Category: Personal

Anything and everything about me and my life. You’ll have to hunt a lot for gossip-worthy tidbits, though.

Is This Too Much? [en]

[fr] Je crois que je fais beaucoup de choses 🙂

I do a lot of things. I’m pretty good at juggling. (Yikes, I promised Ian a review of his book Juggle! ages ago, and it’s still in draft state somewhere somewhere in my blog admin…)

Anyway. There are times, like now, where I pause and ask myself if I’m not doing too much. I’m not really asking you — only I can answer that question — so consider this a chance to peek in while I wonder out loud.

I knew I would have two very busy months in May-June, and I’m OK with that (the price I’m willing to pay for a really exciting gig that came through at the last minute).

But I realized this week-end that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a few days to myself at home. I’ve been running for way more than these last two months, and I don’t like running. I know it’s good to be busy for a freelancer, but there are different kinds of busy, and I can tell you there there is some bad busy in my busy.

(The reason I had a few days to myself at home is that I fell ill just before heading off to a 4-day judo training camp. I couldn’t go. I spent two days being “reasonably ill”, and the last two days I’ve been feeling much better and enjoying my unexpected free time.)

So, is this too much? Look at me wonder out loud. Here are my big, ongoing areas of activity — professional and less professional.

  • a “social media and blogger relations” gig with Solar Impulse (trip to Paris end of the month)
  • co-directing a course on social media and online communities (exam time: nowish)
  • editor for the ebookers.ch travel blog in French (and also contributor)
  • I manage a coworking space, eclau
  • my freelance activity is not limited to the four things mentioned above (not included: talks, short-term consulting and training, coaching sessions on WordPress…)
  • I’ve been asked to write a book (and am going to)
  • I do judo and am preparing an exam for in two weeks (not my exam, I did it last November: partner for a friend of mine who is doing hers)
  • I sing with CafĂ©-CafĂ©, though I’ve missed more rehearsals than I’ve attended over the past year 🙁
  • I go sailing (though I’ve had to sacrifice this spring’s regattas to judo training, and last year’s to singing)
  • I have a bunch of “light” hobbies like photography, reading, tending my plants (got orchids now!), going to the chalet, rollerblading…
  • Oh, I have a blog… you’re reading it
  • I also have a social life (I actually do) which includes family and close friends in other countries (and even other continents)
  • …not to mention that I’ve decided I needed to take proper holidays, which I’m doing (but that’s time off away from home).

I think that pretty much sums it up. I’m not sure how I manage 🙂 — but I do!

Keeping it to Myself [en]

[fr] Partager, c'est bien, mais tout partager, trop partager, tout raconter, tout vĂ©rifier, cela nous fait faire l'Ă©conomie de vĂ©rifier qu'on peut tenir debout sur ses deux pieds par soi-mĂȘme.

I’m a pretty open person. Too open, sometimes. Clearly, a lot of my life is on display online, though there are parts of it I keep completely offline.

In person, I talk about myself easily. I’m not very good at hiding what I think, so I tend to be in “all cards on the table” mode. It works pretty well for me. I think one of the things my clients appreciate is my honesty (and maybe my friends do, too).

But I realized over the last two years that being too open about my personal issues (this is in private/offline spaces, so you’ll be disappointed if you go hunting for stuff in this blog) does have some negative effects.

For example, I realized that once you have started telling somebody about something, it’s hard to stop in the middle of the story. Sometimes you don’t know where the story is taking you, and you might come to a point where you don’t feel like sharing it anymore.

More importantly, talking about certain emotionally charged things over and over and over and over again simply helps me stay wound up about them — whether they are good or bad things.

I spend a lot of time ruminating. Too much time. I self-analyze pretty much everything to death (and when I don’t, it’s stuff I’m pretty good at keeping myself from seeing, even in a conversation with a friend). I’m the kind of person who needs to “talk less, think less, and do more”.

So, I started not telling all my friends every single thing that was happening to me. The first step was delaying — waiting for 24 hours, for example. And I noticed that I was processing things differently. In a way, I was owning those moments and feelings more.

Another thing I did differently is I held back from asking for everybody’s opinion before every single decision I had to make. And when I did start experiencing being the sole stake-holder in some of my decisions, something interesting started to happen: my self-confidence grew.

It makes perfect sense: if you never experience dealing with something or making a choice on your own, then clearly you are sustaining a belief system (about yourself) where you are not capable of standing on your own two feet.

I’m not advocating clamming up or shutting people out. Sharing is great. I still share a lot.

I’ve just realized that systematic oversharing has its drawbacks, and that the most important drawback is not the risk of public exposure. It’s the damage it can do to your belief in yourself, by sparing you from experiencing that you actually can deal with stuff on your own.

Be Your Own Best Friend [en]

Many years ago I understood it was important that I treat myself as my own best friend. I’ve been trying to put that in practice ever since.

One of the ongoing issues in my life has been that even though I am a strong, dependable person for others, I would fail at being somebody that I could depend on.

I would let myself down a lot. I would resolve to do things, and watch my resolve disappear in a puff of smoke as soon as it was time to use it. I would let the dishes pile up, the flat get messy, and the fridge go empty. I would allow myself to stay up way past a reasonable bedtime, knowing I would pay for it later. In short, I’ve always had trouble taking good care of myself.

The strange thing was that I would have no problem doing those things for other people. I didn’t mind doing the dishes for a friend if I ate at their place. I would clean up my flat if I had guests coming. If I told a friend I would do something for them, I would show up — and do it.

So, the skill was there. And one day — I remember the scene clearly — it clicked. I realized that if I looked at the pile of dishes in the sink not as yet another thing I had to deal with, but as a favour to a good friend, it became much easier to do them.

Of course, it’s not magic. It doesn’t work all the time. There are long stretches of time where I completely forget to treat myself like a good friend.

But all in all, I’m getting much better at it. It’s helped me take charge of my life, rather than letting my life happen to me.

It’s clichĂ©, but living one’s life for others is not sustainable. As adults, we are our primary — and really only — carer. Even surrounded by healthy relationships, friends, spouses, family, we are alone in life as we are alone before death. We are the only 100% stable being in our universe.

So, when things start getting a little out of hand in my life, like they regularly do, I try to remember: as I can and want to care for others, I can care for myself, take myself by the hand and do what needs to be done.

It actually boils down to a question of simple decision — and action — even when it’s not easy.

Your life belongs to you, and you are its sole gardener. Nobody else will do it for you.

Be your own best friend. Don’t let yourself down anymore.

What Made Bagha Such a Special Cat For Me [en]

[fr] Un pas de plus sur le chemin du deuil, alors que je m'apprĂȘte Ă  Ă©parpiller les cendres de Bagha dans le jardin oĂč il passait ses journĂ©es. Tentative un peu laborieuse d'identifier (et de trier) ce qui dans la douleur de la perte de mon chat est proprement la douleur de sa mort, et ce qui est simplement la douleur de la solitude retrouvĂ©e.

I started writing this months ago, not long after Bagha died. In India, to be precise. As a way to help me come to terms with his loss, I spent some time trying to write down what made him special for me. What is it exactly that I’m grieving, through him?

Bagha's Floppy Nap 3

I actually tried to blog this once before, and that ended up being the article “Sorting Through Grief“. Like all painful things, it’s tempting to postpone this kind of exercise — but now that I’m preparing to take Bagha’s ashes out of the back of my cupboard to scatter them in the garden he loved, I feel it is time to pick up this list again. I need to move forward. These last weeks, or maybe months, I’ve slipped into a not-too-uncomfortable limbo somewhere along the road of grief. There was a little sideroad somewhere with a bench, and I sat down.

It’s time to start walking again.

What follows is a little raw. It’s also not “perfect” — meaning that I’m aware I’m failing at sorting through some of the things I was hoping to sort through while writing this. That’s the whole point, I guess. Otherwise I would just sail “happily” through grief, if it wasn’t that difficult for me.

So, what made Bagha such a special cat for me? Quoting from my previous post, here’s what I’m trying to disentangle:

  • what it means for me to now be living completely alone (ie, “petless” => by extension, what having a pet — any pet — adds to my life)
  • what made Bagha special, as compared to other cats (his personal caracteristics, pretty objectively)
  • what made Bagha special for me, in terms of the relationship we had and what he meant to me

I’ll start by setting aside the obvious: what kind of cat Bagha was, outside of the relationship I had with him.

Physically:

  • he was big and strong
  • he was a beautiful animal
  • he had a mashed-up nose and ear tufts
  • he had a long non-twitchy tail
  • he slept on his back with his front paws crossed
  • he was long-legged and slim with very sleek fur — had the body of an Indian cat
  • he was a spotted/striped tabby with lovely eyeliner

New Year Bagha 1And also:

  • he slept on his back, front paws crossed on his chest
  • he had a very girly high-pitched meow which was kind of comical for such a big boy
  • he snored gently in his sleep and made little moaning noises when being petted

Character-wise:

  • he wasn’t fearful
  • he liked people and people liked him
  • he was smart
  • he was communicative
  • he was dignified
  • he had an attitude
  • he was cuddly without being needy
  • he was patient and tolerant but not out of fear
  • he had a strong character
  • he was very territorial and peed on all the bushes

It's MY computerThings he did (I’m aware we’re in the anecdotal department here):

  • he opened the fridge
  • he drank out of the toilet
  • he gnawed on drawer handles
  • he played with sticks and chewed them like a dog, holding them between his two front paws
  • he would creep into cupboards the second the door was opened
  • he opened drawers
  • whenever possible, he would rest his head on a pillow (proper or improvised — a laptop would do)
  • he would deftly knock over glasses of water to drink it
  • he would knock things off my bedside table if I didn’t wake up fast enough

The cat and his humanHow he was with me, bearing in mind that this is pretty standard cat-behaviour:

  • he loved having his belly rubbed
  • he liked being carried under one arm
  • he liked being cuddled curled up on my chest
  • he’d sleep with his head and paw resting on my arm

More about his behaviour and interactions with me and other humans, which is maybe a little less “cat-standard”, but not yet the stuff that made my relationship with him so special:

  • he would come back home all by himself, right into the flat, and come and say hello
  • he trained the whole building to let him in and out
  • he would patiently let me give him his meds or put his collar on before going out
  • everybody who met him liked him and saw he was not an ordinary cat

Here we are, now. The cat-companion. This is what the emptiness of his absence is made of.

  • he slept with me every night
  • he would follow me discreetly from room to room
  • he’d sit on the table while I ate
  • he’d wake me in the morning to go out with just one meow
  • he would come and lie down where I patted my hand
  • he would come and cuddle when I watched TV or worked at home

Taking some rest

Trying to rise above the mundane details of daily cohabitation (even if they’re important), here are some of the deeper roles Bagha played for me:

  • he would be waiting for me, always happy to see me
  • he kept me company every day
  • he helped me connect to people in my building and neighbourhood
  • he connected me to India and Aleika
  • he was a constant through all the changes my life went through these last ten years

Of these, I guess the fact he kept me company and was happy to see me are more pet-generic than Bagha-specific.

But the role he played in helping me find my place in my neighbourhood, the connexion to India and Aleika, and the ten years of my life that he saw me through — those are things that are uniquely linked to Bagha. No other cat will ever be able to give me that again. He was a living, breathing, purring witness to these things, no lost forever. I carry those years and that part of my life completely alone, now.

Along the same lines, here are two more things I’d like to add:

  • he made eclau a special coworking space
  • he brought me closer to some of my friends who lived in my flat to take care of him when I was away

Eclau will have other cats, and be a “special” coworking space in that respect in the future. Salem, my upstairs neighbour’s cat, has already taken quarters on the couch, and will probably soon have his own page on the eclau website. Some time next year, I’ll be ready to have cats again, and they’ll come to eclau too. It will always be a kitty-friendly coworking space — but Bagha was the first, and his constant presence in the office was soothing for those who worked there.

The fact that quite a few of my friends cat-sat at some point or another when I was travelling over the last ten years made him a connexion between me and them — connexion which is now gone, like some of those friendships. His absence makes their pastness a little more present.

On a more emotional level:

  • I loved him and cared for him
  • I gladly gave up some of my freedom because I loved him
  • I accepted some risks (like losing him to a car accident) because it gave him a better life

These are things I learned for life because he was my pet, and will treasure for ever. His legacy in me. Traces of his life that his death cannot erase, and which — I believe — make me a better person.

I believe there is no meaning in the world other than the meaning we put in it, consciously or not. Beyond the meaninglessness of life and death, we choose to make sense of our lives so that we can keep on growing.

Maybe Bagha’s biggest gift to me, beyond the ten years of precious companionship he gave me, is in his death. I got to say good-bye. Not at the moment of my choosing, of course — death rarely gives us that — but did get to say good-bye properly. I am saying good-bye.

So here’s the meaning I choose and which makes perfect sense for my life, almost as if it were provided by some intention bigger than and beyond me:

Bagha let me love him for a long time and with all my heart, so that I could learn to love and grieve properly.

Amongst all this, I wonder, what is just the pain of finding myself “alone”, or catless? What does it mean to me to have a cat? I’ve tried to break it down into “plus side” and “minus side”, because part of the grieving process is also greeting the new good things in my life brought about by this loss (I have a blog post draft sitting in WordPress titled “The Bittersweet Freedom of Catlessness” — I will write it someday).

Having a cat means:

  • having company to sleep with me at night
  • having somebody to care for
  • having somebody waiting for me to come home
  • having somebody to communicate with and keep me company
  • having cuddles and affection handy when needed
  • having an attraction for visitors and a topic of conversation to make friends amongst cat-lovers

But it also means:

  • giving up some freedom (no unplanned trips)
  • expenses (food, vet, etc)
  • having to cat-proof the home
  • having to get up to let the cat out, or change the litter
  • worrying that it didn’t come home (or might not)
  • negotiations with neighbours/concierge if it causes any trouble

The pain of losing Bagha is still very present, nearly five months after his death. There is still a terrible pit of sadness in my heart, but it doesn’t overflow with tears anymore when I don’t want it to.

I sometimes try to imagine my future cats, who are maybe not even born yet — I fear that I will not love them as much as I loved Bagha, or that they will not be quite so extraordinary, and I know that I still need to spend some time walking down that road.

Bagha arbre 1

Eat, Pray, Love: Damn You, Elizabeth Gilbert [en]

[fr] J'ai aimé Eat, Pray, Love plus que ce à quoi je m'attendais. Le trip "spiritualité indienne sauce occidentale", je m'en passerais, mais il y a plein de bonnes choses -- outre l'écriture, que j'aime beaucoup. Pour plus de détails... lire l'article complet en anglais!

Damn you, Liz Gilbert. I didn’t want to like your book, but I did. I even like you (well, the narrator you). Yeah, of course I can relate: 30-something heartbroken woman finds peace and love. Which single woman in her mid-thirties wouldn’t?

It annoys me, though, that you found them through faith, because I can’t do that.

I don’t doubt that you had a life-changing experience. I’m not either against religious or spiritual paths journeys per se, as long as they actually serve to grow us as human beings. But like the friends you mention near the end of your India book, I *cannot* believe anymore — believing there is a God or some other power, personal or not, is too incompatible with my worldview. A part of me would *like* to believe, so that I could find the peace you found. But I’d be faking it, right? Because another part of me is *certain* that there is nothing up there — or in there, aside from ourselves.

Bangalore 016 Gandhi Bazaar.jpgTo your credit, you do not proselytize, nor try to tell us that your way is The Only Way, and that we should all be doing it too. You bear witness of your own personal path, which involved a spiritual adventure in an ashram in India. I can appreciate that. But I have trouble relating to that aspect of your journey. (There is the Siddha Yoga issue too, which bothers me, but that I won’t delve into here.)

Also, whether you want it or not, your spiritual journey is coloured by a very specific — and modern — Indian school of thought (and by that, I don’t just mean Siddha Yoga). You acknowledge that, but in some respects you are blind to it, for example when you serve us truths about Indian spirituality or religions in general — you are talking from the inside of a specific religious tradition, not giving us access some kind of general truth. It’s a mistake many make, and I guess I can forgive you for it.

I personally believe that our conversations with God are conversations with ourselves. I believe we are much bigger than we think, and probably much bigger than we can ever know. And I say this not in a “mystical” or “magical” or “supernatural” sense, but in a psychological one. So for me, any religious or spiritual path is no more than a path within and with ourselves, using an exterior force or entity (“God”, “energy”) as a metaphorical proxy for parts or aspects of ourselves which are not readily available to our consciousness. Yes, it’s sometimes a bit complicated to follow for me too.

So what I can relate to, clearly, are your conversations with yourself in your notebook. I know I am a good friend. I’m loyal. I can love to bits. If I open the floodgates, I can love more than is possibly imaginable — just like you say of yourself. But I do not let myself be the beneficiary of so much love and care. “To love oneself,” not in a narcissistic way, but as a good friend or a good parent would. I know this is something I need to work on, I knew it before reading Eat, Pray, Love, but your journey serves as a reminder to me. It’s also reminding me that meditation (even when it’s not a search for God or done as religious practice) has benefits — and that I could use them.

So, thank you, Liz Gilbert. We may differ in our spiritual and life aspirations, but your journey has touched me, and inspired me. I didn’t expect it to. Thank you for the nice surprise. And damn you, because now I can’t look down quite so smugly anymore on those who rave about your book.

Questions existentielles de voyageuse à Montréal [fr]

[en] As the editor for ebookers.ch's travel blog, I contribute there regularly. I have cross-posted some of my more personal articles here for safe-keeping.

Cet article a Ă©tĂ© initialement publiĂ© sur le blog de voyage ebookers.ch (voir l’original).

Me voici Ă  MontrĂ©al. TroisiĂšme jour Ă  l’hĂŽtel, sans mettre les pieds dehors, parce que j’y suis venue pour y donner une confĂ©rence Ă  l’occasion d’Intracom, qui se termine aujourd’hui.

J’ai ajoutĂ© une semaine de vacances Ă  mon sĂ©jour. Quand on traverse l’Atlantique, autant que ça en vaille la peine! Et hier, pourtant, une fois ma confĂ©rence donnĂ©e, je me suis trouvĂ©e un peu dĂ©munie face Ă  cette semaine Ă  remplir. Inutile de dire que je n’avais rien planifiĂ© avant mon dĂ©part! MĂȘme pas mon logement, prĂ©fĂ©rant nettement mieux m’incruster (gentiment!) chez l’habitant pour dĂ©couvrir le pays de l’intĂ©rieur (entre le rĂ©seau des blogueurs, Twitter, et Couchsurfing, je sais que je cours peu de risques de me retrouver Ă  la rue).

Crédit photo: Wikimedia Commons

Continue reading “Questions existentielles de voyageuse Ă  MontrĂ©al [fr]“

Bonjour de Montréal! [fr]

[en] Gave my talk in Montréal this morning, now, holidays!

Disons plutĂŽt, bonjour de l’intĂ©rieur de mon hĂŽtel Ă  MontrĂ©al… Je n’ai pas encore vraiment mis le nez dehors! Mais comme j’ai donnĂ© ma keynote Ă  l’occasion de la confĂ©rence Intracom il y a quelques heures, et qu’il me reste une bonne semaine sur place pour me reposer et explorer… Rien n’est perdu.

Quelques articles Ă  mettre en ligne — les dix jours avant mon dĂ©part ont Ă©tĂ© horriblement chargĂ©s, je l’avoue. Le dernier module de cours de la formation MCMS au SAWI (qui s’appellera MSCL l’an prochain… inscriptions ouvertes en passant, hĂątez-vous!), une journĂ©e de formation Ă  donner Ă  GenĂšve lĂ  au milieu, prĂ©parer confĂ©rences et cours, rĂ©gler les affaires administratives en cours, faire les valises et sauter dans l’avion… j’avoue n’avoir pas vraiment eu le temps de souffler.

Les deux semaines qui viennent s’annoncent tranquilles, touristiques, lectrices et blogueuses.

 

Semaine chargée! [fr]

Quelle semaine!

Le dernier module de la formation SAWI que je co-dirige, pour commencer, de mercredi Ă  samedi. Je suis vraiment trĂšs fiĂšre de ce que nous avons accompli avec cette formation, des Ă©tudiants qui se sont lancĂ©s pour faire partie de cette premiĂšre volĂ©e, des First Rezonance organisĂ©s, des Ă©chos et retours positifs de toutes parts… et je me rĂ©jouis de remettre ça l’annĂ©e prochaine! (Avis aux amateurs…)

Vendredi, je fais une infidĂ©litĂ© Ă  la formation SAWI MCMS pour remplir un engagement pris de longue date: deux formations destinĂ©es aux enseignants Ă  l’occasion du sĂ©minaire de formation continue “Pollens pĂ©dagogiques” de l’IFP, Ă  GenĂšve — en anglais et en français dans la mĂȘme journĂ©e!

IntracomSignature2011-AvecDate Dimanche, je m’envole pour MontrĂ©al afin de donner une keynote Ă  Intracom, mardi prochain. Je compte en profiter pour assister Ă  la confĂ©rence, bien entendu, et passer ensuite une petite semaine Ă  dĂ©couvrir la ville et la rĂ©gion (c’est la premiĂšre fois que je vais au Canada, et donc Ă  MontrĂ©al!)

Comme je suis super bien organisĂ©e, je suis encore Ă  la recherche d’une bonne Ăąme locale pouvant hĂ©berger cette suissesse aux cheveux roses du 13 au soir jusqu’au 20. Un grand merci Ă  tous ceux et celles qui m’ont donnĂ© pistes et contacts Ă  MontrĂ©al, je vais me mettre Ă  les explorer, j’ai juste… pas encore bougĂ© 🙁

AprĂšs (on n’est plus dans le contexte de la semaine chargĂ©e mais je vous dis quand mĂȘme), je fait une escale d’une semaine Ă  Londres pour y voir des amis. Et je compte maintenir mon rythme nouvellement retrouvĂ© de blogueuse effrĂ©nĂ©e: il devrait donc y avoir de la lecture! (En passant: vous avez vu ce que je commence Ă  faire sur le blog de l’eclau? lĂ  aussi, du mouvement en perspective.)

Rouverture des bureaux et reprise de la vie “normale” lausannoise: dĂ©but mai.

Tears Do Heal — But Slowly [en]

[fr] Un retour d'Angleterre un peu difficile, des vagues de chagrin qui vont et viennent depuis trois mois que Bagha m'a quittée. Mais le chagrin, c'est notre réaction à la douleur de la perte. Le sentir, c'est avancer sur le chemin de l'acceptation.

I’ve had a handful of pretty miserable days upon my return from England. Feeling very sad again about Bagha’s death, and some other losses 2010 brought along with it. But this last couple of days have been better, because tears do heal, and spring is here.

Pencil Effect Sunday 26

Three months after Bagha’s death, I’m thankfully not bursting into uncontrollable tears in socially awkward settings anymore. It comes and goes. I might spend a week or ten days with hardly a tear, and then a wave hits and I’m going through stacks of tissues every day. I’m getting used to it.

I know I need to though, so I dive into the pain and grief when it comes — and when it’s appropriate to let myself do so.

When I’m “in”, it feels like my life is over, like it hurts so much that I’ll never get over it. It feels like some part of me will forever refuse to accept that he is dead and gone, refuse to accept that there is nothing I can do about it, and refuse to accept too that nothing will bring him back. It feels like I will never manage to move on and open my heart this much again, like I will be stuck in grief forever.

Of course I know this isn’t true, and outside of these moments of intense grief, I’m living my life pretty normally these days, despite my heavy heart.

But what I’m starting to understand — and understand really because I’m experiencing it — is that these moments of pain where I am so adamantly refusing to accept that Bagha has died, and I now have to live without him, are actually the very thing that is helping me accept it.

When I was told this it made immediate and perfect sense to me. I feel pain and sadness because I am facing the fact Bagha is dead. Even if my reaction (defense mechanism) to that pain is a futile refusal to accept that which is causing the pain (clearly a flavour of denial — “I want my cat back, I don’t want him to be dead”), it remains that if I am feeling that pain it is precisely because I am realizing or accepting a little more that my life from here onwards will be without him, and I have no choice in that matter.

That is why sadness and tears heal: they are the expression of a step forward in accepting a difficult reality. And though it feels sometimes that the steps are small and the road long, I know I am making progress, and that my heart will heal again.

Two Deaths [en]

[fr] Deux décÚs, l'un humain, l'autre félin, et mes réactions assez différentes aux deux.

Two heart attacks, even. The first is Bagha, you’ll have guessed. Jean-ChristopheThe second is Jean-Christophe, who was deputy head in the school I taught at and with whom I stayed in touch over the years: fellow blogger and lifter, I enjoyed our lunch-time conversations about social media, web technology, education and the various things of life. He was a really friendly, genuinely nice person. I didn’t know him very well, but we did hang out once in a while. He wrote a very nice piece about me for Ada Lovelace Day in 2009. He died almost exactly a month after Bagha.

I was very, very shocked by Jean-Christophe’s death — and remain shocked. You don’t expect young, healthy people around you to drop like a stone and die in the middle of a basketball match (he was 42, a regular player, didn’t smoke…). I was also shocked by Bagha’s death, but the grief was so great that I just couldn’t stop the tears for days on end, and it took over.

Two deaths, one human, one feline, one of a being who shared almost every single day of mine for 11 years, the other which I would see a handful of times every year. Two different reactions on my part. On a slightly “clinical” level, I’ve found it interesting to observe how I’ve been processing both these deaths. Beyond the obvious animal vs. human difference, I’ve realised that what really counts is the role they were playing in my life.

Jean-Christophe was a truly lovely person. His death pains me, and even though he was somebody I trusted (to the point of collapsing in his office during my first year of teaching when things were not going well at all) we weren’t close. He was somebody I knew and appreciated, a part of my network (our discussions revolved primarily around work and common interests, not each other’s lives). If I think of his family, my heart breaks for them, but I am not touched as if it were my family.

Not seeing Jean-Christophe is the normal state of my life, so beyond the shock of the announcement, I am not confronted much with his death. A couple of times I’ve thought “oh, I should ask Jean-Christophe if he knows somebody who…” and caught myself. Beyond the shock and discomfort of seeing the sudden death of somebody who is just a few years older than myself, and of knowing that a wonderful human being is no more, the impact of Jean-Christophe’s death on my life has been pretty minimal.

Maybe this minimal impact (compounded to the fact I was in India for the funeral so couldn’t attend and therefore share others’ grief) has allowed me to stay in some stage of denial — or maybe the fact he was a rather “weak tie” in my life simply makes the whole grieving process less painful and visible.

Eclau oct 2009 24Bagha, on the other hand, even though he was “just a cat”, was part of my everyday life for years and a primary emotional attachment. His loss is a huge disruption in my life, all the more because he was an elderly cat who had started to require care — some parts of my life were organized around him. Making sure somebody was there for him when I travelled, coming back home to give him his meds, being available to take him to the vet when things weren’t quite right.

Except when I was in India, I have not been able to “forget” his death much. The flat is lonely without a feline presence. Another cat naps on the couch at eclau (I’m happy about that, though). I’m still surprised that I can stay out when I hadn’t planned to. I can leave stuff lying around in the flat (even food) and nothing happens to them. Open cupboard doors are not important anymore. I’m not woken up at 6am by somebody furry who wants to be let out.

When somebody asks a group of people “who has a cat?” I have to keep my hand down now. I don’t have a cat anymore. I’m not a cat-owner. I’ve had a cat since I was nine, even though my first cat, Flam, lived at my parents’ for three years when I moved out, and I was briefly catless between her death and the moment Bagha officially became “my” cat. But being a cat lover and owner has always been a big part of my identity, which I feel I have now lost (risky parallel: does it feel like that to long-time smokers who give up the cancer-stick?). Of course, I will have cats again (after India early 2012 is the current plan), but right now, I’m part of these petless people.

Almost everything in my life reminds of his death. I still have a photo of him as background image for my iPhone, because I’m not sure when the right moment to change it would be, and what to replace it with. Though I’m slowly rebuilding a layer of habits and memories of my new life without him, I feel his loss almost every day — some days worse than others.

This makes me realize that in a way, it is less the intrinsec value of the being who died (who would dare put a cat’s life before that of a human being?) than the role played in one’s life and one’s emotional attachment that determines the amount of grief. Sounds obvious, uh, nothing new under the sun here. But it has another taste when you’ve reached the conclusion all over again by yourself.