Why do I write ?

  
  I think the only thing missing from this picture is the clumps of hair that you pull out, as you gnash your teeth and beat your breast.  And spilled coffee, or coffee rings on all the papers where you don't need them to be.

  I recently finished a short story.  One that I started a few years back and then tossed aside thinking it wasn't going anywhere.  I ran across it again recently and read through it, thinking it wasn't too bad. Some parts of it are marvelous.  Then I couldn't stop thinking about it.  Now, having a few more years of life happen to me since starting it, I have finished it.  I think.  Not sure what to do with it, but I'm sure the answer will come.

  Yesterday my dear old Paco the cat died. He was considerate enough to wait until I got home to say goodbye. At the very end, I walked him out into the sunshine in the backyard, one of his favorite hunting and sunning places. We walked around, him wrapped in a towel and me crying like a baby. Looked at the mess of a yard, the daisies, the overgrown garden beds, the butterflies. Told him how much better my life had been with him in it. Asked him if he remembered when he first walked into my life, up from the direction of the pond, and waited until the older male cat had passed before he would come in the house. My heart is breaking even as I write this, but it's important for me to write it down. To get it out of me and let the healing begin. He had a good spoiled happy life here on Honeysuckle Hill, and I will be forever grateful for his presence in my world. Here's one of my favorite pictures of him:

 The vet thought he was probably at least 14 or 15 when he came to us. Which makes him 19 or so now I guess. Which is a good long life for a big cat. RIP my darling.

  So, I have written on my social media page about the loss and about a hundred people offered condolences. Some phone calls (although last night I really didn't want to talk to anyone).  And it helps to know that people care about you when you're hurting. But for me, nothing helps as much as writing.  I started journaling as a young girl, probably about 10 or 11.  A teacher had suggested I try it. A way to chronicle my emotions and my frustrations, and empty out my head.  It was great advice. I grew up in a crazy house with too many kids (I'm the oldest, so you know how that goes) and a mother who drank and a father who was always at work. I was smart, but angry.  I was rebellious. And this teacher suggested that I try channeling the anger especially into putting words to paper, and so... there you go.  I have been writing in one form or another ever since. I have written poetry, short stories, technical stuff, blogs (thank you God for the internet age !!)  and even have had a thing or two published.  And I write lots of crap, that is just puking on paper. (That's pretty poetic, isn't it ? lol)  But more than once it has saved me in ways I didn't know I needed saving. And so I am grateful. 

  I cannot imagine people that do this for a living. Some days I would rather clean toilets in a big city bus station than write. But I do it because I need to. Because I have to. And I wouldn't change it for anything. (But I'm still working doing something else. )  Sigh...

  Okay. Enough of this dithering. I have a few things to do before I leave for work. Today's shift is from 12:45 to 4:45.  Even I can do that. But here on the hill there are floors to sweep and porches to clean up and a load of laundry to dry and fold because yesterday I bought a new package of socks for me and underwear for himself and I need the socks today. lol I may even get this desk cleared off so I can get back to knowing what I'm doing from one day to the next. (Can't see the desk calendar, and even if I could, it's probably still on May...).  

  Once again, I get to choose gratefulness over grief, and pull up my big girl panties and soldier on.  The sun rose once again, there are dogs to be fed and householding to be done. And in the end, love conquers all.

  Doesn't it ?