Change is good, right?

I do not deal with change well. Not at all well.

Much like my cat, I am a creature of habit. And, habits create order and help alleviate the every-day anxiety that plagues me and has left me seemingly paralysed at times throughout my life. I like order. I like things to have their own specific place. And, I like knowing what and where stuff is and where that stuff will be tomorrow.

Moving, as much as it can be welcome, is perhaps the worst sort of change for me. Rather funny, given that at times during my life I moved what seemed like every other month.

After living in one address and one space for 11 years — longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my life — moving now has completely thrown me into the worst sort of chaos and worst sort of anxiety. I’m managing; but, just barely. But, sorting through a life and a fully established home is hard.

Today, as I took a break from work to sort through a desk drawer and sift through debris of various sorts, I found a few things amongst the clutter that made me smile. Little reminders of a life lived in a home we love. And, reminders that regardless of our physical address, at the end of the day this is just a physical space and does not necessarily define ‘home’ for me.

Since The Cuban entered my life, we have left one another little notes. On (or in) the fridge. On one another’s desks. In notebooks and books. Next to one another’s alarms or pillows. We have notebooks of them in various places.

Notes. Just little notes, some as reminders to do something. Most as reminders that more than any other possession in our closets, desks and dressers, the most important item either of us has will always be one another.

In the bottom of a drawer underneath discarded phone and headphone boxes and invoices from ISPs we no longer rely upon, these notes emerged. These notes which I kept. These notes which still make me smile. These notes which remind me to ignore the noise and focus on the constant source of strength and goodness we provide one another.

A roof. Walls. Doors. Those make up a dwelling. But, my home is with The Cuban. The physical dwelling and walls may change, and our notes to one another may carry altogether different messages of things to do and little reminders. But, they’ll always be reminders of one constant thing: we built this home together. And, we’ll get through this and survive. Together. Change is a good, and reminds of us what remains constant.

Past notes of note

 Seven years and 7 million laughs later

Many things in my life simply make no sense.

The Cuban is not one of them. Our life together, as messy as it may be at times, just works.

Today, we celebrate. Seven years ago today, we legally formalised what had been clear to us shortly after we met. Seven years ago today, w legally established what we already knew to be true — we loved each other and were completely committed to one another and spending our lives together.

And, here we are, seven years later. I confess: I love this man and our seemingly insignificant little life even more now than I did that day or the 13-plus years ago when we met and fell in love.

There is love. There is joy. There is the shared understanding that love is sacrifice, sharing is caring and, above all, kindness is everything. We have endured stress and uncertainty.  We have known joy and happiness as well as immense sorrow and blinding rage (although thankfully not directed at one another). We have weathered storms and reveled in the most gorgeous of sunsets. Whilst we have cried together,  we have also laughed nearly every single day.

Together. All of this, we have done together.

I don’t know much about anything really. But, I do know that I love this Cuban who sambaed into my life and enriched it beyond measure. And, I know that my life is infinitely better through sharing all of it with him.

Here’s to us, Tweetie!

 

Channeling my inner spring chicken

I’m turning 48 as of midnight tonight. Technically, I have until 13.40 tomorrow local time in Brenham, TX until I officially turn 48. But, time zones don’t really matter, do they?

There was a moment earlier today when I was pondering my ’38th trip around the sun’. If only. After a few minutes of feeling utterly gutted that I seemingly lost 10 years, I rejoiced. This year, this life, my life. It’s not half bad.

I am healthy.

I am happy.

I am sharing my wacky life with a brilliant, kind, silly-sometimes-serious man whom I adore and who makes me laugh even when I want to throw things (sometimes at him).

I am free.

I have a roof over my head, food in my cupboard and plenty of Marimekko to clothe me regardless of weather or occasion.

I am employed. But, more than that, I finally feel like I’ve found my ‘calling’ in terms of vocation. Regardless of how utterly shattered I may be at times by the volume of work—largely because I cannot say ‘no’—I am inspired each and every day by those with whom and for whom I work. I’d do this gig for free if we lived under the Prime Directive.

I feel loved by those in my life in ways I never thought possible.

And, I have without a doubt the cheekiest of cats to entertain and annoy me each and every day.

A few weeks ago, The Cuban asked me what I wanted for my birthday. After thinking for a bit, I said, ‘This. Just this.’

I want for nothing except more time. How fucking lucky am I?

Thank you all for making this year simply incredible.

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The Cuban created this for me for my birthday. There’s being a spring chicken, and then there’s being a Marimekko chicken.

Run happy

Run happy.

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What’s a Caturday musing without a cat?

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Me and my chicken-loving guy during my 48th trip around the sun.

 

 

A dear John to coffee…

Dear Coffee:

I adore you.

Above all the beverages and vices I rely on, I have been most committed and faithful to you, scarcely missing our morning rendez-vous for going on 30 years now.

Why?

Why then have you forsaken me so?

In a single bump against you, you not only created the single largest cold coffee puddle across my desk, ruining countless to-do lists in an instant. But, you spread across and within every single crevice on and into my trusty keyboard, rendering her useless. I know you have occasionally suffered from neglect at the expense of my keyboard, at times growing cold. But, I’ve always returned to you, my darling dearest Coffee.
As I make an emergency trip to find a replacement keyboard, I’m thinking hard about our relationship. I wonder: Is it time to take a break from one another?

Let’s sleep on it. But,… this hurts, Coffee.

PS … I suspect we both know, come morning, I’ll come crawling back to you, you magical potion. But, still….

Photo courtesy of my friend Puck. 

Crazy Cat Ladies — On ‘Kedi’

It’s safe to say that in this house we are crazy cat ladies.

At some point when I find a bit of free time, I’ll finally sift through the photos from our last trip to Cuba and put together a post I’ve been mulling on ‘El Gatos de la Habana’ — The Cats of Havana. I must have hundreds of photos of cats. Just cats, doing what city cats do. With catitude.

Naturally, one of our favourite non-anger-inducing documentaries in recent memory features cats and the crazy men and women who love them.

Kedi‘, which premiered in 2016 in Istanbul, follows the lives of various city cats who inhabit the streets of Istanbul and the humans who live alongside them. It’s rather fitting that the personalities of each of these twitchy-tailed and -eared creatures rely on narration from the humans who feed, care for and watch over them as they come and go at will, occasionally hissing and swatting at any unwelcome attention. These cats are not merely known to any one neighbourhood’s residents; they are considered fellow members of those communities, each individual with unique personalities, character flaws and moods much like their human pals.

Throughout each cat’s story, the humans in its life detail each cat’s quirks, habits, likes and dislikes. Power struggles. Histories. Annoyances and indicators. And, naturally, relationships. Both with other cats and humans. Take what you know of your own community and extend that intimate knowledge to the animals in your hood. That’s what this documentary offers for a city filled with cats.

More than anything, this is a story of symbiosis. The cats of Istanbul, as told by one human character in the film, enjoy a long and storied past, and one completely intertwined with humans. They arrived from various locations far and wide primarily via sailing vessels. Once trapped as their ships set sail without them on board, they then added a bit of diversity to the feline population of Istanbul. After they earned their keep as controllers of the rat population in the city’s sewer system, they took on a rather more important position, and one not entirely without some sort of mystical quality. Rather touchingly, several of the humans narrating individual stories speak of how they feel various cats ‘saved’ or ‘healed’ them. And, just as many humans feel that, ultimately, caring for cats might just help us humans care for and be kind to one another again if only we would try.

Cheese factor aside, this documentary is a must-see for any aspiring or confirmed crazy cat lady. Even if you aren’t particularly fond of cats, it provide a bit of insight into why so many of us are.

Waiting….

Today, it’s all about waiting.

Waiting to start the 2017 addition of the Helsinki Midnight Run. (My start time is 21.25, Helsinki time.)

Waiting to hear how prepared and where are family and friends in Florida are hunkered down and hopefully safe from Irma’s approach. (Last forecast has her hitting the Florida Keys early Sunday morning local time, Sunday afternoon our time.)

And, waiting to learn the fate of those who are currently riding out Irma’s wrath across Cuba.

I hate waiting. For anything. But, waiting on all of this on the same day has me unbelievably restless and anxious and fidgety. And, the weather here appears to reflect my mood rather well — rainy, windy and generally miserable and unsettled.

There’s absolutely nothing we can do from here for those in Florida and Cuba currently either experiencing what I image to be hollowing winds and lashing rain, deafening and terrifying at once. I can’t help but worry about those we’ve met who live far too close to the water’s edge. I can’t help but think of the waves currently crashing over the Malecón, which will likely grow and intensify as Irma follows Cuba’s coast. And, I hope against hope that not too much is washed away.

And, I can’t help but wonder what will remain tomorrow and the day after.

And, then comes Florida, likely to take on the full force or Irma’s terror.

As I sit or pace or try to work and take my mind off Irma’, the faces of those I love flash before my eyes, whether in Cuba or Florida.

And the word that comes to mind is simply, ‘¡cuidate!’

Be safe.

 

In the storm’s path

Watching hopelessly from afar as disaster strikes is never easy. When it hits places once called home or where we’ve left pieces of ourselves and our hearts, there’s a certain pain that accompanies the helplessness and sense of loss. It’s akin to grief really.

Harvey affected far too many people, many of whom I love and places I frequented with my beloved grandmother and great aunt as a child. I can’t shake the feeling that a house on Prairie Dr in Eagle Lake, Texas sat sadly inundated with water, thus washing away some of my fondest and happiest of memories with family. The house no longer belongs to us; those memories, however, persist. And, perhaps that’s more important. Still, I love that  house and hope it remains standing and dry.

Miraculously perhaps, all those I love in that part of the world, whilst affected, are not themselves lost. They remain safe. They can and are rebuilding, and that alone comforts me as I sit so very far from them.

Now, scarcely two weeks later, here we are again, watching as yet another monster storm tracks towards two places inhabited by family and friends alike, one of which has become a home I long for and fear for. Either Hurricane Irma will hit South Florida, where many of my very much loved and missed in-laws now reside. Or, she will inundate Cuba, that crazy, singular island inhabited by far too many friends and family I’d rather not see forced to endure yet further mayhem.

I can’t imagine the destruction accompanying a storm like Irma on a place I know intimately now, a place which persists on the darkest days here in Helsinki and carries me through the toughest of times. I cannot remove the images of pieces of the Malecón scattered across the roadway after a strong cold front brings ginormous waves for a day or two. Those waves now seem like mere ripples compared to the storm surge of a category 5 hurricane.

How much of that seawall will remain if a storm like Irma strikes? How many of those charming yet crumbling buildings along the Malecón or other parts of the Cuban coast will remain in her wake?

Like those in her potential path, we wait. Please, be merciful, Irma. You’re fucking with the lives of too many people I love.

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A crazy gorgeous sunset show, featuring roadway-closing waves along the Malecón. 25 January 2017.

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A shack next to one of the best restaurants (Restaurante Santy Pescador) we’ve been to in Cuba. Many of the shacks along this waterway seem precarious as Irma approaches. Havana, 28 January 2017