ella.

there really never are words for this, are there?
we are heartbroken. today we made the decision to say goodbye to our beautiful, gregarious cat, ella.
she honored us with sixteen years, which sounds like a lot but i selfishly would have taken more.
ella had struggled with a myriad of health issues in the last three years, some of which made us fear it was the end. somehow, each of those times, she endured and kept her same tenacious and entitled personality. she continued to open the kitchen cabinets and sleep on the bags of rice. she always looked you in the eye and held the stare, often speaking pointedly as though you understood what she was saying. she would still sleep in the bed at night, preferably under the blankets. she would find any available lap in the house, regardless of whether it belonged to a "cat person", always preferring your left side (which will remain one of life's great mysteries).
then three days ago she stopped eating. she was lethargic. she would not sleep in the bed and did not follow her pattern of clockwork daily habits. we chocked it up to the heat and humidity. then we realized that we were ignoring what was really going on, took a hard swallow and chose to give ella dignity.
what an exquisitely painful decision to end the life of a creature, a companion, that spent their entire life with you and what a great blessing these creatures choose to share their lives with us.

oh, hi there.

happy july to you all. it's hard to believe that summer has only just begun. it seems that the vegetable garden and the flowers are so much further along than usual. it also seems that every spare moment of time has been filled with some task or activity.
here is an abbreviated list of some recent happenings:
   •we put new floor in the kitchen and pantry.
   •we celebrated adam's 35th birthday at one of our local favorite restaurants, bistro tallulah.
   •a gloriously uneventful day was spent on lake george.
   •i unexpectedly learned of the death of a client of more than seven years in a sudden and unexplained way.
   •i made a small effort to restart written correspondence.
   •two new recipes made it into the repertoire: honey habanero tofu and carrot cake cookies.
   •i updated my illustration website a wee bit.
   •we spent a relaxed day catching up with friends, being charmed by their children, and floating around glen lake.
   •and finally, we're getting our packs ready for the first backpacking trip in quite some time. we have four days in the backcountry lined up with the goal of hiking both allen mountain and mt skylight.

(whew, no wonder i'm tired.)

seek out the brightness.

most times i write here, i don't really know what will come out. i don't normally sit down with a plan or an outline. i just let what's on the edge of my mind jump off.
that is probably some of the reason i don't post as frequently as some bloggers do. my writing is dependent on the rare convergence of being in front of the laptop, having the time and the clarity to let the simmering thoughts flow into written words.
the last two weeks have flown by in a blur of activity, tasks and planning. while the great majority of it has been fun and positive, it's easy to get stressed by the pace at which things need to be completed. it shouldn't be difficult to keep focused on the positive but sometimes the rush of time is like the tide and before you know it, you're caught up in it and have to fight your way out.
and then sometimes you don't realize the grey shade you are casting on all of your brightness until a single event stops you in your tracks.
two days ago i was stopped in my tracks.
a client of almost eight years passed away. folks who know what i do might think this would be easy or routine, but it's really not. this loss was especially poignant because of the long term relationship she and i developed and her abrupt decline.
over the years i have gotten to know this woman well but when i stepped into that ICU room, she wasn't present. only a small ghost of herself was there. just enough of her to recall to but not enough to connect. her eyes were open and searching. i tried to talk to her. i looked up at her now grown son, on emergency leave from active military duty, and without words we knew each others thoughts. she was leaving us and this is not how she would want to go. in her life and even in her early illness, she was bold and strong. she rode harley-davidsons. she wasn't afraid of single motherhood and took full responsibility without ever complaining. until she was too ill to continue, she worked as an HIV nurse caring for people with the same illness she would eventually contract. when i first met her she would wake up with a beer and drink straight until bedtime. then one day she stopped. just like that. when i suggested support groups she would say to me, "i don't need that. i made up my mind to stop and so i did."
we are all full of so much strength and possibility. we can make what we need. we can set our own pace and create our own environments.
we should try to see this everyday and not just when we are faced with such a tragic juxtaposition that we can no longer ignore our own blessings.
so right now, i will look around and be grateful. i will see the brightness. i will seek it out even through the grey moments.
and i will remember this woman. not as she was in that ICU bed, but as the one who lived the life she wanted and made the best of it.

dear sabrina...

in the almost six years that i worked with you i was regularly astounded at your survival.  the circumstances and events of your life would have destroyed most people. so many times, i would return from visits to your home or hospital room or doctors and think it was nearly "the end" but you always found something left to power you on. 

despite the tough-bitch-take-no-shit persona you showed to others, your core was compassionate and empathetic.  you loved animals; especially cats.  you were intelligent and acutely observant.  you could spot a phony a mile away.  you were always thinking of and doing for others, often to the detriment of your own needs.  you were witty and sarcastic and i loved it.

you would always apologize for being such a "difficult client" but i never hesitated to point out why you were strong, resiliant and powerful. you were your own harshest critic, going back over every detail of your life and only looking at the wrong turns.  

i know that you were trying to let me know you were dying three months ago but i wasn't seeing it.  i privately thought your death was imminent so many times previously i guess i thought you were invincible.

so today, when i got the call saying that you had passed away it seemed impossible.  and yet, i knew it would happen.  although you had finally gotten sober in the last six months, the damage had already been done.  your body was simultaneously fighting too many chronic battles; HIV, HCV, alcoholism and depression.

i hope you found peace at the end and it wasn't lonely. please know that i am a better person for having known you.  you taught me so much about perseverance, compassion, humility and  self discipline. 

i will miss you,

reneé

not the letter i meant to send.

liz,

i wish i had written you sooner as this was not the letter i intended.

i feel like our friendship had only just started. and i feel like it had always been there.

waiting.

you were just like me in so many ways. and i felt i could have learned so many things from you.

people fell in love with you right away. i mean that truly. you were genuine even to strangers. you did not make superficial friendships. neither do i.

but you were able to make these friendships in hyper-speed, where as i am cautious and slow. i was in awe of your energy and fearlessness.

you were hilarious. i could laugh out loud in a room alone just thinking of your sense of humor.

it's hard for me to believe that you aren't here anymore.
did the earth shudder at that moment? did the sun dim somewhere? how could that much energy leave without some ripple?
but really, a ripple did occur. throughout the hearts of your family and the friends you have shared your life on earth with.

i wish i could bask in your light again, but i feel the deepest gratitude for having been exposed to it at all.

you will forever be in my heart.

love,

renee

off to fairways lined with great cigarettes...

(a thursday dinner out. coming home. playful joking. a red blinking light. a message; anticipated but never wanted.)

ed,

over a decade ago i met you.
i remember a dinner at a chinese restaurant with you making what i thought were slightly inappropriate jokes.
but you were my mothers faithful companion and you grew on me. you never played the evil step-father role. you shied away from the father role altogether. instead you were always present but never intimidating. you were hilarious and creative. you built beautiful things and you sold cars. you were wonderful.
i wonder if you knew. i wonder how far before you put down that last pack of cigarettes you knew something was really wrong. did you not go to the doctor on purpose? stage four lung cancer doesn't happen overnight.
when i saw you last, i had a bad feeling. you were in the living room on a hospital bed. you were a shadow of yourself. physically, not spiritually. you spoke of the future, but i couldn't believe you.
you finally got to say piss off to cancer. and i am glad that i got the chance to share time with you.

love,
renee