He was gangly and big-boned, clumsy and a little lumbering, but his heart was as big as all Texas, as the saying goes. 

His favorite piece of furniture was our bed. He would sprawl out on the bed and lay on his side and his older (adopted) brother Loki would lay within three feet of him. They would stay there all day. And when they weren't there, they were on the cat tree (the ledge of which he is laying down on in the picture provided.) Being up high increased his confidence. He learned that he had a right to take up space, and we saw him slowly heal from his traumatic kittenhood. It was so inspiring to watch! "This," we would mutter, "is what love can do. So powerful. Just love. Pure and simple." 

Last Friday, he started to have a hard time breathing. We thought he was trying to cough up a hairball, but he was doing it more and more often. By yesterday morning, we knew we had to call the emergency room vet. They took us right away. Apparently (we had no idea) breathing problems are equivalent to an animal being hit by a car when it comes to deciding which cases are most urgent.

They calmed him with medications, did an X-ray, and then showed us what the problem was. His chest cavity was filled with fluid, which was compressing his lungs and making it really hard for him to breathe. We saw two little black blobs on the X-ray ... the size and appearance of prunes. The vet explained. "Those are his lungs. All this white stuff in the rest of the chest cavity is fluid. It's pressing in on his lungs and there's not enough room for him to get a full breath." So she recommended taking a good bit of that fluid out to make his breathing easier, and testing the fluid to see what the cause of his problem might be. Not all of it, she said, because the risk of a collapsed lung was more if they took it all out. So we consented. They gave him some intravenous liquids and put in some anti-nausea medication. We brought him back home around 4 pm. Dr. Marlene is AMAZING. Just saying.

That night, after he had found a hiding spot under my side of the bed, Cal managed to eat some tuna (his favorite), and drink a little water. He stayed there all night. The family gathered in the living room and talked. We all knew it was just a matter of time. If he got worse, we couldn't keep subjecting him to that crate and to the interventions of strangers.

There were many tears. Nobody got much sleep that night.

I checked on him in the morning. He had stopped panting, so I thought he was doing better. I petted him; he purred. His breathing was still too fast, but I went forward with my plans for the day, which included meeting a friend for an early-afternoon coffee nearby. I took my phone with me "just in case you guys need to go back to the vet with him." I made it clear that I wanted to be there too. All they had to do was call.

I got that call around 2:30, while I was finishing up coffee with my friend. "I'll meet you there," I told my daughter. 

When we got inside, I checked on him inside the crate (again with the crate!!)  He was in clear distress, panting open-mouthed and slavering. Strings of drool hung from the sides of his mouth. I saw panic in his eyes. The vet met us shortly and immediately took him back into ICU. They started an IV and put him on oxygen. 

That's when we had the "quality of life" conversation with the vet. 

The next hour or so was a blur. Lots of waiting for medications to kick in so he would be more calm. Long minutes of petting him and saying our goodbyes. Tears. Hugs. More pets. Then the vet came in with the needles - 3 of them (sedation, an agent to stop the heart, and saline solution to go into the vein after the deed was done to avoid blood leaking out when they took out the IV.) Everything was designed for maximum comfort, minimum stress for both us and him. The vet was great: respectful, compassionate, and knowledgeable.

While we were waiting for them to do the paw-print, the vet from the previous day, who had dropped by because she had 'forgotten' her notes, came in to see us and express her sadness at how things turned out. What a blessing! We had the unique opportunity to thank her for everything she did to ease his discomfort and make him as calm as possible. She had been his vet when he was younger, and that made it easier to talk to her about him, and to share memories ... the scene reminded me of a funeral home in a way. 

Yes. Yes, she cried. It meant a lot to her for us to thank her. I'm so glad we got a chance to do that. Vets don't get a lot of thanks. They should.

Summer Daze

 I passed in my last assignment (revised per my prof's instructions) on August 6, 2021. Four hours later, she emailed me and told me that I was done and congratulations, and to enjoy my summer!  Just like that!

It took quite a while for the fact to sink in that I was done my Masters degree. Done homework. Done writing papers for marks. Done. It's still sinking in that I can enjoy a vacation for what feels like the first time in a very long time. Not an enforced one, or taking time off to do self-care, but a real, honest-to-goodness vacation! I had almost forgotten what it felt like ... so for the last week or so, I've been enjoying that feeling.

But I'm not done learning. That never ends.

The summer has been muggy, and the last two or three weeks has been super hot for this part of the country. One day the "feels like" temperature, or humidex, was 41 degrees Celsius (about 103º Fahrenheit). That was brutal. Plus, the mosquitoes! We have been so grateful for any breeze strong enough to blow those little suckers away ... pun intended. 

The garden has grown in leaps and bounds, with regular watering from the sky or from the garden hose if there's no rain in a week. I have harvested peas and radishes, and watched corn, winter squash, and cucumbers grow. Beets? Beans? Not so much... A few came up but the beets are scrawny and the beans are few. We have potato plants, but I think the high heat really scorched them. Plus there were some caterpillars helping themselves to the leaves. No blossoms yet. But all in all, it's coming. And oh yes - one of our young apple trees actually is growing an apple! It's maybe 3 years old so we weren't expecting any fruit this year. So in September, we'll be able to harvest this one lone apple from our Red Nova tree. 

Free pic by Jessica Bolander at Pixabay:
Cucumber growing

Right now, it's really easy for me to stress out about the future. I sent in my application to the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association (CCPA) for a designation as a Canadian Certified Counsellor (CCC), but these things take time. (I hate waiting, just in case you forgot.) So it's been an exercise in self-care to let go of my obsession with getting everything done and getting moving on opening an office, because I really can't do that before being certified. So, I take one step at a time. One day at a time. I've even made an agreement with myself to NOT check the status of my application this weekend, but to enjoy what is, in the present moment, and not to fret about things I cannot change. 

So, I have been spending time in my veggie garden, learning from Nature, reminding myself to be patient and let things happen, and doing things I enjoy doing. Like blogging for example. ;) And feeling free enough to watch a movie on Netflix with the family from time to time. 

Part of me feels like I'm in a daze ... in limbo ... on hold, and I rail against it, wanting the next part of my journey to kick in. And another part of me says to myself, "So...this is what it feels like to be on vacation. It feels kinda good!" Well, I suppose that within a few weeks or so, I'll be busy enough ... so I guess I had better enjoy these summer days while they last. One daze - er - one day at a time.

That "new car" smell

 You know that experience where you go to a car dealership and they have a nice model in the showroom, and you open the door and sit in the driver's seat? You remember that smell? That new car smell? 

I remember it. It makes me want to drive the car. It's new vinyl, new leather (if you're that rich), clean air conditioning vents, no dust, no smudges, clear windshield ... and the list goes on.

Now, translate that into the experience of a person who is almost at the end of her Masters degree, itching to get out in the world and help people. 

That's me.

Yesterday, as an example of my impatience, I went to see three different spaces that could serve as good offices for a counsellor. Well ... they LOOKED like good spaces. Two out of the three were pretty well duds. But one ... it showed promise. I told the lady that I couldn't  make a decision for at least a month. So if someone came in before she heard back to me, it wasn't fair to make her wait for me. "Go ahead and rent it to that person who gives you the first deposit," I told her. 

Free image by RitaE at Pixabay

Well, at least that scratched my "new car smell" itch. I get it once in a while, mostly when I am impatient or tired of waiting for the next thing to happen. God knows I have this tendency ... and so does my family. I had strict instructions from my daughter NOT to make up my mind that day, that this was just a dry run for the real thing.  

I am so glad I had that thought as I went looking. It took the pressure off. I was able to ask my questions, and hold a mild curiosity instead of an all-encompassing inner push to get it all done in one go. 

I guess I just needed to take my fact-finding skills out for a test drive. And what I found is that there are a number of offices out there that are unsuitable spaces, but you do find that odd gem. If it's still available next month, it would be really nice to practice there. 

However, I'm not in that position quite yet. I still have to finish my degree (2 more weeks and then another 2 until I get my marks!) and then, I will have to apply for  my CCC designation at the same time as I apply for my registration from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists in PEI. One step at a time. 

Part of me still wants to order business cards and such, but I know that I will need a business address and phone number before doing that. I guess that I will be opening sometime in October, not sure exactly when. I will put a rush on my application for my Canadian certified counsellor designation (CCC) so I can at least practice. And I have an action plan for when I receive that. 

It's all laid out, but I'm just waiting for someone in authority to press "Go" ... and at that point, I'll just have one thing to say: 

I'm Open! 

On My Way

 I've been on this journey for a while now. And now, I'm one course away from finishing this program. I'm within sight of beginning a career in counselling. 

After I get my credentials from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists of PEI (CCT-PEI), I will be able to call myself a Counselling Therapist. Until then, I will be finishing my studies, applying to obtain my credentials, and searching for an appropriate office from where to provide services.

I feel as though I have started the last leg of my graduate studies journey, and at some point, that last leg becomes the first leg of my second career. 

I have no rose-coloured glasses here. I know it will be difficult. I know I will struggle at first. Most new business owners do. However, I have my training, I have a few people who want me to contact them in the fall of this year (after I get my credentials) and who will be happy to come and see me as paying clients. And I have word of mouth, which in this province is a powerful thing, for good or ... not. 

Plus, I also have the support of family, friends, colleagues, professors, and the most amazing supervisor. That means that if I have a question about anything to do with the counselling business OR about getting myself unstuck as a therapist, I have someone to mentor me. 

Thinking back to when I first started this blog, little did I know then where that journey would lead me. Random events converged to funnel me in to a decision that I initially made as a back-up plan in case I got fired. (At the time Stephen Harper was the prime minister and public servants were in his cross-hairs!) That back-up plan quickly became my ultimate goal, something I lined up for me to walk into after I retired. 

I retired near the end of September 2020, after the pandemic had ravaged the world and we were heading into the second wave. However, since the Emergency Measures Organization had identified counselling as an essential service, I was able to do my practicum at a local church (thanks to Grace Baptist and Pastor Jeff Eastwood and the elders' board!) for the past 7.5 months. The day after tomorrow, I will see my last client as a student.

It all seems so surreal to me. The idea that in six months, I will likely have my own practice and be seeing clients there ... boggles my mind. Six months! 

I have very little idea what lies ahead. The stepping stones of this journey lead to the other side, but what that shore will look like is a mystery to me. All I know is that this is what I was meant to do, what I was made to do. 

And I will relish every moment. Even if I get my feet wet. :D