Searching for a starfish

You probably know some version of Loren Eiseley's story, the one where a child is throwing starfish into the ocean one by one, only to have an adult chide him for wasting his time. After all, he will never save them all, right? The child, however, has the last word, that his efforts do matter to each starfish he saves. 

It's a good story, albeit beaten to death by motivational speakers slightly overused, and it's not a bad response to November 2016, a month I generally think of as follows:

I am not just talking about THAT day. I might have been able to withstand that. Doubtful, sure, but it's what I'd like to believe. 

No, my fracture came a few days later when Vesbo, subject of Why are they always orange?, crossed the Rainbow Bridge. "I just really needed to save him," I sobbed on the phone to my parents. "And I failed."

Eventually, I cried (most) of the tears I had to cry. In their place, nothing. Yes, I had my friends, my family, my students, and they all held me together more than they will ever know. But deep down inside? That's where that big dark space was born.

Then I opened yesterday’s mail. One of the envelopes, larger than the others, bore the return address Open Arms India. I eagerly opened it, and there I saw her. Our sponsored child, holding a picture of… I looked closer…us. There we were, my family grasped in the hands of a child with a phenomenal smile. 

Something in me started to spark, a piece of my inner power grid coming back on line. I looked at that smile and thought maybe, just maybe, we were playing some small part in making that light shine. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like belief. 

I don't know what the future holds, and that thought scares me half to death. So does the fact that no matter what I want or what I try, I won't be able to save every cat or every child. But maybe, every once in a while, one of them will be my starfish. 

Why are they always orange?

To be fair, it's not that they are all orange. After all, the spirit animal of this blog is a black cat, named for my handsome man in a tux, Lucky, and Clawdette is our second calico after Calliope. But there seems to be a disproportionate amount of orange, and it always comes when we least expect it.

First, there was Claude. A colleague found this little ball of fur wandering on campus, and had a feeling we'd take him in. She was right. We meant to find him a home, but, well, we already had. He was the first house cat my daughters ever had (longtime residents Lucky and Calliope mostly ignored our decision to add human children to the household). We were heartbroken when only a couple of years later, we lost Claude to feline leukemia.

Then there was Norbert, the subject of Everything I need to know, I learned from an orange cat and Sometimes, the cat is orange Another colleague found him scaling a brick wall outside her home. You couldn't miss him if you tried, and honestly, why would you try? He was larger than life, and for a while, larger than was strictly healthy. He and his person were inseparable- the only thing he never did for her was learn to walk on a leash. Though he lived with cancer longer than anyone could have reasonably expected, he finally succumbed and our hearts broke again.

After that, we had a tacit pact to keep the resident cat population at two, and we held it there for a while. Then we started to see the strays around town and I found myself saying, "ok, God, if you send us another cat, I think we're ready. Just please don't let it be orange."

Not long after, I heard yowling outside. When I went to investigate, out from under the porch came an affectionate, starving, thirsty cat. And... he was orange. I told God I did not think this was very funny and that it might be nice if just once in a while She would let us bargain. The response was a prompting to give the cat some food and water. So I did (in my experience, when it comes to God and cats, you don't mess around). He ate, drank, found a comfy patio chair, and went to sleep.

I had to save him, but was afraid of hurting our hearts. 

His name, the younger members of the family decided, is Vesbo.

From left to right, top to bottom: Claude at Christmas, young Norbert, Vesbo (also known as Beau)                                                  

Everything I need to know, I learned from an orange cat

1. Make peace with your rivals.

The bed is awfully comfy. The sunspot is wonderfully warm. The best things in life should be shared.

2. Don’t get caught in a compromising position. 

Or if you do, at least make sure there are no paparazzi in sight!

3. Sit and think.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a rocking chair, arm chair, or no chair. Sometimes you just have to take some time for yourself.

4. Leave the laundry for later.

Laundry isn’t just another comfortable place to rest. It’s also a massive hassle. It’s okay to make it wait.

5. Get a birds-eye view.

When you get the best seat in the house, you can see everything, from what Mom’s making for dinner to when she leaves the kitchen. Sure, you could steal the chicken or lick the butter anytime, but it’s way more fun to use stealth.

Alternately, the top of the cabinet can be the perfect place for getting away from it all. Cats have a special talent for creating those mountaintop experiences we all need from time to time.

6. Curl up with a friend.

Norbert and his person were inseparable till the very end, through thick and thin and everything else (and I don’t just mean his waistline!).

7. Let others bless you.

It can be pretty scary to step out of your comfort zone and let others get that close. 

Try it, though. You’ll be glad you did. 

8. Celebrate the holidays.

You don’t have to get out the ornaments. 

You don’t have to become one with the tree the way Norb's sister once did. 

And you certainly don’t have to wear silly hats. 

Just remember that no matter what the world might be throwing at you, you can still take time for the peace and joy this season is meant to provide.