Ben Franklin's Not Home

Up way past bedtime in the town that rocked the nation....Philadelphia, PA. The first thing that comes to mind when I arrive in this town is The Hooters. A great Philly band that opened Live Aid in 1985. "And We Danced" is a not only a fine dance tune, it'll get you through rush hour traffic in New York.
Traveling for work this week. I am always reminded when I hit the east coast megalopolis just why I live in rural Maine. The energy reaches me, but the smell, congestion, and highway mania are draining.

Cool cats, cold weather

I’ve been listening to Midwest weather hype and pondering relativity. What is news in that region seems par for the course in the wilds of Maine. We find ways to sanely winter over.

My cats are weathering the lingering blast of arctic air by crawling beneath the covers at night and co-mingling into amorphous balls of fur during the day. I watch them negotiate the cabin, never placing a paw on the cold floor. Small leap from loft ladder to cabinet to the L-bench, to the other cabinet, across the stove and down in the litter box. They squabble over the space beneath the woodstove or on the adjacent ladder, but mostly over my lap. Seven will softly reach out and touch my face with her paw while her sister, Sadie, circles anxiously. Old Chip is content to wait until all motion ceases. Then I am trapped in position as each cat assumes its desired spot. Feet, legs, lap.

Chip, who has been an outside cat, worries at the door each morning until I grudgingly let her out. Two leaps out the door. Pause. Her head swivels back toward the door, where I watch for the perplexed look that I know will cross her face. I am not sure if she’s forgotten why she went out, how she got there, or if she’s merely stunned by the cold. Our eyes meet and seconds later she is back inside. Some mornings we repeat this routine several times, in rapid succession. Those days I firmly count as senior moments.

The kittens are fascinated by these efforts. Hunched on steps of the ladder, they watch closely. Sometimes they leap to their seats as I step toward the door, so as not to miss a bit of the action. When they are convinced that Chip has completed her morning routine, they bound down the ladder and sniff the outside on her fur.

My cats are my constant comfort. Sitting in the window, watching as I leave home each morning. Sitting in the window, watching as I return home each night.

News of The Day.

The groundhog came out and didn't see his shadow. Mud is only six weeks away.

Waking moments.

Living in a small space (200 sq. ft.) forces me to attempt to be organized—no small feat for a champion information junkie and stacker of important things that can’t be thrown away. Add to the mix, a partner who dribbles nails and assorted metal things around and some days it looks as though a williwaw breezed in for a visit.

Mostly we do well living in closeness, however, there are mornings—like this one—when the cooperative dance falters. I think, mostly, that I spend many hours of my life in simple rhythms. I wake at the same time, make my coffee, feed the cats, bathe, and dress. Each step measured to get me to work at the same time each workday. This morning, because Tim had the day off and was taking up “my” space, my rhythm was jazzed. I was uncomfortable and that feeling leeched out into the cabin. Even the cats, it seemed, felt my discomfort; loudly mewing in long, lingering sentences. Or perhaps, they, too, were merely voicing their concern about the shift in the morning routine.

While I usually find the rhythms soothing—a morning meditation, I pondered as I drove out Happytown Road this morning. When does the rhythm becomes a rut? At what moment is that shift made? Or is it the intent—conscious or unconscious—that matters?

Then I found myself turning into the drive at work. And another morning rhythm was shot. I hadn’t checked for the husky, looked for the eagle, or noticed whether the sheep were out.

Maybe my rhythms serve to set up those moments of dissonance that move me out of comfort. Offering me a moment to ponder why the rhythm and does it still serve me well.