Green

There is a long-held belief that our thoughts determine our lives. Shakespeare put this idea into literature long before The Secret, despite popular belief; in the 15th Century Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet: "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so," (Act 2, Scene II).

In other words, if you think good things will happen, good things will happen. Conversely, if you think you are "doomed" or will have bad luck, you will.

For the last few months I have documented my unemployment journey, all the while, keeping in mind this quote. The Universe had to see my willingness, I reasoned, and willingness was everything, right?

Recently, like the protagonist Hamlet in the classic tragedy, I have found myself trapped in a prison of negative thinking. A friend wrote me an email the other day to ask why I've been so quiet. I have hesitated to write anything because I haven't felt like I've had much to offer. This has been such a profound period of grief and loss.

In an effort to quell my sad heart, I recently headed outside at midnight with a tripod and a camera and tiptoed quietly across the front pasture to the fields and tree line on this seven acres. My intent was to shoot fireflies. Stripes, my beautiful, green-eyed farm cat, had something else in mind.

It had stormed earlier in the afternoon. The grass was wet on my flip-flopped feet as I walked. Stripes led the way through the darkness. He reminded me of the lemurs I used to care for when I was a zookeeper: balancing carefully as he walked, his striped tail straight up and slightly rotund belly swaying underneath.  I set up my equipment and prepared for some long exposure shots.

Fireflies

I had been restless earlier in the evening. I sought balance in solitude and darkness.

As I pulled the trigger for a long, thirty-second exposure, Stripes weaved himself in and out of the legs of the tripod and my legs, rubbing each as he met it with his soft body and purring loudly.

I scooped him up into my arms, cradling him like a baby on his back.  

"Stop bumping my camera," I scolded him lovingly for bumping my tripod when my shutter was open. I wanted to capture the glowing orbs of fireflies, not have them blurred from accidental movement of the camera. 

He purred louder.

I am not a cat person typically. But Stripes picked my family. He was abandoned in a second-story duplex apartment next door to my old house when I lived in town. His previous family had left him without food or water and covered with fleas when they moved. The landlord emerged one day with Stripes in a pet carrier, plopping it down indifferently on my front lawn.

"Can you take this?" she asked, referring to the cat.

I said no, but she found this answer unacceptable. Turning on her heel, she said while walking away, "If you don't want him, take him to the pound." My daughter, Elise, who was about four at the time, greeted the cat with enthusiasm.

She named him Striped Fleas initially because he was so completely covered, we could hardly tell the stripes from the fleas. We bathed him and treated him. When the fleas fell away, the name Stripes stuck.

Elise and Stripes, May 25, 2012

A year later, we moved to the farm. Stripes flourished out here on these seven acres, with lots of new places, tall weeds and woods to explore. He made himself a little "door" in the screen of my bedroom window where my desk sits. Sometimes at night, when I'd be busily typing away, he'd emerge suddenly, his green eyes wide and pupils dilated. He'd sound a muffled meow through the dead mouse or other "present" he'd have in his mouth - a gift of loyalty to me.

Perhaps that's why Stripes endeared himself to me. He was loyal as a dog.

On this night, he, once again, demonstrated his loyalty to me, ignorant to the fact that it might ruin my photos. What use does a cat have for photos? He was blissfully unaware.

Or maybe I was the one who was blissfully unaware; perhaps Stripes knew far more than I.

I collected my equipment and went back into the house after about an hour. Stripes stayed outside, to hunt mice, I figured. 

The next morning, I found Stripes dead in the road.

I walked down the road to collect his body so Elise would not see.  I wanted so badly to come upon the hunched-up body lying in the road and discover it was not him. I hoped it was a neighbor's cat, or even a raccoon. He was still slightly warm and soft. It hadn't happened long before.

As I picked him up, great sobs pumped out of my chest. I cried unabashedly, walking down the middle of this country road at 7:30 a.m., not caring who saw my grief.

At first, I thought how awful and unfair. Such a loyal and loving life cut short by a vehicle speeding to work (I reasoned hypothetically) in the pre-dawn light of a Monday morning. I struggled to make sense of it. I longed to reverse time - to go back to our firefly photo session from the night before and, instead of leaving him outside to hunt, I would take him inside with me to sleep on my bed. He always slept on my bed. Why not that night? Why couldn't I take it back? Make it better? Damn!

But then, slowly, I remembered Shakespeare.

I like to think, now, that Stripes knew (somehow) that would be his last night on earth. I like to think he wanted to celebrate it in joy, playfully disturbing my photo session with his loving slalom in and out of the tripod legs.

Thank you, Stripes, for sharing your last wonderful night on earth with me in such a special way, and for picking us to share your life with. You will be greatly missed.