Anyone who’s heard the jokes about methodists (and churches generally) and change not being a good thing will probably laugh at the theme of this post. But yes, I admit it, I don’t “do change” very well. There, I said it. And its nothing to do with the denomination I label myself as.

Yes, there is some change which is better than others, and at the same time people will say a change is as good as a rest, and thinking of it that way, any change, in the way you live or approach things, has to be a good thing right? Well that may be, but even if the changes are good, and something to look forward to, I often find myself resisting them. I will suddenly see all the problems with the new situation, and worry about all the possible problems before they occur (and yes, I’m a bit of a worrier too!). I like the comfort of what I’m used to, the places and people I know, and the unknown is daunting.

I don’t know that there’s a way around this, partly its just me, and I have to accept that and not be too hard on myself. But partly, one of the ways of dealing with these fears (for maybe thats what they are) is facing them head on. In my time in Swansea I’ve moved house many times, I’ve gone through different courses and now work, had friends leave and new ones arrive, and I’ve still lived to tell the tale. And also, in times of change (even seemingly minor changes) what keeps me going are the things which remain constant. The people who are always there no matter what, that I can rely on, and which will be the same before and after all the upheaval. The things I strive for, and the things I believe in. These are things nothing can change.

Some people aren’t cat people, and its difficult to explain the special place a pet, and a cat can have in your heart. I’ve always had cats at home, and they become part of the family. Today, our old family cat had to be put down.

We’ve known it was coming for a long time, he was old. Very old. 18 and a half years, which was apparently in his 90’s. He’d been going senile (I kid you not- the vet told us so) for a few years, forgetting when he’d eaten, where he was, where we were, and would howl untill he knew where you were again. He had tumours on his ears from sitting in the sun too much, and had lost several teeth. But he was still my cat, and I grew up with him.

We got Tim and his sister as soon as they were weaned, when I was 7. I have photos of me holding them as kittens. He was large and white, my big polar bear. Many a night he’d lie on my bed, and I’d wake up squashed next to the wall cos he’d stretched out so much! He was so laid back he was horizontal, but when we got our dog, he still made sure she knew he was the boss! He would sleep in the strangest of places, leaving a nicely made comfortable cat bed in favour of sleeping in my dads briefcase, my schoolbag, or on a pair of shoes. And being white, he’d gravitate towards any dark item of clothing, school uniform and my dads suit jacket being a favourite! Timmy was a cat who had his fair share of lives, from lying in the middle of the road playing with twigs to falling asleep inside the wheel arch of a visitors car in the sun, where we only just noticed him in time!

I’m going home tomorrow, and it will be odd that he’s not in the house where he was such a part of the furniture. And yet, I know its for the best. In the end, it was the tumours on his ears that were bleeding so much, and the only option would have been to take the ear off. But he might not have survived the operation, and blood tests showed kidney failure which would have made recovery almost impossible. So he went, quietly and calmly, in my mums arms at the vets, purring and contented to the last. I miss him terribly, and will always remember him as a huge part of my childhood.

So long Timmy. Goodnight and God bless.

There’s something about packing that makes me think. Or maybe its just getting late.. I’m not moving far, in fact only to the next room, but we have the builders coming to repair (in a ‘it gets worse before it gets better’ kind of repairing) the water damage next week. So since they’re going to relieve me of one of my bedroom walls, I thought it wise to box everything up and get it out of the way of the brickdust.

But when you start to put everything you have into boxes, you suddenly realise the amount of stuff you have to put in boxes, and how many (many many many) boxes are needed. And you find, amongst the dust under the bed and in all those hard to reach corners, all the things that you put there once thinking ‘I’ll see if I need that’, or ‘I don’t want to throw that away just yet’. I’ve heard people recently calling all this stuff clutter, and extolling the virtues of getting rid of it all, and living more minimally. Well, while I might admit I have a bit more stuff than I need, I’m never going to be a minimalist! But whats the distinction between the stuff you really should get rid of, and the things that are important enough to keep? I keep things like concert tickets, birthday cards from special people, pebbles I picked up at a time/place that I want to remember, prayers from a church service that touched me. Maybe this is hoarding, and during this lot of packing I’ve got rid of some things too. But these small things, which to anyone else might be worthless, tell the story of my life, the people who matter to me, and where I’ve been. And for that reason, I think I’ll hang onto them a little longer.