Tuesday Evening

A nearly full moon shines brightly in the sky. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, and the air is chill in a very December-y type of way. I left work late tonight--we had a party for our volunteers, so it was not a bad sort of late night--and, at 6:30, the sun was completely down (and had been down for quite a while), the moon was high and bright, and the sky was dazzlingly dark. I realized that I don't often go out at night, now. I usually come home from work in mid-afternoon, and promptly change into comfy clothes . . . or even pajamas, depending on the day. It's the time of year to curl up in a blanket and read a book, or watch a movie, or cook something warm and delicious in the kitchen, or snuggle with my husband and/or my cat and/or my kitty.

I almost went for a walk when I got home--I was so tempted by the clear cold air and the moonlight and the darkness--but my wonderful Basil-cat needed some love and attention. Over Thanksgiving we discovered a nickel-sized scabby sore above his left eye, and we took him to the vet, who sedated him, scraped the sore in order to do some tests on it, stuck the poor little guy in one of those ridiculous and humiliating neck cones, and gave us some drugs to give him twice a day. He hates the cone. I can't laugh at him, can't even take a picture of him, because he is so horribly sad and confused about why he has to wear this dreadful plastic THING that he can't see around, can't scratch around, can't clean himself around. He mopes around the house and ends up curling up in hidden places, unless I can coax him onto my lap . . . and then he cuddles against me and purrs and purrs and purrs. At least we're getting plenty of cuddle time. He has to wear the darned thing for the next ten days, until we finish with the medication, and I do so hope that by then the sore (whatever it is) will be healed and he will be back to his usual confident, Dude-like self. I wish I could explain to him that it's for his own good, and that he hasn't done anything to deserve it, and that he's a GOOD kitty . . . and maybe he understands, at least a little.

I have been reading blog updates from my dear friend Rachel, who returned recently from several months in Africa--Kenya, Uganda, Congo. I love reading about her travels. I am reminded of what a different place she is in her life, a place between places, a place where she's seeking to find her place. And on a purely geographical level, I have found my place here in Missoula, Montana, amidst mountains and rivers and wild landscapes, and I am content.

But on another level, a meaning-in-life level, I think I'm just as much at an in-between place as Rach is. I enjoy my job; it's great to work for a non-profit and a cause I deeply believe in. I love my husband and I love being married, love sharing my life, with all its fun and challenges and seekings, with my wonderful Greg. I love my little house, my cats, my homey yellow kitchen, my garden. Yet I feel that there is more I should be doing. Is this one of those feelings that everyone has? Do we all feel that we're not quite doing enough, that we could be doing so much more? Or have some people actually found their niche, their calling?

I spoke tonight with one of the volunteers, a woman with whom I've had some wonderful conversations, someone with whom I could be friends. She is a writer, too. She spoke about wanting to write more, to discuss writing together, to push ourselves into disciplined creativity, and our conversation reminded me that this is a big part of what is missing in my life right now. The writing. The putting pen to paper, the typing of words on a screen, the formation of ideas onto a page. This writing ability, once which I like to think I've explored and honed and bettered over the years, is a gift, and right now it feels like a gift I'm not using. Sitting here tonight, typing this little post, feels good. It feels like I'm thinking about my life. It feels like I'm processing. It feels like I'm journaling, at least, if not creating something particularly structured. And those are all things that I want to be feeling. Writing has always helped me to slow down my life, to examine it, to hold it in my hands, look at it, and truly see it--in ways that I don't when I'm not writing.

So here is my challenge to myself. To write. To see. To feel. To explore, examine, imagine. And I wish myself luck . . . and a whole lot of new-found discipline.