Leaves of grief

Grief is a funny thing. It can reach out and grab you by the throat from years in the past. Tom has been gone almost 36 years. I have grieved for him. I have found great joy in Math Man and our two sons. Yet somehow the joy and the grief are interleaved with each other, flying past each other like the pages of a book ruffled in the wind. 

Our beloved cat Fluffy died on Friday. She went to sleep on Thursday and simply didn't wake up. The end was swift but gentle, but it remains hard to lose a companion of almost 17 years. Math Man and I cried our tears for her, and did the last necessary things. We will bury her ashes under the cherry tree that she loved to climb,to harass the squirrels and find her way to the window outside my study, demanding I remove the screen and let her in. Terrifying the neighbors as she balanced on the roof, but never once falling. 

I came home from teaching on Friday afternoon and was faced with her food bowl sitting in the kitchen. I emptied her bowls and put them in the dishwasher, and started to clear away the little pieces of her life scattered around the house, washing the bedding in the basket she sometimes occupied in the kitchen and picking up the toys she batted under the sofa. And as I did so the grief and the anger I felt when I came back from the hospital after Tom died came flooding back. I had gone around the house that Good Friday afternoon doing the same thing, throwing away the razor he would not need ever again, washing the bedding and remaking the bed for a single occupant. Suddenly that grief was all fresh again, and I could hardly speak for the tears.

In a moment of clarity, I remembered the advice of a long-ago spiritual director on this kind of grief. Think of it like the Amtrak train howling through the station, he suggested. It comes on fast, it's noisy and rattles you, it's frankly terrifying. But it will pass, and generally quickly. And it did. But I still miss Fluffy...and Tom. 

Inflammate omnia

Math Man is at a Zoom meeting tonight and I’m enjoying the post-kitchen-cleaning quiet in front of the fire with a sleeping cat nosing her way onto my keyboard. The cat is purring, the fire crackling and there is the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background, a testament to industriousness now rewarded. The tendrils of silence that are wrapping around me are bringing back memories of the 30 days I spent making St. Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises. Could it be thirteen years already?

I learned to make a fire on that long retreat, from an Irish priest. There was an enormous fireplace, but as it was bitterly cold in Gloucester that January, the cold air pouring down the chimney tended to extinguish fires before they got going. The trick was to set everything up so that with a single match it went up with a great “whooosh!” The rush of hot air reverses the flow in the chimney, the fire will now burn merrily along. 

This is also a metaphor for the Exercises. Ignatius sets everything up, with the hope that with the touch of the Holy Spirit, it — you— will all go up in flames come the fourth week. Ite, inflammate omnia, Ignatius often signed the letters missioning his Jesuit brothers. “Go and set it all aflame.” 

The Effects of Incipient Predation on the Cognitive Abilities of Perimenopausal Women

Evolution has primed humans to give high attentional priority to potential predators in near proximity. This study quantified the effect of predator threats on cognitively demanding tasks in perimenopausal women.

Subjects were recruited through direct contact from the principal investigator's familial network. One subject, age >50, menopause status self-reported.   

Control Subjects played two rounds of Bananagrams(tm) with the principal investigator (PI).  Only subjects suitably matched to the verbal proficiency of the PI were allowed to proceed on to the second stage of the study.  Suitable matches were declared if the subject won one round and PI one round.

Predator exposure protocol A common local predator, Felis catus domestica, was obtained from the local SPCA and acclimated to the laboratory environment over a period of more than a decade.  To establish its predatory capabilities, the predator was allowed to regularly hunt rodents in its residence's motor vehicle storage unit.

The predator was roused from a nap and introduced into the area where the subject and PI were confined.  The subject was encouraged to play another round of Bananagrams(tm) with the PI, while the predator tracked her hands and sat on her tiles.  The outcome measure was the success or failure of the subject to beat the PI in rounds when she was being stalked by a predator known to her to be successful.  

Results and discussion The subject lost the round.  We hypothesize that the significant cognitive load placed on the subject by the need to track the predator, as well as regularly removing the predator from her tiles, decreased the attention she could devote to the game.  A potential confound is the need for the subject to more slowly retrieve tiles from the common pile when prompted by the "peel" stimulus, inviting the predator to pounce on her hand.

Conclusions If you want to beat your mother at a word game, get the cat to stalk her game play.

Cat on a hot tin roof

Long ago, when the kids were young, we used to beg for Five Minutes of Peace (after a book called Five Minutes' Peace, where a mother elephant pleads with her offspring for 5 minutes peace, which of course is not to be had, even in the bathtub) in the hope of finishing some task (the dishes, grading, a piece of writing).  This summer neither Crash nor The Egg are home during the days — or even most nights.  (Crash has gone to Montana to work with Shakespeare in the Parks; the Egg is working technical theater at a local program for teenagers and young adults — double shifts for three weeks!).  So you would think I could write uninterrupted.

As if.  Fluffy misses all the activity, and so has taken to being within five feet of me when she is in the house.  Sleeping on my desk. Sitting on my keyboard.  Stalking my mouse and the cables.  Deciding to help me cook.  Pet me.  Fill my bowl.  Let me out to sun on the front porch. I left something messy in the backyard, could you clean up the remains?  Toddlers have nothing on cats.

Just in case I was getting sentimental about the children being grown and for the most part no longer living at home, Fluffy decided to remind me of one of the rituals of summer.  Young Crash was from the start an excellent sleeper, though pretty much light activated, which meant in the summer he woke with the dawn, greeting his bleary parents with chipper conversation.  This morning, at 5:27 am, the cat (out for the night protecting us from errant rodents and other things that go bump in the night) climbed onto the roof outside our window and meowed stridently.  I went downstairs to let her in.  No dice, she knows the screen comes off.

So there I am, at half past five in the morning, trying without my glasses to snap the screen back in.  While the cat stands on the sill.  I put her down (without dropping the screen onto the lawn!), turn back.  She jumps up.  Math Man wakes up.  "Can  I help?" "Can you move the cat?"  He does. She comes back.  I finally get the screen in.  Fluffy curls up on the floor, within her five foot radius, purrs loudly and goes to sleep.  She got up long enough to have breakfast, and is now totally snoozed out behind my screen.  Dreaming no doubt of mice and staff who are more cordial when asked to let her in at dawn.

I must say, I now have about 5 hours of peace!

And the roof is shingles, not tin, and at 5 am, not very hot.  I, on the other hand....

(Mis)communication skills: feline edition

Academic cat companion in a more helpful mode.

What the cat said: Mwrrr.
What I understood:  Please let me in, it's cold outside.
What the cat actually meant:  I have a bird to play with, may I bring it in?
What I said:  Fluffy, no, no!  (inarticulate shrieking)

This is not what the doctor ordered when it came to vocal rest.

The bird is gone, the cat is annoyed with me, I may now return to my regularly scheduled lunch.

What would we do in the zombie apocalypse?

Scene 1:  Small suburban brick home on a cool summer evening. Windows are open.  Sound of cat meowing.

Mother (on sofa with ice pack on her foot) :  Can you let the cat in?
(sound of light flicking on and screen door opening)
Son 2:  Fluffy...Fluffy...Oh, sorry, you're eating.  (sound of screen door abruptly closing)

Son 2:  (turns to mother)  Nope.

Scene 2:  Clock shows an hour later.  Sound of car pulling up, car door closes, house door opens.

Mother:  Can you let the cat in?
(sound of light flicking on and screen door opening)
Son 1:  Whoops.  (sound of screen door abruptly closing)  Sorry, Mom.  I don't do dead things after midnight.

What, I wonder, will we do come the zombie apocalypse?

---

Illustration is from XKCD.

Alert: Zoonotic hazards

Slate magazine has an article up about dangerous animals.  Bats top their list, but I would like to point out a little known danger associated with domestic cats.  These animals are potent soporifics.  Just one cat, left at the end of a bed, can stupefy two adults for hours.  Even in an open area, such as on a couch or easy chair, Felis domesticus poses a significant napping risk.

Fluffy was curled up, purring, at the bottom of my bed this morning.  The alarm went off, but my feet were warm and the cat was purring and the next thing I knew it was 8:30.  Be warned.

The Cat Came Back

...the very next day. "

Or so went the song by Raffi that we listened to for hours on end while driving cross-country with Crash and the Boy in their (and our) younger days. And so it went with Fluffy. The cat came back, the day after we came home.

We got home around 8 Thursday night to find an anxious note from our cat care person, still no sign of the Fluff, her food and water had gone untouched for 3 days. We called for her, opened doors and began peering under beds. No sign, until The Boy called from my office, "I think I know what happened." She had pried open one of the side panels to the air conditioner I had finally put in my office under the eaves and made her escape onto the roof.

Still, where was she that she didn't hear me call for her outside? No cat that night. Or the next morning. Finally, Friday afternoon I called again for her. The Boy heard her meow, as Math Man called, "She's at the [upstairs] bathroom window!" The Boy hugged her, then turned to me, "I'll always text you so you know where I am!" He's had a small taste of parental worry these last few days and he didn't care for it.

Four days on the lam, I can only imagine the adventures she had. Where does she go? Does she have another family? Where does she sleep? Though maybe the researchers at the University of Georgia have the answers: this piece on the secret life of cats ran on NPR yesterday! You can see the world through a cat's eye here.

---

The photo is of the screen, as Fluffy used the track pad and arrow keys to pull down the menu, open a tab and tried to tell her own story!

Anxieties

"This is why most people don't stick with a contemplative discipline for very long; we have all heard all sorts of talk about contemplation bringing inner peace but when we turn within to seek this peace, we meet inner chaos instead of peace. But at this point it is precisely the meeting of chaos that is salutary, not snorting of lines of euphoric peace." Martin Laird OSA in Into the Silent Land

I'm on holiday at my dad's. Family time. Some lovely silent time, in my hermitage and standing out under the stars at night to pray. Floating in the pool. It sounds relaxing, and for the most part it is. But anxiety is pulling at the threads, puckering up my mind. The Boy ended up with an infected cyst (we've named it Bob). I spent time worrying about whether I should worry. At home, I would have called the pediatrician. Here, do I need to take him into town and find a clinic, or will hot compresses do the trick? (No...it needed antibiotics.)

Now our cat care person has phoned to say she is worried about the cat, who has apparently vanished in the house. There isn't anything I can do from this distance (other than ask a neighbor who knows the Fluff to check in later today...which I've done). I'm trying to be present to what is here, anxieties and all.

Existential cat (not to be confused with Schrodinger's cat)

I have teenagers. Therefore, I have angst. My own. Theirs. Sometimes their friends'. Ahh....but does my angst compare to poor Henri's? I think not. First off, angst always sounds more profound in French. And, in my house, the tasty snacks are within reach, at least as long as I use the kitchen stepstool. Chocolate assuages many an anxious teen's worries (and his mother's).

Laughter is even better than chocolate — so pull up a chair, an angsty teen should you have one, and prepare to laugh.

Schrodinger's cat

Fluffy double checks my marking of the quantum mechanics assignment. But no, she's not substituting for mPublish Poste while I'm away. I've got a real quantum chemist doing that for me. (Thanks, Dr. Lisa!)

I'm off to Japan on Monday with my contemplative students. The Boy is having separation anxiety, Crash wonders how many essay drafts I can read on the road, I'm in denial about packing, Math Man is watching football. A regular Saturday evening....

Offhand comments

Crash, on the way out the door, "I wonder where the rest of it is?" I'll spare you the details, but part of the ensuing conversation involved explaining the difference between gerbils and voles. Fluffy is on the prowl.

I don't mind. Last year I got zero plums from a tree overflowing with them. The squirrels were very efficient. This year, I want at least one plum.

To do lists

It is the (recent) custom in our house for me to inscribe a list of chores on the door to which I expect the teens to attend. In return, I promise not to nag. There's an incentive to get to it early, since you have your pick of chores.

Since today's list ranges from "water the plants" to "dispose of body on doorstep" - there's a significant incentive to getting there early, and not be left holding - or should I say filling? - the bag.

The fauna are out in droves fattening up for winter, filling their larders. So is Fluffy. Today's score is Fluffy 2, Fauna 0.

---

For the record, Barnacle Boy tackled the worst first!

A little of this and a little of that...

Barnacle Boy is at the 8th grade farewell dance, Crash and the Fluffster are watching a movie on the sofa and I've finished my column for next week (I think). Too tired to write any more, but needing to stay up to fetch the Boy back, I've been surfing through favorite sites to see what I've missed during the push to the finish line. Favorites...

Now and then: a fairy tale of a poem by a friend — these roses have thorns

Salvation isn't comfortable at DotMagis.

So, should I worry about my cat? Was the partially digested bunny head on the bedroom floor a gift? or warning?

The Joys of Grading and what not to say in a paper....

A lovely reflection on traveling by artandsoul.

The Boy calls -- time to put the taxi sign back on the Mini.

Cat and Mouse Games

I got home late last night from a poetry reading and dinner. No one was stirring, not even a mouse. I sat down to check my email and Fluffy roused just long enough to crawl into my lap. She put her chin onto the laptop and laid a paw on the trackpad. Suddenly my cursor went berserk. My cat was mousing.

When my hand was bothering me a couple of weeks back I set the trackpad up to require no clicking, just taps (thanks, Apple!) and drags. Now Fluffy can mouse, too.

Time to be sure that one-click is disabled on Amazon, before large bags of catnip start arriving on my doorstep!

Focus

In Marie Curie's biography, her daughter recalls how focused her mother could be. When she was a child, she would be so intent on her reading that her siblings could build stacks of chairs around her - all unnoticed.

After a rousing few rounds of Mau with Barnacle Boy and some of his friends, I retired to my study to read for a while. Fluffy came up, but for once did not want to sleep on whatever I was working with. I kept reading (William Barry's Letting God Come Close). Suddenly the Boy is at the door, camera in hand. "Is the cat in here?" he demanded. "She was." "Did she have the mouse with her?" "The mouse??"

I hadn't noticed. At all.

Fluffy the Flebotomist

I didn't move fast enough yesterday morning to replenish Fluffy's crunchy supply, and she nipped at my ankle to get my attention. Maybe I should offer her services to the Red Cross?

Schrodinger's Cat

With help from Fluffy, seen here trying to help me derive the skin depth (the distance a quantum mechanical particle will sink into a wall) while I was simultaneously making dinner, I finished my grading ! I may be as relieved as my students. It's a great way to start the holidays (usually my grading is hanging over my head like some kind of evil Christmas ornament).

Welcome to McRodent

May I take your order?

Yes, that will be two chipmunks and one mouse. No cheese in the mouse please.

Anything to drink?

A cream.

Will that be for here or to chase?

---

Fluffy has been sitting patiently by the dishwasher, hoping that it will dispense another mouse for her pleasure!

Hope

[This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times 16 October 2008]

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for; the proof of things not seen. Heb. 11:1

I have a problem teen on my hands. She stays out late at night without asking, she brings home entirely unsuitable friends, she is fighting with her peers in the neighborhood and she hosts the occasional noisy late night party.The final straw came when she ran out of the house in a temper, and didn’t return for almost three days.

Thankfully my adolescent headache is not one of my children — but the family cat, who has taken to bringing home live chipmunks and getting into dust-ups with the local top cat. Fluffy recently went missing for several days, leaving my youngest son distraught.

“What if she doesn’t come back?” Chris wondered the first night. “She always comes back,” I reassured him. “Tomorrow we’ll find her meowing at the kitchen door.”

The next morning, there was no sign of Fluffy. Chris and I searched the neighborhood for her. No luck. “What if she doesn’t come back?” Chris asked despairingly as I tucked him in that night. “I hope she comes back. We can say a prayer.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I already did that, Mom,” I was informed. We said another one anyway.

Privately, I’d given up hope. I prayed that night not so much for Fluffy’s safe return, as for the grace to hope that she might, or at least the grace not to squash Christopher’s hopes.

Monday dawned. No cat. Hope was turning out to be a difficult virtue.

Chris headed out to catch the bus, I gathered my keys and dashed out the door to morning prayer — when I nearly tripped over the cat sitting patiently on the doormat.

Amidst the great rejoicing that ensued at the prodigal’s return, I was left wondering at Chris’ firm hope that all would be well and his awareness of its root in God’s care for him. Had I become so jaded that I could not hope along with him?

Perhaps. In his recent encyclical, Spe Salvi, Pope Benedict XVI observed that those of us who have been accustomed to living in Christ have “almost ceased to notice that we possess the hope that ensues from a real encounter with this God.”

The Pope began his letter by reminding us that Christian hope is not about what we know, but about how we live in that knowledge of the Gospel of our redemption. “The one who has hope lives differently.” Prayer, he says, is our first school for hope. Or as St. Augustine has it, prayer is that true encounter with God that stretches our heart enough that there is space for hope.

We know so much sometimes, that we fail to remember what it is like to not know, to rely on the “assurances of things hoped for, the proofs of things unseen,” to turn first to God and not our own wisdom.

I know that cats sometimes don’t come back; meanwhile Christopher takes a different tack and asks God for his heart’s desires. Chris prays, and learns hope.

In her poem “Six Recognitions of the Lord,” Mary Oliver offers those who are inordinately learned some advice on prayer: “I know a lot of fancy words. I tear them from my heart and my tongue. Then I pray.”

I know the fancy words: faith, hope and love are the three great theological virtues, infused by God into our souls so we might, in the end, merit heaven. Can I tear them from my tongue, and pray? I hope so.

---

Lord, be merciful to Your people. Fill us with Your gifts and make us always eager to serve You in faith, hope and love. Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, Your Son, Who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Opening prayer from the 16th Sunday in Ordinary Time