What Was Lost Is Found

We're in late summer, here on the Carolina coast, and the days are much like those of Camelot; sunshine warms a brilliant blue sky, and a cooling breeze wafts in from the sea. It's still summer in the sunlight, but it's autumn in the shade.

I woke early this morning and found a persistent thought from last evening patiently waiting for me to wake. Minutes later, a freshly brewed cup of Jah's Mercy in hand, I sat at my keyboard to share that thought with you.

From time to time, I find old drafts from yesteryear that were never published. Overlooked probably. According to Google Analytics, I've been writing these missives since June 30, 2010. Given how many drafts I write for every published post, it's easy to see how a post can be lost.

I found one yesterday that has special meaning for me, and I'm surprised that it was never released. I decided it was a problem that needed remediation. This one was intended for publication on Mother's Day, 2013. With all that said, let's go:

Sunshine pierced the clouds that enveloped the Renaissance district. It streamed down Woodcroft, turned right at Barbee Lane, and spilled into the window where Uma, Empress of Chatsford, performed her morning ablutions. In the room above, light crept softly through the window. falling across the bed where Ms. Wonder lay sleeping as I worked on my latest reminiscences.

I was recording a dream in which I played the role of a mid-19th-century French spy, imprisoned in a tower, and contemplating what would be my last sunrise, all because some humorless Englishman, who couldn't take a joke, had ordered my execution. 

Just as the sun was rising--in my dreams, not outside my own window--someone burst into the bedroom like an avenging Fury, slamming the door into the wall with a bang that brought me out of that dream tower with a heart-stopping start.

I leapt from the desk, pressing my hand to my chest as though it might prevent a heart explosion. Beignet, who had caused all the commotion, was in the middle of the room, giving me a look as though to say, "What?" 

I've long since abandoned any attempt ot understand what motivates a cat to do what it does, so my only thought was that the Fates were making themselves felt on a day better suited for the Graces; after all, it was Mother's Day. 

My next thought was of Ms. Wonder, who should have been leaping around the room, insisting that I do something. I glanced toward the side of the bed with all the controls and was surprised to see her still sleeping furiously. Looking at her peaceful, sweet face, I recalled someone once saying that a certain number of hours of sleep, I forget how many, makes a person something that I don't actually recall right now. But at that moment, it was all good.

I moved quietly about the room, which was full to overflowing with Beignets. I thought it best to check on Eddy Peebody, who might possibly have been startled by the commotion, on account of suffering recently from a bladder infection. 

At bedtime, he was disgruntled about being confined to his room and, whatever benefits sleep is supposed to bring, his eight hours had done nothing to gruntle him. I surmised that breakfast would help. I promptly set out food for all members of our little fur tribe. After all, it's important that no cat ever feels slighted, not for an instant.

With the chores completed, I found a few moments for myself and realized that, like Eddy, I was anything but gruntled. I felt low-spirited to the core. Still, fierce living has taught me that life's greatest joys lie in the little things, and we sometimes let disappointments overshadow our blessings. So, I mentally listed the things I could count on the positive side of the ledger.

First, I named the members of our Chatsford Tribe: Beignet, Uma Maya, Abbie, Sagi, and Eddy Peebody. I didn't forget all the members of the extended tribe living outside: Lucy, Smudge, Jack, and many others. 

Of course, Ms. Wonder tops the list. She is, after all, the sunshine of my life and that of the fur tribe. On the other end of the spectrum, but still essential to a good life, are the people of the meetings--meetings at Native Grounds caffeine den, where there's always an excellent chance of finding the Enforcer and Island Irv, and at all the other meetings of friends you haven't yet met.

I've saved the best for last because she's above and apart from lists: My mom, Va, who is settled comfortably in the downstairs bedroom, soon to awaken and restore order, keeping the Fates in line and restoring calm and stability when chaos shows its face. 

As I finished my mental inventory of blessings, I could hear the familiar sounds of Mom stirring downstairs - the gentle creaking of floorboards, the whisper of slippers against hardwood. Soon she would emerge, bringing her particular brand of loving order to our chaotic little kingdom. 

Beignet had long since retreated to his sanctuary, no doubt plotting his next dramatic entrance. Ms. Wonder continued her peaceful slumber, and Eddy Peebody now seemed overjoyed at the promise of a new day of freedom. 

And there, in that moment between the darkness of early morning doubts and the bright promise of Mother's Day unfolding, I understood once again that home is in the heart. It's a constellation of beings who fill your days with purpose, even when they wake you with door-slamming theatrics or bladder infections. Especially then.