Turning Inward

          It’s football season, but the dratted sun and heat keep banging on. It’s September 20^th, but the temp has been about 95 degrees every day, interminably. 

            About a month ago, my sweet grey and tan snippet of a cat died; she whom I had been with for fifteen years. My comfort. My introverted nurturer. 

            And I’ve been left with a completely new job, an extroverted husband, our exuberant new puppy, and this heat. 

            I can’t take it. 

            Don’t get me wrong; I’m an extrovert. I’m an ambivert, anyway. I used to fall in love with true introverts and wear the hell out of them. They were fascinated by me, but they couldn’t keep up. I just made them tired. 

            But I have been running for too long now. 

            Like a coffee pot who made its coffee hours ago whose heat mechanism has malfunctioned to “on,” I’ve burned through everything I’ve got and am now crisping the carafe, getting more and more brittle. 

            I’m an extrovert, but I have to turn inward. I have to have means of turning inward. Or I burn out. 

            This cat, this nurturer. She caused me to turn inward; she would hop up on my lap when I finally sat down at the end of the day. She would luxuriously stretch and form herself into my arms. Her whole self would say to me, “There, there. Shush now. The work is done. Rest.” 

            Autumn turns me inward. The heat of the summer is loud, banging, unignorable. The coolness of autumn slows me, brings me into nature, invites me to rest and reflection. 

            Lesson planning, long-range planning: They turn me inward. Some of my happiest times lately have been alone in my classroom when I have had time to take stock, see where we have been, look at where we need to be going. Reflecting on the big picture fills me. 

            Madeline L’Engle wrote of this, of her need to be alone, even from the people and things that she loved. She explains that she gets things out of perspective, and only being alone puts her back in to the frame of mind she needs to love and live well. I am the same. Honestly, when I read her on this subject, I cried because it was such a relief to know I was not alone in this. I live in a family and world that is progressively more and more outward-facing, more extroverted. (The puppy doesn’t help matters.) I need to be able to regain perspective. 

            And it’s not just merely being alone. I can be alone but play on my phone and never get the inward perspective and rest that I need. Some of the feeling of running is my choice by what I choose to do in those idle moments I do have. Do I let myself actually idle, or do I stay turned on, heating my carafe, burning myself out? 

It’s football season, but the dratted sun and heat keep banging on. It’s September 20^th, but the temp has been about 95 degrees every day, interminably. Surely, surely the season will turn soon. 

But until then, I must find ways to turn inward.  

Turn Signals

            I love the sound of turn signals at night. My dad—he used to love to take meandering roads when coming back from visiting family—a three hour trip turned four and a half hours. Turn signals meant we were off the long roads; we were close to home. 

            Some things in this life feel like that long road, that extra meandering. It can be painful. One can lose hope. On these roads, I wait for the chunk-CHUNK, chunk-CHUNK. I want to get back home. 

            Unlike road trips, the long roads in our lives can take us to a home we’ve never seen or been to before. We are ourselves—familiar; placed in the new—unfamiliar. And in all these unfamiliar homes there are elements of good and bad that must be unpacked, sorted through, and lived with. 

            I am on a long road, and my heart holds its breath to hear the turns begin. When I get home, I hope it gives a welcome—that it is strong enough to hold my heart, my life. 

            Until then, I am the child laying in the backseat, lulled by road noise, waiting.

YAAAAAAAARRROW!!!!

The mower hit the mulch and gave a blending sound; as if it was grinding the ice for the daquiri I’d deserve after this. “Oooops!” Mowing close to the house is always a task. Tasks are plentiful this week, as we prepare for a party. It’s a party to honor an amazing family that are moving away, so beloved of our community. 

            Carpets shampooed, clutter contained… mischief managed. The cleaning for the party is both reckoning and apology to the house that has contained our little lives so faithfully. 

            Mowing done, back to the garage with it. Wait!

            I hadn’t yet watered the outdoor plants. Water the flowers out front. Water the porch plants in back. One more trip to get the hose… tomatoes! Can’t forget those. 

            YAAAAAAAARRROW!!!! As I walked to the spigot, I am alarmed by I-don’t-know-what. What is making that unearthly sound??? yyyyyAAAARRRRROW!!!!! Hunched down by the wall, small… so small. It’s a cat, terrified. Dinner plate eyes, covered in grass and debris. Puffer-fish fur; on high, high alert. A cat. An orange cat. 

            “Oh, honey!” The poor thing is clearly terrified. It had got caught between the mower and the wall—and I hadn’t even SEEN it! How frightening, I almost blended up a tabby baby. 

            I kneel down and call, “honey…” It walks toward me and I realize: IT’S MR. LOU. It’s my own indoor cat! My sassy sunshine boy, all good mood and gluttony. 

            He had somehow sneaked out of the house during my lawn mowing process, and I had nearly run him over without knowing it! He was TERRIFIED! I picked him up and held him close as I took him to the back door. Setting him on the step, I try to brush off the grass and debris, but he looks disoriented and like he might try to bolt. As I open the door, he SHOOTS in to safety. I finish the debriding job on the linoleum of the kitchen. 

            Amusingly, instead of heading toward the water as I would have guessed, he heads straight for his cat food and eats like a TRUCKER. Well, that’s another thing we have in common, the emotional eating. 

            Once done, he flops himself down on the carpet in the dining area, looking for all the world like he had been in the house all day, never been close to being blended by the mower, never terrified out of his mind. 

            Rescue over, I turn myself back to the task of thirsty tomatoes, thankful that I needed to water them; knowing that had I not, I would not have even known he was out. Wondering how exactly he got out of the house, got between the wall and the mower. Heart recovering from the terror on my catkitty’s face. Grateful.

            What a close call. 

            Safe.