Changes

It seems that change is in the air. Change is good, isn't it?

I haven't posted anything in quite a while, not because I haven't had anything to say, but because the shifts from one perspective to another happen so quickly that it resembles trying to navigate a fun house after a few drinks. The floor seems to slide and invert beneath me and the angle of the walls refuse to stay the same. But, this morning, I'll do my best to update everyone on the situations as they are understood by me.

Apartment living certainly has its advantages and, after the recent 15" snowfall I am altogether glad that I didn't have to worry about the roof caving in or any of that old home-owner stuff. Still, the impermanence of renting weighs on me from time to time. What should happen if.... Yes, the unknown can assault us from many different angles.

Max is doing better. His leg seems all but healed and he even runs around and does his trademark Max Butt Wiggle when he sees friends and family. Watching him closely though, reveals that the leg is not set quite right, or isn't quite as strong, or something to that effect. But maybe it is just age. He's somewhere between 7 and 8 years old now and time does take its toll, n'est pas? I guess that it's at this point that I comment on how the difference in life span between a human and a canine can offer the biped a certain unique perspective on existence. I watch Max, his puppy-ness, his young adulthood, now his waning middle age, and realize that in him I can become familiar with a cycle of life seen from an uncomfortable distance. I didn't know Max when he was born, but we came together when he was only a year or so old - still with his puppy mindset in tact. I will most likely outlive him and, if I have working braincells at that time, I imagine that I will be able to see his life as a whole and, because I am who and what I am, I will analyze it, consider it, and take it into me. The bundle of memories that I retain will be labeled as "Max's Life."

It is the condensation of the existence of another into a package. Maybe it is the way we cope, by objectifying. I would hope I would be able to maintain a little more compassion. (I originally wrote the word humanity, but upon a quick second thought, I realized that it is most likely very human to reduce a life into a bundle that can be tossed around....) I'm not sure where I'm going here...maybe you do.

It has been a year now since Sheila died. It has become more difficult rather than easier as the river continues to flow. Instead of time healing these wounds, the friction keeps the lesions open and the impurities of the passing torrents infect and irritate the scarred flesh. I still have moments when I think to myself "I need to tell Sheila about this," or "I wonder if Sheila still has a copy of that...." And each time something like this happens, the renting of my flesh becomes more tender, bleeds a bit more, and I come closer to being able to cry the big cry.