the real world

moon over balloon

~ carin ~ 5 Comments

I long ago named the daytime moon after my stepdaughter who lives in Paris. When she was small I told her that whenever I saw it—especially in the afternoons, when it would be night in France—I’d think of her and wonder if at that very same moment, a million miles away, she might be looking at it too…

since i was up anyway…

~ carin ~ 6 Comments

 

Lovely as it is to have this extra hour today, I kinda like dark mornings and lighter nights and wonder why we switch back and forth anyway.

Didn’t it have something to do, several thousand years ago, with an agricultural lifestyle — farmers and children needing to get up to feed livestock or walk twelve kilometres to school, every single one of them getting crankier by the day as they bumped into low slung beams and fell into wells until someone with a bit of clout said: I have an idea, let’s rearrange the daylight by mucking about with the clocks.

To which I say fine, but the world is less agrarian now and the lightbulb has been invented and everything. And furthermore, I prefer dark mornings and lighter evenings so I’m often tempted not to Fall Back… but one must conform in these things or one finds oneself missing many buses. Still, if anyone out there is taking a survey, would you please put me down for LET’S JUST PICK ONE TIME FOR PETE’S SAKE AND STICK WITH IT.

Until sanity prevails however… Happy Return to Bright Mornings!

truth

~ carin ~ 1 Comment

I was at the beach the other day looking for a picnic table I remembered seeing months ago, in summer, that had Truth written on the seat— I wanted to take a picture of it.

The table had been on the sand, close to the water, but now it was gone. Well, it couldn’t be gone, it’s a big heavy picnic table, I thought, it had to be somewhere; somebody must have dragged it onto the grass nearer the barbeques and swings so I wandered about looking for it among the maybe thirty tables—I remembered bold black lettering in magic marker, easy to read—but I couldn’t find it.

Then it occurred to me that despite its bulk it was made of wood and technically could have been burned or broken and after checking every table twice I had to admit there was no reason to assume it should still be there.

But I checked a third time.

And then I saw it. The lettering had faded to almost invisible—I’d never have noticed had I not been looking for it especially.

Thing was, it didn’t say Truth. 

I remembered now.

Truth would have been a fine thing to write, but I’m not sure the single word would have caught my attention the way this had. I remembered reading the bold lettering on that lovely summer day and feeling sadness and shock and wonder at how alone this person must be despite any number of friends. I wondered: where were they now and how were they now, and how would they be…

I remembered feeling helpless, and angry that anyone should feel so alone, hopeful that whoever it was would find the strength they needed, and that we, that society, too, would find the intelligence and compassion needed to understand in a meaningful way. 

Funny how I remembered it all as Truth.

What it actually said was: I wish I was born a girl.

 

if you’re looking for love…

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

…there is no better place than your local Humane Society.

Stopped by mine the other day to deliver a duvet cover for the duvet I dropped off last week. (After it suddenly occurred to me that a duvet minus a cover plus claws equals feathers everywhere.)  Fortunately we had an old one that would do nicely.

A few years ago the original shelter burned down, there were many casualties, horrific it was. After that they found temporary housing in a shoe box; I hear it was beyond awful. No real facilities, no space, no air-conditioning. At least one of those summers, as I recall, was deadly hot and humid. I have no doubt they did their best but it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Thank god a new place has finally been built. And it’s a dream. After just a couple of visits I’m as enchanted as it’s possible to be by it and by the good work these people do. And stunned at how they accomplish it with zero funding. ZERO.

Despite an average annual vet bill of $250,000, plus a long list of other expenses, they manage solely through donations, fund-raising, sponsors and a dedicated volunteer base who do everything from feeding to brushing to walking to cleaning litter boxes to scrubbing out carriers—
—and laundry. At the moment they get by with a small washing machine and dryer, which isn’t nearly enough for the amount they go through. Three laundry lines are set up out back to help out. They live in hope of one day having two industrial size machines.
And, it seems, they do it cheerfully. Very happy vibes inside these walls and that includes from the animals—as happy, anyway, as homeless waifs can be.

I’d like to think this is how all shelters will be built in future: cages only for the anti-social or newcomers or segregation for health reasons, otherwise the population lives and plays in large communal areas and, best of all, have free access to the great outdoors.
Despite the lovely vibes, leaving this place without a fluff-filled carrier or something on a leash is as hard as leaving any shelter, but here at least you can take some small consolation in knowing these beautiful faces are, for the most part, really and truly at the very best place possible, next to a loving home. 

That said, and no matter how you look at it… they’re still looking back…