Every night, Torgi the cat puts me to bed by chirping and nudging me until I stop doing whatever I am doing. Every morning, he head-butts me into consciousness because it is time for his breakfast.

Zen, in contrast, cannot be bothered. Her whims are her own, not to be shared with silly humans.

Right now Torgi is purring loudly while attempting to wedge himself in between me and my iPhone. He is winning.

Today I am grateful for my home, which is why I retreated to it immediately after work tonight.

My relationship with my home is a bit complex.  All of my life I have struggled with the meaning of home and of belonging. Since I was eleven years old, with each parent in a different state, I have felt ties to more than one place. I seem always to be in a state of geographical flux, which may make moving less difficult for me than for other people. I tend not to identify myself with any one place for very long.

All that said, I am falling in love with my current place of residence.  It is starting to feel like home to me, instead of merely a very nice house in which I happen to reside.  I am beginning to learn its creaks and quirks; I know where the light-switches are in the dark.  It is big and quiet and close to the ocean.  It is cozy and comforting, grounding and centering, and somewhere I enjoy sharing with friends as much as I enjoy hoarding it with my beloved.

(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)

People who dispense with niceties used to catch me off-guard. Before my current job, I expected a minimal exchange of greetings before a request for help. I wonder if, as a result, I have done away with my own greeting patter when I am out in the world. It does seem a bit superfluous at times, especially when we are all so furiously busy, scuttling between inputs like crazed crabs.

Because of this intensified pace, I become more conscious of how to phrase answers to questions without being condescending or curt. A dyslexic patron today obviously felt quite embarrassed for mixing up the microfilm for 1906 and 1960, and I wonder if my bland “no problem” response was sufficient, or made her feel lessened. I can’t imagine being dyslexic; so much of my daily life revolves around the written word.

Students who come up to the reference desk look as if they expect violence. Their eyes are wary, one hand neatly wrapped around the ubiquitous mobile, library card in the other gripped like a makeshift shiv. During reference interviews, sometimes they shift away from me to text someone: five minutes is too long to be in contact with only one person.

Despite my bizarre affection for public transit, the N-Judah has already lost its shine for me, what with its random hiatuses and lame malfunctions and general chicanery. At least I always get a seat, and can doze off to podcasts for 30 (to 60) minutes. Whatever the case, each N trip is bookended by a library job and a home with my best friend, so I have no real complaints.

These are the only tidbits I can sift out from my addled brain this evening. Happy Mother’s [sic] Day, mothers, especially to my own, who will meet FunkyPlaid for the very first time when she hits town in five days!