Love Leaves a Door

I've been away for a bit.

Both mentally (which is most often the case), and physically.

It occurred to me, however, that I left this blog on a rather negative note: my prose (and rather prosaic) diatribe to all the people whom I wanted to issue 'moron-awards' to.

This is not right. I will probably do it again (like to all you Seattle drivers in the snow... yeah, you know who you are). But that doesn't mean it's right.

This is a little life lesson that most of you are going to roll your eyes at (which means you risk being written up in my 'moron awards'), but it's something I've been thinking about prior to my departure to St. Louis, and exploring what it means in my life, marriage, relationship with God, friendships... You know, real light stuff.

And the 'cat'-alyst for it is Cleo.

Many of you know the story of the abandoned cat that we have been trying to take in and get acclimated to household life (with a neurotic male cat who would be gay if he wasn't neutered, and a prickly female cat who lists 'bitching' under the category for 'hobbies' on job applications, so are we really surprised that Cleo isn't acclimating quite that fast?), which is... going slowly.

At one time, after her eye had swelled up to the size of golf ball from conjunctivitis, we rushed her to the vet to have her treated. For her protection, we sealed the cat door to the outside so she could not enter or leave of her own volition, as she had been accustomed to. The mis-guided hope was that she'd see 'family life' and 'indoors' as fun, and want to stay.

She did not want to stay.

She scratched at the bedroom door that she had adopted as her own. She would go to the cat door when we were around and try to lift it (rather successfully, too: she's a bright cat. Not bright enough, though: I had slid another cat door on the outside in case she proved to be so enterprising. Score one for humans with opposable thumbs!), paw at it, mewl disconsolately. All to no avail: we stood firm.

It was then that she turned inward, no longer chirruping delightedly whenever we entered her room. No joy in the soft food we give the cats every night. She'd eat it, half-heartedly, and then jump back up on the bed, lonely, withdrawn, no doubt wishing that she had never taken us up on our offer of kindness.

Finally, I'd had enough. This loss of spirit was just difficult to watch. So, even though it might prolong her sickness, even though she might walk away and disappear into the night, I opened the cat door.

And out she went.

And now, as the weather has turned cold, and her eyes are finally healing, we see much more of Cleo. She's always ready for the soft food, always comfortably tucked onto her small pillow in the guest bedroom, always chirruping delightfully when you walk in the door. She's back, more of a presence than ever.

She just needed to know- that back door was open.

I think love, by it's nature, requires a door.

Not so that one can leave forever (though in some cases that might be the best thing, though I don't mean 'wife', Salome, so don't get any ideas), but so that one can retreat to a spot of safety and security: to the familiar and the self-defining, so that they can return- and in that return be more loving than ever.

I need to give people that freedom: to be able to say 'I love you. Go. I will wait for your return. Find what you need, give to yourself what you require. I'll still be here. The bed will still be warm, my arms will still be open.'

But before you go, pay back that twenty you owe me.