bam!

Today's bit of excitement: a visitor rammed our garage door. Poor guy, he was so upset about it. Hey. You didn't ram our car, and nobody got hurt, and we'll get it fixed. It'll cost him, though. The biggest problem was getting the door secured. George had to jiggy it up so we could get the cars out, then he couldn't jiggy it back down. Fortunately he made some calls and got someone out here today. So now we're stuck with cars in the driveway, just like in the old days pre-garage. But you know what? I know plenty of people who park their cars in the driveway because their garage has become their junk room, so I'm guessing I won't get any sympathy on this one.

miters

Mitering. I can sew a mitered corner on a quilt edging with my eyes closed. Not so much on a coat sleeve vent. Perhaps the majority of people don't even know the inside of a jacket sleeve vent is mitered at one corner, but I do. You would too if you brought your jacket to someone for a sleeve alteration and they didn't know how to do a proper corner.
So. I had to shorten the sleeve and finish it up to make it look like nobody had done any work. That's my preferred look. Untouched. I've bumbled through mitered corners many times, but THIS time I decided to master the technique and not have to reinvent the wheel each and every time. So I opened up the sleeve. Marked the new hemline. Sewed the miter. Turned it right side out.
Oops. Wrong miter stitch line. Rip, Sew again. Right side out. Still not right. Rip. Mark the stitch line more carefully. Sew. Right side out. Shit. Try a couple more times. More shits and damns.
Ok. Just what IS the problem? So I folded the miter as I knew it should look on the outside, pressed the folds, then opened up the sleeve and studied just where the creases were which should be where the stitch line should be. Hmmmm. I think I got it. So I go to my alterations manual and check. Yep. That's it! I got it!
Now why didn't I go to the manual in the first place? Because its mostly words, and I don't learn that way. I'm a tactile learner.

This was an exhilarating experience, though not at the time. Just afterwards. Yes, I invented the same wheel many others had done before me (and even wrote directions in manuals to help others and make some money in the process). But this time its my wheel, and now I can do sleeve vent miters in my sleep. Just like quilt binding miters.

Speaking of sleep.....time to plant my face in a pillow.
G'night.

ripples of history

Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" is having a strong effect on my thoughts and emotions. The chapter I'm currently reading is about slavery. Of course, I've learned about slavery since the first history class in school, but it was all just academic. After all, we have no slaves now, thank goodness.

And yet....

My grandmother, whom I loved and still treasure, was born in 1899. Though slavery was abolished by that time, it is reasonable to think that the people who raised her - her parents, perhaps, and definitely her own grandparents, lived at a time when slavery was present. Whatever positions they held, they were nevertheless within a culture that accepted slavery, and that had to have some effect. These cultural effects cannot help but influence their lives, and their communications, including to their offspring.

You know, in a historical context, it just wasn't that long ago, was it? I can almost feel the ghostly memories of slavery reaching into the present, and I am stunned. This: In 1875, Dred Scott was deemed not a human being by the U.S. Supreme Court. He was....."property". I am angry, ashamed, bewildered that men who claimed an African was not a person, yet would nevertheless mate with the women and produce children. To some extent, I can begin to understand the African American anger into the present. To the extent that, because of my waspish life, I cannot understand, I nevertheless respect their anger.

one day this day

We agree on this...
One day we will have to say good bye to each other. How shall we prepare for that awful moment? By fully loving each other in this day.

fauna talk

I have lived long enough to hear owls calling to each other...
and to gaze into a groundhog's eyes
to conquer my fear of spiders
to admire a bat's eyebrows
to chase owls in the woods at night
to waken to coyotes singing to the moon
to be present to dancing dolphins and whales
to hear a whip-por-will
to walk very carefully past a rattlesnake
to see an eagle fly up close
to rescue a snake from our basement
to listen to cecropia caterpillars munching leaves

life is so good

what's happening?

What's happening? Oh, lots of things. Normal, everyday things that cement the day in joy.

The owls - I continue to hear them. Apparently so do the songbirds that used to congregate at our bird feeders.

One of my favorite client-couples stopped in today. She's a make-up pro, he's a public defender. In addition to bringing in work for me, they entertain me with stories from their lives. Awesome.

Another client gave me an hour of personal training (exercise work with exercise balls and bands) in return for the wedding gown work I did for her. Barter is great when what they have to offer is something I actually want.

And then some relaxation in front of the tube watching "V for Vendetta". Love that flick.

bird drama

drama in the yard today...
twice crows had a screaming fit in the trees behind our house
honing in on one specific area
they found the owls?
no birds at the bird feeder today...
either they found the owls
or the owls found them

going with plan B

For many many years I accepted the mythological aspects of Christianity. Heaven. Hell. Faith. I would wonder what living forever would really be like. I could practice my French horn until I was awesomely good. Then what? Oh, I could actually learn gymnastics, presuming I had a better body arrangement than I do right now. Then what? Explore the myriad of planets. But, you know, I'd still be me. Freed from sin, whatever that might mean. But the me I've come to accept would want to try new things, and that would mean making mistakes. In the ancient languages, the word for sin was the same as the word for mistake. So this becomes quite confusing.

Now? Science suggests I'm made of the same stuff as the stars, and all the stuff was created at the time of the big bang. So apparently I've been around since the beginning, and the stuff that is me will be around forever, or maybe until the next big bang.

You know what? I never really wanted to play a French horn for all eternity anyway.

(she says while she skips away, humming a new song about being made of star stuff...)

an extreme collection

Continuing to read Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States." As I read the account of the Mexican American War, I wonder how a Mexican history book would depict it. It seems human beings are really nasty creatures, as vile as they come, and it is disheartening to know I'm part of that biological grouping.

And yet.

Human beings also create tremendous art, occasionally lay down their lives for each other, dedicate their time and treasure to help the less fortunate.

We are a puzzle, are we not?

a good day

outdoor news: I heard the owl again today. I also heard a bunch of very agitated finches.

indoor news: A client came by to pick up a dress I altered for her, a very beautiful gown she'll wear on a very special cruise. The dress was on the mannequin, the folds elegantly arranged. When she walked into the room, she cried. She said I was her fairy godmother and she tipped me the amount I charged for the alteration in the first place. But more important than the tip was the pure joy of watching her own joy grow.

It was a good day. I don't know if the finches would agree.

owl watch

A couple (a real couple?) of great horned owls have been hanging out in the trees behind our house. Though I haven't seen them, I recognize them by their calls. One special night I heard them calling back and forth to each other; one higher pitched, the other lower, matching their songs. Some of our neighbors have heard them, too. We'll see if they stay - I'm hoping so.

stuff

If I only write about the good stuff, would I be believable? And, for that matter, do I care? This is not about what you believe. Believe what you will. As for me, the whole concept of belief is suspect. But that's another subject for another time.

I know a couple of truths, perhaps not universal. Why should I think that my experience is a teaching moment for anybody else anyway? But it is my experience, nonetheless.

One truth. When the flush of passion wears off, the glue that keeps us together is choice. We choose to love. And it seems that love based on choice is more enduring than love based on hormones. Choice. Better than just staying with the status quo, or succumbing to the inertia of habit. Love. A choice. An awesome choice.

Another truth. The mistakes I made as a young mother continue to haunt me. Nobody's perfect, I know that. People (some people) practice forgiveness, and I know that too. My mistakes probably loom much larger in my own imagination than they do in the lives of my kids. I know that. None of these things help. Why not? That's another story and maybe you'll read about it, maybe not.

Life is such a puzzle, I say, as I ponder both the good and the difficult while sipping a glass of wine. The owls are calling tonight. Are they a harbinger of wisdom? Probably not. They're owls, full of being who they are, and that's good enough. Besides, my spirit animals are red tail hawks, house finches, and polar bears. I haven't heard any of them in the last couple of days.

Hmmm. I wonder if animals have their own spirit animal guides. Doubtful that any of them would choose the human animal as their own guide. We are too prone to screwing things up.

maybe, maybe not

We had lunch with an elderly couple - in their 80's. She was glad to find a liberal she could talk freely with! In her 80's! Am I showing an age bias here? Probably. Well, moving on. He taught at a seminary, she is involved in things churchy, though not in the traditional sense.

For example...
She doesn't believe in a God that requires a blood sacrifice. That sorta cuts through a lot of Christian dogma, wouldn't you say? So I suggested that we can't even agree on "God", can we? Agreed, she said, but suggested "God" is a foundational grounding kind of thing, ever present, goodness, et al. I think I got the gist of what she meant.

But I had to say something in return: being fascinated by cosmology, and also by archeology, history, etc, I wonder if we're just another herd of animals on a nondescript planet, creating our own meanings and myths in a universe that rolls along regardless of our self created understandings. Maybe when we die, we're just done. Period. Like we presume other animals are just...done.

She asked me if I was ok with that. Yes, finally I am ok with that. Not at first, but now, yes. It also releases me to live fully in this day, without expectation of either condemnation or reward.

I'm very ok with that.
Maybe when I die, I'll have a deeper understanding.
Or not.

what do rocks and watermelons have in common?

.


The early winter interlude has finished. Mike has returned home; our house is quiet again.
Did I say quiet? Maybe during the day, but what about my dreams!?!
Try this one on for size: In my dream I needed to install a program that would differentiate between a watermelon and a rock. If I didn't install this program, my shoes and sock would not match.
Huh?
And then I dreamed it again!
You know what? I'm clueless. Nevertheless, entertained.
.

hope

.


this morning
gentle conversation
the gift of hope
things aren't good enough?
of course they are
but I hope for more
reach for more
work for more
wait for more
hope
thanks, Steve

a couple of LOLs

.


You know those auto license stickers you get in the mail - the ones you put on your license plates? Have you ever heard the sound someone makes when they think they've just run theirs through the shredder?

Picture giving your grown son a tube of vaginal cream. Remember my prior post about dodging a bullet? The person who dodged the bullet ended up with a serious bacterial infection on his leg with a side story of fungal infection. When he left the hospital, he was given three prescriptions to fill. I brought them to the pharmacist who filled two of them, and said he was currently out of the third one. However, he went on, I could buy the same thing (and cheaper) off the shelf. Monistat 7. Vaginal cream for fungal infections, apparently. After some time spent sharing laughter with the pharmacist, I paid for all three and brought them home. Second round of laughter as I presented it to my son. But you know what? It's useful information.
.

the present moment

.

a bullet has been dodged
good
in fact, thank goodness!
kiss your loved ones
hug everybody else
unless they don't like hugs
then hug them from a distance
you know how that works
life is uncertain
which in fact brings joy to the present moment
it is precious
and that's enough for tonight
.

happy happy happy

.


happy new year
or at least happy new day
or maybe just happy new minute
if you can figure out what happiness is...
.

creativity

.


August, 2004
Colorado

When is a journey a work of art?

I was juried into Fabric of Legacies, my second show. The first show was thrilling, of course, but an annoying thought that it might be a fluke flitted in and out of awareness. After all, on the radio there's a whole category of songs sung by people who never got to song #2. But this was my second show. So we decided to drive out to Colorado to see it. That in itself seemed a bit silly, since I knew quite well what the piece looked like on my own wall. So from the very beginning I knew this trip was something other than just seeing my own art.

The trip presented opportunities we hadn't originally considered. As we looked at the map, I saw that we could visit Theresa, a friend we haven't seen in almost twenty years. If fact, we'd lost touch with each other until just a couple of months ago. That in itself added delightful mystery to the trip. Twenty years ago she was the first to give me a glimpse of spirituality, rather than religion.

Loveland, CO. We stopped there to see Fiber Celebration 2004, which my friend Bruce Wilcox was in. This was the second all fiber show I've seen, and there's something about this kind of show, which includes art quilts, that intrigues me. I like these shows better than *only* art quilt shows, and I'm not quite sure why. Maybe because there's proportionally fewer flat rectangles on walls. Or maybe it's my classical music background. I've always preferred full orchestra to string ensembles. I just plain like the variety, whether it's art or people or music.

Next stop was Fort Collins and Fabric of Legacies. A great show in a great town. I saw some names I knew, and I'd like to get to know the people attached to those names. I really had no emotional response to seeing my piece in the show, other than a deep satisfaction from taking the chance in the first place.

After a couple of days in the mountains, we drove down into Denver, where I saw four more shows. First was American Tapestry Biennial. When it was presented I wasn't keen on going, but being pushed, I gave it a try. I had a preconceived idea of what a tapestry show would look like, including churchy, medieval, stuffy, dull. Well, that bit of nonsense got blown out of the water! This show was dynamite! Huge pieces. Sculptural pieces. You would have laughed to see me. I'm standing back, looking at the entire piece from as much distance as possible, then getting up close to see the details, becoming entranced with the actual construction, then back again, then forward again. Whereas the basic construction of what *we* do might be a seam or a stitch, and is usually not particularly interesting except in the greater context, the basic construction of a tapestry seems to be intriguing all by itself. I had to "see" with both a close up and a big picture mentality. Both at the same time.
Next to the tapestry show was Small Expressions, an exhibit of pieces 16" or less. Two pieces really caught my eye. One was a weaving of a woman, sitting on the floor, bent over, her head on her knees. But the viewpoint the artist took was from above, looking down at her. The weaving was dimensional, almost a sculpture. What a great study on creating what you see, not what you think you see. The curve of her back, the top of her head, a bit of arms and legs. Fascinating. Then there was another weaving, beadwork, of sorts. And the beads were a local version of Cheerios! It was a serious piece, and I remember conversations here about preservation. Again, variety. I love it.

The next show was the modern tall buildings in downtown Denver. I'd just come down from photographing the mountains, so was still drunk with height, and I'd just come from a tapestry show where it instructed me to look at the close-up and the whole at the same time. It all came together as I considered the individual windows massed together on these huge towering walls. It was more art! And a new thought began to whisper. The more I look at and create art, the more my eyes change, and the more I see art in all kinds of places. Perhaps this is creativity's ultimate gift. It changes me. It changes my ability to see. It changes my perceptions. It opens my heart and eyes, and tears flow.

The last show was a private one. Bruce showed me his entire collection, or at least the portion that was currently living with him. I've never seen anybody's complete collection before. Sure, on the web, but not the same thing. As I looked at each piece individually, laid out flat, I began to wish I could see all of them hung on walls in one place. What a symphony that would be! I could see patterns and preferences that wove in and out of the individual pieces. I guess that's what people call one's "voice".

So I'm home again. Much more committed to making my own art. And to seeing everybody else's art. Before I'm done with this body, I want to mount a solo show of my own. I wish that were a possibility for everybody in whatever way their creativity manifests. It keeps ringing in my head that everybody has a solo show inside them, regardless of the medium.
.

show and tell?

.


Are you lissotrichous? I know I am...
.

what I said

.


I have a box full of writing I had done when I was in therapy years ago: four years of daily writing. When asked, she said I would know what to do with them when the time came. Well, the time has come. These pages will be thrown out, one page at a time as I read them one more time. I'm in the interesting position now of being compassionate witness to my own self from years ago, feeling one more time the pain, the humiliation, the sorrow, and the joys I wrote about years ago as a wise woman helped me find the courage to heal.

Sometimes I wrote things that I wish to keep.
"Good relationship is sitting on each other's porch, not decorating each other's interior."

thank you, me, for writing and sharing!
or something like that...
.

salut

.


soft, quiet morning
the coffeepot is not broken after all
I suspected it wasn't, but the current engineer brains couldn't fix it, thus proclaimed it dead
but it didn't need to be fixed in the first place; it was tired, that's all, and you fix someone else's tired be leaving it the hell alone and giving it a chance to rest.
so there!

this isn't really about coffee pots, though in fact, last night it wouldn't work, and this morning it did, at least for me...
just sayin'

this is about "fixing", in a way
don't we all want to fix things?
I see your demon, your flaw, your unfinishedness, and, just like we reach out to pick off lint from somebody's sweater, I reach out to "fix" that thing about you that I see.
but praise be aging and a chance to learn a few things along the way...
now I know I see your "demon - flaw" thing through my own biased eyes
I see through my own demoned eyes
current demons
footprints from demons from the past
scars from past fights with demons

It is so awesome to be a human being where, when physical growth is complete, we have a chance to become truly human by doing our own internal growth.

Ah well, that's all the musing I have with only one cup of coffee.
Christmas celebrations - though we celebrated our own two and three days before the calendar event, I could still sense the footprints of expectation on Christmas eve.
We exchanged food and gifts, and it was probably one of the best Christmas's ever. Ever. I'm learning to relinquish the reins of super mom, and the sweetness of taking a nap while others did the kitchen work was a gift. I was able once again to enjoy the presence of all three sons at the same time, and it was a gift. I never know when it will be the last time, which makes the gift of their presence more precious than anything wrapped in paper.

But not just that;
the loving hugs of a daughter in law
the laughter of grandchildren
the somewhat bawdy humor with a brother
the loyal and deep love of my husband, who has walked many many miles along side me as I struggled with my physical demons

This is getting a little long, isn't it? That's one of my demons - fear that someone will read this and not see their own presence acknowledged, and will think I don't love them.
or some such.

and on that, I shall pour another cup of coffee from the falsely proclaimed dead coffeepot, and toast the universe and it's myriad ways of healing myriads of things and beings.

salut!
.

is

.


a wake, a party, a celebration of life, an acknowledgement of death,
an afterglow
I've never knelt on a kneeler with a glass of scotch in my hand
and saluted a fallen friend before

the beautiful scene of a handful of grandsons, now men, huddled,
holding each other, crying
to be loved so deeply that grown men would cry openly -
that is a good life, and a good death

we stood in line, we signed the book and paid our respects to his wife
then we turned to each other and discussed our own death preparations

it is good to not be afraid of what is
.

flamboyant friends

Flamboyant Friends by Pat Denino | Make Your Own Book

struttin' my stuff

.

Oh, yes. Yes I did. Not his way. My way.
And what was that?
The Christmas tree. For the first time since we've lived in this house and had an artificial tree, I managed to get it up the stairs on my own. Piece by piece. Did I take an unnecessary physical risk? Absolutely not. My visual problem solving brain cells are coming back online. I used as much muscle as I had to safely spare, plus leverage. Not only the tree, but two pieces of furniture. Ok, not sofas, that would be too risky, not only for me, but for him. Small pieces, though. A chair and an end table. Did I say I did it by myself? It is pure delight to consider, evaluate, and choose a course of action. It feels good to test my stability and balance at each step, and sure, I work slowly. But safely. And smartly. Did I say I did it by myself? I did? Oh. Well, perhaps my memory cells will come back online sometime soon, too.
.

intertwined

.

she waited
soon, now....
soon she would leap into an infant's body
and begin the journey of becoming human

the Goddess appeared, beckoning the expectant soul to approach
She hugged her deeply, kissed her lovingly
and gave her a disk
a disk, a coin, blank, smooth on both sides

keep this, She said
it is your story, waiting to be written

one side will be written for you,
the details of your environment,
emotional, physical, geographical, social

the other side will be written by you
the details of your spiritual mythology
your choices, beliefs, superstitions, questions
your creativity

when you return to me, we shall read the coin together
it will become transparent
as we read the one side, we'll be able to read the other side, too
as each side continues to write the other side's story

and now, it is time, dear one
Go! Embrace the journey!
.

so high so low

.

The day has been delightful! A lovely couple came over for alterations; my chemo sogged brain continues to clear, bringing lightness and laughter I'd almost forgotten about; more birds have found the feeder; a joyful telephone conversation with my oldest and bestest friend;
And then. Last news check of the day, and I see where a gay couple here in Westerville had their house sprayed painted with hate phrases.
.

birds

.

I will be spending a fair amount of time at the kitchen window this winter, since we have a bird feeding station close by. I didn't say a bird feeder - that would be too simple. We have two shepherd hooks: a niger seed sock for the finches hanging from one, and both a traditional feeder and a suet holder hanging from the other. The local squirrels quickly figured out climbing the shepherd hooks and emptying the feeder, but George contrived a baffle that has so far baffled the squirrels. They don't need to climb now, though. The sparrows are such messy eaters and throw as many seeds to the ground as they eat, providing plenty of food for the squirrels In fact, I watched the sparrows carelessly throw seed to the ground and actually land on the squirrel's head.
bird count to date:
sparrows
yellow finches
purple finches
tufted titmice
juncos
cardinals
bluejays
and, surprisingly, a red tail hawk sat on our deck for a spell.

Hopefully we'll have at least one day where the temp rises to at least sixty degrees. If that happens, I'll open the window and remove the screen and sit at the table with my camera.
.

sweet dreams

.

Last night was the first night in over six years that I could sleep soundly without phamaceutical aids. It is so good to live in post-chemo days.
.

sleep paralysis

.

imagine two movies playing at the same time, projected onto the same screen
like similar parallel universes
similar, but not identical
imagine the screen is three dimensional
imagine you are inside the three dimensional screen
physically and mentally helpless
frightened, not because a threat is imminent
but because you are helpless
helpless to sort it out
helpless to move, to call out
and then you wake up
maybe
did you wake up into the dream movie?
or into the normal reality movie?

welcome to sleep paralysis
.

it's always something...

.

The knee has returned to normal programming.
Now I have a froat.
Sigh.
.

not a normal day

.

A normal day. I work, nap, play, and go to bed. I do not jump off the roof, run a marathon, get on a trampoline, or bend myself into yoga positions. Just a normal day. I go to bed. Sleep. In the morning my knee and leg is bunged up. I can hobble, but not walk. What's up with that? Is it just old age? Oh well. This too shall pass, but none too soon. I'm rather fond of normal walking.
.

a good night

.


I'm pleased about at least some of the election results. Kasich got smacked in the chops for trying to destroy unions. Mississippians are not allowing their government to call an egg a person. Mainers have reinstated same day voter registration. All three of these wins were fueled by feet in the street.
And feet are still occupying the streets...
.

momentous

.

in this moment
I have no significant pain
I am not being a responsible caregiver
nor am I on any kind of chemo drug
my major business obligations have been met
major screw-ups have been rectified
there is no known ominous event or deadline on the horizon

how long is a moment?
.

grrrrrr

.

I HATE chemo brain!!!!!!!!
.

and then i shall take a break

.

another dress out the door
one last wedding gown to adjust
a few odds and ends of alterations
and another wedding gown to deconstruct
and then i shall take a break

deconstruct?
she will be using the skirt as a Christmas tree skirt
rather than leave it in a box
for a daughter she may never have
who probably won't want to wear it anyway

.

mystery

.

This day is finished. Good. The oncologist has discovered I am anemic, and doesn't know why. Well, that certainly explains my tiredness, and it wasn't just my imagination, or giving in to aging. But now we have to find out why. First up, more blood work. Then one of those poop smear on a slide tests. Yuck. But certainly do-able with minimal annoyance.
But the good news is - I'm off aromasin, at least for a month. Possibly forever. Supposed to take it for five years, I made it to 4.5 years and am now beginning to really really feel it in my head. Or its that because of being anemic? Who knows.

In any case, whether there is something minimal that will be dealt with - or something else - it is becoming increasingly clear that our days are numbered. Hell, they always were! It's just that now I believe it.

Life is still good. All of it. Even if it doesn't feel good at the time.
.

bird brain

.


for me at least...
God is no longer an ancient, wise, bearded, father figure
God is no longer triune
nor only male
nor three dimensional even!

at this point, I don't even know what "God" means
I'm pretty sure our human three dimensional limited sized brains can't comprehend even how to ask the questions, much less how to understand the answers

I just finished a good book: "Alex and Me" by Irene Pepperberg. She is a research scientist who worked for years with a parrot on animal intelligence. There is so so so much we don't know, and we fill in the blanks with assumptions that more often than not turn out to be wrong. Pepperberg has done an admirable job challenging some assumptions, but there is still a lot of work to be done, naturally. In the meantime, the gulf between human brains and bird brains is not quite as wide as we've been led to believe.

I'm guessing the gulf between human brains and "God", whatever that might be, is beyond our understanding.

Cool.
.

nurturing a cog?

.
It feels good. I have been the go-to person for our attorney whenever one of the front desk workers needed time off. For the past two weeks, I've fulfilled that function for three days each week, and my own sewing and alteration business has suffered because I haven't had the energy for both. Age, don'cha know. Today I told them they'll have to train another person.
I had to figure this one out. I do like being a part of the workaday world, helping to keep one small cog turning smoothly. But I'm my own cog, I've finally determined. My cog brings me joy, and that matters. Yes. My joy is worth nurturing.
.

sigh

.


I sat at a desk for six hours: addressed a dozen envelopes, typed one letter, answered the phone maybe ten times. This was not a quality work day, and was more tiring than if I actually had work to do.
.

brothers and sisters

.

How in hell did I end up as a science teacher? Yes, I do know. I liked science, but I liked a lot of other things, too, as a kid. As the first in a working class family to go to college, and as someone who didn't really know what women did in the adult world except to be a teacher, a nurse, a secretary, or pregnant, teaching seemed the best option. I'd probably have been better as an art teacher, but that option wasn't presented to me as realistic. This was at a time before I did my own thinking.

Oh well. I taught science, and even enjoyed it until it just wore me out. I never thought of myself as a particularly good teacher, but kids keep telling me I was. That's a puzzle, since I was marginally educated in things scientific. But teaching is about more than the specific subject matter; it's also about learning how to think, to question, to organize; and it's also about relationship. I was damned good at that; encouraging, building up, knowing when to be strong, when to be flexible, when to put on the mommy hat, when to take it off. Mistakes were made, of course.

Today I am so pleased with the friendships and relationships I have with the younger generation. For a time they were my children and students, now they are my brothers, sisters, and friends. Even neighbors! I always sensed that the hierarchy of parent/child and teacher/student was temporary, that somehow within that framework I had to connect to the eternal brothers and sisters that we all are.
.

tucker time

.


bike ride today; seventeen miles, and I'm tuckered. happily so, though. maybe next time tucker will start a little later in the ride. no deep thoughts; just rode to the cricket concert, avoided running over a wooly worm, admired a mockingbird, smelled the wonderful smell of farmers' fields, and had lunch with George and Steve halfway through the ride.

it was a good day
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a theory of everything

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Long ago, I wanted to know everything about everything. But there aren't enough years and I don't have enough brain cells anyway, most likely. So my eyes cast about and eventually landed on a blade of grass. Peering more closely at what I knew about that blade of grass, it became clear, finally, that if all I did was study that one blade of grass and learn all the scientific disciplines that contribute to the knowledge of that one blade of one variety of one plant in my yard, I could learn everything there is to know.
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through the window

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I am the default substitute front desk person for our attorney, and for three days this week, I'm sitting at that desk. The work is boring, but necessary, I suppose. The desk position has a good view with the floor to ceiling windows - looking out at a cemetery across the street. A fire station is near by, so that provides some color and noise. And hope, too, that they get where they're going in time. Then, at mid afternoon the school buses start rolling.
It seems appropriate, this setting. On one side of the window: people doing what people do, living, learning, dying, sometimes stepping on each other's toes. On the other side of the window, the attorney-referees, helping provide order.
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just wondering...

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who are you?
no, not your name
a name is just a sound
created by language
who are you beyond the boundary of language?
who are you besides my son
or my daughter
or my grandchild
or my husband
or my mother or father
or brother
or friend?

who will you be when I am gone?
will your presence add to the upward evolution of humans?
will you be a victim of the excesses of my generation?
or will you be a gracious recipient of the creations of my generation?

both, eh.
we carry within us our destruction
and our creation
and we don't always understand which it is, do we?

but I digress
my mind wanders
lets get back to you
who are you?
what are you?
are you anything at all without a name?
without language?
do we need verbal definition in order to
be?

who are you?
who am I?
will you remember me when I am gone?
will I remember you?
will we remember each other when we are both gone?
gone from what?

without language, how could I ask these questions?
would these questions even exist?
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dreamers

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I've had some amazing dreams lately, and there was nobody I could share them with. Oh, sure, someone would hear me if I talked about them, but it wasn't quite what I was looking for - someone who understood, I guess. It was not necessary, nor even desirable for someone to "understand" the dreams; that would be presumptious. Just someone who understood dreaming, and the desire to share.

We went to a party, a gathering of barbershop singers and their wives. Lisa and I began chatting; we compared notes on our breast cancer endurances and survivals. Then, gradually, we discovered that we both dream; you know, the significant dreams. Not only that, but we were both willing to accept that these dreams and their connections happened in ways we didn't understand, and we didn't feel the need to explain them. All we did was quietly share, embrace each other's mysteries, and honored them as the mysteries they are.
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shoes

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I am so good at giving quality advice to someone else, yet ignoring that same advice for myself. For example: today I bought two pair of shoes, and, though I knew they were expensive, nevertheless got light headed when the total was given to me. George had to kick my butt to get me to buy the shoes. Did I mention yet that I hate shopping, especially for myself? Did I also mention that I've been wearing my mother's shoes? Hey. They fit. Wherever she is, she didn't take them with her.

So what was that advice? Spend the necessary dollars on your shoes. Scrimp on other clothing if scrimping is necessary, but try not to scrimp on your feet.
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the Pat club and other musings

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We spoke quietly to each other of the Pat club. Patty Ann, Patty Jean, Patsy, Patti, and Pat. All wives of barbershoppers in the same chorus. Oh yes. Another Pat, a man, who sings in the chorus. It isn't an exclusive club, and we laughingly invite others to be honorary Pats and join in the fun. Or not. Whatever your name is...is quite fine. But today I noticed that all of us have been through very serious life issues. And, of course, Patsy has moved on to whatever happens next. But maybe everybody who makes it to the middle years, at least, has dealt with serious life issues. I don't know, but we have all leaned on each other when the occasions called for it.

At the funeral, my grandson sat in the row ahead of me. He reached back to hold my hand, then pulled my arm forward so he could rest his head against it. I may have looked terminally awkward, but I felt like queen of the universe. He is an amazingly affectionate grandson. I sure hope he can keep that openness, and, of course, clothe it with wisdom. Not all he meets in life will be as open and honest as he is.

So I wonder. At the end of this day, what do I mourn? The end of life? No, not particularly. To make it into your sixties still gives you plenty of time to do the big things in life. Perhaps I mourn more the loss of that openness and innocence that seems to be part of growing up. No, I guess not that, either. Hopefully that childlike innocence gets traded in for the strength and courage to do the big things in life. Maybe mourning is best thought of as a passing cloud, giving shadow for a time, but then moving on. As I like to say, life is good. All of it, Even when its difficult. Then again, that's easy enough to say as a middle class member of a relatively wealthy nation. I don't live in a third world country; I've never witnessed the brutal massacres of loved ones, I've never been tortured. Can someone in those scenarios say life is good, no matter what? I doubt it.

Where does that leave me? Just not knowing a whole hell of a lot is where it leaves me. But I know about me and my own thoughts. That's all I have, that's the only story I can tell, and that's enough.
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who knows

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A friend has died. Cancer. Age 66. Not a close friend, but we enjoyed each other's company when life tossed us in the same space.It was a sucker punch to get the news...thoughts of her struggle now finished, of her husband and the rest of her family, and of ourselves, who, when we get together, will mourn the loss of her laughter and kick-ass attitude.

I didn't sleep well last night. Patsy was on my mind, and I relived my eight days in the hospital due to the arduous chemotherapy I was on. Yeah, me too. Except I got through it, and she didn't. Neither did several other women make it across the cancer mountain. But I did. Three times. How do we explain any of this? I guess we don't. There's a lot of randomness to life, it seems, and goodness and courage don't buy you anything except goodness and courage.

Today? I can imagine how her family is feeling. It took me close to a year to return to pain free "normal" after my mother's death. And in this moment of quietness I acknowledge that we all die, and none of us knows for sure what happens next.

Tomorrow? Soon I will pay my respects. I remember the first time I attended a service for a woman who had died of cancer. I had already survived two bouts at that time. Her husband held my hand and looked at me so intently. I wondered if he was trying to see what survival looked like, and I felt guilty for surviving. I'll see him again, probably, and I won't feel guilty for being alive. Because the day after tomorrow? Who knows.
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I got plenty of nuthin'

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trying to decide if there's anything worth noting in this day...
maybe not

but it was a good day nonetheless