I’m going to like having a sister. Thanks, Marie!!

Me: I smell cat pee.

IZ: No, you smell the dog.

Me: Put your nose RIGHT THERE. (me pointing to a spot on the futon) That’s cat pee.

IZ: That’s dog.

This conversation played out over and over last week. By Friday, I was so convinced I smelled cat pee “RIGHT THERE” that in a small rage, I flipped the futon over all by myself; but not before I had emptied half a bottle of Febreeze “RIGHT THERE.”

I have to tell you, I’ve been a bit offended by the repetition of this conversation and its implication. (This is part where I tell you more about my dog’s elimination practices than you want to know. No, you may not SKIM, Mary!) I’ll have you know, my Miss Sophie has a very distinct way of telling you she needs outside. She “looks” at you. It’s sophisticated, really. But then, that’s my dog. In her mind, she’s making eye-contact. And if she jumps down from her bed and makes eye-contact, you only have to say, “Want to go outside, Soph?” for her to spin around in circles and head for the door. This is an elegant solution and I’m proud of my dog for her ingenuity.

The problem arises when YOU don’t make eye-contact and she does. Like, say, you’re in the laundry room, head buried in the dryer. Can she help it that you didn’t see her making eye-contact? Or when you’re asleep and she’s boring holes into your back. Still, NOT HER FAULT. Ahem. So, sometimes, the eye-contact method doesn’t work out and I look up to puddles. But for the most part, the dog and I are in sync. And the one thing she and I both agree on is that her pee doesn’t smell like the stench emanating from “RIGHT THERE.” We are in agreement: IZ is nuts.

Saturday dawned at noon and as I’m sitting in my pj’s I noticed it again. I smell cat pee. RIGHT THERE. Which was odd, because only yesterday my flipping of the futon and baptizing with febreeze had made a very clear dent in the assault on my nose. But then, then it happened.

IZ: There is a wet spot. RIGHT THERE. It’s, it’s, it’s DOG!

ME: Walter Tango Foxtrot!

IZ: It’s not dog?

Me: NO! It’s not dog. It’s a wet spot. And it’s CAT PEE. YOUR CAT’S PEE. MY. DOG. DOESN’T. PEE. RIGHT. THERE.

Ahem.

That prompted a quick check of the cat’s liter box. Imagine. A box full of cat poop, but no pee. Why? Because his cat has been peeing “RIGHT THERE” for a week. And he’s been blaming it on my dog, for a week. And all I have to say is:

Walter Tango Foxtrot

Ok, after 3 hours of editing, I’m done. I was asked to officiate this wedding, so all my photos are before and after. Do you know how hard it is for me to NOT have been in control of the photos? Oh my. Anyhow, poor lighting and floaters in the background aside, there are a few shots worth keeping in the hundreds I shot. If you’re interested, clicky clicky.

So, miss me?

I sometimes wonder. Not about you missing me, but about my increased absences. But then endings are often beginnings. And I should really stop watching sappy movies about endless, great, epic love because I start talking crazy talk about quitting blogging. And you and I both know that’s not happening any time soon, despite my walkabouts in the real world.

I really should write something.

I’ve been home a week now. Ok, a week and two days. But I’m far from recovered. There is so much to tell you, I hardly know where to start. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past two weeks. Most of that I processed with my Spiritual Director. But I will share this with you: I am quickly growing weary of flying. Weary of traveling. And I have an abiding hatred for the TSA. You want my lip gloss? I paid $10 for it at a drug store… It’s call Nude Plum. It’s NOT a bomb, dude. GET A GRIP.

Ahem. Look at the pretty flowers. Where was I? Oh yeah, homebody girl. This is not new really. I’ve struggled with agoraphobia most of my life. I hide it well. My parents thought it was just an obsessive need to decorate my bedroom to look like a 20 something’s apartment. I lobbied for my own bathroom and an exterior door. They ignored me. Still, I never wanted to leave.

But lately, it’s not being fearful of the wide wide (and dare I say, RUDE) world. No, I don’t panic in the white, white of sunshine because I live in a place where there is NO sunshine. It’s not the fear of the new or the undiscovered. It’s not fear at all. It’s fatigue. People, I’m tired.

I don’t know why, really. But I’m finding reasons to stay in, reasons to hurry home, reasons to hole up in my own world. And that, that is frightening. Because it doesn’t have to start with fear to end there. I know this only too well.

I’ve been rationalizing. I’ve been telling myself that I’m just on word over-load. My family, heaven bless them, is a chatty and opinionated clan. They are also the definition of INTENSE. I’m the calm one. Yeah. And let’s face it, weddings are stressful events even if they aren’t contentious. So, I know I’m overwhelmed with the amount of talking and listening that I’ve been pressed to do.

And if you’ll forgive me an aside: you know, I struggle with this aspect of blogging. Words on paper are my preference. In fact, IZ and I spend a great deal of time talking in IM. That may seem odd, but words coming at me from all directions leads to sensory overload. And I’m introverted enough that it makes me exhausted. So blogging, obviously, works for me. However, it leads to a perception that I find difficult to bridge. My family, whose memory of me is dimmed by years of living at a distance, read my blog and see the chatty child they remember. They have no clue that I’ve grown into an adult who values silence. New people assume I’m full of words because my blog is full of words. And DANG people, if I don’t feel the need to step into that perception in person. When I don’t, (and yes, there are times when I sit back and watch) the inevitable contrasts are drawn between who you meet and this person writing. I suppose it isn’t news that I’m uncomfortable with both the contrast and my inability to sync those selves.

But all these words… all these words are in my head. And if they make it out into a blog post, they’re still not me relating. They’re me writing. And they’re you reading. It’s the space between I can’t control.

So, I’m tired. Very tired of being who I am not, not really. Or, maybe better, I’m worn out being a louder version of who I am. A wordier, chattier, more present person that I really am. And that has me withdrawing into my inner world. A world where the words never make it to paper, but are jumbled and turned and pointless soup. Until even I can’t stand the sound of them and I finally fall silent. Really silent.

Scary words, for me. I can tell you I value silence. And I do. But there is a huge difference between silencing all those external frequencies and this silence I’ve been marinating in. The similarities to my old agoraphobic self are not lost on me. So I am taking a step outside my inner stew and writing. It’s just one step out of this silent house. And the sunlight is blinding. I hear, though, that your eyes do adjust. Eventually.

And if you’ve read this far… a reward. New Music. No video yet, but the song is cool.

So, I finally scored a treasury on etsy. Go click and make me famous. Pretty please?

This child walked up, waved his hand in front of me, and said, “You will bake something yummy. Thank you.”

You know, it’s the strangest thing. . . but I kinda have an urge to bake something yummy.

There’s nothing like a welcome home. And you have to give our cat credit, she out did herself. New lawn ornaments… they’re EXACTLY what I wanted!

In truth, this is a comedy of errors and not entirely the cat’s fault. Our cat sitter closed off the doors to Snicker’s litter box on Thursday. Snickers, in dire need and I’m sure quite a bit of frustration, used our new couch as an alternative. Six days marinated in cat waste, my lovely couch is now decorating my yard. Later in the day, IZ will rent a truck and make a donation to the landfill. I’m not happy about that, but what can you do?

IZ, an ardent follower of Buddhianity, keeps saying, “Attachment to things only leads to suffering.” The reverse is true too, though—because now that I’m unattached to this couch, my backside is already suffering at the thought of sitting on our old futon. But praise the universe that I had a futon to haul up from the basement as a replacement couch. And praise the universe that we had a rug beneath the couch, so our carpet was spared. And PRAISE JESUS that the cat didn’t pick our bed. Oh. My.

I’m attempting to laugh. But people, it’s hard to laugh when your backside is yelling and your nose is complaining. I am the definition of vociferous! Every pore in my body is assaulted by this. We spent hours yesterday attempting to get the scent of cat pee out of our house. Heroic measures couldn’t rescue the couch. Once we realized this, we hauled it outside and immediately the gross factor inside the house started to abate. But by then, I had the smell of cat pee burned into my nasal passages and so it wasn’t enough to keep me from hauling in arm-loads of lilacs and burning scented candles. IZ steam cleaned the carpets while I walked around Fabreezing the air. Spray, spray; sniff-sniff!

So now, my couch is sitting on the lawn waiting to be hauled off to the dump. And I’m attempting to laugh. It’s hard work, people. Hard work.

You arrived! And you both were simply radiant! Blessings on the journey.

I suspect tomorrow cannot come too soon for you, little brother. It is an express bullet train at rush hour for me. Blurry. I feel blurry. 

There are so many words I should have for you. Wisdom from  an elder sister and all that. But I find, the girl with too may words, that words have quit me in this moment. All I have is what I feel for you. Which, is immensely painful and special and turbulent and fierce. It is FIERCE LOVE. Fierce love does not like to be limited by definition.

And so I give you what I have:  my deepest admiration for the human being you have become. And for the becoming that has cost you. Your arrival at tomorrow was not by accident—but it wasn’t all by your choice either. Sometimes, what defines us as human beings is not what happens to us. But what we do with what happens to us.

You do not realize it now–how could you? You are blurry too, more than ready for tomorrow. Eyes focused on the light that is coming. But I know this.  You will speed through the day and tomorrow will remain for eternity as the marker of the beginning of your new life together with Marie. You will be you and you will be completely reborn. And you don’t even know it.

But I know, I know that the man you will be at your 25th wedding anniversary, the man you will be in 50 years, the man you will be tomorrow— that man arrived today. He arrived in the way he looks at the woman he will hold for an eternity. He arrived in every step he took to get to this moment. He arrived when he made this choice and he arrived when she said, “Yes!”

Tomorrow is coming and while I may not be ready for it, I know deep in my soul that you are.

I love you, Mark. With a fierce and undying love. 

Dear Little Brother,

Change of plans. I’m not coming to your wedding this Saturday. It is going to be 80 degrees out here on the edge of the world that day. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen the sun? Besides, I hear it’s going to be raining in TN. If I come to your wedding, I will miss the one day a year of loveliness the Universe affords this part of the world. I don’t want to miss our “Summer”.

And yes, yes I would stand you up over weather. What’s your point?

Sorry,

Your Sister