Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala)

Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala) - a reading by Karen Morgan

My name is Nyala. I'm a familiar. This year, I turned three. I'm the youngest in a long line sent by Bast to watch over my mom-cat and dad-cat, and keep them out of trouble.

My dad-cat doesn't let me play with the computer. But he's not watching me right now. I paw the keyboard when I want to be petted or when he's not looking anyway. He doesn't know I've learned to stalk words with my eyes, at least a little. My Auntie Mara and the spirit of my Great-Auntie Felicia are helping me with the hard ones. The spirit of my Great-Uncle Smoker says he knows a spell to make sure this message gets out. He found it in Great-Uncle Thomas's spellbook. Great-Uncle Thomas was a wizard and Great-Uncle Smoker was a sorcerer. I know where they hid the spellbook, but I can't tell or Auntie Mara will find out.

Tonight, mom-cat and dad-cat get to see some of our world. Their eyes aren't very good most nights. They can't really see in the dark. They trip over me and Auntie Mara all the time even though they should be able to see us. We can see them when we lay down and roll on our backs in front of them. It's not like it's really dark.

Tonight, they light little fires all around the house. They try to keep them out of our reach, but me and Auntie Mara jump up when they aren't looking. They scold us when we do, but we're curious. We just want to see. I don't like the little fires anyway. They smell hot and bitter, and sometimes bite my nose and whiskers. Fire is scary, even little ones. But I like the dancing shadows. And they make the perfect light for hunting, not that mom-cat or dad-cat really do. I don't know how they feed themselves. Mom-cat leaves to hunt every day, but she never comes back with anything. Dad-cat just guards our territory while she's gone. He leaves us alone for a few hours once a week to hunt with mom-cat. He must be a better hunter because they always comes back with butter and something good for us for breakfast when he goes with her. I like butter and breakfast.

Mom-cat and dad-cat don't light the cold little suns tonight, or watch the glowing box where the birds and bears and little balls live inside. Sometimes it calls my name, at least the name the humans call me. They can't pronounce my real name. But Bast says I need to keep that a secret anyway. I'm good at keeping secrets.

I like the light tonight. It makes me want to run around and chase Auntie Mara. Or pretend to sleep even though I'm watching everything through slitted eyes. It's like a whole night's worth of twilight when we hunt the best. Nothing can see us but we can see everything and pounce on it if we like. But Auntie Mara gets mad when I pounce on her too often.

This is my third time seeing the special night. A cat's night. Bast-mas is what mom-cat sometimes calls it, I think. Our night. The first time, I was only a little kitten, so mom-cat and dad-cat watched me extra close so I couldn't get into trouble. In a few days, we get presents: boxes, bags, wrapping paper and ribbons. But I can't keep the ribbons for long. Auntie Mara likes to eat them which makes mom-cat and dad-cat mad. I like swatting balls of paper around. Auntie Mara says they're too pretty, but she plays with them when I'm not looking. They are almost as much fun as hard, dangling, sparkly balls, or stalking Auntie Mara while I hide beneath the plastic tree. I like to gnaw on its branches. I wish it tasted like a real tree, but it doesn't. Still, it's almost like being outside only safe. Auntie Mara likes sitting in the boxes and bags, but all she does is purr, and get mad when I jump in with her.

We also get feathers and acorns and juice-rings and rattle-sticks, and a few leaves of fresh catnip. Mom-cat says they come from Basty-claws, but I know it's really her and dad-cat. Basty-claws is just for little kittens.

But that doesn't happen for a few more days. It's a busy morning with all sorts of new scents, but it's kind of scary too with all the new things I don't recognize, at least until I've rubbed them or swatted them a few times. After that, most of them are boring.

Tonight is never boring. Mom-cat and dad-cat sit a lot, so we get to curl up in their laps. They drink their stinky wine that smells sweet, like a mouse left under the couch too long. I think they should just drink water. I like it best when it's fresh, right after I paw my bowl until it gurgles at me. They mixed up more stinky wine and put it in the pantry closet today. It smells like something died in there until it finally stops farting in a few weeks. I like the funny noise it makes but not the smell. Ew.

Sometimes they light a bigger fire on the table on the porch after sunset. I like the porch. That's where Auntie Mara and I watch the squirrels and birds and smell all the interesting scents outside when the wind is blowing. I just wish the dogs next door would go away. They are so noisy and scare me all the time. Auntie Mara says to just ignore them. Sometimes I listen to her. She's pretty smart about what to growl at and what to run away from. Sometimes both. She doesn't run from the yappy dogs, just any people or growly trucks she hears. But she doesn't run from the rug-growler so I don't know if I really trust her.

By the time they go to bed, mom-cat and dad-cat are so relaxed and happy that I expect them to start purring. Mom-cat doesn't purr at all. Sometimes dad-cat tries but he never gets it right. I purr back at him anyway. Maybe one day he'll learn how it's done. I don't think so. He's not very smart. Tonight, I curl up with them, and don't even ask them to play with my feather-stick until I'm tired.

Later, when mom-cat and dad-cat are asleep, I'll creep down off the bed to watch the one little fire they leave hanging out of reach. It burns all night and throws tiny shadows all around our bowls. They look like little faeries flying around the room. I think that's the part I like the best. It's magical. It lets mom-cat and dad-cat see what we see every day, a hidden world. They sleep so peaceful this night, like cats curled up by a fire. I like to see them happy. Maybe they know that me and Auntie Mara are watching over them.

Auntie Mara says dad-cat is coming so I have to finish up quick. I was about out of things to say anyway. Making words is hard.

Enjoy your little fires tonight if you light them (but you can keep your stinky wine). Stay warm and catnap curled up next to someone you like if you can. If not your mom-cat or dad-cat at least a favorite auntie if she lets you like mine does until I bite her. But don't sniff too close to the little fires or they might singe your whiskers.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2011 (six days early)

Winter Solstice 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

Next week marks three significant anniversaries for me. The first is the 20th anniversary of Karen and I celebrating the winter solstice by lighting the house only with candles. The second is the 12th anniversary of the first solstice message I sent out, at least the first one I have archived. I have managed to put out a winter solstice message every year since. For just over five years, I've written seven other messages throughout the year to mark each of the eight Celtic holidays.

The third is the fifth anniversary of the test that led to Karen's diagnosis with breast cancer. That adventure started three days before the winter solstice of 2006 with what should have been a routine mammogram. As fate would have it, I'd accompanied her to that appointment as we'd planned to kick off her vacation by doing some things together downtown that day. We spent that winter solstice trying not to worry as we awaited more appointments for more tests, which eventually led to her surgeries and treatment. That year is not one of our better holiday memories, though we are thankful we can look back on it with the good fortune of having everything turn out ok.

This year, I had planned to write a winter solstice message from the cat's point of view to celebrate these three anniversaries. Before I tackled that, I'd planned to have the final installment of the Abrami's Sister cycle posted. And another Christmas story out for which I'd jotted down an idea late last year. I'd planned to review where my writing was headed and how to approach each of the various websites I maintain. At Samhain, achieving all those goals still looked promising.

Once again, the universe laughed at my plans.

The words "cancer" and "chemo" have made a reappearance in my life. They entered in mid-November when I received a card from my father telling me he had lost his voice. Three weeks later came an email saying it was from cancer. Two days ago, another email arrived saying it was aggressive and that he starts chemo next week.

My father and I aren't what you'd call close. The people who know me know why. With Karen in 2007 I knew my role and my responsibilities. They were written in my wedding vows. This situation is more complicated. Once, I wanted to prove I was somehow worthy of this man's affection. Now, those thoughts are ashes blowing through barren fields. And yet I still feel empathy and sadness for his situation.

Since that first note, my writing has become frustratingly sporadic. I have completely sketched out the last Abrami's Sister story. I can see all the details but haven't been able to download them from my mind. I want to write, but I've found I've been waiting for news that is slow in coming from a man who, on the best of days, is not what you'd call a natural communicator.

Writing at its heart, whether a story, an essay or a memoir, is about communication. Most days, I struggle with how much of my personal life to reveal to strangers, what to say and what to leave unsaid. There is no point to this message, no clever words, no epiphany, no surprise that ends in hope. I feel trapped between empathy and history. Expressing that is all this message is about.

For decades, I haven't liked this time of year. The holidays strike me as fake, false, a saccharin-sweet fiction like Santa Claus, or the false-front Potemkin village that are the pictures from my childhood. I began celebrating the winter solstice twenty years ago as a way to reclaim this time, a way to make it my own. Our own. It turns out my wife's family life needed a little rehabilitation, too. Maybe everyone's does.

In a hundred years, no one will remember any of the events I struggle with. In the light of history, they will be meaningless statistics at best. In the light of nature, they already are. The flowers in the garden don't care about my struggles. Neither do the squirrels, the birds or the cats. The sun still moves through its progression. In a week, the winter solstice will arrive whether I'm ready for it or not. Even if I do not mark it, the darkness will approach and recede.

This week, I read a quote attributed to Steve Allen that said, "If you pray for rain long enough, it eventually does fall. If you pray for floodwaters to abate, they eventually do. The same happens in the absence of prayers." I don't pray for people or their situations. It's not in my makeup or a part of my beliefs. I think about them, I worry about them, I reach out to them, I help them if I can. And I light a lantern for them to help me remember.

When Karen and I were married, we received two Wolford lamps as a wedding gift. For the longest time, we lighted the pair of them on the winter solstice. One year, I broke one of them moving a piece of furniture. The survivor now lives on the stove. We light it when our friends or family are sick. We light it when someone we care about has died. And we still light it on the winter solstice to celebrate the night, as we hopefully will again this year.

As long as we're home over this holiday, that Wolford will be burning as a reminder. I don't know what the immediate future will bring. I don't know how I'll react to it. But that has always been the case. Life is fundamentally what happens while we're making other plans.

Whatever your plans for the approaching holiday, may the memories you form be pleasant and your treasures be left unbroken. And as always, may your solstice be warm and bright.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III