Sirius' World

 

Sirus, back when he used to sleep on couches. 

I'm leaning at the kitchen sink and listening to a silent house. Gracie sleeps at my feet. My husband is tat-tap-tapping on his Excel spreadsheets behind a closed door. Upstairs, my fourth-born makes nary a peep.

When suddenly there erupts a symphony of crackling papers. 

Rustling.

Ripping.

Crumpling. 

I'm stunned for a single beat, but then I remember. And I smile.

* * * * *

A couple weeks ago, in pursuit of some free plastic bubble wrap, I hauled in my stash of recently received shipping boxes from the garage and set up shop in the dining room. As I sorted through the boxes, I extracted the bubble wrap and stacked it neatly on top of the table, and tossed the less desirable (for my current purposes anyway) paper wrappings under the table. Various weights of tissue paper and that weirdly sliced expandable paper - honeycomb packing paper, I've since learned it's called - were discarded in devil may care fashion onto the floor where I promptly forgot all about them.

Until an hour or two later, when I tracked back into the dining room to pick up my mess and found, lo and behold, my good cat, Sirius, sound asleep on top of the paper wrappings. 

Oh. So cute. I left the pile and the sleeping cat be, and figured I'd let him have his nap and gather up the mess later. 

Well.

One nap turned into another; days passed and still Sirius slept on the paper heap. 

Now Sirius has always been one to move around the house quite a bit during the day, choosing a couch here, a chair there, a sunny spot on the floor, and of course, free range on the beds upstairs. He's always been one to mix up his choice of sleeping spots every hour or so.

But I noticed that Sirius was spending an inordinate amount of time in the nest, as I came to call it. 

Oh, and he fights with it too.

At first I thought my kitten was simply rearranging the papers as I heard him thrashing around in his nest. But no, a few discreet peeps revealed that he was wrestling armloads of the papers; kicking and biting them in a full-on grudge match. Then, exhausted, he'd simply close his eyes in the spot where he lay, and drift off into another long, lovely nap.

* * * * *

By now, Sirius's nest has become a charming part of our household routine. I find him there many times each day. Every now and then, I zhuzh the papers back up into a pile for him, but I'm not sure he really cares. 

Is it:

the texture of the papers, 

the warmth of his body heat captured in the layers, 

or the satisfying crinkling that so satisfies his little kitty soul?

I don't know.

All I know for sure is that rustling noises from my dining room are a new normal for me. They tell me that my little Sirius is curled up in his nest, and all is well in his world. 

P.S. Sirius' brother, Luna, has discovered the nest and fallen in love with its magical soothing powers as well. I'm happy to report that they take turns nicely.

Friends In The World

So there we were, my dog and I, trucking around the back side of the local high school, as we do every single gosh darn day, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a man on a trajectory to intercept our path.

Just kidding. We see men and other humans around and about on our walks all the time. Nothing unusual about that.

However, this gentleman, by the logos and insignia on his jacket and cap, identified as a coach on the high school football team. And because the football practice field is tucked into the back corner of the school property, we don't often cross paths with the coaching staff. In fact, I've never noticed this particular coach before.

But I noticed him on this day.

Now, my dog and I have a deal. While we are walking along the streets where actual cars drive, she stays on her fifty-foot leash (who am I kidding; it's a rope with a clip knotted at one end and a loop at the other) and marches strictly on the sidewalk. But when we are walking within the school property along various lanes, paths, and footbridges, she is allowed off leash to run her little heart out as well as search out cast-off paper trays of Asian noodles and discarded chicken patties in the bushes. 

So it was during this off-leash portion of our adventure that the man approached us. 

Actually, as he intersected our path, he was much closer to my dog than to me. 

And as he crossed directly behind my dog, his head swiveled in her direction with nary a glance toward me, and he spoke.

"Hi, Gracie! How's your walk going today?"

Wait, what? How does this man know my dog? How does he know her name? Her habits? What is the root of this breezy familiarity he offers up to her?

I paused, hesitantly smiling, waiting for his attention to shift to me, for him to explain just how it is that he has some sort of standing relationship with my dog that I know nothing about.

But this is what happens.

He gazes at my dog for a beat longer, puts his hands in his pockets, and continues on his way with an absent-minded whistle. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

And I realize that my dog has more friends in the world than I will ever know.

Reading | Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs | Walter Isaacson

Edwin Land, Polaroid inventor

Bob Dylan, songwriter

Walt Disney, storyteller

George Orwell, author

Timothy Leary, advocate of psychedelic drugs

No list of 20th century geniuses is complete without the incomparable Steve Jobs. From his early days growing up under the watchful eyes of his doting parents, his barefoot and body-odor years working in an apple orchard and studying Buddhism, building the first Apple computers in his parents' garage (yes, he really did) to his roller-coaster ride in building and sustaining his place at the center of tech revolution, Jobs' life is documented honestly, compassionately, exhaustively in this biography. Isaacson thoughtfully spins out the dualism of Jobs' both tender-hearted and ruthlessly critical personality. The author also informs readers that Jobs loved to have critical conversations while walking around his Cupertino neighborhood, ate at cheap vegetarian restaurants, and obsessed over mind-blowingly minute details in every product he ever launched. 

What Steve Jobs wanted, far more than money or fame, was to create a gloriously elegant product. His designs were intuitive, minimalist, serene. In order to maximize customer experience, he insisted upon end-to-end control over his devices; every moment from opening the box to adding apps to transferring data between devices flowed as effortlessly and pleasingly as possible. And please, no on or off switches; Jobs' devices simply fell asleep and woke back up at the user's touch. 

Sadly, Steve Jobs' life was cut down by pancreatic cancer but not before his name was added to any worthwhile list of 20th century geniuses. 

Steve Jobs, social revolutionary

(Now go read the book, and find out how Land, Dylan, Disney, Orwell, and Leary all played significant roles as heroes in Jobs' life.) 

* * * * * 

One way to remember who you are is to remember who your heroes are.

What a joy it was to have been alive as Steve Jobs was building Apple. I remember every product launch, each surge and countersurge in the technological throw down with arch nemesis Microsoft, every refinement of Jobs' ever-evolving hair styles. His light shown bright during my young adulthood, and I saw him as a rough and ready tech cowboy who was always up to something exciting and new. 

The way we're running the company, the product design, the advertising, it all comes down to this. Let's make it simple. Really simple. 

But there was always a hint of tarnish on Jobs' shiny Silicon Valley sheriff's badge. Reports out of Cupertino were that Jobs had a mean streak, a red hot temper, a sharp tongue. Prone to tantrums. Outrageously demanding. And nowhere near deserving of the pedestal upon which I had placed him. 

Several years after his death, I still carried ambiguous thoughts about the man. Hero or villain? I could never be sure.

But then, one day, a friend of mine told me this story.

Otherwise, as Dylan says, if you're not busy being born, you're busy dying.

She was visiting her parents who lived in the Bay area, and her infant was struggling to nap. So mom settled the poor fussy lamb into a stroller, and headed out the door, hoping that the fresh air, California sunshine, and rhythm of the rolling wheels would settle them both. 

As she walked along the neighborhood streets, she saw up ahead on the sidewalk, heading her way, a dad and his four- or five-year-old daughter, who was clearly learning to ride, in wobbly fashion, her two-wheel bicycle. My friend realized that one party would have to yield the sidewalk to the other, and with a frustrated sigh, recognized that the simplest solution would be for her to tilt the stroller down to the curb and pray that her baby would not be rattled awake. 

But before my friend could angle the stroller off the sidewalk, the man also sized up the situation and quickly, calmly, helped his budding cyclist ease down the curb into the street. In no time at all, they zipped past my friend and her still-sleeping babe. As they passed, the father looked at my friend, met her eyes, and smiled, wordlessly acknowledging that he understood all about crying babies who need to be walked with as little jostling as possible. And then, in a flash, he was gone. 

Only much later did my friend recognize this father. It was Steve Jobs. 

And ever since the day I heard that story, I have forgiven him his faults.