Heavy Lifting

I don't want to be one of those friends that only calls when bad things happen to them. I know the regularity of posting since August has left much to be desired, but as I introduced in my other blog recently, there has been a reason for this: I've been birthing. Not a baby but a concept. 

Sadly, this coincided with Larry's illness and the moving of home and business. 

In a few short weeks everything is different. 

This takes deep skills. To process. To manage and to filter. 

Skills I might add that do not naturally run optimally at high speeds for me.

Writing just became too much. The therapeutic nature of the blogs and the reason I began them couldn't be exercised because I couldn't/can't process all the events happening at the same time. 

I totally get 'micro-blogging' not that I didn't before. It has been the only means that I've been able to keep consistentlyish connected with my own inner dialogue and the mysterious healing process of putting words on a page or in this case a screen. 

I was thinking about all of this stuff today in between bouts of profound despair about Larry and life without him when I happened across an article in the Science section of today's New York Times. It begins:

 "James W. Pennebaker's interest in word counting began more than 20 years ago, when he did several studies suggesting that people who talked about traumatic experiences tended to be physically healthier than those who kept such experiences secret." 

If this is true maybe everything will be okay. 

Read for yourself here. 

Twitter here.

My Hero: Larry Martin 2001-2008

So much in our lives just kind of happens. Forces conspire to create events and opportunities that we unwittingly enter or are thrust upon us while we were paying attention to something else.  Or so it seems. Some of the most signifigant events in my life have, it seems to me, happened like this. 

One of the greatest such moments was when I happened upon a cat running between parked cars one rainy September evening in 2002. He was black and white and strikingly handsome- even though he had a chunk missing from his ear and his fur had been stained with blood and grease. There was something elegant about him despite his limp that captivated me and I realize now that it was love at first sight. 

By snow fall this broken bodied, flea infested terminally ill cat and I began our years long love affair (indoors of course). Together we made a life out of what we were cast: each other and not much else. He doted on me and as anyone who knows me will attest to, I most certainly doted on him. Often the brunt of jokes (not to my face or his of course) most pet owners scoffed at our relationship. No matter. Larry has provided me with the sort of unconditional love that I had never known before, the kind that transcends most human or familial bonds. And for that, dear reader, I will be eternally grateful.

We'd dodged several attempts on his health before: FIV, leukemia, diabetes, toxoplasma, cancer. But today was the day of his last battle. 

So dear friend, today I raise a bottomless glass to you and light an inextinguishable flame. You have made the world a better place and I thank you for your love, your companionship and your support.