I’m a huge comics/sci-fi nerd, and one of the things that always brings me to tears is when the gadgeteers trust their science. When Tony steps out of the window of Stark Tower, he trusts his math, his calculations, his process to save him from Loki, to save him from the NYC sidewalk, to save the world. In the end, it’s his science—his Work, his Self—that gets him though the aftermath of New York, through betrayal, and back to a headspace where he can go home and be a good partner, a good Avenger, and better to himself.

Today, I’m trying to needle around where that surety has gone. Since my job dried up, I feel like I’ve become a bit of a employment-centric dancing bear. I have to work very hard to shove past the tedium, and to manage my expectations when I find a job worth pursuing.

Amidst all of this rudderlessness, I am eating my fears. A month ago, I sucked it up and took my road test. Twenty-five years after I could have had a driver’s license, I finally did it. No one has died. I have not died. It is good, and I am proud.

Water: In heavy rain, cats yowling, the lightning in the sky giving me a glimpse of the Chunky River’s churning. A sudden doom fell upon my shoulders: I was moving somewhere they would name a river Chunky without a trace of irony. Hot on the heels of a life-altering breakup, storm season in Mississippi was the perfect accompaniment to my unraveling. I moved here for love, a love lost 19 days before my entry to the state. I would stand in the rain or at the edge of the Reservoir howling, crying big fat tears, not yet realizing that I had freed myself.

A year later, the rains rolled in, and I was a different person: worn like riverstone, I stood in the deluge, trading kisses. While we adamantly told everyone we weren’t dating, we were slowly building a marriage.

Fire: I lived in Miami, where I would burn through long sleeve tee-shirts, I lived in the Dutch Oven of pollution that encapsulates Atlanta. Nothing prepared me for Mississippi’s summer swelter. I suddenly understood the concept of braising on a whole new level. I was able to truly appreciate my newfound friends’ investments in deep, covered porches. Fire: do any mosquitos burn quite like Mississippi?

Mississippi is where I took my anger and turned it into passion. I have always been outspoken, but Mississippi helped me to hone my candor into a useful tool. I have always been opinionated, but Mississippi made an advocate out of me. I had aways written, but Mississippi made a writer out of me.

I had carried so much anger within me, that proverbial hot stone, and in Mississippi,  the hottest part of the forge for so very many social struggles, I shaped that anger into an instrument for activism and growth.

Air: As a child, I would spread my arms wide and let the wind catch my whole body like a sail. I still do this. Everyone notices the wind in Mississippi: I think everyone holds deep gratitude for the breeze that slices through soupy August, just as we steel ourselves for the icy barrage that whips through January.

The lightning in Mississippi is superior to any other place I have seen: the way it splits the sky, that primal beauty, laden with wonder, awe, and fear. Unburdened by decades of old habits and reputations, I let the lightning split me, let the air move me, spiraling me deeper into my own self. I came to an accord with my intellect, embraced my nerdiness, and allowed the air to bear away the tatters of an old life long outlived.

Earth: I had grown plants, but never had a garden. I am still in no hurry: the trees in Mississippi are incredible. Jackson is an anomaly: after years of asphalt, limestone and pure red clay, to be able to have wild animals afoot, and sensory reassurance of happenstance nature around me in the middle of a city was overwhelming. During a nasty storm, a wild goose took refuge on my apartment porch: we weathered the storm together, he on one side of the glass, me on the other. I sighted a deer across the street from the mall. I have seen a living armadillo trundling alongside Pear Orchard Road.  In Fondren, there is a tomato plant that crawls out of a crack in the sidewalk each year, bearing fruit against all odds. I have seen a red-tailed hawk snatch a jay out of the sky, and a community of bluejays rise up to exact vengeance. All my life, I would listen to Stevie Nicks and sway: she made me feel like a gypsy, a stray cat. I wanted to be untethered, easy to transplant. I put down wide but shallow roots.

Suddenly, I had a home. When my love and I bought a house, we knew it was ours because of the massive grove of trees… the trees that bent nearly to the ground, but did not break in Katrina… but played dervishes in a tornado and dropped most of their branches in a large, interlocking spiral. We thought we had lost them, but in the end, their deep roots saved them. They taught me that we must be willing to root deeply and reach out to one another to have security; that others will shelter your broken, tender body with their own limbs.

Mother Mississippi is no doting mother. She exacts a hefty toll from each of us. The rivers… they go where they want. Tornadoes rake our land like animal claws. The sun is brutal, and Yazoo clay is a trickster spirit of its own. Let’s say Mother Mississippi challenges the concept of your ownership.

I have an elevator speech for the many people who ask me, “WHY MISSISSIPPI?”

I tell them i live on a dead volcano beside a living serpent of a river. I stay because of the black earth streaked with red clay and the blood of civil rights heroes; the impossible green of sweet potato vine; the fossilized epic log jam just outside the city; and the Ragnarok-levels of lightning breaking through the storm outside. Jackson, my slice of earth, is an elemental convergence.

But there is more. Mississippi is a great teacher. I stay because the heat reminds me to kindle my own blazing courage; I stay because the air reminds me to use my breath as fuel for the body and lasting change; I stay because the water reminds me that we ourselves are ever-changing, capable of changing course; and I stay because the earth reminds me that we who choose to stay are interwoven, inextricable… sovereign unto ourselves, but supported by so many.

Today is not Earth Day, but we celebrate it anyway. We can choose to celebrate it daily, to remind us we can make tiny changes in our lives to live more gently; that we can revel in the beauty even as we mourn the injustices done to our habitat and the souls of our neighbors; and that we can fall in love with a place that is prickly, harsh, and perhaps difficult to love…

It is a complicated relationship, and I cherish it.

Dear Mississippi, how should I begin?

Water: In heavy rain, cats yowling, the lightning in the sky giving me a glimpse of the Chunky River’s churning. A sudden doom fell upon my shoulders: I was moving somewhere they would name a river Chunky without a trace of irony. Hot on the heels of a life-altering breakup, storm season in Mississippi was the perfect accompaniment to my unraveling. I moved here for love, a love lost 19 days before my entry to the state. I would stand in the rain or at the edge of the Reservoir howling, crying big fat tears, not yet realizing that I had freed myself.

A year later, the rains rolled in, and I was a different person: worn like riverstone, I stood in the deluge, trading kisses. While we adamantly told everyone we weren’t dating, we were slowly building a marriage.

Fire: I lived in Miami, where I would burn through long sleeve tee-shirts, I lived in the Dutch Oven of pollution that encapsulates Atlanta. Nothing prepared me for Mississippi’s summer swelter. I suddenly understood the concept of braising on a whole new level. I was able to truly appreciate my newfound friends’ investments in deep, covered porches. Fire: do any mosquitos burn quite like Mississippi?

Mississippi is where I took my anger and turned it into passion. I have always been outspoken, but Mississippi helped me to hone my candor into a useful tool. I have always been opinionated, but Mississippi made an advocate out of me. I had aways written, but Mississippi made a writer out of me.

I had carried so much anger within me, that proverbial hot stone, and in Mississippi,  the hottest part of the forge for so very many social struggles, I shaped that anger into an instrument for activism and growth.

Air: As a child, I would spread my arms wide and let the wind catch my whole body like a sail. I still do this. Everyone notices the wind in Mississippi: I think everyone holds deep gratitude for the breeze that slices through soupy August, just as we steel ourselves for the icy barrage that whips through January.

The lightning in Mississippi is superior to any other place I have seen: the way it splits the sky, that primal beauty, laden with wonder, awe, and fear. Unburdened by decades of old habits and reputations, I let the lightning split me, let the air move me, spiraling me deeper into my own self. I came to an accord with my intellect, embraced my nerdiness, and allowed the air to bear away the tatters of an old life long outlived.

Earth: I had grown plants, but never had a garden. I am still in no hurry: the trees in Mississippi are incredible. Jackson is an anomaly: after years of asphalt, limestone and pure red clay, to be able to have wild animals afoot, and sensory reassurance of happenstance nature around me in the middle of a city was overwhelming. During a nasty storm, a wild goose took refuge on my apartment porch: we weathered the storm together, he on one side of the glass, me on the other. I sighted a deer across the street from the mall. I have seen a living armadillo trundling alongside Pear Orchard Road.  In Fondren, there is a tomato plant that crawls out of a crack in the sidewalk each year, bearing fruit against all odds. I have seen a red-tailed hawk snatch a jay out of the sky, and a community of bluejays rise up to exact vengeance. All my life, I would listen to Stevie Nicks and sway: she made me feel like a gypsy, a stray cat. I wanted to be untethered, easy to transplant. I put down wide but shallow roots.

Suddenly, I had a home. When my love and I bought a house, we knew it was ours because of the massive grove of trees… the trees that bent nearly to the ground, but did not break in Katrina… but played dervishes in a tornado and dropped most of their branches in a large, interlocking spiral. We thought we had lost them, but in the end, their deep roots saved them. They taught me that we must be willing to root deeply and reach out to one another to have security; that others will shelter your broken, tender body with their own limbs.

Mother Mississippi is no doting mother. She exacts a hefty toll from each of us. The rivers… they go where they want. Tornadoes rake our land like animal claws. The sun is brutal, and Yazoo clay is a trickster spirit of its own. Let’s say Mother Mississippi challenges the concept of your ownership.

I have an elevator speech for the many people who ask me, “WHY MISSISSIPPI?”

I tell them i live on a dead volcano beside a living serpent of a river. I stay because of the black earth streaked with red clay and the blood of civil rights heroes; the impossible green of sweet potato vine; the fossilized epic log jam just outside the city; and the Ragnarok-levels of lightning breaking through the storm outside. Jackson, my slice of earth, is an elemental convergence.

But there is more. Mississippi is a great teacher. I stay because the heat reminds me to kindle my own blazing courage; I stay because the air reminds me to use my breath as fuel for the body and lasting change; I stay because the water reminds me that we ourselves are ever-changing, capable of changing course; and I stay because the earth reminds me that we who choose to stay are interwoven, inextricable… sovereign unto ourselves, but supported by so many.

Today is not Earth Day, but we celebrate it anyway. We can choose to celebrate it daily, to remind us we can make tiny changes in our lives to live more gently; that we can revel in the beauty even as we mourn the injustices done to our habitat and the souls of our neighbors; and that we can fall in love with a place that is prickly, harsh, and perhaps difficult to love…

It is a complicated relationship, and I cherish it.

I live in atop an elemental convergence, with the luxuries of fine dining. The weather is fickle, brutal: Mississippi expects steep toll to live here: your home, your trees… well, let’s say Mother Mississippi challenges the concept of your ownership.

It is not an easy place to live: there are bigger cities, more opportunities awaiting you. It is an uneasy place to live: people can be overwhelmingly THEMSELVES. It is a complicated relationship, and I cherish it.

I’ve been quieter than I like to be for a long time. It is unsettling to settle in. I have a home, and I’ve been in a relationship for eleven years. I’ve been in Mississippi for nearly the amount of time I spent in Atlanta.

I keep busy. I fall into depression easily if I don’t. Movement gives me the illusion I hold court in the eye in the storm. I cannot control the circumstances of the universe, but I can hold space for myself, choosing who and what I bring into my demesne.

My lessons have brought me to the practice of silence, and what I’ve found isn’t for you. It is mine, and my arsenal of words would fail the concept. You might ask, Why is she blogging, then? It’s hugging the midline: sharing a bit of my work while I still stand slightly apart from the world, listening. I am learning the power of strength held in silence.

I love you, darlings.

One of the most powerful teachings in my life comes from the Pratyabhijna-hrdayam, (if you can find it and are into this sort of thing, hunt down The Splendor of Recognition: An Exploration of the Pratyabhijna-hrdayam, a Text on the Ancient Science of the Soul.) It comes down to the Five Acts of Shiva, the Cosmic Dancer. Everyone hears a lot about the whole creation-life-destruction cycle.  However, the remaining two that constantly kick my ass are called Concealment and Revelation.

Deep within us, there is a place that has no use for the mundane joys, that’s untouched by the crummy fluctuations of our daily lives. It doesn’t give a damn about tomorrow or yesterday. It may say something about me that I can’t separate this concept without thinking of the song “There is a Light and It Never Goes Out.” It is a constant presence, from the spark of consciousness to our last breath; eternal if you’re into that. The universe is made manifest within me, and yea, it never worries about a double decker bus or any of that. It just IS, and it’s the part of us that encourages us to constantly seek to know ourselves, to unfold, to open, to connect. That’s the “secret,” the big reveal. We catch it in snatches: I hear the rustle of its wings when I unfurl in a sweet backbend, when I am moved by the tidal pull of my breath, when I am speaking truth, when I am standing fully in My Power. When my teaching touches a student and their eyes dart to mine, we share that instant of connection, our lights reflected in each other’s eyes. Likewise, when my teachers’ challenge me, when I find deeper access within myself, my heart goes supernova.

But we forget. Supernovae cannot sustain themselves, although even their remnants are luminous and transformative. The Pratyabhijna-hrdayam is ready for this, and intimates that this is part of being human; being Shiva; being Frodo, Parsifal or Skywalker.

We forget our raditude because it’s delightful to remember.

We do not see clearly until we clean our glasses and wonder how on earth we ever saw through fingerprints and grime. A dirty window dulls the color and light. Clouds obscure the brilliance of the sun, stars and moon. A veil shrouds a bride’s radiance, and distances a corpse from the world of the living. We forget how good it feels to take the journey to meet ourselves, and we fall out of practice over and over again. We fall back into laziness, fear or avoidance: the light is too bright, too much to bear.

Eventually, we find our way back to The Work.  We remember the way it feels to move in the world when we consciously take our rightful place in it. When we have our shit together, there is an ease and surety in action. When we take what we’re given and respond with conscious, premeditated action, we shine out like beacons.  It is splendid, this recognition.

ETA: The delightful Cora Wen says all this in her delightful, earnest way. Bonus: she says it in beautiful Ireland.

Imperfect = I’m Perfect

I’ve been trying to write about this since I got the news on Monday, but it’s been too hard.

Wee, sweet Zeta was sickly last week; stopped nursing, and had to be bottle-fed by her tireless foster family. They thought she’d gotten past the worst of it, but she was just too tiny and sickly. She died over the weekend. Zeta was a beautiful, sweet-natured kittenface, who was content to snuggle against your chest and sleep, preferably with a sibling or two nestled around her.

Pragmatically speaking, it’s a small miracle the other wallkitties are flourishing at all, after their hard start. Personally, though, they were ALL MY Wallkitties in a way; and I’m angry and heartbroken she had such a short life. I’m just glad it was filled with love from all over the place, even the Internet.

Thank you.

Both of these kids’ll come home with us on my birthday, officially Best Caturday in History.

Someone’s already called dibs on the wee Siamese one with a raccoon tail, but there’s a wee tortie/calico (who sucks her/his foot to go to sleep), a grey tabby (first out of the wall, brave explorer) and a brown tabby (so handsome!!) They’re all ridiculously cute.

LeeAnn (who works with In Defense of Animals’ Mississippi program PROJECT HOPE) says that if you choose to adopt a Wallcat, Junior (the black and white) or Hemi (mamacat) via IDA, your donation covers your cat’s spay/neuter, their first round of shots, AND helps needy animals in Mississippi. That’s a crazy deal

Adoption fees via IDA are

• $75 for one beloved cutiepie
• $100 for two (don’t you want two? You know you want two!!)

You can contact me at wallcats@birdofparadox.com for more information.

You can check out Project Hope’s blog to see what they do, but warning: there are some really sad cases.

Wallcats from Matthew Glover on Vimeo.

Jack came home with me in the summer of 1992. I fell in love with the little guy when my aunt showed us her cat’s new kittens. He was stubbular, round-eyed and looked like his belly might burst from glutting himself on milk. Even as a kitten, his paws were ENORMOUS. He looked like he was wearing fuzzy slippers. I smuggled him home tucked inside my sports bra, thinking it was far better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Jack would follow you like a dog all over the house, but was afraid of strangers. As soon as the doorbell rang, he would hide under my parents’ bed until the coast was clear, sometimes staying for hours after guests had left. My grandmother never laid eyes on Jack except for pictures.

Jack lived to bite string and wire. He also enjoyed asparagus and fresh herbs. He was a mean drunk when it came to catnip. He liked escaping the house and going on adventures, much to my chagrin. Jack loved being petted: he’d demand attention by body-checking your shins and love-biting any dangling or convenient part of your body. Until his older years, he particularly liked being pet like a dog. He’d dig his claws into the back of the couch for stability, and purr with his mouth open as you aggressively raked your hands from the scruff of his neck to his tail. When Matthew and I got married, we marveled at how similar Jack’s body language was to that of the great cats we saw in Vegas. He was just as regal, slinky, playful and tough as any tiger.

When Mom died, Jack came to live with me full time. He spent two months under the bed, eating and using the litterbox only when I brought them to him. One day, he emerged from his hiding place to rejoin the world, and has been an incredibly personable, even boisterously friendly cat.  He soon discovered he loved crowds, and especially women. He particularly liked it when women would drape his cookie-sized paws over their shoulder and allow him to stand on their cleavage. I like to think that was his favorite way to ride around because that’s how he came into my life.

Jack had a wonderful Thanksgiving this year. From the time he woke up in the morning until he settled into the crow’s nest on the cat tree, he was treated like a prince. He dined on turkey, asparagus, cheese, fresh cream and tuna. We bustled through the kitchen more carefully, allowing him to ankleshark as we worked. I even “dropped” a few morsels for him to greedily “steal,” so he would feel like his careful plots to trip us worked to his advantage.

His breathing became rapid Thursday night, which meant fluid was building up around his heart, hindering his breathing. When I woke up to check on him early Friday morning, his breathing was so shallow, we knew the time had come. I’d hoped to avoid the vet, but he had to take one last car trip. He didn’t flirt with the vet techs, which is a big sign of how poorly he was feeling.  When we were ready, I draped Jack over my shoulder and let him stand on my cleavage for the last time.

Jack was such a “big” cat, personality-wise. The whole house feels colder and a little empty without him. It’s likely I’ll never have another asparagus-eating, ass-biting, dog-chasing cat. It’s a certainty there’ll never be another cat quite like Jack. He was a fierce defender, a sexy beast, an adept nad-stomper, a gracious host, a devoted omnivore, a jewelry thief, and a mildly sadistic lover of humans. Jack taught me that you get what you give out of a relationship with an animal, and how earning a cat’s trust and respect is a humbling and prideful matter.

Writing this makes me even more aware that I haven’t written about Mau. It’s still difficult to talk about, but I need to do it. Royalty deserve good eulogies.