Random impressions, opinions and ruminations from a woman who would really like to invite EVERYONE over for a good meal, a glass of wine and passionate conversation, but the dining table only seats so many . . . .
The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.
"Would you like to go to Harvest Festival with me?" She said she'd like that. "Have you been there before?" She had - once, like I had. I don't know why they call it Harvest Festival, as it is held in late summer in the desert. Except for the merchandise in some of the vendors' booths, there is nothing remotely harvest-like about it. It is simply the Promised Land of craft shows, the presenters required to jump through a few hoops to prove the quality of their goods before being allowed a spot on the selling floor. On my prior visit, I'd come out with a haul for my friend's approaching birthday and a few trinkets for myself. This time, I was on a mission. I knew what I was after. I paid $4 to park Lucy Sue and $9 to walk through the door, this for the privilege of going in to spend even more of my money. Later, a companion laughed at me over that at dinner. "What? You paid how much to be allowed to spend more?" "Oh, it's a girl thing. I'll probably go back next year and pay for the privilege, too."
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I was searching for Chinese charm bracelets, a little item that mightily pleased me a couple of years ago. These confections consist of a slim black cord decorated with a gemstone figure, one temple bell and two charms. The gemstones and charms represent all manner of good things that might come one's way. Whenever the temple bell rings, which is approximately every time one breathes, one's prayer will be answered. I was a rookie last time at Harvest Festival. The bracelets are laid out on long tables in deep piles. There may be a million or so. Oh, yes, I saw the little code-breaker, telling what everything meant. But it was a bit overwhelming and I ultimately just bought 5 of them for the price of 4, some for birthday girlfriend and some for me, and made my way home.
Click image for larger size.
The next day at work, my home dudes helped me translate the charms and gemstones into an understanding of my next karmic gifts to be expected. They also had to help me, with a good deal of chin rubbing and furrowed-brow studying, learn how to operate the bracelet on its cord through the beads that tighten or loosen it. "Hey, Les, do they all have a bell?" I said they did. "Prayers answered." Great! Who doesn't seek that? "Anything like a yin and yang?" I had one - balance and harmony. "Do you have the money bag?" Sure did - riches! The cleverest of the group asked me about a fish. I didn't have one. He asked again. I said I didn't. The third time around, I queried, "What's up with the fish, Homey?" Freedom, prosperity and good sex. Damn! There were a million lying there. How'd I get away without a fish? I wore my bracelets on wrist and ankle until they fairly rotted off of me. Sure I could have gone online to order more, but there is something about running one's hands through the pile . . I bought nothing else there this time. My mission was accomplished.
It may have been sunny somewhere,
but certainly not where I was!
When we'd arrived it was a hot, late summer monsoonal afternoon. I'd cracked the windows of the car and put the shade in my windshield so we wouldn't melt when we left the place. Walking out, she needed a cigarette. I don't care for this, but I don't hammer. We've had the serious discussions. She knows how I feel about it and what the rules are regarding how close that activity may be performed to my person. I strive for tolerance. As she puffed, I watched the sky go a funny color and thunderclouds roll in faster than I can type it. "Smoke fast, please." But the thunder started to boom and the rain fell in sheets. We were placed nominally under an awning, but within seconds the pounding rain began to pummel us sideways. "Shit!" I bellowed. Mothers pushing strollers began to scatter, kids screamed, men repeated my sentiment loudly. The hail hit and when it began to pound me in the head and ear, I knew I couldn't just stand there. I was wearing sandals not fit to go anywhere near any form of liquid, but I moved along pretty smartly without face-planting. We (and 100 others) charged the door of the Cashman Center and they let us back in. "Lady, you can run like nothing I ever saw," said the ticket-taker. "Your dark hair is all full of hail stones." I was so grateful to receive that information. Soaked to the skin, water dripping off of us from everywhere, the air conditioning nearly froze us. I can attest that a small pair of jeans weighs a ton when fully saturated. If I hadn't worn a belt, I may have lost my pants.
The crowd milled around, listening to the thunder roll and watching the water come up over the curbs, hail piling up against the side of the building. And then the sun burst through, as suddenly as the storm had come in. The entire show took about 7 minutes. The aftermath was more lasting. Our choices for getting to the parking lot were few: 1) Walk on the sidewalk to Utah and circle around, or 2) ford the river and take our chances. We stepped into the current, twigs and debris swirling around our legs, mud collecting in my sandals, finally cresting the hill and spotting the car. Ah, the car. There was an inch of water in the cup holders, hailstones arranged in a pretty little tableau on the dashboard. The upholstery spewed a geyser when we sat on the seats. Hair product streamed down my neck and forehead, condensation forming on the lenses of my glasses. "Nice relaxing day out shopping, eh? Want some Starbucks?" She did. Teeth chattering, we drove off.
As I drove along, a text message dropped in. "Want to go for pizza? I'm hungry!" I sent a reply saying that I would enjoy pizza but explained I would need to go home first and fix myself up from the skin out. "I'm sure you look great. It's just Metro Pizza." I averred that I looked anything but great. "Oh, come on. How bad can you look?" I said I can actually look pretty bad under certain circumstances. Finally I sent the phone cam pictures. "Oh. OK, see you in an hour or so. Take your time." Well!
So this time I got a gemstone cat (for protection), a bamboo charm (strength and resilience), a Chinese coin (riches) and the temple bell to ring all my prayers to truth. I got a heart (love and fulfillment) and a yin/yang (harmony). And - oh, yeah, I got a lovely green jade fish (freedom, prosperity and good sex). I'll let you know how that works out for me.
After 58 years of some really convoluted relationships, I have determined that the ones between mothers and their children are the hairiest. Oh, yes, mother-child arrangements are the most schizophrenic of all - soft, moist, vibrantly colored petals, some even scented, juxtaposed with the equally colorful pods with thorns so long and thin as to be almost invisible. There's the prize, with all of its elements. Take it or leave it. Here, for every mother's child, whether you grew just beneath her heart, or in it, is my Mother's Day offering ~
Yes, I did plant my body right in that mighty stand of cholla with my camera. Yes, I got jabbed. No, it didn't hurt nearly as much as some of the metaphorical pricks. Nor were the petals as lovely as some of the intangible ones that I have enjoyed.
Created by self and other bloggers, thank you so much!
You are the cheese to my macaroni You are the horizon to my sky You are the bacon to my eggs You are the laces to my sneakers You are the jelly to my peanut butter You are the Iams to my cat's dish You are the muriatic acid to my pool You are the smile to my face You are the gravy to my mashed potatoes You are the bubbles to my bath You are the milk to my cookie You are the ink to my pen You are the ketchup to my French fries You are the water to my ocean You are the icing on my cupcake You are the beans to my wiener You are the comment to my blog post You are the thread to my needle You are the donut to my 7-11 case You are the litter to my cat's box You are the jewel to my piercing You are the bookmark to my tome You are the Garmin to my torturous trek You are the sense in my sentence You are the lens to my perception You are the punchline to my joke You are the mirror to my reflection You are the phoenix to my hope You are the cake to my ice cream You are the hot fudge to my sundae You are the sprinkles to my donut You are the branches to my snowfall You are the I to my loneliness You are the island to my I You are the spaces between the trees of my forest You are the loveliness to my buttons You are the underwiring to my bra You are the canvas to my acrylic You are the paper to my thought You are the light to my shining You are the glasses to my opera ou're the Budweiser commercial to my Super Bowl You're the Cinderella's castle to my Disneyland You're the A-1 sauce to my steak You're the iambic pentameter to my poem You are the mouse to my pad You are the Wite-Out to my typo (ask your grandparents about that one, kids) You are the Texas Schoolbook Depository Building to my Lee Harvey Oswald You are the Leo the lion to my Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer You are the George Martin to my Beatles You are the neuroses to my Woody Allen You are the bus to my another stranger You are the shadow to my doubt
You are the sunshine of my life, that's why I'll always be around
You're the tops You're the colosseum You're the top You're the Louvre museum
What would you add, bloggers?
Created by self and paid $300 to send to relief efforts for Japan.(Below, a very early, primitive attempt at poetry. How's that, Rachel? I TOLD you it was modest and only a fan of me, personally, would pay for it!) Some of you good ones have already e-mailed to ask what it is about, etc. Please feel free to contact me in that way.
STEWARD OF THE HEART LAND
No more free right of ingress and egress for you. A toll booth was constructed, your picture taped to the glass, so you will be recognized if you attempt to encroach.
You said you loved the landscape but you plundered irreplaceable artifacts, smuggled out in your backpack and pouches. Sand drifted from a hole in your pocket, a sinuous trail like the track of a sidewinder.
You took brochures and attended lectures, learning small things you could do to help safeguard a precious resource.
The face is like a topo map, revealing what there is to know. Brow furrowed in apportioned concern, yours inspires confidence and hints at shared passion. You mislead.
You grasped the things that one can do, for conservation and preservation, citing by rote the steps you'd never take. You are glib, though the sincere did not know that for you to be spurred to conserve or preserve, the words must be preceded by "self".
The time had come to leave for Mother Badger's home. She was expecting me. I'd already sent the e-mail to say what time I would leave. She can do arithmetic. She'd know approximately when I'd arrive. Cesar had helped me feel confident about my car. I'd made checklists and cross-referenced information that really shouldn't matter. It's not like there aren't stores down there if I forgot something. The car was fueled up and my things packed inside it. I'd walked a brisk 10 miles, showered, dressed comfortably for a long ride. And that's when I began to fiddle fart around. Uh-oh. What was going on here? This is a trip I very much wanted to take. So why . . . . ? I'm not telling how many times I drove across the street to the convenience store and back home. It is embarrassing. There I bought junk food that I never ate. It went into the trash at Mother Badger's. I'm not telling what the junk food was, either. I left home and headed toward the beltway. Using streets I know do not go through to the major boulevard. I've lived in the same neighborhood for more than 7 years. Why was I purposely avoiding the beltway? I drove in circles for miles. What the heezy?
I stopped living a few years ago. Some events in my life had broken me just a little and I slowed nearly to a halt. Then the headlines began to scream about national financial ruin and I closed down a little more. To the amusement of the homes, I took steps to prevent my decline and potential homelessness. I had my car insurance policy analyzed and tweaked it and, after charting what and how much TV I watch, I reduced my cable TV service. I cut the high-speed internet to moderately high-speed internet. Hey, I don't download large files or play computer games! I began to sell unwanted, unneeded things on eBay and I hunkered down, waiting for the pain. I stopped doing many things I've done all of my adult life. Like a little shopping for pleasure and traveling a little and buying quirky (inexpensive) things to decorate my home and my office. Like reading, a most beloved pastime since the age of 4. Like the annual trip to the beach in July. Like volunteering to help organizations that support causes I embrace. Like being a political activist. Where did I go? I know why I went, but I don't know where I went. I was lost and my world shrunk. If it wasn't about walking, working, haircut, doctor, dentist, it wasn't happening any more. With the exception of the very rare camping trip or cycling race weekend, I literally did not go away. For far too long. I now know that didn't do anything good for me. I didn't get a badge for being the most stalwart shut-in.
I couldn't avoid the on-ramp any longer. If I didn't set out now, I'd arrive later than expected and I don't do late. I merged into traffic and I was agog. I, the decades-long freeway warrior, had dropped into a world I no longer recognized. Commute traffic, and lots of it! I asked myself, "I wonder why I never hear the homes bitch about traffic? This is hideous!" But that didn't last long. Within minutes my old treachery on the blacktop had returned and I was sailing smoothly in the next-to-fastest lane. As my comfort level on the road returned to me, so did many other things. It proved to be a journey of reminders and affirmations, five hours alone with myself, my music, my car, the road, my desert and my confidence. No one accidentally chirped me and I didn't once chirp any one of them. I soaked up sunshine through the windshield and I did not feel pressured or hurried whatsoever. I took a break and did it well.
Although I would rather have a MapQuest printout that tells me specifically to go from Highway 93 South for 132 miles to Highway 40 East for 79 miles, I had a stretch of journey I'd have to manage by eyeballing. The construction delays on the $240 million Hoover Dam bypass are notorious, and I didn't intend to sit for an hour or more roasting in my own juices. There is an alternate route that adds about 23 miles and half-an-hour to the trip, and that suited me. The trouble is, I'd only taken that route once, and in the opposite direction. Some of the highway numbers were not known, and one has to watch for a couple of turnoffs that are easily missed. Mother Badger had reminded me, "One can easily end up in Needles, CA, by missing that turnoff!" Needles is hours out of the way. Comfort and confidence settled around my shoulders, warm like a shawl. I passed through Searchlight and thought of it as Senator Harry Reid's childhood home and a mark along the road to where we camp at Paiute Gorge. I spotted the sign announcing Cal-Nev-Ari in 9 miles, right near where the three state boundaries meet. I was musing about the community established by Nancy and Slim Kidwell in the 1960s, its 400 residents, casino, motel, RV park, mobile home park, convenience store and airport . . . airport? Yep. FAA designated. As I spied the marker for my turnoff, I was reminded I am good at observing signs and landmarks. I have a good head for maps and I'm logical. I know how to get around. And I knew precisely where I was located on the map.
Soon I was descending through the sharp, craggy red and caramel sandstone to the Colorado River gorge where Laughlin lies. No more merry e-mailing on the BlackBerry from behind the wheel, as the road took a sharp downhill grade and there were switchbacks to be dealt with. Now I pulled over, rather than driving while intexticated. I was reminded how much I love my Mojave Desert (and the Sonoran, where I would soon arrive) and how, if one doesn't have the privilege of going to the desert, one can derive much pleasure from driving through it. I crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and into Arizona, which always thrills me. Where I live, one sees more dry washes and sandy creekbeds than rushing rivers. It's exciting! I drove up out of the gorge through Bullhead City and crossed the preposterously named Golden Valley. I call it Arizona's armpit. When I spotted the wide vista of badlands, I knew Kingman was nearing. Kingman was about half-way to my destination, and after Kingman I had MapQuest directions right to Mother Badger's door. I know Kingman well. I know not to get myself trapped on the main drag where the highway dumps all travelers who then converge upon the many gas stations and convenience stores. I know to drive through the long place and stop at the very last truck stop which is never as congested. Although I didn't actually need gas, I knew how far away were the next services. One doesn't take chances. I bought a large coffee and walked through the aisles filled with ceramic roadrunners and resin coiled rattlesnake figurines. One wonders how much "authentic" southwestern merchandise is actually sold by these establishments, because they all have huge inventories of such items. Back in the car, I cranked up the custom music mix delivered to me the previous day, sipped at my coffee and drove out of Kingman. Some miles ahead, I turned onto another highway and it soon became apparent I was no longer in the Mojave and no longer in the transition between the Mojave and the Sonoran. I was there - in the Sonoran Desert!
After one turns onto the highway, there is not much "civilization" until one arrives at the Phoenix suburbs. There are long, long stretches of desert to enjoy and its personality begins to change quite suddenly. I climbed into the high, rocky reaches and was treated to my first view of a jungle of bear grass, green and bushy at the ground, with high, reedy fans standing ten feet tall. Photographing the bear grass has always been a goal of the man with the camera, preferably at a time of day when the sun shines golden through the fan. Alas, unfathomable to me, the desert here is fenced for miles and miles and miles. Pictures could only be taken from a distance, through fence material. Please don't fence in the desert! Finally, I saw the first iconic saguaro - indisputable evidence that one is in the Sonoran. There are some saguaros in Las Vegas, but they are not native in the Mojave. In the winter they must wear a burlap jacket, and they are not easily cultivated here. But they thrive in their home in the Sonoran, clustering into forests of the tall, many-armed cacti. If one steps onto this bus often, it may be remembered that I am starved for the sight of cactus flowers this year. And now I was in for a treat, for the saguaro were blooming in profusion! Saguaros can live more than 150 years and grow from 15 to 50 feet in height. It takes up to 75 years for them to develop a side arm. The state of Arizona takes saguaro conservation very seriously and it is common to see them supported by upright angled boards with soft pads protecting the cactus' flesh from the wood. Often large segments break off of the main plant and some very odd shapes are attained.
Early in my love of the desert, I was terribly misled by a gorgeous Jack Dykinga photo of a saguaro in bloom. I saw that the flower of the saguaro was as huge and showy as the cactus itself, and said so. This brought a laugh, for saguaro flowers are as tiny as the saguaro is huge! The esteemed Dykinga had been fortunate to find a downed saguaro arm and get right in on the bloom with a macro shot that made it look enormous, I was told. Today I know that the flowers are tiny, but can be abundant as they pop out on the very tips of the cactus' arms. Driving along observing the cactus, I got playful. I wanted to see the flowers up close and personal. As I am a woman who will not ascend a step-stool, it is unlikely I will ever be perched in any way at the top of a 50 foot cactus, there to inspect its blooms. However, as I whizzed past a particular saguaro, I saw that its flowers weren't terribly high in the air, and maybe if I made a U-turn at one of the infrequent highway crossovers . . . . It was about a 12-mile detour. I remembered that sometimes I've enjoyed aiming a point-and-shoot camera at something that charms me and sharing the results with others. The reader wants to understand I have no urge and I do not need to make fine photographs. I'm perfectly happy getting a crude likeness of the reality and saying, "Look what I saw!" And so, here it is: look what I saw. Later in my trip I managed some fairly credible pictures, but this was for fun. I remembered that I once liked to go away and see the sights and have some fun. I jumped back into the car and made my way past Snoopys (plural - Snoopies?) on the rocketship in Wikieup (don't ask me, I don't know why!) ~ "Hey, Snoopys!"
The highways almost completely bypass Wickenburg now, rather than go straight through the middle of town. I'd been warned about the two roundabouts I'd need to navigate, but I did that well. I have roundabouts in Summerlin, near home, and I've driven them in the U.K. They don't disturb me. And then it was the long, last, straight, full-of-road-construction 30 miles. Although I have visited many times, I've never learned the layout of the streets in MB's community. For one thing, the streets all curve and change names. For another, I was never the driver. But I learned that both MapQuest and MB had served me well. I pulled into the driveway, took in a very deep breath, popped the code into the alarm system and stepped to the back door. "I knew you were here! I saw the sun shine through Alfie's cat door when you opened the garage door!" Hugs were exchanged and each of us exclaimed about the other's hair. I'd never seen her beautiful silver mane cropped very much like my own, though a little longer. She'd never seen mine since Christine was put in charge of its maintenance. We chatted a little and she told me to take my things to my familiar room. Though I recently commiserated with my friend on e-mail about the stresses of traveling, as I brought my things inside and arranged them, I remembered that travel doesn't stress me. I'm organized and careful. I keep lists and check them. I don't leave things back or lose them. I remembered I'm pretty good at this traveling and visiting thing. I sent the promised e-mails to those who insisted I let them know I'd arrived. It was going to be a lovely few days! I knew it immediately.
In my ears right now: The finger-snappingest, most dance-inspiring hit of 1997, by three children. Amber loved it. I liked it, too. One heard it in the streets and the stores. I confess that I had a little difficulty re-entering my world this week. I was a little down. It's taken a few days, but I'm feeling pretty Mmm Bop right now! I defy the reader to play this tune and not want to dance around. In fact . . . . excuse me for just a moment, please.
Something that charmed me: The arrival of that 23rd follower charmed me. Please note that all followers charm me, but there's a story. For number 23 is Willy, likely the best girlfriend I have ever had, and since 1986. Oh, yes, he is a man, to be sure. And no, not gay. Not at all. But what we have is a deep, understanding, girlfriends kind of thing and I'm pleased he has popped on my bus.
One photo credit: J. D. Morehouse (Snoopys at Wikieup)
The names of persons I use here are those of my followers, easily located on the sidebar. If the reader will indulge me, I don't feel up to creating all the links today. I appreciate my followers, though, and display each of you proudly. But right now, I'd rather spend my time visiting your posts which have gone up since I took a breather. Also, please indulge the use of "today", "tomorrow" and "yesterday". Sometimes things don't punch a time card. It was all written across a short time frame this week.
It's a delicate phrase (that conjures up quite an image when applied to me!) - "wrestling bear" - that means "dealing with stuff". Sorting out the jiggle in one's Jell-0, the junk in one's trunk. Handling one's problems or chewing on stuff. I'd just completed conducting a whirlwind, 'round-the-world magical mystery birthday tour on my bus and I ran out of gas. Precipitously. I knew I needed to apply the brakes, park the bus and retreat to some quiet place. I stayed off the blogs almost 100% for 3 1/2-4 days. I didn't give up e-mails as completely. A girl doesn't want to lose her oxygen or blood supply. I added extra walking miles, read a complete book, ate some foods I hadn't enjoyed in awhile - no, this does not mean overeating. It means consuming good foods that require some actual preparation. And I am better for all of that. Clearer headed. For you see, although when we enter the ring, the bear expects to win the match and I expect to lose it, that's not usually how it shakes out.
And so . . have I bent anyone's ear (or eye, since one reads the blogs) about liking things that work as intended and disliking things that do not? Ahem. Blogger is a mixed bag of stuff for me. A free platform to write and interact with others. But I'm sometimes left with Blogger egg on my face. Do other bloggers get into such a twist as I do when Blogger conspires against them? The answer is probably "yes", "no" or "maybe". But I get into a twist. I've blogged about the Starbucks mug given to me by a very young woman who considers me her mentor. It says "Meticulosity: an extreme attention to detail." Little Jazzy laughs and says it would have helped her to have seen that tattoo on my forehead the first time we met, but she soon figured it out. That's how I am - I give attention to the small stuff. So imagine my horror today to look at my own blog and discover what Blogger or the gods had done to me on Kass' birthday post. I spent hours sizing the pics so they'd line up side-by-side. I'd spent forever downsizing the YouTube clips that had nothing but one photo and the soundtrack. I'd been meticulous about the size of the photos so Elisabeth's head would not be 1/6th the size of her husband's famous onion tartlet, and what was I looking at now? Why was Tag's poem spaced with so much open air running through it? How come Kim's beautiful gifts were oversized splats in the middle of the post, with miles of pink air space? How in the world did I post Kass' birthday at 2:00 a.m.on her birthday, yet 3 comments had been posted on April 24th the day before? Look closely, those of you who wrote to say, "Where did my comment go? I know you posted it. I saw it." [For the record, I post virtually every comment except those I'm asked not to - the ones that are a shoulder tap kind of message. I've now fixed that up by attaching an e-mail account to the Profile.] And why, the Sam Hill, did it all look completely different again one hour later? Yow. I don't know the answers. I am not required to be knowledgeable about everything, and I cannot be such. First these things made me crabby. Then they made me crabby about blogging.
It struck me that I posted my first blog post exactly 11 months ago. Blogging has fulfilled me and frustrated me. It has connected me with both like-minded and polar-opposite people. It has taught me to appreciate how well some people do things that don't even intrigue me. But their passion draws me. I've watched some bloggers simply disappear and others announce they're taking a break. Some who are taking a break pop up for a moment at the most wonderful times. I read both Kass and Elisabeth at some length commenting on the amount of time the blogs take up and I'm right there with you, ladies. Writing for my own, commenting to those I follow. I am struck, after my bear wrestling, with something that unsettles me. I work far too much. Old news. I walk way too many miles which also takes up too much time. Seven-year-old news. I spend too much time time blogging. That's news. And I do little else at all too much. Hmm.
During this week of experiencing some malaise, I forgot to go check that newly attached-to-my-blog e-mail account. It's one I've rarely used, and I forget to check it very frequently. Thank you to those who dropped me a note and I'm sorry if I seemed a tortoise before responding. Friend Tag, who was in my real e-mail account, you'll know I wasn't handling it very well, either, or something you sent would have seen the light of the blogosphere by now. It's coming! Even when I have to arrive late, I still arrive. Full of sincere apologies.
Yesterday, I drove home through a war zone. The weather is the enemy and the wind the most ferocious weapon in its arsenal. All I had at hand was a very small Nissan. The more ballsy forecasters had predicted wind gusts up to 70 mph. They were right! I left the office going south on Rainbow. Every side street acted as a tunnel, slamming me with crosswinds that moved my car around. I remembered the reminders on TV ~ "Keep both hands on the wheel!" No kidding. I knew what I was in for. Turning west on Desert Inn, I started to buck the headwind. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Oh, yes, I am the woman who camped through a night of 75 mph gusts, but I remained in the tent. I didn't have to see anything. Now, the traffic light standards bounced and that always freaks me out. I had to stop at the store. Cat food and coffee creamer are big copy in my home and I was nearing empty on both. My aunt did family day care for decades and she had a saying that would make most misbehaving little boys pause: "If you don't stop that, I'm going to snatch you bald-headed." I know the feeling. And I don't like my hair mussed up. This morning as I walked, I had mainly very black thoughts as I passed downed trees, many window screens torn from homes, tumbling trash cans and various other distasteful flying objects. I learned on the news that small, private aircraft were overturned and a carport roof was torn away in an apartment community. Some Las Vegas-y attention-grabbing event scheduled for 8:00 this morning was expected to be cancelled. If the girls still wanted to sky dive in their bikinis, that was one thing. But it was deemed unsafe for the aircraft to be airborne. Justin said it best: "Imagine. Bikini tops and bottoms and half naked girls flung all over the valley." Have I mentioned I am sick of it? Sick to death of it? Literally almost ill from it? It's now been 36 hours. It's about the same as 36 hours ago, although some brief periods have been more tolerable.
So what shall I do with myself, because I'm fairly in a snit? Mr. Insomnia crawled in with me at 1:30 this morning and never let me slide from his loving embrace. Someone hacked our bank account number at work and created several fake checking accounts with their names (multiple entities, multiple names, multiple IDs given) and our account number. One even had our logo and company name replicated, and a very good rendition of David's signature! Yes, Wells Fargo Bank is behaving in a very helpful way and, thankfully, the rotters didn't hit us for nearly what they could have, had they been higher achievers. But the inconvenience has been staggering. No checks, no credit or debit cards for 10 days to 2 weeks. I may need to pay one week of payroll in cash. I have three - count 'em - posts in draft form that I can't complete. They're painful, each for a different reason. I've invested too much in them to hit the delete button, but I avoid them studiously because they hurt.
Here's my plan. Tomorrow night is the 2-hour massage. I'm going to wave good-bye to David Saturday and take the wheel. Last May, he and his wife booked a Mexican cruise to celebrate 5 years of marriage. Remember that nasty little illness we first called swine flu? The cruise was cancelled. They're going for their 6th anniversary now. While David's away, I'll start the e-mails to plan my girlfriend-visit trip away. I've hung home too long! But before that, I'm going to the desert. I'm going to the place that has a convenient parking lot, so I can just pull up. I'm going to the place where I went in the winter and did my DIY primal therapy, screaming at the heavens and throwing fiery balls of my anger off the planet. I'm going to the place that will be replete with cactus flowers and horned toads ~ I know about these things. For in this place, at this exact time of year, in the year I was 52 . . . the cactus flowers were abundant and I held 52 horned toads in one sunny hike.
And, now, the Kass Birthday Grand Finale. Tag just kept spinning birthday joy after I'd stopped checking my e-mail box. Here is what he spun for Kass starting with my lame 4 lines and continuing with brilliance:
The lovely Kass, so fair of face, Exudes a state of natural grace. But while she shares with us a grand felicity, There's also that spark of raw electricity.
An accomplished young lady of many phases; A heck of a poet, she has a way with phrases. Her home is Sugarhouse, I believe that's Utah. Is there really such a thing called a Hoppy Taw? Very crafty! I've heard she redoes the undone and shoots strangers in restaurants without a gun. A dangerous hobby, it sounds to this friend, but she's just keeping up with the latest trend. Time to end my contribution. It's getting late. Great idea, friend Limes, on a way to celebrate! Friend Kass, you are loved by many, it's clear. So lets do this again same time, next year!
In my ears right now:
Something that charmed me: I don't feel too charmed, actually. But I'll find something . . . OK, here we go. I let my post sit in the box overnight, even though I was pretty sure I was done. When I re-read it this morning it pointed out to me that there are reasons I'm not feeling all that charmed and I do have a plan to change the dynamic. One step forward. Then another one. Do it again. And I remember that the last time I went to the place of primal screaming, fireball hurling, cactus flowers and horned toads, I returned cleansed. It's lasted a long time. I just need to go get another dose.
Imponderables. Headscratchers. Baffling things. Elusive concepts. Things that make you go hmmmm . . .
I can easily work up a big old donkey laugh about many things appropriate and inappropriate, raunchy, clever, funny only to me or just simply silly. I do humor pretty well, even when I'm the only one who understands it. In our company's infancy, we gave some business to every advertising salesperson who came our way. We did direct mail and door hangers, coupons, YellowBook, Yellow Pages and on seat cushions used in the bleachers at high school football games. Our vans have excellent, expensive signage and we had magnets made that we can place on the refrigerator at every home or business we enter. We plunged into craigslist and the mysteries of Yahoo and Google at which David quickly became a wizard ~ one wants to cheer out loud for his brilliance. From the first job we booked, part of our script has been to ask, "How did you hear about our company?" It's not rocket science. We were trying to learn which of our advertising dollars were paying off. In less than a year we knew exactly what we should stick with and we eliminated everything else as unnecessary expense. At least in our community, 99% of our business come from four sources plus the technicians' repeat business gained by the good work they perform. I have now spoken with about 4 bazillion people in the big city and there is a behavior among certain of them that I don't get. When I present the question to someone who found us on the internet, the answer is quick and short: "Googled you!" or "I found you online." OK, easy enough. Write that down and move on. However, when the caller's reply is "In the Yellow Pages, " it is followed nearly 100% of the time by an ascending trill of laughter or a giggle. It's not that this annoys me. I don't care. I just need the information. But I muse on why so many people find locating a business in the Yellow Pages so amusing they have to laugh out loud.
Blogger baffles me, not infrequently. It's got little twitches and hiccups that annoy me, mainly because I don't fully understand why they occur. I am very detail-oriented. When I write a post, I'm scrupulous about the words I select, the layout of the post, the presentation of illustrations, the unveiling of what is in my ears right now and something that charmed me. None of which is meant to imply that there is anything special about my blog except that I know what I want it to look like. Imagine my surprise when I take a look at a post that's been up for awhile and the photos are all askew! Huh? How did that happen? Who's been in my blog and monkeyed up the works? I do not like lots of pink air space in the blog's appearance. I edit in html vigilantly to make sure there is no excess. So where has it come from when I sometimes look in a few days later? Who's blowing air into my blog, and will they please discontinue from doing so? But the worst . . . oh the worst! I had been blogging for a short while and I had my hard-earned first four or five followers. That feels pretty heady, and all you other bloggers know it. One values the followers, whether "declared" (publicly following) or simply showing support by appearing and commenting from time to time. I logged on, only to find that all of my followers were gone. Not one. All. I will admit to spending a bit of time feeling very uncomfortable, wondering what I could have written or illustrated that would make everyone run off at the same time. And, of course, soon enough, whoops! There they were again.
My phone script is designed to get enough information from the customer to understand the scope of services we might provide. Part of that includes getting a list of rooms to be cleaned and that is a tall order for some people. In reply to my statement, "I need to get a list of rooms you'd like us to clean", I get such recitals as "Well, it's 1,800 sq. ft." No, please. I don't need the square footage. Just a list of rooms. "The carpet isn't very dirty." Please, tell me the rooms. "It's all the rooms in the house." Yes, but I don't know your home, do I? So I developed a little verbal assist - I talk to far too many people to go through this continually. Now I say, "I need to get a list of rooms you'd like us to clean, like living room, dining room, bedroom . . . " That really works for most of the women! They usually begin a quick, orderly, accurate listing of the rooms that compose their home. An astonishing number of men, even the ones who now understand what I'm asking for, begin to sputter quizzically. They simply can't tell me what rooms are in their homes. Some mutter, some express frustration with me, some say, "I'll have to call you back." I'm not male-bashing, reader. I'm simply observing that a startling percentage of men can't relate simple details about their homes. A smart-ass on the other end of the phone might be tempted to ask, "Well, do ya live there?" Both men and women make me grin with this: about half of the homes we clean include a staircase. Nearly 100% of the time, the caller tells me in exactly this way, "Oh, and we have stairs going up." Now this is a thing that makes me go hmmmmm. Don't those stairs go down, as well? Do I need to be concerned about 50% of the denizens of Las Vegas ascending their stairs and being trapped on the upper floor because the stairs only go up?
A rose by any other name . . . . When I learned that I was going to give birth to a daughter, I gave her name a great deal of thought. Ex and I consulted frequently about it and landed on a name we considered perfect. For we wanted that child to have a euphonious appellation. I figured it would be the same for any parent. Oh, maybe others would be compelled to give a traditional family name, or a name to honor something in nature. My point is that I thought any parent would consider naming a child an important piece of business. David had answered the phone and sold the carpet repair job. He hollered out to ask me to book it. I began my list of questions and soon learned the woman's first name is Lady. Her real first name. The one her mother gave her. OK, home girl. Whatever. The next day we got an online booking from a man who is a little tightly wound. I know this about him because he was so anxious about having two rooms of carpet cleaned, he felt compelled to exchange about 10 e-mails with me. I noticed that he seemed pretty proud of being a doctor, because I never was privy to his first name. Just Dr. Jones. Every time. After the homes cleaned his carpet, the work order and a check were turned in. Imprinted on the check: Doctor Jones. I furrowed my brow. "That's his name, Les. I asked him. That's what his parents named him." OK, well why not a Doctor in the same week I booked a Lady? I couldn't believe it when I saw the online booking come in. What the hell? A customer put Mister as his first name. Mister was also part of his e-mail address. Come on! Because he booked online, I never had a conversation with the man, but I was now so name hinky I put a sticky note on the work order. "Homes, ask him if that's really his name and then let me know!" I watched Joseph and Mike on GPS as they pulled up to the job. I waited while they inspected and got a signature for services. My BlackBerry chirped. "That's his name, Les, given to him by his mother and father." OK, well why not a Mister in the same week I booked a Lady and a Doctor?
In my ears right now: What else?
Something that charmed me: I dispatched a team of two to a customer's home on Plaid Cactus Court today. This made me go hmmmm. For I am a woman who has spent a lot of time in a number of desert areas. And I don't think such a thing exists. Although I have seen a lizard with so many colors and patterns it looked like it had been made of spare parts from other lizards. But a plaid cactus? Nah!
I should be writing about any one of those handful of topics that churn inside, but I'm very good at avoidance. I practice it in all manner of ways. Class clowning works pretty well. I do or say something goony and the audience laughs. It sustains me for awhile. Or I become interesting. It engages others and one doesn't have to spend any time inside. After all, it is rude to ignore someone who wants to interact. So I'll say it again. This blog is never going to be a pretty flowers picture blog. It was never intended to be. I don't want it to be. That's not what I do. Nor am I a professional or amateur horticulturist. The reader doesn't want to read, and I don't want to write, about how to grow this or that plant. This is not a blog about plants. Plant blogs exist elsewhere. What this blog and the writer are about is (mostly) connecting with others. And that's what this post is about, even though it may seem initially that I'm still on about the damned plants.
So I've posted a couple of times about the bromeliads and the felonious felines. Now it happens that Mother Badger reads the blogs and often has some comments to make. But she does it her way. She doesn't jump on the blogs as a public follower and she doesn't post her contemporary photograph. And she doesn't drop her comments into the blog. She reads the blog and makes comments in e-mail. That's her way, reader. We've all already agreed there aren't any rules to this. And nobody tells Mother Badger how to do anything, anyway. Sometimes she is right up to speed, reading the blogs as they're posted. Other times she drifts away for awhile. I don't think she's consumed by it. This time it happens that she was keeping right up. And she had some information to impart to me, because Mother Badger knows about bromeliads and the like. So her e-mail after the first post gave rise to the second post. But her e-mails after the second post have given rise to this third post and to plenty of belly laughs.
I have a vision of Mother Badger sitting at the computer in the Arizona Room, her face toward the wall and her back toward the dining room. I feature her reading the blog and thinking "Hey, I have something to say about this!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. She reads more and lands on something that makes her muse. "I have a comment about that!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. Yet another part of my brilliant meanderings grabs her attention. She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail one more time. For the last post brought three separate e-mails and made me think, "This is like conversation! This is almost as good as being in the same room, visiting."
So this time, some of the knowledge imparted is this: when I use a knife to cut the pups away from the mother bromeliad, I should dip the blade in Clorox first. I never planned to become a bromeliad obstetrician and was, in fact, just a little squeamish about such things during my own pregnancy and childbirth experience. However, I'm in the soup now. My curiosity is running and I must move forward. I wonder if the Clorox is some form of antiseptic for the birthing process. I'm kidding! Come on, reader. She didn't state the purpose of the Clorox, but if she says "Do it," I shall, when the time comes. She also said I must use Root Tone on the pup, and that, I do understand, because my research shows the pups don't always have a good root system when it's time to remove them. I liken the Root Tone to the baby powder of this operation.
She had some well-conceived advice that could result in my being able to keep plants at home. She recommends that I steep a strong solution of cayenne pepper and water, put it in a spray bottle, and liberally coat a "test" plant. It occurs to me that cats have a very refined sense of smell. Perhaps they'd be deterred when they stepped up to take the first chomp. But if not, Mother Badger assures me their first bite will be a surprise, indeed. "Hotter than hell for humans or animals," so she says.
Lastly, she offers me encouragement and urges me forward. She commented that my pictures reveal lovely, healthy bromeliads which shows that I am on my way. And she suggests that now I am hooked, I should look into proteas. Hmmmm . . . I know about them. At least I could point one out if I saw it and say, "That's a protea." I Googled "protea". They're a little like the bromeliads in construction! I'm not sure where I'd locate one in Las Vegas, Nevada, but I know how to learn that, too. Hmmm . . .
It was Mother Badger's final statement, however, that created the most electrical connection for me. She wrote, "There is something primitive about propagating plants, like teaching . . . . " It struck me hard. This woman was a teacher because that's what she wanted to be. She did it long and I know she did it well, because it's what she loves. And that's what she's just been doing to me. Teaching. Again. I could write several posts about things I have learned from her, but that's for another day. For today, I'll just remind myself that we all have something to give to others. That's how it works. I'll give you a little of this that I have in profusion and I'll take a little of what you possess that I lack. That's the way it goes. It reminds me that I should continue to make eye contact with other humans and say what I have to say, ask what I have to ask. It reminds me of the importance of remaining open and trusting those who have shown themselves to be reliable.
OK, stick a fork in me. I'm done. If I get bromeliads or proteas or a flower or anything else I think is beautiful, I might take a "pitcher" and post it. But I'm done playing the bromeliad investigator of the blogosphere and shall now move on.
In my ears right now: It is a dark, shitty, wintry day in the desert southwest. It is snowing near my home and in my Mojave Preserve in places I was startled to see named in the Severe Weather Alert. In severe weather, people don't exclaim, "Let's call the carpet cleaners out!", so my phones are dead after a booming day yesterday. I'm alone and I could slide a little if I made a poor musical choice. So, dedicated to Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, even though it's been done before. Reader, I do know that parakeets do not possess musical taste, but I swear they react differently to dirges than to something like this. We needed this today. And I can dance to it! Or better yet, hula hoop!
Something that charmed me: I had a terrible 9 mile walk this morning in hideous conditions. Screaming wind. Wet. Cold. I gave some serious thought to crying as my eyes streamed onto my face and the wind chapped me there. Except crying would have just made for more chapping, so I soldiered on. I wasn't a happy girl when I got home to shower and get ready for work. But driving in, I was struck by how many of "those" trees are popping. For at this time of year, the cherry trees burst. There are pink and white varieties, and I describe them as exploding Q-tips. I passed hundreds of them. And this weekend is Daylight Savings Time. And the following weekend is the spring equinox. And the weekend after that . . . and so it goes.
Friend Kass is fun. I don't have to have met her in the flesh to know this. It fairly jumps off of the monitor and into the room. This woman is exuberant. She hadn't posted in a few days, but she has a brand new granddaughter, so I didn't think much of it, although I missed her. I think this woman would be good at designing or organizing party games or fun things to do at a business mixer.
Her post said:
Open your first photo folder,scroll down to the 10th photo, post this photo and the story behind it. Tag 5 people.
OK, I can do that, and I have such a mixed bag of stuff in photographs, anything could pop up.
Like Kass, I'm not tagging people specifically. I'll just issue the invitation ~ join in, if it pleases you.
There is a place where I love to go when I am looking for solace. It lies within Death Valley and it features a small system of smooth, golden sand dunes. It is peppered with the debris of long abandoned mining operations and it features the most beautiful variegated rocks I've ever enjoyed. One goes to this place expecting to experience, and one does experience, a classic desert outing.
Tucked around the far side of a mountain outcropping, however, lies an unlikely setting ~ a marsh! In Death Valley! It isn't a very large area, but it boasts ponds with reeds and cattails, salt flats and waterfowl. While the sand dunes across the valley are a silent cathedral in warm, neutral tones, the marsh is a bustling village plaza with darting birds and flashes of green plants. The juxtaposition of these divergent microcosms pleases me. I purposely plan to hike in both locations on each trip and I end up feeling like I've been to two separate destinations.
The picture is a gaze into the jumbled reeds, mostly dry and brown because it is the winter solstice. Some of them have a little green at the tips, however, a reminder of the autumn past and the spring to come.
In my ears right now: To keep in theme with my picture, I was going to say Fields of Gold. Most who read me probably know this beautiful Sting piece. I went to YouTube and made a discovery. Their name intrigued me: Celtic Woman. Hey! I'm very much into my Welsh-ness. I listened to them. I think they are lovely. Embedding is disabled, but if the song pulls you or if you're simply music curious as I am, this is worth a listen. Try it! If you don't like it, you'll pull the plug.
Something that charmed me: Celtic Woman charmed me.
I'm a bit scattered. I want to write about some things I'm experiencing, but the words don't come. I want to complete Chapter 2 of The Field Trip but it feels a little burdensome. I'm processing some grief and other of life's delights, so I took a solitary walk in the desert and had a come-to-Jesus with myself over some things that need attention. My recent bereavement reminded me that life is short and we can get whammed by a freight train when we least expect it. "So what are you waiting for, Les? An engraved invitation? Stir yourself!"
I'll ask the reader's indulgence if I skip around for awhile in my writing. One of the things I reminded myself among the creosote, cholla and scrub is that I am not and cannot be perfect at anything. I need to stop trying to be that. It saps my energy. And I reminded myself that I'd better laugh - hard and out loud - every day. For if I don't, I might as well throw myself on my sword and be done with it.
Last Friday, I was pretty entranced by the coming of the Wolf Moon, the first and biggest full moon of the year. When I left the office in the evening, I stepped out onto the deck and gasped. On the second floor, I felt I was at the same altitude as that moon. It was the largest I've ever seen, and I felt close to its surface - zoomed in. It glowed golden, not at all silvery, almost like a harvest moon. And the news article was right - one could easily see the various topographical features on that golden ball. I hoped there would be a repeat performance the following night when I was to be in the desert.
In camp at night, I enjoy sitting beside a woodfire, watching closely from the first match strike until sand is finally shoveled onto the embers before retirement into the tent. I situate my chair so close to the fire ring there is sometimes some concern I may burn myself up. I bend over and put my face close to study the changes in the wood and the flames and the undulations of the embers, rather like a lava lamp. Sometimes I say out loud that I'd like to touch parts of it because it is so beautiful. No, I don't actually touch it and no, I was not a firestarter as a child. I'm just drawn to it. Challenge to the reader: describe fire in a way that a blind person could "see" it.
The desert is often breezy and that does not bode well for campers sitting beside a fire. One can be seated in her preferred spot, and when the wind shifts, she gets a face full of wood smoke. Not pleasant. I am much admired in some quarters for my ability to yank up my sling-seat chair, lap robe, assorted items in my lap and place myself 180-degrees around the fire ring in one smooth move. Without upsetting one drop of my drink.
Saturday, the hike and dinner completed, it was time to start the fire. The moonglow came up above the mountaintop, round and huge and silver, the beautiful older sister getting ready to go out with her beau. The wolf moon that followed was small and distant, partially obscured by clouds and dull, not glowing. It put me in mind of the younger brother, watching from behind the curtains. A fine photograph was made at the same time I fiddled with my funky point-and-shoot. I might also add I don't know anything about night photography. My camera didn't even detect the clouds. But I was having fun seated beside my fire, warm and fascinated by that moon. I was also not brooding about painful things. So above, from my camp chair, is my shot of the wolf moon.
And here is my shot of the wolf moon just as the breeze shifted. No, I didn't gather myself and shoot 180-degrees counterclockwise. I suffered the smoke and got the shot!
In my ears right now: It's the seeming 467th cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". This is a very different interpretation and quite beautiful, I think. Sorry, embedding is disabled, but it's worth the trip if the song appeals to the reader.
Something that charmed me: Mother Badger e-mailed me a wealth of good information, ideas and methods of dealing with grief. One may be well known, but I'd never heard of it. One puts a rubber band around her wrist. When the emotional pain is such that one needs a little break, she snaps the rubber band, exchanging a physical twinge for the emotional one. I ran to my desk immediately upon receiving the e-mail. I'm pretty red and welted. My coworkers think that is a pretty funny bracelet, but I must say it does divert my attention when I need that.
Latebreaking: There seems to be some question whether the assignment was "Ten Things I Love" or "Ten Things That Make Me Happy". I need to state I processed it as "Ten Things I Love". If I'd done it the other way, I'd have had a list of things that impact me far less than these. If I muffed the assignment, please give me credit for earnestness, sincerity and hard work both on myself and with myself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My original post before I wondered if I'd muffed the assignment:
I am usually up for a challenge and I'm almost always up for fun and games. I like connecting with others and learning new things ~ these are major themes in my life and my writing. So when blogging friend Kass threw down the gauntlet, I was ready to rumble. I put two blog posts that were almost ready on the back burner. I grabbed a pencil, some scratch paper and I began to scratch.
I knew immediately that I would not list my family, my lover or my job. Of course, I love all of those. It goes without saying. They occupy a level above Ten Things I Love. Within two minutes I'd made a list of seventeen things I love (I may have to do this exercise twice!). I struggled to pare it down to the requisite ten. I quickly made an association: my ten subjects include some of the labels I use most frequently on my blog. Hmmmm . . . . so I write about what I love. And then something washed over me that made me feel sad. When I look at the list of ten, I realize I am not actively engaged in some of them. I am avoiding some of them. I'm doing some of them only half-way. A revelation: find happiness by jumping deeply into the things one loves.
In no particular order (in fact I thought to list them alphabetically to eliminate any perceived order) here are ten things I love.
I love my physical well-being. I make a pilgrimage every Sunday of life to Fresh & Easy to buy good food for myself. This is more than "grocery shopping". It is a celebration of self. I fuel myself with foods that support my well-being. I walk many miles every day, regardless of conditions. Sometimes it isn't very pleasant. But I never fail to feel grateful I can do this. I hike and climb in the desert for the pure joy of it. At my desk every day, I set a timer to remind me to get up and move my body. I use weights, a wobble board, a light-flashing hula hoop and resistance bands. I indulge myself with frequent massages that help ease my body from what life has done to it. It wasn't always this way. I have 215 specific, well-identified reasons to be grateful for how well my body serves me.
I love to write. I am a person compelled to tell things. I need to tell my stories, my history and my observations of the day. I have a strong urge to share the funny things that happened, to rant about the injustices and unkindnesses I observed. I love rich, colorful, plummy words and I like to make language art with them. I want to retell conversations, and sometimes the written version is better than the actual dialogue. Writing letters and journals, essays and post-hearing briefs have all been part of my tapestry. But writing a blog has been an epiphany to me. Imagine writing and having other human beings comment about it! For me, comments don't need to be false-positives. I've let nasty comments in, too. It's more important - to me - to simply have another human being react and interact. Blogging is the best new thing I took on in 2009.
I love music. I surround myself with it nearly constantly. I'm like millions of other people who would say music is important to them. I might say I take that up a notch. When I hear a song I know, I am quickly transported to the time and place I occupied when I first learned it. Say something (anything) to me and I can often pop out some snippet of lyrics to highlight what you've said. I'm not stupid, but I regard some song lyrics as a rallying cry for life ~ it's an appreciation of the songwriter's ability to weave words into images. I am tattooed with a short version of the most profound lyrics I know. So, from Pachelbel to Pure Prairie League, the Bangles to my Beatles, Billie Holiday to Bob Dylan, R.E.M. to the Rolling Stones and the Backstreet Boys to Beethoven, I have loved it all [except rap]. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose one's hearing. Do you suppose the songs would play on in one's head?
I love my animals. I share life with two cats (Virginia Woolf and Dylan) and two birds (Bloomsbury and Benson). My father says I "over love" my animals, attributing to them qualities they do not possess. My father also says it would be a good life to live as one of Leslie's pets. It fulfills me to be the sole caretaker of another creature. I feed them and clean them and take them to the veterinarian when necessary. I brush the cats and clip their claws. I clean the spittle from the birds' mirror so they can continue to chirp while admiring themselves in its reflection. I buy good feed and palatial bird homes and the preferred type of cat litter. I provide toys and catnip that are mostly ignored and bird toys that are eagerly employed. It sounds like I have to do a lot and spend a little money, doesn't it? I talk to these beautiful fellow animals of the universe and each of the four looks at me as if I am brilliant when I speak. As if what I have to say matters. None of them has ever been cruel or done a thing to hurt me in any way. It's a dynamic that works beautifully. I provide the basic needs for their lives. They grace my presence with all their beauty and their trust in me.
I love venerable things. I call items with history "venerable things". These need not be priceless antiques. Ordinary household articles of long ago pull me more than a Renaissance painting. I like to handle venerable things and think about other human beings who may have handled them. I wonder if the venerable thing had special meaning to its owner, or was it simply "the potato masher"? I buy venerable things at estate sales and curiosity shops. I decorate my home and office with them. Sometimes I am fortunate to find some lovely vintage item I can wear as clothing or jewelry. Some of my favorite venerable things: my grandmother's 1917 high school graduation gift - a lavaliere that now belongs to me and will belong to Amber someday; my circa 1800 cut glass inkwell with tortoiseshell lid; a pair of eyeglass frames from about 1920. These frames are perfectly round and beautifully crafted. I want to wear them so badly it nearly makes me weep. I cannot find an eyeglass dispenser willing to try to put lenses in the frames. They fear what material the frames may be made from and whether it will hold up to today's methods of making glasses. I shall keep looking. I want those frames on my face. I want to think about the other human who wore them.
I love to be creative. This is one of the loves that makes me sad. For I am not doing it. OK, I'm writing. And I aimed my camera at some beautiful things. On one camp-out. But I am not using fabric in any way, even though I may own the lion's share of the world's stores of fabric. The sewing machine gathers dust and there are no pins sticking in the carpet. I haven't needle-pricked a fingertip for longer than I'd like to admit. The seashells used to fashion angel ornaments languish in closed bins among the shining ribbons and "jewels" meant to render them beautiful. The rubber stamps and archival ink containers lie idle and my embosser hasn't been plugged in for far too long. My cardstock and envelopes and embellishments are lined up neatly in their dustproof containers. Maybe forever, never to be touched again? Those I love enjoy receiving cards I've made. Why am I giving shitty store-bought cards to people I want to present with beauty and the creative part of my love?
I love to read. My mother, my daughter and I each began to read on our own, only nominally guided, at the age of 4. We are strong right-brainers who enjoy words and process information by reading. "Don't show me how to do it. Let me read the instructions!" I am surrounded by men who learn things by looking at a television. That doesn't work for me. When I look at a screen to learn something new, I take it in just like everyone else. Eyeball deep. When I read to learn something new, I absorb it into every part of me. I rabidly attack Prevention when it arrives every few weeks, completely reading it in one sitting. I have more self-help books than I can name, and I read and re-read them. I have many books that are old friends to me, some dating back to the 1960s. I try to give each of them a spin every year. I have virtually visited many places in the world I'll likely never actually see ~ by reading about them. Probably my favorite books are biographies. I'll read one about pretty much any person. This feeds the need not only to read, but it also puts me in the "connecting with others" mode that I love. the ability to read anything ever committed to writing, uncensored, is about as good as life gets. Whatever is intriguing, one can go find out about it.
I love learning new things. When I started my current job, I had a first-ever experience. It took me longer to catch on than I would have hoped or expected. I've always been a pretty quick study. I was about to turn 55 and I attributed the slight lag to my age. I am a bit kinder to myself now. I was entering a field I knew nothing about, managed by software I'd never used. I'd never held a sales position and had to learn that, too. Maybe I wasn't so slow! I was given a good, curious mind and I have many of the qualities of a terrier dog - some things may stump this chump, but I just keep digging until I find what I was going for. I'm afraid my learning process may not be pretty in its execution, rather like the making of sausages and law. It pleases me to learn new things. I wanted to know how to create a website and how html code works - I learned. I wanted to learn to blog. I've done so. I hope I never lose curiosity, even as I slow in my capacity to quickly grasp new things.
I love the desert. I will not be able to tell the reader why I love the desert. I've struggled for hours for those words that will not come. So I shall tell what I love about the desert. I love the loose sandy trails that make a hike feel torturous. I like the rocky hikes that scare me when the boulders shift beneath my feet. I like the drops so long I have to sit down and scoot myself down the rockface on my backside. I like to roast in my own juices in the sharp sun, eking out that one last camping trip in May before temperatures force the summer camping break. I like the snowflakes that fell and melted on my warm, bare skin as I struggled to help put the rainfly on the tent at 2:00 a.m. without my glasses. I love that I lay in 75 mph winds for hours, trying to sleep, weeping in fear, and surviving it. I love the way the coffee tastes differently out there. I love that I know how to pitch a tent, fuel and operate lanterns and a stove, make a safe campfire, follow a map. I like to poke around old mineshafts and find interesting treasures. I love that little creatures allow me to hold them and seem to enjoy my company. I love knowing how to identify animal tracks and desert flora. When I breathe in the presence of the petroglyphs, I feel like I'm in church. When I hike through a broad vista of cactus flowers, I know I have gone to a better place. It's an extreme environment. Harsh. One has to develop skills. I was a city girl. The desert opens its arms to anyone tough enough to survive in it. I thrive in it.
I love connecting with others. Human beings fascinate me. Almost all of them. I have felt like an alien visitor all of my life, however, because I don't feel as if I really understand other people. Therefore, I study them carefully. My friend and I laugh about something. If someone said, "Hey there's a great author from the 20th century named Hemingway", my friend would want to read Hemingway. I would want to read the biography so I'd know about the person Hemingway was. If my pink bus were an actual bus, I'd be the small woman at the back, surrounded by her bags of stuff, craning her neck to check out all the other passengers, taking notes. I study people and I try to find some place where I might make a connection with them. It excites me to find the fragile strand of commonality between me and another person. The electrical connection makes me feel alive and normal and . . . not so different from anyone else. Not alien.
CHALLENGE: I didn't think this exercise up. I was tagged. I'm officially tagging anyone who reads this to go do it for yourself. It's a good, introspective time spent with oneself. Tree, I'm specifically tagging you. Maybe you can't do it right now. But do it sometime. Do the short version. It might help you find your way. It helped me find mine.
In my ears right now: It runs long. It is worth listening to. It is like church music played on a pipe organ. She's got the pipes.
"Would you like to go to Harvest Festival with me?" She said she'd like that. "Have you been there before?" She had - once, like I had. I don't know why they call it Harvest Festival, as it is held in late summer in the desert. Except for the merchandise in some of the vendors' booths, there is nothing remotely harvest-like about it. It is simply the Promised Land of craft shows, the presenters required to jump through a few hoops to prove the quality of their goods before being allowed a spot on the selling floor. On my prior visit, I'd come out with a haul for my friend's approaching birthday and a few trinkets for myself. This time, I was on a mission. I knew what I was after. I paid $4 to park Lucy Sue and $9 to walk through the door, this for the privilege of going in to spend even more of my money. Later, a companion laughed at me over that at dinner. "What? You paid how much to be allowed to spend more?" "Oh, it's a girl thing. I'll probably go back next year and pay for the privilege, too."
