Recently I had a good cry while sitting on the deck with the mist falling on my face. The trigger was seeing our cat Tommy downstairs. I was doing some pre-vacation laundry when I saw Tommy wobble over to the cat food dish. He's old and feeble and he can barely make it to the litter box, but he's hanging on. The tears started to well up, so went out onto the deck and listened to the to the saddest song I know. [See video at bottom of post.]
I've always cried during movie tearjerkers, but I haven't often found the time to cry for my own sorrows. Sorrows covering many years, starting with six months in an orphanage. Of course, I don't remember the first six months of my ever-changing life. I barely remember the first six years! I have a deep compassion for life, which enables me to carry more sorrow around than most people do. I avoid the bugs on the ground as I walk down the street. I talk to the crows that populate my neighborhood. I make friends with the spiders that live on our deck.
I cry for the babies washed up on shore, and the babies forgotten on our own streets. I cry for the downtrodden, who just want something respectable to do, so that they can crawl out of their ruts and stand tall again. I cry because there are some actions I cannot undo. Wrongs can be rewritten, but not corrected.
Hugs are hearty, wholesome and recommended by 9 out of 10 doctors. (That 10th doctor is a dick!) Love can never be overstated. It's a label for an emotion that is bigger than most of us can comprehend. Humans are inherently very judgmental and biased, so unconditional love does not come to us naturally. Some even struggle with parental love, which should be the easiest and most indestructible love in the world. It was okay to be absent thirty-nine days during my last year of high school -- I still graduated -- but I cannot afford to ever be absent from my son's life.
Our brief vacation is officially over, which means I'll be strolling to work in a little while. It was nice to be out on the Olympic Peninsula; the night sky filled with stars, and coyotes yipping. There was plenty of time to read, relax and reset, and sometimes I could actually forget that we were staying in tiny cottage situated on the front lawn of some well-off folks, living up the hill in their chalet. There was only one day when the owner played golf on the course abutting our cottage. Now I'm back in town and ready to kick some holiday retail ass!