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I have a cat that is eighteen years old. I took him for his annual checkup at the veterinarian and discovered that three of his major organ systems are failing. I know his last days are coming and it saddens me to see them on the horizon. But as the days pass, I cherish my cat more and more and I’ve come to realize that the compassion we exhibit for our pets in terms of death is different than the compassion we exhibit for each other.The truth is we hold on to human life longer than we hold on to any other life. We value it more because most of our religions tell us its more valuable or because we simply choose to believe it so. This idea of value is something we cling to when someone we love is about to make the transition from this life to the next. We cling to it so much that sometimes we make choices to prolong life even when it may be harmful to and even when it falls against the wishes of those we love.
When the life of our pets reaches that precipice, we often allow a natural death to occur. Sure there are some who may try to prolong the pet’s life but the vast majority of us choose to comfort them as they transition. When we are sure their life is terminal, we are more willing to accept death and assist its natural processes. We do so with comfort in mind.
Death is something that everyone and everything will experience. It doesn’t discriminate. It is part of every cycle that we know. Yet as humans, we are often preoccupied with its subversion. Our attempts are futile because death can never be subverted. Its patience only grows stronger when faced with our efforts. We are the only animals that fool ourselves in this matter. It may be our modernity that has brought us to this current view.
I’ve accepted the death of my cat, and I know that when it comes I will be ready to assist him when he transitions from this life to the next. Yes, I’ll be sad. Yes, I’m sure to cry. But I will pet him in my lap until his eyes finally close.
There is nothing more sad than the death of someone you love even when that ‘someone’ is a pet.
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It should come as no surprise that I’ve been an advocate of going outside, of opening that front door and taking a walk, breathing the fresh air and enjoying the sunshine. I’ve written about this before, but last week I was reminded of it because I spent a good part of the week inside. The routine was simple and boring.1. wake up
2. make breakfast
3. read
4. write
5. wash laundry
6. wash dishes
7. repeat
It was one of those weeks when there was no reason to leave the house. I spent days inside. The only reminders I had of the weather were my windows. They told me the hour and they told me when the sun would appear. I was content with the seclusion and what little my windows revealed.
Then an opportunity arose, an errand that involved opening the front door. I left the next day and I was reminded of how the world beyond my windows could remind one of its splendor. I only needed to give it the opportunity.
Coffee. This was the reason for leaving the house. I went to get a cup of coffee and I sat at the coffee house, reading, writing, and listening.
I watched as people came and went. I let the sun slip over the patio tables until one of its slivers began to warm my face. The smell of a delivery truck reminded me of my time living in Australia, and the sound of traffic made me grateful that today I wasn’t a part of its gridlock.
A group of children came to the coffee house. They were chaperoned by several adults. One of the girls kept running away only to be chased by a male chaperone. They were playing a cat and mouse game. The young girl took delight in playing the role of mouse as she giggled in her pursuit.
The contrast between being indoors for days then going outside was dramatic. I don’t think I would have noticed all the details if I hadn’t had that week of seclusion; if that contrast wasn’t there.
The more I noticed the small events taking shape around me, the more I was reminded of Marcel Proust and his novel, In Search of Lost Time. An entire novel could be written on the details of a coffee shop with the theme clearly rooted in felicity.
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For a long time, I’ve dreamt about setting up a foundation. In these dreams, the foundation would serve others but its mission was never clear. It was ever changing with each dream, ever-morphing into variations of the same idea of serving others. Until last week, this has always been the case. Last week, the mission of my foundation revealed itself to me.It happened at dinner. I was with friends, one of which is an administrator for a significant collegiate foundation. At one point, the table centered its discussion about the process of raising money for a foundation, the costs, the overhead. The topic started wheels to turn in my mind.
I became stuck on the notion of foundation giving; the idea that many foundations give to organizations who then distribute the money into various programs and services. Funds become diluted in the process of the giving. This is not to say the gift isn’t needed. It is only the reality of a donation’s lifespan.
Therein stood my foundation’s mission. It must center on the distribution of money directly to the individual. It must help individual lives by supporting them in a financial way. Most importantly, it must support those individuals that have made a significant difference in the lives of others; individuals who have led a selfless life in their pursuit to make a difference in the world.
It’s not difficult to find these individuals; men and women who run soup kitchens, thrift shops, health clinics; men and women who donate their time to clean up toxic environments or educate a community. These people are everywhere.
To support the determination of the selfless individual, the person who makes a difference in the lives of others.
There it is. The mission statement of my foundation.
I see the foundation supporting the man who runs a soup kitchen who suddenly needs surgery to remove his gall bladder but doesn’t have insurance. I see the foundation supporting the woman who runs a shelter that needs funds for expansion. I see the foundation helping the man who educates his African village on safer sex. I see the foundation helping a physician who donates free medical advice in remote areas of the country.
I’ve been thinking about this new foundation a lot of late. I can visualize it’s presence just beyond the horizon. Now I wait for the money to get it started.
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Do you know someone who has experienced stress high enough to affect his or her health?I’ve known more than one individual who has suffered from work-related stress. One of these individuals stands out because he suffered from high blood pressure as a result.
Two months ago, this friend was rushed to the emergency room because his blood pressure became life threatening. He learned a valuable lesson from this and he learned techniques to control the stress in his life. Since then, he’s been able to lower his blood pressure tremendously.
I talked to him about looking for another job. He’d been considering it for some time, removing himself from the stressor. He’d been keeping his eyes and ears open for new opportunities until one of his coworkers said to him, “You’re never going to find another job that pays better.”
He started to reconsider the job search because the words of his coworker started to make him doubt. Then this doubt made him feel that the techniques he had learned would be enough. The stress still existed but he’d be able to handle it now. I listened to his considerations over breakfast then I laid my advice across the table.
Nothing is worth ruining your health for. You’re on this earth for a reason and you should try to live up to this reason by maintaining good physical and mental health. Money isn’t everything.
One thing this person cannot doubt is that certain stressors change his blood pressure for the worse. He’s discovered some techniques to compensate for them, but he has not pushed them out of his life. They are still part of his hectic world and the only way they will disappear is if he rids himself of them.
Abolishing a stressor is both a mental and physical process. Some may argue that the mental aspect is the most important and they would be correct, but when the mental aspect isn’t enough it’s time to devote oneself to the physical aspect. It’s time to walk away from the stressor, to avoid it.
We see each other from time to time and I ask about his health. “We all make decisions on where to go in life,” I say. “And I know you will make the right ones. Let your heart guide you when your mind is full of doubt. It will show you the way.”
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I’ve always had a curious soul, particularly for small things. I write this as if I collected buttons or loved to sift through sand for tiny shells. One of the two is true, but what I mean to say is that I’ve always found small living things fascinating. Do you remember my opae ula essay?Lately, this has been the season for moths; those bastard cousins of the butterflies. Both come from the same order of species, the Lepidoptera. When we think of moths we usually think of moth balls and yet we rarely think of them eating our clothes. I’m sure our grandparents did.
Over the past two months, I’ve noticed some of the most beautiful moths in a most peculiar place—near the building’s elevator. Every day I leave the building for one reason or another, and every day I see a new variety. They rest near the elevator doors unconcerned with the humans that pass under them, tiny flecks of color pasted to the stucco.
It’s amusing to me that many of these moths have shapes and colors to camouflage themselves from predators and yet at the elevators they are as plain to see as a ketchup stain on a white blouse.
I’m thankful for their lack of discretion because it’s given me the opportunity to admire the various colors, patterns, and shapes they arrive in. This morning their was a beige one above the elevator door. Its wings were spread out like an akomeogi with a very asymmetrical pattern of brown horizontal lines running across them.
As a caterpillar, the moth’s reputation is not good. They are one of the world’s major agricultural pests. The eat and destroy the plants we want to enjoy while their cousins have chosen less desirable comestibles. Their bad decisions have superseded any beauty that may come once they’ve left the cocoon.
Beauty. That’s what what my trips to the elevator are about. It’s about appreciating beauty from the smallest to the largest; from the mundane to the extraordinary. Beauty is everywhere even when it eats our crops and destroys our clothes.
I’ve been thinking about when these mothly visits will end, and I’ve been thinking about how they’ve reminded me of that deeper meaning of observation. All it takes is a small amount of time to see the beauty right in front of us even in something resting on a wall.
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Whenever my emotions are in low spirits, there are certain “go-to” things that I do to lift them up. There are certain movies that do this quite easily, but books do too, as well as music. One of the quickest and easiest ways is for me to watch the movie “Amelie.” There’s something about this romantic fantasy that sends me into a good mood. I love the story of a young girl who sees the world in a different way, someone who is struck with love and yet doesn’t know how to express it. Through her own romantic angst, we view the romantic angst of others as she plays cupid. There seems to be a story for all of us inside the greater mirror of Amelie’s life.
Not long ago, I was talking about my “Amelie” cure to a friend. A smile erupted from her face as she started to laugh. This was her happy pill too. We spent a moment talking about our favorite points of the movie before we talked about other films that made us feel good.
I have never been someone who can wallow in pity, someone who swims through a pool of sadness for long periods of time. I’ve always been someone who needs the sunlight, someone who finds ways to step out of bad feelings in exchange for good ones. This is one of the characteristics that both of my parents share and certainly one that I’m happy to have.
I know someone who hasn’t been in good spirits lately. She’s been dealing with cancer and her morale has disintegrated during her many treatments of chemotherapy. She and I talk regularly. I try to cheer her but often this lasts such a short time.
Two days ago, I dropped in to say hello. Her demeanor was completely different. She was happy and full of vigor. I learned that she was starting to see a counselor, one specific to individuals with cancer. This person has quickly become someone who helps to lift up her spirit.
We make the choice to be in good thoughts or in bad ones, and it’s completely up to us to remember this. It is a choice. How we pull ourselves out of the bad ones depends on the tools we keep in our shed. There is no greater strength than recognizing our ability to create a healthy mental state.
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