Broken whiskers

One of my favorite things is to rub my cat's face near her whiskers. I'm always careful to go in the right direction, because I don't want to damage them or cause her pain. She always closes her eyes and just looks like it brings her so much pleasure. So I do it every time she's curled up in my lap.

I've often read that if a cat's whiskers are damaged, it not only causes them discomfort, but they can become confused or disoriented as well. I didn't know why – so I googled. 

Turns out, whiskers are not some psychic connector or tool. They're just long hair. But they are deeply rooted in follicles which are surrounded by muscle tissue that is rich in nerves and sensory cells. These cells are connected to a special area in the cat's brain. 

Whiskers are a type of environmental scanning system. A cat's whiskers are sensitive enough that they can pick up small air movements, letting the cat know something is near, even in the dark. Whiskers help cats "see" in the dark. If they're broken, cats can have trouble walking straight, and can get disoriented and fall. In fact, blind cats rely almost solely on their whiskers to help them navigate.

What happens if a human's "whiskers" are broken, I wondered. My heart is, in effect, my whiskers. It guides me, points me in the right direction, and helps me "see" in the dark. But what happens when it's broken?

Well, after I cry a river and eat my weight in mint chocolate chip ice cream, I get up, dust myself off, and limp my way back into functioning society. 

Trouble is, my heart has been broken so many times I can't count. You see, I tend to fall fast, and I give my heart too quickly. That's been my pattern. The past few years, I've been much more guarded. My "whiskers" have been at full attention.

But if you're too guarded, you can appear unapproachable and uninterested. Not what I want. When a cat is angry or defensive, its whiskers are pulled back. When the cat is happy or content, the whiskers are relaxed and pushed forward. I think mine have been pulled back so long now, I look like I've had one too many botox treatments.

But I can't seem to help myself. I don't want to feel that kind of pain again. 

But worse than that is the pain that is coupled with fear – and I have that in spades. I am terrified of growing old alone. And it looks like I'm fully headed that direction. Not a thought I relish.

I also sometimes feel my "whiskers" are just broken in the sense that maybe they just never worked right. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Maybe I'm just a freak. I don't know. 

Pardon me while I wallow, but the holidays are coming, and usually during this time of year, when everyone is buying the perfect gift for their honey, I am stocking up on ice cream. Insert heavy sigh here.

When I look in the mirror, I see broken whiskers. 

Lord, help me to open my heart, but use my brain in the process. Help me to relax my whiskers. Help me to see beyond them. Help me to see myself the way you do.

I'm not a mom – and it's OK

I’ve had this column sloshing around in my brain for a couple of weeks now. I started it the week before Mother’s Day, and then decided to wait.
The reason? I’m writing about the pitfalls of being a non-mother.
Let me start by saying when I was a little girl, I wanted to have a family like the Waltons. I used to watch the show and think how great it would be to have a whole house full of kids running around. I wanted to have a few myself, and then adopt as many as I could get my hands on.
I was also influenced by my mother, who is the middle child out of 11 – she often says there were five before her and five after. She still tells me stories about growing up in a household where there were often more mouths to feed than there were biscuits. But even when that was the case, they sounded happy.
And I have to admit, my big, loud, all-in-your-business Irish extended family is one of my favorite parts of my life. I have aunts and uncles galore, and cousins out the wazoo.
But, as often happens, life didn’t turn out the way I planned. I haven’t married (although I am currently accepting applications), and at my age, it’s a safe bet I won’t be having any offspring without a – cue the angelic chorus – miracle from above.
I have to say, I’m OK with that. Oh, I have my moments, and on Mother’s Day, it’s sort of hard to watch my friends who’ve had kids get those adoring, googly-eyed looks from their children.
But overall, I’m happy with my life. I believe things work out the way they are supposed to, and I have two handsome nephews, and a glorious and beautiful niece I can spoil rotten and send home. I’m very good at being an aunt.
What harshes my mellow is that moment in church when the well-meaning pastor asks all mothers to stand, and everyone applauds. What would happen if he asked all who are not mothers to stand? Would there be applause? Not likely. So there I sit, gutted.
I’m not saying it shouldn’t be done. There is no greater calling and no harder job than that of being a mother. They should be recognized and appreciated for all they do. I just wish it could be done in a way that didn’t make me stand out so much.
Another blow is when someone says, “You can’t possibly understand what it means to truly love a child, since you don’t have any of your own.”
Well. Smack me right in the face.
I beg to differ. I do realize the bond between a mother and a child is phenomenal and beautiful, but don’t tell me that I can’t fully love someone else’s child.
I worked for many years as a student minister in churches in North Georgia and Oregon, while I kept working as a journalist. Talk about your crazy schedules...
During those years, there were many times I took in the children of others who were, for whatever reason, unable to care for them. I’ve had young girls come and stay with me because their mothers were with a boyfriend who was a little too touchy-feely, who used drugs, who didn’t want their kids anymore or who were  just plain too wrapped up in their own lives to care about their daughters. I took those kids in and loved and cared for them until their parents were able to welcome them back home. I did it gladly, and I’d do it again.
And each year on Mother’s Day, I hear from most of those young women. I get cards, posts on my Facebook page, calls and letters.
Why do I share this? Because I know I am not alone. There are other women out there who have no children because of infertility, choice, miscarriage, cancer...there are as many reasons as there are women.
So to those who are moms, thank God for you. Without you, none of use would be here – literally – and we certainly wouldn’t be who we are.
To those who long for children but are unable to have them, forgive those of us who say inappropriate things or make assumptions, and make it harder than it already is for you.
To those special women who are foster moms and/or mentors, I applaud you for your efforts to make a difference in the lives of others. We need more women like you.
To those women who have become step-mothers, and are loving and caring for another woman’s children, thank you for stepping up and opening your heart.
To those women who gave a child up for adoption to provide a better life for him or her than you can provide, may your heart be comforted and may you have peace. Would that we were all so selfless.
To those mothers whose children have abandoned this precious relationship, I grieve with you for your loss, and hope you will find joy when your prodigal son returns home.
And to pastors everywhere, I must say I appreciate the desire you and your congregation have to honor mothers on their special day...but I ask that you consider those women for whom sitting there as mothers stand all around them is like having salt rubbed into an open wound. Find a way to honor all the women in your congregation and the contributions they make.