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The cookies are eaten. The gifts are unwrapped. Our hearts are half-splendor, half-melancholy. Christmas is over.
Let’s get this out of the way first: “Hodie” is not the name of a current Tabby’s Place cat. We should remedy that. By the end of this post, I hope you’ll agree.
You were not wrong to think that things could change. You were not wrong to want more than you’d let yourself want before.
It’s the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi. It’s the eve of Tabby’s Place’s 15th anniversary. I’ll let my words be few.
Yesterday’s puzzler of a post has followed up on itself. Reality, that pesky giant gnat, insists that it can’t be bottled up on a blog.
We live in puzzling times. The cold and the cruelty and the chasms between us have never seemed so huge; hugs and grace and generosity of spirit have never seemed so scarce. Until, that is, we look closer. Nearer. Smaller.
We talk about Life more than usual this time of year. Perhaps it’s because we need it so desperately, weary of brown fields and whipping cold. Maybe it’s because Life itself starts getting fidgety and feisty around us, little yellow buds singing protest songs at a grim sky.
Departures can catch us off guard. Just when you’re sure you’re 100% happy and 0% sad about a cat’s adoption, you’ve got the wild weepies. Just when you’re convinced you’re “not one of those people” who gets sad over celebrity deaths, you’re snuffling your way through Frasier reruns.
It would be easier, neater, if we could map all the outcomes before we did any of the intakes. To play nothing by ear. To get caught off-guard exactly 0% of the time. To hedge every bet, tighten every loose end, prevent — at least anticipate — every heartache.