Bluebirds and Ragamuffins

I blue-berried the breakfast granola with something of a flourish and I came as close as ever to saying Tra la la. And if I did say it, what of it? I do sometimes when I'm in a particularly good mood. The look given me by Beignet from atop a chair, not too near the garden window, seemed to indicate that I said it aloud.

Seeing that ginger and white ragamuffin--it's Beignet that I refer to--as he busied himself with the annual Audubon winter-bird count, I was reminded of why that particular chair is placed some few paces from the windowpane. Do you remember?

The chair used to sit right smack dab in the window space, the better to see the birds, as any cat will attest. But one bright morning a rare visitor lit on the bird feeder and began to flit about, as birds do. The newcomer was one of those Eastern Bluebirds you hear so much about. Bright, colorful and quite active they are. Well, this one captured the fancy of Beignet and it was with him the work of an instant to get a visual lock on the target and to spring--zero to sixty--from the floor where he lay in the sun, to the top of the chair and beyond.

When I say beyond, I mean that he didn't stop at the chair but continued into the window. This window may have been made of tempered glass but it was not Beignet-tempered. He smashed it. He was surprised by the hard stop but not as surprised as I. Good grief, about summed up my response.

He was OK of course. He's made of indestructible stuff, that cat. But I've detoured from my message for the day haven't I? The real reason for this post is to express my gratitude for bluebirds, and ginger cats, of course, always ginger cats. I was in good mood this morning because, after a lengthy vacation in southern climes, the bluebird was back doing business as usual at the old stand.

I was up and about with the snails and the larks this morning, blue-berrying anything that didn't move and honey-smearing anything that would fit in the toaster. Why? Well that bluebird for one thing and also because life gets shorter every day and I have many things to not get done. When the pain level drops below 3, it's easy to see that the right attitude and the right action will lead on to fortune, if happiness and fortune are the same things.

Such clarity is not always possible in the midst of a RA episode. My rheumatoid arthritis is episodic, coming and going as it were, and when it's working its magic of transforming my spine into a Picasso line-drawing the level of pain erodes the cheerful attitude. Life comes hard and fast, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, and when physical discomfort is involved, the Genome becomes manic; even angry.

I don't scowl, as the act is prohibited by the Sovereign I serve, but when the limit is reached and the bluebird packs the overnight bag and calls the local Uber driver, look out! The face gets red, the breathing becomes short and shallow, the eyes bubble and steam escapes from the seams. If you hear a loud report, it's too late to look for cover.

Fierce living is the solution of course. Everyone knows that. Living fiercely prepares us for whatever life may bung our way. We keep a balanced perspective, being fully conscious that we don't know as much as we think. We pay close attention to what's actually happening and not what we think is happening. Lastly, we maintain the fierce resolve to live Life on life's terms--whatever that may be.

Today, then, I would not lead a gigong session at Straw Valley; nor would I meet the Insiders for coffee at the Den of the Secret Nine. Instead, I would deliver the cat Beignet to the Morrisville Cat Hospital, a Cat Friendly practice, highly recommended by Happy Cats Health & Wellness, where he would have his yearly checkup, and get his nails clipped and head patted.

And so life is good and I am happy. Happy to be a part of this wide, wild, wind-swept world and happy to have Beignet in my life. No doubt he will elevate the mood even more by serenading me all the way to the Cat Hospital with his favorite song, Bird on a Wire, as sung by Rita Coolidge.

I will finish this post, with your permission, by wishing you a wonderful, bright and beautiful day! Life is grand! Fierce Qigong!

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Health & Wellness, and he's almost 7 now.

It wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning but fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art-gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000 year old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of pixies.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"An painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero, and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and there seems to be mystery surrounding the work. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. Not one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just stop here to say how happy I was to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I thought it quite insightful. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--meaning her people--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by the letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her to reply but there was none. She had a look on her map that cause me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of the people in the Ukraine and their current struggles. The way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"There are many people struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said with, what's the word? Pensive? A pensive tone.

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked  downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.