When the Morning Comes

Inspirational song: Pet Parade (Hoyt Axton)

I've never been a morning person, though at times I wished to be. I can remember being on my grandmother's screened porch just after sunrise, in late August, when the mornings were finally getting cool again, thinking about how nice it would be to be able to rise so early every day. The light is incredible at that time of day, and when I am up early on a misty, humid morning, and I can smell wet grass, I am transported to that porch, listening to the marching band percussion section start band camp a week before the rest of us did. The band practiced two blocks from our house (we moved into it when my grandparents downsized), and the sound of a drum cadence is one of the most evocative sensory inputs I have ever experienced. I am instantly transported to some of the happiest memories of my life. 

With the man several time zones away, my sleep schedule is variable. I had to stay up until well past one this morning to discuss the phone bill with him, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep late today. That, of course, is impossible now. The old man cat plays rooster in this house, walking the halls at dawn, screaming loudly in his Siamese voice, while dementia plays tricks on his mind. This wakes the rabble-rouser, who wrestles with the old man when he finds us, shaking the bed so that I couldn't sleep late if I tried. If I make a sound to tell them to knock it off, the red-headed dog wakes and notices how small his bladder is. I have no choice but to get up and follow the rippling waves of tails streaming down the stairs. I could be grumpy when I wake (I usually am), but it is very difficult to stay in a bad mood in the middle of a pet parade. It is a lot of work to care for this many animals, but the rewards are great. Let people call me a crazy cat lady. Just don't ask me to wear ugly sweater vests.

I don't want to go anywhere today, but my schedule is full all day. I appreciate that I have many people watching out for me, making sure that I am not moping while I'm on my own. But I don't think they realize that their combined efforts are keeping me so busy I can't get everything done in good time. There's definitely no time to lie around and enjoy the beautiful morning light. I'll leave that to the kids in the fur coats.

All the Things

Inspirational song: Woodstock (Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young)

I believe it was my paternal grandfather who first recognized, when I was a small child, that I treat inanimate objects as if they have feelings like people. That applies to so many things, not just growing things like trees, but houses, cars, musical instruments, or art, for example. On my way home from PetSmart yesterday, with my tiny new car loaded down with 150 pounds or so of animal food and cat litter, I looked up to see my previous car in the lane next to me. I recognized her immediately, even before I saw her unmistakeable, rather large (gas tank sized) dimple where my man tipped his motorcycle onto her in the driveway last year. I wanted to reach out and touch the car, and ask her how she has been since last winter. I know she is at risk, as I'm fairly certain I was behind her Sunday before I went to the beach, when her teenage driver was swerving all over the lane (probably texting). But it is just inappropriate to lean out the window and reach at someone else's car.

There are times I wish I had been of an age to write things like this back in the late sixties, at the height of hippie culture. It would have been fun to postulate with impunity about concepts like vibes and auras. To speak of such things now doesn't fit with my science-based education. But at risk of being branded a lightweight among my peers, I would have enjoyed exploring the idea of the inherent energy in everything that surrounds us. We are all made of the same stuff, after all. We are just the lucky pieces of stardust who developed complex language and philosophy, and we will be recycled into many other things before our atoms are through. Perhaps when the labor-intensive gardening season ends, and I face cooler weather and quiet nights alone in the fall, I will try again to expand my dilettante's understanding of everything that could explain my instincts, from string theory down to the basics of the conservation of energy. Until then, I will keep acting as I always have, since Gramps saw whatever it was I had done, apologizing to furniture I trip over before I realize what I'm doing, or petting a car I have bonded with, or saying goodbye to my house when I leave it for extended periods.

My favorite neighbor came over for a few minutes today, for the first time in a couple months. I got to show off all that we've done, remodeling inside, and how much the Park has changed since the last time she was here. The deck was entirely empty when last she saw it, and now it is so beautiful. Giving the tour makes me want to have another garden party. My term as president ends next Wednesday. Maybe I can use that as an excuse to have a few people over, to unwind and celebrate turning the reins over to the next board. That sounds wonderfully cathartic.

No photos today. I'm too deep into my own oddness. No cameras allowed there.

Little Mary is Running Out of Sunshine

Inspirational song: Not Now John (Pink Floyd)

It was inevitable. Too many good days in a row. It had to go to hell sometime. I had to GTFO from my friend's going-away lunch when I got suddenly sick. I spent the entire afternoon alternating between wishing I was dead and trying to survive, as long as I could sleep through it. I spent the rest of the day in misery, wondering whether I needed a new referral from my primary care doc to go back to the specialist, and did I need to go there or the ER. I eventually starting feeling well enough, without medical intervention, to watch television and eat a little. As I told my daughter's boyfriend, the moral of the story appears to be: make sure your leftovers make it to the refrigerator immediately, and make sure they're reheated properly.

I might have slept straight through until dawn, if I hadn't had the rest of the family point out that when my older daughter said her car was overheating, it was a real problem because she was still seven hours away from home. The younger daughter and her boyfriend said they were mounting a rescue, but apparently the older child inherited stubborn independence from both parents. Gene-pairing like that meant she refused assistance until 2 am, when she stopped insisting she could limp home, stopping every 10-15 miles to pour coolant in her car. At the very least, the head gasket is blown. I expect to hear worse, when they finally make it home and sleep off the travel. It took me until mid-morning just to sleep off the texting until 3 this morning.

When I finally made it out the door yesterday afternoon, it was only to water the Park. My plants were total drama queens, drooping in the heat. It was very nearly sunset, so the mosquitoes were total jerk wads. And I have discovered that the wild things have taken all the rest of my peaches, they harvest all the blueberries as they become ripe, and they have beaten me to the first almost-ripe blackberries. Someone left a single green peach on the ground, a snotty little FU to the Park ranger.

Jubilation

Inspirational song: Atheists Don't Have No Songs (Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers)

A few years ago I decided to slow down and live every minute of my life. It took a lot of practice to learn to pay attention to all the little details, to let every minute develop fully, to make sure each day has something in it worth remembering. I still slip up once in a while, and let time zip by. But such was not the case this past holiday weekend. By the time I got to Monday night, immersed in the sensory feast of a bluegrass concert, I slowed way down, and focused to imprint the memories in long term storage. I did so much in the last three days, it felt like it must have taken a week or more. I spent hours outside, making visible changes in three different flower beds. I made great progress rebuilding a relationship that until recently I thought was lost forever. I ate only wonderful, real food, no junk. I had a perfect morning at the beach. I got to hang out with the crew around a bonfire. I started creative projects, and collected salvaged materials for another furniture piece that I can't wait to start. And I capped it off with dinner al fresco with a terrific friend and a trip with her to see Steve Martin, Edie Brickell, and the Steep Canyon Rangers. Except the last part, nearly all was low cost or free. And every minute of it was worth living, and worth remembering.

When I think back on my own childhood, it seemed to take forever. I felt like I did so much, had so much time with the people I cared about. But when my own children were small, I let time move too quickly. I managed to imprint several moments at the time, knowing that I would want to refer back to them many times in the future. (And I did--my younger daughter has a talent with being the one to create our own family memes, intentionally or not. Usually not.) Now that I am deliberately slowing everything down, I am digging deep into stored memories that are buried under the fluff of more recent goings-on, and I'm discovering that I did retain more than I ever knew at the time. I worried that my children didn't do as much, have as many broadening experiences as I did. I felt like I had failed them, and wasted their formative years. As I put the passage of time into perspective, I realize that there was easily enough that happened, with and without me, to create the deeply fascinating young women I get to call daughters now. I plan to document, for myself and to share, some of these memories as I carve them from the back of my brain. I will try to make them interesting, but more than anything, I want to make them permanent and accessible. 

I have to attend a going-away luncheon in half an hour. I am not sure I am going to handle this one well. The friend who is moving became a such an important person in my life, in such an incredibly short time. When I was in the hospital in January, it was she who I wanted to see most of all, and I nearly cried when I learned she was out of town that week. I don't want her to go, but the opportunity she and her family have is too good to pass up. I wish them well, and I know that the stories, the legend of her entertaining self, will live on. I will make sure of that.

Memorial Day

Inspirational song: Born in the USA (Bruce Springsteen)

I've never been fond of the jingoistic expressions that precede certain holidays, especially if it ends up crossing the line from love of country to disconcerting aggression. I much prefer subtleties. Sure I have a weakness for silly flag-themed kitsch, but I don't have any desire to holler "love it or leave it" to anyone, ever. Several years ago, the man started a tradition of planting a mass of red, white, and blue flowers for Independence Day. It was typically petunias, but it is impossible to find a true blue petunia. In his absence, I am taking a few liberties with the tradition. I decided to start it for Memorial Day, so I have all my American holidays covered. This year, I went with celosia, shasta daisy, and delphinium. While I planted, I kept looking at the daisies, and hearing the last line of a song from Hair, "Three cheers for the red, white, and blue... and yellow fringe!"

We have known a lot of people, over the last dozen years, who have gone into war zones. Some friends and neighbors have been injured. An old friend's husband lost part of his radius, leaving his forearm misshapen and that hand lacking dexterity. A former neighbor lost his leg from the thigh down, but stayed in the army. And something as simple as a fireworks display sets off very bad memories for a friend who used to share an office with my man. But for the most part, everyone we have known who went away, has come home alive. I consider us all astoundingly lucky. Today is the day when we as a country all stop to realize that not all families, not all circles of friends, are so fortunate. I want to remember every day how lucky I am.

The Church of Poseidon

Inspirational song: I Wanna Be a Lifeguard (Blotto)

Like a neglected lover, the ocean gave me a chilly reception when I waded in for the first time this year. The water was quite brisk, cool enough to make my lungs contract, and waves kept trying to push me back as I followed my fellow Poseidon-worshipers. I persevered, eventually catching up to my friends on a sandbar, and slowly the sea forgave me, allowing us all to float and frolic in the waves. I never had a good relationship with the ocean before we moved here. I didn't spend much time in murky water growing up, mostly by choice. I didn't swim in lakes in Oklahoma because I was terrified of what lived in them. When my children were small, going to a beach meant hours of stress, afraid they would be swept out in the ocean currents, out of my protection. I hated going. So when we moved here two years ago, no one was more surprised than I when I made peace with the ocean. I found myself reluctant to leave the water while the rest of my Bonfire friends socialized on the beach, and my man spent hours with a shovel, digging trenches and moats around sand castles, and being good-natured when our friends teased him over his laborious entertainments. As the tide went out today, I found a shovel washed up on some rocks. It felt like my man had been with us, in spirit.

The beaches here are heavily populated. The whole area is a top tourist destination, and trying to get a parking spot at the edge of America is a challenge in itself. So we all learned early on that the best time to go is early in the morning on Sundays. We have our fun, get all the sun and water we want, and as we leave, we shake our heads at the miles of cars in stop and go traffic, all trying to get to the same beach. We started referring to it as "going to church," and after two years, our other friends still don't understand. What better place is there to be in touch with the vastness of the universe, of the power that some call god, than in a place like this? From the tiny shelled sea life to the waters that stretch out farther than any of us could travel under our own power, it is magnificent. It is centering, and it is the true meaning of awesome. 

Several of us threatened to get tattoos of Poseidon last year, and I really thought about getting something small, like a trident. As far as I know, none of us has done it. But if the rest of the season is as life-affirming as today, maybe I will do it. I promise to put up a photo if I do.

Too Much to Hold Inside

Inspirational song: I Am an Animal (Pete Townshend)

I think I'm glad I had a day off, so to speak, on Thursday. Not pushing too hard to make something out of nothing gave me a chance to reset, so that when I had days like today, I was fresh and ready to notice all of the really cool things that I was a part of. I had crazy amounts of energy today, both physical and creative. I accomplished so much in a very short time, and rather than feeling tired or stressed, when I took time out to have late lunch with one of my fellow board members, I really felt like myself. I was able to be the person I want to be, funny and positive and more interested in listening than in complaining. I didn't get to be that person for several months, and I think finding her again is helping mend a lot of broken relationships. What a relief!

The one downside to rediscovering all this positive, creative energy is that I sometimes end up in garden centers with no one to tell me no when I start having grand ideas. I put a new twist on our traditional red, white, and blue arrangement (but that's for another post). I was in ecstasy over the smell of a gallon pot of lavender, and now I have to find a place for it. (Right next to the reblooming lilac I bought last week and haven't yet placed, at the rate I'm going.) And I found a set of little white silk lantern lights, that are solar powered LED. I saw craft project written all over that, and sure enough, once I settled down on the deck with an enormous mudslide and a little music playing, I discovered that they take colored permanent marker very well. I spent the evening coloring like a happy kindergartener, until I started hearing noises in the park that didn't sound right. 

I had lit all the tiki torches, both to drive away bugs and to bring back the feeling of fairy magic that my Park has when it is lit by all the smoky flames. The stillness was only broken occasionally by the sounds of the cats chasing each other, and the sound of my professional eater dog's tail, flagellating everything in its reach, while she made a spectacle of herself, begging for attention. I was enjoying being crafty, and being less precise than I might have been sober. In the dark, I heard what sounded like a cat climbing a tree in the thicket by the tool shed. That was the sign that trust was broken, and everyone had to go inside, or so I reasoned. My white cat had already turned in, and the old man walked inside right about then. I went out to the shed with a flashlight, to see who was naughty. Both of my minions of chaos, the rabble-rouser boy and his deceptively sweet sister, were sitting on the ground by the shed, looking into the trees. With effort, I collected both of them and closed the back door. I hadn't seen the calico since the old man bit her on the butt and chased her under a table inside. I decided to stay outside a little longer to verify. I heard a noise, and shone my flashlight at the thicket by the shed. Two little green eyes flashed back at me, and then vanished. I know the calico is the one who needs a stepstool to get to the food bowls on the counter, but maybe today was the day she learned to climb. I got up close and called her, and got no answer. I circled the block rather than crawl through the thicket out the back gate, and I hunted some more from outside the fence. Nothing. It was as I was walking back around to my house in the dark that I occurred to me that I live across the road from a very large, very swampy woods, and maybe I didn't really want to come face to face with whoever had been peeking over my fence. But still I stayed outside, wanting to finish writing. More noises. Noises made by things with claws. Maybe I'm not ready to be that much of a badass. Lucky for me, the calico eventually came out of hiding so I didn't have to stay outside, pretending I wasn't a little worried about the noises that sounded like they were getting a lot closer in the dark.

Puttering

Inspirational song: The Sea Refuses No River (Pete Townshend)

A few days ago, I said that my family and I tease each other like children in place of honest compliments, but I gave no examples. (I was provided with one in the first comment, but to say that we call each other "poopyheads" as both greeting and term of endearment is an understatement.) This morning, after I described to my man how much physical labor I had done yesterday, mulching and weeding and all, he said, "in old person terms, what you did is called 'puttering.'" I didn't think I had taken it personally when I teased back, but the longer I dwell on it, the more I think I have. I worked very hard, and I just wanted him to recognize it. I have been dismissed as incapable of hard work more times than I can count, and I always want to scream at the injustice. People know that I have had medical issues, and at times yes, I have not been able to lift heavy things or have had very little stamina. But these things pass, and when people think they are being kind by telling me I should stand back and let others do the work, they are really doing me no favors. The only way to get stronger is to work until the work is easy, not to let others dismiss you. When our children were very young, and we were very poor, we rented a basement apartment in a friend's house. When it was my turn to mow the back yard, I was presented with the friend's mower, the standard gas-powered, walk-behind variety. Growing up in Oklahoma, I had only used a riding lawn mower, since I was 10 or 11 years old. I asked how to start the one my friend had, since it had no key. Without knowing my history, she looked at me, and said, exasperated, "Boy, you really were raised to be decorative, weren't you?" I know she loves me, and we still consider her and her husband to be as close as family, but to hear something like that was and still is the worst insult anyone has ever said to me. I never got over it.

Today is a beautiful day. While it is sunny, it was not predicted to reach 80 degrees. I told myself last night I would spend all morning weeding and putting cedar mulch in the front beds. Yesterday I used all but two of the bags of mulch I already had, so I have to go buy more before I can start the project. I knew this before I got out of bed this morning. But I started looking around the house, imagining how I would react if today were the magic day when I ran into one of the television hosts that ambush people in big box home stores, and I brought a film crew into the house. I started cleaning, and couldn't stop. Even when I finally admitted to myself that I wasn't leaving the house soon enough to justify keeping the cats inside on a day like this, I just moved to sweeping the deck, cleaning the table, and stacking up bags of soil in one central location. As I cleaned, still imagining a house crasher crew is at MY local Lowes, I took stock of my house. I don't think I would want them to touch it. If there's anything to change, we are capable of it. I paid attention to how many things I have that are made by me, my friends, and family (all of my art, and much of my furniture). I like doing it myself. I'm proud of the things I've made, especially the furniture. Let someone else who needs the helping hand find the tv crew in THEIR store. I'll be here at the table I made, sketching out modifications to the adirondack chair I designed, or starting the painting I feel asleep dreaming of last night.

While I was going in and out of the house, alternating between cleaning the kitchen and deck, I came in to hear Tim Curry's I Do the Rock shuffle through the music I had playing. He's been on my mind lately, since he had a stroke a couple days ago. (I adore him, and hope he recovers completely.) Several years ago, I found an interview of his on YouTube. He was in that phase where he was distancing himself from his sex-symbol status of the 1970s, and was trying to insist he was just a boring, chubby guy who liked to garden. The interviewer was surprised, and he told her something like, "I'm British. At a certain age, a trowel just appears in our hands, and we start gardening." I identified with that more than I ever imagined I would. I still do. As the man said, in old person terms, what I am doing is called puttering. I guess I'm practicing for when I get old.

Rolling the Boulder Uphill

Inspirational song: The Itsy Bitsy Spider (Traditional Children's Song)

I spent another satisfying morning working in the Park, until the direct sun and heat chased me inside for a while. When I decided large-scale gardening was a desirable activity, I don't think I fully comprehended how time-consuming and repetitive it was going to be, nor could I have believed that I would enjoy the hard work that it has been. Every day involves pulling weeds, mowing, or raking sycamore pods, and I have to make sure every corner gets water, every day. But this is no Sisyphean task. It's not punishment. It gives me something tangible I can look to when I need validation, when I want to believe I'm making a difference somewhere on this earth. Today that difference was small, as when I fed squirrels and a duck, or when I made a vow to the bees in my tea olive wall never to use herbicides (I said it out loud to them, so it's a binding contract now). My reach isn't very wide yet. But in little steps, maybe my influence in such things will grow. My younger daughter is starting to experiment with growing things. She has tried planting flowers in the small area around the condo where she lives, and she has struggled with keeping them alive. But in the struggle, in the failures, there is learning. I am very happy to watch her make the effort. I've always known she was a nurturer, and this is further proof I was right. (Her sister is a defender, a hero waiting to happen, and I know it. So don't think I'm favoring one child over the other.)

The orb spiders came back today. Last year, especially while we were building the fence, they were everywhere. Their webs are enormous three-point sails, that sometimes stretch from several feet above our heads in the trees to the ground. It was awkward last year, walking all along the perimeter of the Park with six-foot cladding pickets balanced on one shoulder, dipping and limboing to avoid tearing down the webs. I begged them to stop placing webs on my front walk, between the door and my car. I would apologize and then sweep them away with a stick or broom handle, and each day there would be another one rebuilt, arcing between the columns of my front porch, directly in front of my door. It appears the game has recommenced.

On a Slow News Day

Inspirational song: Something Waiting to Happen (Marillion)

I made a promise to myself. Writing will happen every day. But now I have to figure out how to make the mundane interesting. I don't think it's possible every single time. Some days really are just about nothing. This isn't to imply that I didn't get anything accomplished today. I was actually very busy. But today yardwork was just yardwork, and a picnic with my man's coworkers was just grilled chicken and small talk. I'm actually glad for it. I needed a day when the most exciting moment was trying to save a tiny lizard from the large boy cat who thought he was going to be praised for bringing it into the kitchen. (I failed, btw. The best I got was chasing him back outside, where I could only hold the boy and his huntress sister back for so long. The lizard never ran away, and I gave up.) I think today I'll just page through my photos and find a couple pretty ones, and call it a day. Re-run pictures, while I watch a re-run of Big Bang Theory. 

Prepared for Battle

Inspirational song: Know Your Enemy (Green Day)

It is time for a good old-fashioned turf war. And I mean that in a super-literal sense. We had a couple days of heavy, soaking rain, so my turf is nice and soft. Today is a good day to get out and pull all the tiny little poison ivy sprouts that are all over the park. Where does it keep coming from? I have pulled it, and the man has chopped down big hairy vines of it that were covering two trees (one living tree, one hull that is now gone). Between us, we have been working this beat for more than a year. I keep finding it popping up far away from the shady woods where the big vines were, and last week I saw it next to my front walk for the first time. How does it propagate? Are there airborne seeds that can dump it anywhere? I've never seen poison ivy flower, but that means nothing. Until a few years ago, I couldn't identify it to save my life. I didn't touch any wild plants, so I didn't need to differentiate it. The last time I walked the main road, I saw thigh-high stands of it, just beyond my fence. I'm torn. If I ask the HOA landscapers about it, since it's technically on their turf now, what will they do to remove it? My guess is they would spray something toxic on it and walk away without a thought, and they would kill half of my thicket along with it. But I can't just leave those barbarians at my gate (literally).

Last night, I let the dogs out to pee before bed, like you do. It wasn't 10 seconds before the red-headed dog shrieked and ran back up to the door. I brought him back inside, and looked him over. He was a little dancy, but not limping or bleeding anywhere. He seemed entirely spooked but unharmed. But with thoughts in my head of my neighbor swearing there were rats under her shed and a snake in her yard just the other night, I slipped on shoes (and then switched from sandals to shoes that covered my toes when I remembered I was looking for a snake), and grabbed a flashlight. I wanted a weapon, so I went through the garage for a shovel. I can only imagine how silly I looked, hunting all over the park with a shovel and flashlight, but unwilling to go too deep into the trees and bushes, where I would undoubtedly jump and yell if something ooky brushed up against me. I never saw a single thing out of place, nor did I hear anything rustling in the dark. I think I know what happened. Yesterday I got a large metal star, a piece of Americana yard art, and I stuck it in the ground in the canna garden next to some sycamore trees, where he frequently goes. It is possible he tried to pee on it, and it bit him. He needs to choose his battles more carefully in the future.

The Language of Flowers

Inspirational song: If Tomorrow Never Comes (Garth Brooks)

No one should be surprised that I have spent the last 24 hours staring at the news, live on my tv and streamed from Oklahoma City on the Internet. No matter how many years I live away from there, the state where I grew up will be "home." So far I have seen most of my high school friends with whom I'm still in contact check in on Facebook, but I can't remember how many moved up to the suburbs around OKC. I'm pretty sure I've heard one or two live in Moore somewhere. I've seen post-storm messages from just one.

Before the storm stirred up notions of the brevity of life, I had already been kicking around ideas how to describe the way my immediate family communicates with each other. We can talk about just about anything, openly and honestly, eager to learn, teach, share, or commiserate. But when it comes to expressing our feelings for each other, we clam up, and revert to the sophistication of awkward teenagers. I can't explain what the difference is. I don't know whether I taught my own reticence to my children by example, or is there some other factor at work. It wasn't the case when they were very young. Back then, I couldn't stop telling them how much I love them. For the last decade or so, it has been the hardest thing for me to say to them, to my man, or to my parents. We have found substitutes for those words, that are not always apparent for what they are. We tease each other like we are in elementary school. My younger daughter is my pop culture guide, and we communicate through memes and daily texted photographs of our cats. I don't have as frequent interaction with my older daughter, but I think she understands the subtext in the things I say and do. I have an even more complicated, difficult to fathom system with the man. In times when I am in doubt, when I wish that we knew how to use our words, I sometimes look at the home we have created for each other. If one knows what to look for, this Park speaks volumes about how we feel. Neither the inside nor the outside of this place is low-maintenance. Nothing is on auto-pilot. Everything is interesting; everything has a story. There are no wide, empty spaces. There is beauty and wildness and effort. There is sweetness. There is passion. There is acceptance. And every inch of it reflects our family. For someone who wants to spend her time writing, I am amazed at how much can be said without words.

The Rabbit's Tale

Inspirational song: Love Reign O'er Me (The Who)

I hadn't thought about the bunnies under the deck in weeks. I almost forgot they were there, since rather than sulking and staring through the window that faces the side of the deck, all the cats have been out in the yard, chasing bugs and stalking birds and broadening their horizons. But whether I pay attention or not, something definitely lives under my deck. Yesterday my rabble-rouser cat tipped over a pot. By that I mean he stood on the deck railing, and shoved a pot that outweighs him to the ground, open-end down. I had put the yellow peppers up out of reach of the bunnies after they ate four pepper plants to stalks, and two had fully recovered. After one night back on its original rack, pepper leaves are already showing signs of snacking. I don't know who these little mammals think they are, but they're crazy if they think I'm giving up yellow peppers without a fight. The dogs apparently feel the same way, because while I showered this morning, some dog dug an eight-inch deep hole trying to pass along a reprimand for me. I threw some loose concrete cobbles in the hole, but I'm struggling with the urge to turn a blind eye to letting my enforcers rough up the thieves.

My mah jongg master is fostering two kittens right now. I spent yesterday afternoon and all morning today bonding with one of the babies. I'm not allowed to foster, and I am not so foolish as to try. We did that once, and that is how I got the white cat who never leaves my side. My man had volunteered at an animal shelter when we lived in the desert, and he was there once on euthanasia day. He held nine dogs as they died, because he couldn't bear to think of their lives ending without someone there who gave a damn. Then they brought in a six month old kitten whose wrist was broken, but otherwise she was healthy. She had been checked out by the vet, who said if she was caged for six weeks, she would heal and be fine. The shelter workers said they couldn't keep her that long, because they didn't have the space. They were going to euthanize her next. My man said no, he had enough. He offered to foster her for the six weeks. They actually resisted, on the grounds that when they used to foster, the animals never came back. This is worse than euthanizing? Lucky for me that man is a Jedi when there is something he really wants, and he talked them into it. I think I made it almost 24 hours, until I was carrying her around my house (because staying in a cage would be emotionally damaging, I reasoned) and I started scheming on how to keep her from going back to the people who tried to kill her. It took me weeks of asking coworkers to adopt her before I admitted to myself that she was the love of my life. I took a photo of her the afternoon she arrived, possibly within minutes of the first moment she saw me. I haven't looked at it in years, but I suspect now that I can read her face so well, I will see that she knew right away that I belonged to her. I need to find that photo.

It's a Beautiful World

Inspirational song: Because (the Beatles)

I am allowing myself to wander deeper into the shadowed woods of my imagination today. The smallest things are causing me to wax philosophical, to feel like everything is propelling me to a sense of rightness this morning. I just spent five minutes interacting with an insect that I had originally moved off my arm, but I let him crawl back up on my hand and walk around, just because he looked cool. I suspect he was a leaf cutter, and I actually thought about what plant in the Park I could sacrifice to him because he should be allowed to exist as much as I. I was invited to the beach today, but I declined, on the grounds I didn't feel up to making the drive down there (which was true), but also because I want to continue unraveling this chain of thought, all the way to its conclusion. It may take all day, and I didn't want to be interrupted.

A friend in the Midwest shared an essay about what Americans should know about how we are viewed by the rest of the world, and while I thought all of it was spot-on, what the author said about our emotional health was what set me off on this course this morning. He was correct, we are generally too focused on acquiring things, for the status, and for the illusion of comfort. But the pursuit itself is interfering with the result. We aren't able to stop the hunt to appreciate what we really have. I am once again struck at how lucky it was that I couldn't find work when we first moved here. It left me available to spend a year volunteering (which was an equal balance of stress and very satisfying successes overall), and as my duties wind down, I am allowed to take time to explore art, in all of her varied guises. I have wanted to do this as long as I can remember, but between finances, family commitments, and lack of focus, it never happened. Never imagine that I don't appreciate what a gift this time is for me. I am grateful every day.

My daughter mentioned recently that her iPod keeps shuffling to Beautiful World, almost every time she starts it lately. It's my favorite Devo song, and has been since I was a teenager. There are so many times I have wanted to use it as my inspirational song, but I stop myself for the same reason every time. The chorus ends, "it's a beautiful world for you. It's not for me." That's not the message I want to send. The world IS beautiful, and I want to prove it. But be warned, beauty is not tame.

(The author I referenced is Mark Manson, in his May 8 installment of "Thought Catalog." It is worth the read. It's tough love that Americans really should hear.)

Wilting Flower

Inspirational song: White and Nerdy (Weird Al Yankovic)

I have this image of myself that is based more on who I used to be than who I am now. And even then, it may be a little over-inflated compared to who I really was. I still imagine I am a strong, independent, and athletic person with an iron constitution, who is a die-hard do-it-yourselfer. Years of surgeries and illness make the iron constitution part a thing of the past, but there is no reason I can't bring myself back to the tough chick who liked to lift weights for exercise. I say this after spending about two hours on the couch to cool off and rehydrate from just over one hour mowing part of the back of the Park. I definitely do better outside on cloudy days than in the sun. They say we're entering the usual pattern for this part of the country, with warm sunny mornings and pop-up thunderstorms by late afternoon. I need to adjust my schedule accordingly. 

It always surprises me, how much more I like the expanse of lawn when it's mowed. I see shaggy grass the same way anyone else would view a thick, thorny bramble. It is uninviting and impenetrable, even now as I have gained the ability to touch so many more plants than ever before. Grass is my holdout. I dislike touching it more than anything else. But once it is groomed, I tolerate it, even think it's pretty sometimes. Today was one of those times. With every pass of the mower, I stopped to look back and admire what I made, like each circuit was an artistic victory. If this isn't a sign that I really need to start painting or potting, I don't know what is. I watched a video online today of Frankoma pottery, and it made me want to get my hands dirty again. I wonder where I could find one of those little one-pot sized kilns. Surely there's one out there with my name on it.

While I wait for the heat of the day to pass, I suppose I can always sneak off and watch the new Star Trek movie. The plants and animals can spare me for a couple hours while I ponder the mysteries of the universe. "The only question I ever thought was hard, was do I like Kirk, or do I like Picard?" 

Better Living through Technology

Inspirational song: Pressure (Billy Joel)

My routine is off again today. I had to be down on one of the coastal islands to help give out one of our scholarships at a very fancy Catholic high school. I have never explored this particular island before, but as soon as I exited the highway I wondered why someone going here needed our money. I guess you don't end up in digs like this by being foolish with your funds.

There are a couple cities in this country that I just can't seem to get the hang of. No matter how many times I drive through Tulsa, for example, I never feel like I can make heads or tails of it. But nowhere in the world gets me as freaked out as Mt Pleasant, SC. I have yet to drive here without making a wrong turn or two. Today was really bad. I left the island and ended up going the wrong way on the freeway. Rather than turn around (the nearest exit wasn't close), I thought I would take the opportunity to go to Whole Foods. The wrong turns piled one on top of another, while I argued at full volume with my car about where I wanted to go. No joke, I begged for a car with a voice activated nav system just for this one city. I am certain I saw a pedestrian's head whip around while I tried other businesses I knew were close, screaming Navigation! FIND TRADER JOES! I think the car searched for railway stations at that one.

I think I need to go home and hide in my Park. At least the animals seem to understand better than the car. Maybe a bottle of expensive organic wine is in order.

Gypsy

Inspirational song: Suite Judy Blue Eyes (Crosby, Stills, and Nash)

Today is the birthday of two women I admire greatly. The younger is a highly-evolved, curious and witty woman I consider a dear friend. The elder is my esteemed mother, a free spirit who set the example for me to think in unconventional ways, to listen to my instincts, and let my creativity be my driving force. I am grateful for the continuing presence of both of them in my life. I should work towards introducing them to each other. I think they would get along swimmingly.

One of the things my daughter disliked about her ex-roommate was the girl's inability to view their combined cats and dog as anything but possessions. She didn't recognize them as living beings with full personalities and emotional needs. We in our family may be guilty of going to the other extreme, of assigning too much cognitive ability to the animals who live with us, but I think I much prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt, to find their own sweet spot between pets and independent actors capable of abstract thought. For years, my professional eater dog has done the same pre-meal dance, a complex number (in dog terms) that she choreographed herself, every single time she is fed. She stands up on her back legs twice, and then sits. When she's really excited, she hops a little. The red-headed dog is prone to depression, during which he will go days without eating. In an attempt to make him feel engaged, lately I asked him to sit before being fed. He is starting to play along, and customize his moves. Unfortunately, he is a bit of a comedian, so he switches it up or makes jokes of it. Yesterday when I asked, "What's your move," he sat, paused, and then scratched himself with his foot. A couple times, when I asked the question, he whipped his head around and alerted on the French door. Today I understood, and said, "Your 'thing' is not to kill squirrels. Do something else." He sat. And smiled.

Happy birthday, mama. Happy birthday, K. Apparently this is a really good day to create gypsies who know how to find the beauty in life.

Sultry

Inspirational song: Hope for the Future (Marillion)

The local weatherman said last night that we have yet to reach ninety degrees this year. It's unusual, but we have an excellent chance to make up the lack this week. I made it until just now without turning on the air conditioner, and now that the weather decided to act like what we expect of the South, I am so happy I have it available. Several years ago, my man volunteered to take an assignment in the desert in the summer, because it got him away from North Carolina and the humidity.

I've had a very good last 24 hours. Once again, it was proven that I worry for nothing. Not that anyone can convince me of it at the time, when I'm embracing my nervousness. Since yesterday afternoon, I've been released from my doctor (unless I have another episode), my dear friend and mah jongg master pointed me in the right direction for the advisor gift, and I stayed late last night talking at ease with the other board members I had kept at a distance for months. We may never return to the naive enthusiasm of the early days, but we were entirely relaxed and reluctant to break up the group. This morning's brunch was a joy rather than a trial. It is actually overwhelming, the relief. I need some kind of outlet for it, a way to express my gratitude and give back, in some tangible way. I don't know where to apply that energy.

The down side to being busy as the weather has heated up and the rains are long gone, is that my flowers are protesting my lack of attention. Everything with tender leaves is struggling, some things worse than others. At least my roses are thriving. And I have waited so long to live in a climate where jasmine survives a winter. We planted it last year, and this year it is starting to climb a trellis. I can't wait to see it at the end of this growing season.

Focus

Inspirational song: I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say No (Oklahoma)

Today I have all the focus of an over-caffeinated squirrel. I have way too many things to do in the next week, way too many opportunities for social awkwardness, too many chances for my mouth to get me in trouble. So rather than knuckling down and getting everything done by my deadline, I decided I needed to stick with my morning routine, so that I don't spend the rest of the day having sudden panic attacks because I skipped the things that calm me.

I let my mind bounce around random observations while I walked the back route around houses near me. I noticed that while I had an early season advantage for mounds of pink and white flowers, my neighbors are working to catch up to me. Another Bradford pear has come down (good!) and I'm still waiting for new owners to move into a house I thought was cute when it was for sale. At least I assume they aren't moved in. Maybe they just don't care that a dead tree snapped off and tipped over in their yard, and has been there for weeks, a sad skeleton for vigorous Virginia creeper. 

My man asked for pictures of the condition our trees are in, especially the bald cypress he planted the day before he left. Really, I asked him, you don't look at the blog? So when I got back from my walk, I took more photos to assure him they're alive. He should be pleased to note that some sweet helper in the Park thinned out the peaches from the bigger tree. He worried that there were too many and they would make the branches sag. Problem solved.

After the last board meeting, I had this idea that I was done with almost all my club obligations. Yesterday at lunch, it really sank in how much there is yet to do, especially this week. It is up to me to find the right thank you/going away present for our very important, very well-loved advisor. I have to do it now, before a doctor's appointment, before a dessert reception tonight for our scholarship recipients. The gift is to be presented at a brunch for the board tomorrow, so I have one shot at this to get it right. I suck at choosing presents. Why did I say yes?

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

Inspirational song: Come Back and Stay (Paul Young)

I shouldn't be as surprised as I am, how quickly the pride got used to daily trips out into the Park. They're reacting to it about the same way I am. We've all been strictly indoor cats (me by choice and circumstance), and getting to roam freely is a relatively new thing in our existence. This morning I was moving slowly, still in just a bathrobe, waiting for my coffee to brew. I checked out front, to see that I had completely missed both peace rose buds I had been watching, and very nearly missed a third. On my way back in from taking pictures, the old man cat took the initiative and escaped. Barefoot and barely covered, I had to chase him. I think I heard the Benny Hill theme playing while he eluded me. Going outside has already become a daily ritual, and he was determined to get it.

Taking the hint, I opened the back door and let the pride loose. There has been a ceaseless cacophony of angry birds and squirrels since. Without the dogs patrolling our borders, it appears all kinds of wildlife has pressed forward and laid claim to my Park. There are fewer blueberries growing than when last I looked, and far more anthills. Not all the plants fared well in my absence. I had a dear friend keep the cats alive, but I never got a chance to walk her around and show her how to keep the plants happy. It was my failing, not hers, and I will triage plants as best I can over the next week or so. I wish I knew more about fruit trees. One of my peach trees has all but died in the five days since I left. It was the one closest to the swamp, so perhaps it had too much water. The plum tree that was below it lost a similar battle.

I am glad to be back during this point in the season. We have entered the phase when the entire town smells like flowers. I noticed when I got off the plane, and when I was outside with the cats, and again just now when I returned from lunch on a rooftop downtown. I am going to be busy every day this week with end of year socials and receptions, but I will make a point of stopping to breathe in the floral-scented air while I have it.

Absences wear differently on different people, and that translates down to four-legged family members. Since I returned yesterday, my white cat won't leave my side. She tailed me outside, and while I watered out front, she watched through the door, upset to be separated by glass. Even now she paws my legs while I write, so I have to stop every few words and pet her. I had this idea that while the man was away on his assignment, after my club obligations ended, I would travel at will. But boarding the dogs and facing the white face of guilt upon each return make that plan seem unrealistic.

Joy to the World, All the Boys and Girls

Inspirational song: I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair (South Pacific)

Let me go on the record as saying I hate flying in and out of Dallas. I can't think of a single time I've ever come through here that the air wasnt rough. Not kidding, as we neared the ground and the wings kept waggling, I started adjusting how I was sitting so that a hard landing or worse wouldn't hurt as badly. I hear of weather closures here more than anywhere else I can think of, and I still remember with horror the night I spent on the floor under a row of seats aftet they ran out of hotel vouchers and cots.

As Dallas disappears behind me like a bad dream, I will continue to ruminate on my trip. Not every time I return to Colorado goes well, but this time felt very healthy. Cleansing in more than one sense. Two years ago, my daughter found a new roommate, a girl she sort of knew from marching band. We thought it would be great; they'd have similar interests and would get along. It took only a few months to realize how wrong we were. I'm not sure why my daughter allowed her to renew the lease. Possibly because she knew we needed that room rented to afford the mortgage on the unit. The passive aggressive hate between the two was toxic. A week before finals, the roommate moved out. I stayed in the vacant room so I could do a final inspection before returning her damage deposit. The day after graduation, my present to my girl was literally to help her wash the roommate out of her life. We scrubbed the kitchen, we deodorized the carpet, and I actually hand washed the layers of skin cells and dust from inside of the vacuum (that she had willfully damaged, along with the washer and dryer.)  We brought back out treasures, like a 100 year old tent rug a retired military friend gave her as a gift, which had to be hidden from the roommate's cats. Her sister and her boyfriend came over for dinner, and we had the happiest, calmest gathering that we've had in years. I finally feel like her prospects are looking up. It was lovely to see her so stress-free.

While we stood around waiting between the whole school graduation and the smaller departmental one, I noticed four young women dancing in the university fountain. Their joy was palpable. They posed for photos for their parents, and I found it all very charming. It seems like a good image to describe how my weekend went, jubilant and freeing. On that note, I leave you with how I saw those young women.

Second Spring

Inspirational song: Same Love (Macklemore & Ryan Lewis)

It is amazing to me, the difference in perspective when you pick your head up and actually look at what is around you. I just spent a half an hour walking my daughter's dog through the winding paths of her condo complex, watching the dog intently, waiting for her to accomplish our task at hand. I eventually gave up, and started looking at how beautiful it was where we were. As we crossed the last street to go home I finally raised my head all the way, and noticed the three hot air balloons that were rising just north of us. I imagined their passengers to be parents in town for graduation like me, taking their families up to view the  Flatirons in the morning sun and crisp spring air, taking one last look before they move on to the next phase of their lives. It was a morning walk for fantasy, obviously.

I spent the first two days I was here being stunned by the trees. Back east, my entire neighborhood looks as lush as at the height of summer. Everything except my scraggly weeping willow has fully leafed out. But here, they are far behind. The only trees really showing leaves I have found were the willows by the creek at the Ethiopian restaurant where we had dinner last night. I took a ton of photos of bare branches, blaming all the late snows for making me feel like I had lost ground, like I was missing something. This morning, I realized I was indeed missing something: the opportunity to experience a second spring. I love watching plants wake, leaves emerge, colors begin to turn electric green and pink. I started paying attention. It is so beautiful here right now and I almost missed it.

I keep hearing the repeated line in today's song, running on a loop in my head, "I can't change, even if I wanted to," and it makes me wonder. Am I changing now, as I become more observant, or is this who I have always been and I just stopped fighting it? I would lay money on the latter.

The Shady Dame from Seville

Inspirational song: Glory-Fight-Go (CU Fight Song Sequence)

I had a great plan. I was going to use my new phone to get a clear recording of Julie Andrews' commencement address, and play it over until I caught all of it, taking everything to heart. In the bright sunshine at Folsom Field, I thought I hit all the right spots on the screen, and I let it go while I absorbed the speech the first time through. I realized at the end that I never actually turned it on. I have to rely on memory and hope for an archive on the Internet. But honestly, I think I got it. It included the same message that has been the theme of the week: fight for the arts. Put time and energy and focus into art every day. Julie explained that she lost her (amazing, perfect, universally loved) singing voice to a failed throat surgery right at the time she and her daughter began writing children's books. She was at a loss, wondering what was left without the artistic expression that had defined her, when her daughter pointed out that she had found a new voice, a new outlet for art. She poured herself into it and made it work for her. Thirty books later, her new voice is every bit as expressive as the one we fell in love with first.

It is a fairly common desire, to look for signs that affirm whatever we are doing is the right thing. It is admittedly superstitious of us, but generally I think most of us do it. I have been inundated with so much coincidental reaffirmation lately it would be impossible not to get the message. When I decided to take the skywalk from the concourse to the terminal yesterday, I didn't expect to find inspiration, but I looked up and there it was, painted on the rafters. A quote (that I hope I can get right) that read,
"Shiva's cosmic dance has no purpose. It is the spontaneous expression of bliss. It is art." I am not sure I have ever heard instruction more beautiful than that.

My wonderful daughter has graduated. I have been more emotional today than I was at my own graduation from here, when I was pregnant with her. I love when circles complete themselves. I need to find the photo of me that day. The last one I took of her before we left campus looked exactly like it.

Post Travel Coma

Inspirational song: I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

I want more than anything to be asleep right now. I stayed up past midnight packing, woke once during the night because I was dreaming that I was telling myself that I was about to sleep through my alarm, and then had to be up and dressed by 0430 to make my flight. Travel was smooth, and I met up with my friend who insisted pedicures were mandatory. It wasn't until I rolled up my yoga pants (I travel in style these days) at the nail salon that I realized my legs from the knees down were swollen almost double. Even after the greatest pedicure of my life, they're still swollen and sore. And now it has caught up with me that I've only had moments of crappy sleep. I just have to write something to keep the commitment I made to myself to do it every single day without fail. I'll make it up to myself and write something to be proud of when I'm not a zombie with the cutest pudgy toes in the inner mountain west.

Not Enough Hours in the Day

Inspirational song: Dirty Life and Times (Warren Zevon)

I have too much to do today. I was having too much fun with my writing, observing, playing, and I put off packing and cleaning before my trip. Yes, I'm one of "those" women, the kind who can live in a little bit of disarray, but when I leave town, I absolutely have to have a clean house. What if I were to die in a plane crash, and someone came in and found dirty laundry scattered in my bedroom, or sticky residue on the kitchen counter? What would they think of me? (Okay, really, the more pressing issue is that the people I beg to come in and feed my cats might be disgusted with mess, even though they are always friends who have seen my place at its worst already.)

So with everything I have to do, I came home drunk last night from the best night with the club girls that I've had in ages. (Not perfect, but I was able to relax and have fun, and there was tequila so I wasn't going to say no!) I stayed up late watching recorded television, and woke hung over and unmotivated. I didn't want to get out of bed, but after an hour of facebooking, the previously-mentioned rabble-rousing cat eventually had it with my inertia and vaulted a pile of his pride mates and punched me in the stomach, as he is wont to do. If I am to complete everything I need to do today, he is going to have to follow me around, repeating that process.

Twice in the last week, I have found myself the second-hand recipient of the most amazing advice to aspiring artists. First, my favorite painter of all time told me that when he was in college, studying under Pete Lafon, he asked about the direction his art should take. Lafon said, "go do 100 paintings, and when you're done, come back and we'll talk about your direction." Then this morning, as I lay abed, I listened to similar advice posted by my daughter on Facebook, a recording of Neil Gaimon giving a commencement address last year to a school for the arts, the way to become a writer is to Go Write. He was much more eloquent than that, but the message boiled down to do it. All the time. Do it when you think you'll get paid, when you think you won't, when you think people will like it, and when you think they won't notice. 10-4. Message received.

Now, time to dive into house cleaning, so I can go get advice from the best voice of all time. This may be the most artistically inspiring week of my life.

Everyone's a Comedian

Inspirational song: Always Look on the Bright Side of Life (Monty Python)

Blackadder: "Well done, Baldrick. You have earned a short holiday. (Pause) Did you enjoy it?"

I raved about the sun yesterday. I gloried in its return. I am sure my friends and neighbors did much the same. This morning I took two steps off the porch on my walk and it started to rain. I looked up like I was being punked.

I went the same route as yesterday. I'm enjoying it more than the close-in walk. This time I noticed something that made me think of the man fondly. We always make fun of housing developments that are named after things that were destroyed to build the houses, like Deer Run, Oak Brook, the Meadows, etc. I noticed that the section lovingly named "Woodmont" is perfectly flat, composed of brick and stucco houses, with manicured lawns each with only a few carefully tended trees. Yep. Someone has a sense of humor.

Every woman at some point in her life has selected a photo of a beautiful, thin model, and decided that staring at this photo will motivate her to transform into that airbrushed perfection. I provided such an inspirational photo for my new weeping willow. I took the picture along the walk of what the willow and I dream we will have in a few years. For reference, I am including a photo of what it looks like now, struggling to get established down in the unmowable swamp.

I have to move faster this morning. I need to get my nails done, and touch up my hair before I go to my daughter's graduation. Then I need to go vote in a special election. My choices are a comedian's sister and a joke who used state money to get some strange. I know exactly who I prefer.

A Sight for Sore Eyes

Inspirational song: Majestic (Wax Fang)

A child with dozens of skin allergies to grass/weeds and an inefficient sweat cooling system grows into an adult who prefers to be indoors not out. It makes it a drag when your husband wants to go camping and your children want you to watch their soccer games. When it rains for days, I'm usually the first person to admit liking it, the one who claims that living in a climate like London's would be just fine. But yesterday, there I was, nose pressed to the glass in the back door, watching endless rain, and wishing I could be outside playing. This morning the rain cleared, and I waited for the sun to rise fully, leaving at 10 to walk farther into the development than I have in a year. I walked through soreness until muscles worked themselves out and the entire experience felt like a victory.

I took lots of photos on today's walk. Everywhere I looked I saw beauty. It lit up the memory centers of my brain, and I saw my childhood haunts in the strangest places. The right of way between backyards became the old money neighborhood in my Oklahoma hometown. The overgrowth by the river became the German woods where I followed my brother and his friends into adventures, when I was still very young and fearless. And all the ponding water felt like a luxury after years in the desert where the smallest puddle would stop me in my tracks, just to stare at the light reflecting on anything wet.

I'm struggling to sit still and write today. It's not a day to reflect, I guess. It's a day to do.