The Meanings We Make: Momma Howls

I put Momma's requisite “dose” of chow in her bowl at the prescribed time this morning. She investigated it. Froze in her tracks. Ran as if demon-possessed across the first level of the apartment and dashed up the stairs. Stood at the top and howled for almost a full minute. Then she trotted down the steps, went into the kitchen, and began to eat.

If I were to think of her as a cat, this would be a funny situation. She saw what I'd put in her bowl, went upstairs to rant and rave for a bit, cursing in kitty language, then returned, resigned to a fate beyond her control, and ate. But seeing her as someone I love, I felt sadness at her disappointment, or distress. At the very least, she was distressed.

[**For those who haven't been following the saga, Momma ate dry chow. albeit good dry chow, her entire life until the middle of December when I ran out and didn't want to brave the mall crowd to go to PetSmart. So for a week, Momma got wet (canned) food. She reacted quite violently to being put back on dry chow. Check out the story here.]

Or maybe I'm making the wrong meaning from it. Perhaps she ran upstairs to give thanks and sing praises to her kitty gods for another full bowl of food?

My cousin Terri suggested Momma went upstairs to celebrate how well she had me trained to fill the bowl on schedule.

I do not know what the “truth” is in this situation. I do not even know what my own truth is. What I do know is, it's all about the meanings we make.

~~GH

Enticing the Muse

"A Lady With Lyre"

Charles Edward Halle

'm working on a new project. Had intended to finish an old project but, as is often the case with my creative world, a shiny new object popped up and distracted me -- er, the Muse. There are times to buckle down and force the Muse; there are times to indulge her. Now is a time to offer decadent soft-centered truffles and deep, satisfying massages. Soon enough, there will be deadlines and unpleasantries, pouts and protests. For now, Persephone will be indulged and appeased.


I shared a few hundred words with a cross-section of volunteer readers (and three coerced ones as well -- my gratitude to all of you) to conduct sort of a temperature check. I wanted to gain a sense of the meaning(s) folks made, to see if what I wrote was effective -- if what I intended to convey, conveyed.


Turns out this section means something different to every reader so far. Ranging from birth, to death, to claustrophobia, to rebirth, to depression, to loneliness, to sleep, to dreaming, to drowning, to being trapped within one's own head due to a traumatic brain injury -- the Muse has found a way to pluck the lyre's strings and elicit a different note in each person's head. She even triggered a panic attack in one reader. 

This is sobering, and thrillingly exciting, and frightening at the same time. At first, I felt a great sense of accountability and responsibility. Then I realized that would only serve to impose self-censoring and that is not a path I want to take. So I will trust that you, Dear Reader, can handle your own reactions. It's not my job to protect you; it is my job to write. And write I shall.~~GH