I Feel Like Having Some Company ~ Come and Walk a Mile in My Moccasins with Me

If the reader needs some background, my last post sets the stage for most of what I'll write about here. Or just scroll down, rather than use the link.

All right, if you visit this blog often, if you're one of the wonderful souls who virtually loves me, may I ask you to join in a huge, loud "AW, Les!"? This windy, windy spring in Las Vegas has nearly made me lose my mind. It is oppressive. I'm also physically tired and emotionally jumbly and the work pace has picked up sufficiently to remind me that I used to go like hell at the desk and I'm out of practice. David's off on his cruise (setting sail as I type this) and I got some grief I've come to expect when he vacations. No matter how much preparation is made, how many discussions held, as David leaves town, at least one of the homes will try to pick me off in some way and I have to become The Skirt With a Badge. [Yep, the photo shows my own real badges!] None of them ever gives me any grief when David is in Las Vegas, even if not at the office, but . . . . I don't care for it much, but Saturday I was reminded how levelly and civilly I can behave while leaving no question what will and will not be tolerated. That was on Vacation Day 1: The Man is Not Even Out of Nevada.

I'd come up with a plan to restore and refresh myself by seeking out cactus flowers and horned toads at a spot in the Mojave Preserve I know intimately. It is a location where I have retreated when I've needed to expend some angst. It is a place where I have gone solo in order to perform necessary rituals that are not well-suited to conducting before an audience. They were, however, effective for me as I struggled for balance. It is a place that has been featured in the national news for the past week due to a Supreme Court decision favored by the conservative judges. I'll blog more about that in the future. It is a place that could be squeezed into a very narrow window of opportunity as other demands, other activities, other interests and the schedules of others compete for attention. Although it wasn't to be the preferred full-on weekend trip, it would be sufficient to fill a deep, deep need.

I'm no rookie at planning outings in the Mojave. I know how to monitor weather in even the remotest locations by watching weather conditions in several locations nearby. Which place has the approximate same altitude and where does the mountain range cut through? I know what to pack to eat, how much drinking water to carry, and how to dress for the conditions. I know whether the hikes will be rocky or sandy. I know what is likely to be seen based on the month, and even the time in the month. Different species of cactus bloom at different times, and in a predictable order. Lizards emerge from hibernation into the sun at the approximate time that I do the same. Sunday was to be the day. Claret cups, beavertails, chollas, hedgehogs and prickly pears virtually assured to be in some phase of flowering. Horned toads practically guaranteed in the loose sand at the mouths of the ant excavations, their favorite place to dine.

I'm not a good enough wordsmith to accurately describe my state of shock. For on Saturday night and Sunday, the wind became even stronger, even worse, in Las Vegas. I'm not sure which is more troubling to me, being slammed by it as I walk for 8 or 10 miles, or hearing the shriek that hasn't stopped for more than a day or so in weeks. Before setting out for my walk, I checked conditions at the desert destination. Cooler temperatures than Las Vegas, but not a "wind" icon to be seen. I walked in misery, then ran the laundry and dishwasher, attempted to restore my home to a decent condition after a busy week. Everything everyone else does on their time off, right.? When I took out the trash and walked to the mailbox, I noted the gale was worse. But I was hanging my hat on those weather spots with no wind icons. I was in the market when the e-mail came. "It's worse out there than it is here. What do you think?" What I thought was not printable! "I'll e- you from home. 10 minutes." We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. We pulled the plug. For I am the first to admit that if I stepped out in the Mojave and it was blowing worse than in Las Vegas, I'd burst into tears. "If you still want to go, I'm willing" was the gift offered to me. But, no. I knew I'd be unpleasant company. I knew no horned toad worth his scales would be out skittering around in the sand. No ants would labor at the door of the colony, at risk of becoming a horned toad meal. "How many horned toads did you see?" asked Doozyanner, in commentary. Um. None, Dooz. "Les, you in the desert yet?" chirped Matt on the BlackBerry. No.

OK, what am I going to do here? I can jump off the deck or crash my car into a wall. I can laugh or cry. I can become philosophical about it. Oh, right! I'm 57 years old and I haven't landed on "philosophical" yet - or at least not ever landed and stuck there. I could go shopping, and retail therapy is always effective for me, but that means I'd have to go out in the damned wind. What I did with the few "found" hours was a revelation to me. For I did something highly unusual. I turned on the Hallmark channel which was running some 24 hours of I Love Lucy. Lucy episodes make nice white noise for me. And then I relaxed in my own home. It was clean and tidy. I couldn't make work out of anything. I took some books down and remembered how much I love them. I played certain music on the Bose over the top of Lucy. Good music. I ran my hands across the fabric that screams my name, washed and ironed long ago but never made into the project I really and truly do want to execute. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was quite ready to do that project on this day. It was enough to just stroke the fabric. But the thought entered my head that perhaps I will do the project someday soon, as I am exhibiting some evidence of rejoining the living. Coming out of the darkness. I made a wonderful dinner to share. We played cards. I began a discussion about very difficult things and never shed a tear. I expressed myself fully and, though filled with emotion, I was unemotional. My reward was a caring and sincere real conversation, meaning both parties speak and both parties listen.

Monday, I stepped into my office. A full crew had run on Sunday and the work orders and collected payments were neatly stacked on my desk. At first glance, I thought I spied a pink calculator on top of the stack. I don't own a pink calculator, but whatever. There was coffee to brew, homes to greet, computers to light up, my food for the week to be tossed into the refrigerator. When I finally settled, the technician who gave me so much grief on Saturday said something quietly. "I brought you something, Les." I looked at him and he pointed to the calculator. I looked more closely and saw it was not what I had taken it to be. It was something else. Homey jumped up and snatched it, grabbed my BlackBerry, and grinning ear-to-ear, said, "I'm sorry I was such an ass. I brought you a pink BlackBerry skin . . . " He spent the next 5 minutes showing me the ins and outs of aligning the various buttons and how to maneuver the Direct Connect tab we use so frequently. It touched me. For he had also sent me a text message Saturday in the middle of his first job. Obviously, he was still churning about his behavior over the weekend. He has a well-developed conscience. It's one of the things I like about him.

The general public ate us up and spit us out all day long. The phones rang off the hook. I booked so many jobs I had to look back at some spreadsheets to see the last time I'd attained such a number. June 17, 2008. Cesar's steam cleaning machine went down three times at one job and I had to re-route the remainder of the day's work. On GPS, that re-routing thing always reminds me of billiard balls struck hard and rolling in every direction. I don't like re-routing. It distresses me. But I do it well. Three customers hung up on me when I was in mid-cry, something that bothers me far worse than having them call me "bitch". I had listened to screaming toddlers for a full 5 minutes before their mother slammed the receiver down on me. We had a little excitement due to the fact that our imprinted checks and bank cards still have not arrived after our bank account was looted and then closed. The e-mail he typed from somewhere in the Pacific off of Mexico landed in the late afternoon. I felt like I'd been pulled through the eye of a needle and I really didn't want to even look at one of the 7 e-mail accounts loaded into that BlackBerry. But I looked. That's what I do. David! "How is everything going?" I'm quick on the keyboard and I also know that while he would want to know how we were surviving, he is on vacation and wouldn't linger in his e-mail box. "XLNTLY!", I lied. To my surprise he popped back on. "Too few words from you. What's wrong?" "Absolutely nothing. Go take your cruise." I didn't hear from him again. He trusts that I've got his back. Vacation Day 3: Manic Monday.

And so go the days . . . what's been happening in your world? Tell me all about it . . . .

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: Driving home from Manic Monday, I spotted something pinkish. Las Vegas is dotted with enormous water retention basins - great holes in the ground to collect rainwater during the monsoon season, thereby preventing the floods we suffer due to runoff. In the area where I live, the basin perimeters are beautifully landscaped with native plants. And there, right on Desert Inn Road in the middle of commute traffic, was a profusion of prickly pears in bloom! I changed lanes tout suite and circled the block. Yes, best in the afternoon sinking sun, I think. I can get out, sit cross-legged on the sidewalk and get right in there. I spun the block again. Yes, I'll try them from a couple of different angles, looking east and then west. It hit me. There is no place to park anywhere near these cactus. Not remotely near, for one may not park anywhere on a major street in Las Vegas at any time. So this evening, I shall leave the office, taking the camera, park on the nearest side street, walk 1.2 miles to the cactus, fold my legs under me on the concrete, snap a few amateurish pictures, unfold myself from the sidewalk and walk 1.2 miles back to the car. Have I mentioned I have a tremendous need to see the cactus flowers?

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Some Things that Charmed Me

It's already Saturday! What a week! Ups and downs, undulations and perambulations. Charm and razzberries, sunshine and flowers.

I will run as fast and hard as anyone from dealing with problems or disputes. I'm not confrontational or aggressive until pushed very far back into a corner, when I spring out like the tigress I normally forget lives inside me. I tend to spend far too much time attempting to shoulder the responsibility for the disagreement, even when I had nothing to do with causing it. And while I do this, the pressure and negative feelings build. I'd sidestepped a time or two, including replying less than honestly to e-mails that asked, "Are you angry with me?" I was angry. And hurt. But I didn't say so immediately. And I kept brooding on it. It should be noted that I have ridden in this disagreement rodeo a time or two, yet I almost never fail to mount up the same way again in the next round. Slow learner. It's been my observation that many things between human beings begin to form blocks, and this was no exception. It was time to stick a pitchfork in this bale of hay. I did. I presented my issues with words, not tears. I presented them calmly and I don't believe I used one curse word. I didn't threaten any grave consequences. In fact I went the opposite direction from any statements like that. I was met with calm listening to my lengthy grievance, no defensive statements offered, no excuses. "I know. That's what I did and I'm so sorry." Oh. OK. An apology. For a sticky wicket with a lot of angles to it. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I reminded myself how long I'd let the problem trouble me. I remind myself to keep trying to learn new things. Try new ways. Trust the people one cares about to come up just as good as they are.

One morning this week, I wore a lighter jacket to work. The pea coat had had to be brought out again when March and earliest April proved fickle, but now it seemed a bit much in the morning. I wore the jacket home that evening and back in to work the following morning. That evening, I forgot the jacket on the coat tree at the office. Because I felt so warm the word "jacket" never entered my consciousness. I didn't need one. That same evening, the display on my dashboard let me know that the temperature down on the blacktop, near where the sensor resides, was 88-degrees. Tangible evidence ~ we're warming up! Quickly. Oh, to be sure, the wind still howls off and on, but I see sunshine and I feel it warm on my skin. Including the skin on my backside. Yes, that's what I said. Read on.

Joseph and Justin struggled up the stairs with a 9' x 12' foot 100% wool Oriental rug to be cleaned. I could tell by their facial expressions it was incredibly heavy. It is extremely valuable and is going to be donated to a charity to be auctioned, so we want to take very good care of this rug. The morning the rug was to be cleaned was extremely cloudy and overcast. Joseph, who has 35 years experience cleaning fine carpets and rugs, explained to me that was a good thing because we do not want direct sunlight on this monstrous piece as it dries. All the technicians began to mill around getting every van and steam cleaning machine ready - we had a couple of large commercial jobs to do and it was all hands on deck. Joseph asked if I'd pull the corners to fold the rug in half if the sun came out. The sunlight wouldn't hurt the backing, would continue to dry at least half of the rug and the men would flip it over upon their return. "Sure!"

The sun came out in its full glory and I was pretty thrilled just to have reason to get up from the desk and go outside. I duly took one corner of that rug in my hand and started to pull. I pulled my arm, I pulled my back, and I pulled that rug not one inch. Giving an ill-considered mighty tug, I lost my grip on the wet wool and landed on my caboose on the warm deck. Mortified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Had anyone seen me? Well, no. I'm up on the second floor on the back of a building, thankfully. I'm pretty dogged. I tried at each corner of that rug several times, landing right on my rump time after time. By now I was deck warmed and possibly even taking on an abrasion every time I landed. I had to approach this differently. Hmmm . . what if, instead of taking a corner and pulling with brute strength, I pulled forward just small sections of the thing, straightening everything out after each small tug? Yes. That should work. I couldn't step on the rug with my shoes, so I took them off and peeled off my tights. I yanked and tugged at small portions of that floor covering for 45 minutes. Its surface was slippery, and - yes, I did go down on my rear a time or four.

I went back into the office wet, scraped up, banged up a little, but that rug was protected, perfectly aligned, fringed end lying over fringed end. The men came in between the two large jobs. Joseph thanked me for folding the rug as asked. Cesar commented that I looked as if I had been wrestling bear. A little worse for wear and tear. I allowed as how I figured that rug weighed at least as much as I did. In his Jamaican accent, Joseph piped up, "Oh, no, Leslie. Wet wool holds an additional 30% of its dry weight. That rug weighs about 450 pounds right now. Did it give you any trouble?" Yow.

It's well known that blogger friend Kass makes me both laugh and cry. Her influence makes me want to be unruly. I'm always interested in checking out the blogs she follows. Chances are, I'll be interested in them, too. I picked something up on Kass's Redoing the Undone blog. [In this instance I am not going to print the link to Kass's blog, as that would be redundant just for this post]. Reading Kass's post, I followed a link to the blog of the very talented and funny Kim of *Numinosity* [yes, there will be links]. Of course, going to Kim's blog led me to some of her followers, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of a group of most felicitous women, mostly of a certain age. Many of them are artists or artistes. All of them are whimsical women who know how to have a grand time. And through these women, I learned about Candace. I learned that Candace wants to travel. Candace, you see, is a rather plain little rag doll who is feeling somewhat housebound. Kim's good followers have volunteered to host Candace in locations spread far and wide, to take photos of Candace's adventures, and to write in the journal that Candace will bring along. Readers, I promise you many laughs if you click on these few links and read the posts and commentary. Candace is going to have one good time in many different locations.

This morning I learned that Candace has already been having fun at her first stop - Seattle. [This is a must-read, folks!] I've been angling for days to get a chance to host Candace in Sin City, but Kass and I were each a few days behind the other good women who volunteered. This morning Kim pointed me to her follower, artymess, from the U.K. I e-mailed quickly, made a connection with Lorna, and . . . Candace will be arriving in Las Vegas after international travel from Great Britain. Oh! The plans I have for Candace. Certainly the Neon Boneyard and the Bonanza Gift Shop! Since she is a girl of the desert (at least part-time, I believe) herself, she might enjoy some hiking nearby, or even camping out in some of the wonderful places I know about. Surely, she'll want to take in a Las Vegas show, and I'll be the designated driver so she can become as lubricated as she would like. I'm sure she'll want to visit my little business and meet all the homes who are already splitting their sides at the very notion of Candace's travels and so many silly and fun loving adult women across the world. I want to take her to Massage Envy where we will enjoy the Girlfriends Massage, both tables and two therapists in one room with us. When we're tired from all of our adventures, I will embellish Candace's dress with sequins and beads. Or maybe I'll even whip up a couple of new things for her. I want Candace to meet beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf, and I'll remember to place Candace's little bed in a locking cabinet or a closet that can be closed. Virginia Woolf likes to carry small objects in her mouth and hide them. Candace doesn't look very large to me. And - hey! - have I mentioned I'm expecting a visitor sometime in the future? Welcome, Candace. Viva Las Vegas!

In my ears right now: I am also charmed by artists who cover the material of other artists. I like hearing music I recognize, but having it contain a little twist or surprise. Like, "Hey, who knew?" Or, "I like this version as much as I liked the original." This has been in my ears all day. And may I just say that I love a woman who wears her cowboy boots with a skirt? I am such a woman.

Something that charmed me: Well, I've been charmed a lot this week already, but I have big plans for tomorrow. I need some sunshine. I need Vitamin D. In a bad way. I have an outing in the works. A day in the sunshine exploring a new place and new things. The weather is suited to shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Lots of water will need to be packed in, sunscreen and the camera tucked into the front flap of my backpack . . .

The Latest Tag

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.

Ten Things I Love (I've Been Tagged)

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.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Blazing Balls Was Just the Beginning

I wrote a post that included the retelling of a ritual I performed in the desert, hoping it would help dispel some angst. Said rite included imagining I converted my stores of anger and pain to flaming spheres and hurling them off the planet, out of the solar system, anywhere that would be away from me. But that wasn't the whole enchilada. No. I'm pretty intense. I'm thorough. I pay attention to the tiniest details. And I like to succeed at what I attempt. Taking a day off, driving more than 100 miles, hiking a trail that challenges bighorn sheep, spinning and throwing fiery orbs off the earth from a rock-strewn watchtower weren't enough for me. I'm not experienced at these things. I'm not a veteran high priestess of ritual performance. What if all that throwing didn't do anything? What if it only did part of the job? One wants to leave no stone unturned.

I am all of the (good and bad) things I am for very good reasons. My maladaptations are the very ones one would expect in a person who walked along my exact path in life. My strengths are precisely the ones that would present in a person who was well-supported in certain ways. Here is a truth that I know: as wonderfully original as each and every human being is, we also share so much that we might be far simpler creatures. Not amoebas, perhaps, but less individual than we like to think of ourselves. There are common patterns and rhythms in human behavior and resulting consequences that can't be ignored. We're not quite as unique as we think we are. Some of it is on auto-pilot. Or as someone I care for says, "Well, you're unique, but not for that."

I am not usually a noisy person. My normal speaking voice is not loud. I don't tend to scream and yell, unless tremendously provoked or when I'm having a tremendously marvelous time laughing. I had no siblings to yell and holler with, and the parents certainly wouldn't have tolerated any noise. But I wasn't inclined to be noisy, anyway. I've always lived in small family situations, so one didn't have to struggle to be heard. My daughter never has done anything to make me want to raise my voice. Although my parents had ups and downs in their marriage before they eventually divorced, I never once heard them raise their voices at one another. In my career as a union representative, I made compelling arguments in negotiations or when I represented a member at an administrative hearing. I gave some hellfire and brimstone presentations at meetings of school boards or other governing bodies. But I did these things in tones just loud enough to be heard. I use my soft modulation to highlight my strong words. Reader, please hold this thought: I typically don't make a lot of noise.

I don't do anger well. Oh, I have lots of it. Vast stores of anger. I own much of it. I possess anger both ancient and fresh. The problem is what to do with it. Park it in the garage next to the car? Wrap it up at Christmas and give it away as a gift? Donate it to charity for resale at one of those donation bins in the parking lot at the grocery store? I did not grow up in a home where anger was expressed. All the undercurrents were present in our ocean, but they were not mentioned. We simply flowed along. Later, in the career, I learned never to show my anger, although it was often present. Both personally and professionally, I am an expert at keeping the lid on. I'm the pressure cooker with the 100% satisfaction guarantee to never, ever blow. I do it very well. But it's not good for me.

My ability to avoid or deny anger is so ingrained that I usually don't recognize it for what it is. I'm not angry, I'm "unhappy" or "upset" or "depressed" or "not right today". But certainly not angry. I've tried all manner of things to address "unhappy", "upset", "depressed" and "not right today". Behaving obsessively in one way or another is always a good thing. If nothing else, the obsession diverts attention from the angst. Almost invariably in my life, the way I've exhibited anger is to blow up, thereby voiding the 100% satisfaction guarantee. Without describing some of my more shameful performances in precise detail, let's just say when the fury reaches critical mass, I blow up in some way that is nearly 100% guaranteed to add more anger and pain to the anger I've just blown up. Reader, please hold this thought: this woman stuffs a lot of anger.

Please rejoin me in my boulder fortress in the desert from where I am lobbing fireballs. Although it's unusual, it occurred to me that I would like to make some noise, maybe scare some of that anger away. I gave a few war whoops as I flung fire and that felt good. I turned up the volume a little, but I soon learned that hurling and hollering each require a great deal of energy and I had trouble balancing myself on the rocks as I attempted to do both at the same time. The noise thing intrigued me now, so I threw the last of the flames and started to scramble down the trail. I watched as I descended, making certain no people were about. When I hit the flats, I knew I was the only person around for miles, and I let it fly. My first shriek calls to mind Daryl Hannah in Splash. Glass shattering. I'm 57 years old and I know myself well, but I didn't know I could make that kind of noise with my body. I gave what must have been a pretty credible rendition of the rebel yell. I squealed like a pig at slaughter and I screamed like a banshee. It occurred to me to put words to this concert. I named names and cited dates and events. Loudly. And finally, I was done.

Lest the reader think this poor woman needs to be hospitalized, I will say this: I don't expect to find myself in the desert throwing fire and screaming very frequently. But this needed to happen, and it was one of the best things I've ever done. The pressure has been building for a long time. With guidance, this time I didn't blow in a self-destructive way. I simply blew energy, not my life. On the last, flat half of the hike, I was surprised by many things. I was amazed at how hard the neck, throat and abdominal muscles work when one screams primally. I was stunned at some of the names and life events that spontaneously flew from my face. I was startled to notice how torn up my shoulder felt. I'm probably not a good candidate for the geriatric ladies javelin team. Or discus.

An e-mail arrived. "Now that you've thrown it and screamed it, is the anger gone?" I had to ponder that awhile. I didn't pop back an immediate reply. When I did respond, I said, "It's not entirely gone, but it's dulled. It's no longer like a bleeding wound on fire around the edges. It's not eating me alive." I've lived the few days since the desert quite normally, but there is something new presenting. I am not so silent. Both personally and at work, I'm saying things that are on my mind. For you see, I have enough clarity right now to understand that if I don't stuff, I may not build up such a head of steam. If I don't remain silent, I may not have to carry such pain. And so it goes.

I'm moved to say that this was a difficult post to put up. It allows the reader a glimpse of how messy I am in some ways and that makes me feel quite vulnerable. Yet, just as I felt compelled to go into the Preserve and perform the ceremonies, I felt compelled to come back and tell them. Believe it or not, right now I'm the best me, the healthiest me I have ever been, sore shoulder, sore abs, sore throat and all.

Kirk, there is the story for your soundtrack! Do you think it will be a hit?

In my ears right now: A beautiful song, short(ish) for Kass ;~} and others with ADD, presented by two stunning performers. These are worth a listen, people. I like these "bookends" I find ~ a song that touches me, presented in different ways. Make mine a double!





Something that charmed me:


This makes me laugh out loud. It makes me chuckle until my abs ache. To my surprise, favored reader, I can't come up with any words to say. What is it, exactly? What does this image mean? Why is it called "Isolation"?

Of Massage, Bacon, Elevator Cars and Fireballs

Friend Kass gets my nomination for the Girlock Holmes Super Sleuth Award which has utterly no value other than it's tribute to her sensitivity to me. And that makes it worth millions. To me. "The silence is deafening," she wrote. "What kind of shit are you dealing with?" This woman and I are simpatico, favored reader. Congenial. We've never met and yet there is an electrical connection. And she was right.

I'd been pleased and proud to limp out of the holiday season upright. There were still the daughter's and the mother's birthdays to deal with and the every few days' (or once a week) sly and sometimes unkind shots made across my bow, but I thought I was doing pretty well. And then I made the phone call. When I was told that Stephanie no longer worked at Massage Envy, I couldn't reply. I don't think I said, "OK, good-bye." Now, I know how to find Stephanie. Her major job is in the spa at a high-end resort on the Strip. Although she'd never said a word about leaving Massage Envy, she had been bringing me spa magazines and speaking to me of vichy baths, exfoliation and various mud treatments, so maybe . . . . She'd been trying to figure out the best discounts for me, based on credit cards I held or frequent traveler scams I might belong to. Uh-uh. I'm not doing it. We found a way for me to get a 70% discount, and the day's treatment was still hundreds of dollars. I don't want a spa citron salad and a fluffy terrycloth robe all day once a month with treatments I don't seek made on my naked person. I want my frequent deep tissue massage, delivered by one person I trust and rely upon.

The phones took off dramatically at work. It was evident that none of us had kept our edge sharp for dealing with nearly impossible demands of time and resources when we're booming. Homes and I were feeling the pressure, steam cleaning machine hoses sprung funny leaks and the general public's attitude has improved little. One customer had a major flood in his home, resulting in a huge water damage job. No, we don't wish anyone ill. But that's income for us. That's what we do. We didn't flood his home. We just fix it. Unfortunately, the man appears to be a tremendous alcoholic. Sober when Troy arrived to do the work, he required assistance to write his check at the end of the job. Now we cannot raise the man from the bed he shares with his demons to get our industrial fans out of his house. We are also concerned about the man's welfare. For me, there is pressure because it was month-end, year-end, accountants, taxes, and the anticipation of helping to breathe life into David's new business venture. This is all shared simply to say, "New day, same old stuff." I get through it better at some times than others.

I'd asked Stephanie for recommendations of some of the other massage therapists. My friend was looking for a way to reduce the cost of frequent massage and wanted to give Massage Envy a spin. "How about if we each book a massage, pay attention to the talents of the therapists, compare notes, and go from there?" "Good idea!" "OK, I'll book the appointments." We presented ourselves at the appointed time and met in the lobby afterwards. Walking toward the car, I asked, "How was yours?" He said it wasn't bad. Not perfect, but slide her some points for this being the first massage. "How was yours, Les?" I'd have to say it was good. Definitely promising. I'm not shy about saying, "Hey, is there any therapeutic reason you can't _____?" And now we know three different massage therapists there who are at least acceptable. Other massage days will roll around, and so it goes.

I'd been given a generous gift card that could be used at any of four dining establishments. We were massage-lazy, so we chose the nearest, not the one we already knew we liked. Being seated was smooth and easy and the vivacious Vicky soon had brought his Tanqueray martini and my iced tea (no, not the Long Island variety). She enthused to us for quite a long while about the restaurant's new menu and pointed out several ways for us to "get more" and "pay less". We could actually get about 5,000 calories worth of food for less than the fewer than 1,000 we'd hoped for. But the fun really began when we opened the new menus and began to study them. For we - two truly irreverent, sarcastic and sometimes rude individuals - found ourselves in the west's last bastion of applewood smoked bacon. We are two people with a serious aversion to bacon. After seeing it on the menu, even in the desserts (no, not literally), I began to notice the plaques on the wall celebrating the greasy stuff. I heard him say, "Oink" and "Do you see anything you'll eat in here?" And I started to hoot in my seat. His burger was decent he said - "Hold the bacon, please." My quesadilla explosion salad fed me three meals - "Hold the bacon, please." Note to self: Avoid that diner ~ it smells of bacon!

And then, the end of the evening. We took time, again, to speak gently, with care, of things damaged between us. We acknowledged again that neither of us knows how to fix these things, completely. We committed again to wanting to repair what is broken - to find the way. A week prior, he'd come up with a brilliant idea and I'd pursued it. I shared my findings and the comments made to me to be shared with him. We shared schedules for availability and we took hands and agreed, there are some things not to be put down forever broken, but pursued until they are fixed or until there seems no reason to pursue them. We spoke of camping soon to be shared, and a blanket of peace settled.

So, dear Kass, you were right. The little elevator car that is me slipped a cable and took a dive down a couple of floors. I did not crash into the floor 20 stories down. I just slipped a little ways. And now I hear the professionals gathering. Tools rattling, measurements being made, voices. "Broken cable over here on Number 4 - easily fixed." "Little shot of WD-40 and some duct tape, this will be as good as new." "As long as we're here, let's polish up the buttons and replace the light bulbs." You see, when you don't know how to fix it yourself, you ask for help. Call for service. Trust in the good intentions and ability of all the players (I understand that, I work in a service industry!), set the appointment and go.

I share this, feeling somewhat vulnerable. This could be easily mistaken for "crazier than batshit". I would hope the reader has read enough from me in this and past posts to understand it is pretty healthy. I performed a ritual this week. I drove to the Mojave Preserve and parked in a paved, well marked parking lot. I took the fairly short hike that is nearly flat in the first half and pretty torturous rock climbing in the second. I am never 100% certain I'll make that last 500 yards. One ends up in a rock citadel with a 360-degree view of the world. This being a weekday, I saw no other human being on foot. I did not create this ritual. I read about it and I understood it. I "got" it. One gathers her anger into a fiery ball and hurls that flaming orb into the cosmos. I flung that fireball like an Olympian discus thrower. And then the next. And the next. I threw balls of pain and anger and every other kind of rot until my ancient shoulder forced me to stop. I began to sag a little in the climb down the rocks. Before Las Vegas came into view, I was worried I'd fall asleep at the wheel. I slept all night long, never getting up to use the bathroom, tend to meowing cats or explore why the BlackBerry was breeeeeng-ing me at 2:00 a.m.


Photo credit: Hammer Head - J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: "Crying", a most beautiful song. I've loved it by Roy Orbision, Roy Orbision and k.d. lang in duet, Don McLean and k.d. lang solo. Yes, I'm playing them obsessively in order.

Something that charmed me:



I like k. d. lang's "baring my soul", "baring my feet" performance style. I suspect splinters are an occupational hazard and a warm, wool rug is a perk.

Savoring

My reentry into my real world is going slowly and easily. Work demands aren't any more than I can handle and I'm behaving like a toad at home. Translation: my duffel bag remains where I placed it when I came home and my jacket still smells beautifully of the campfire smoke. We decided I must be a smoke magnet, for wherever I placed my camp chair, the slight breeze would shift to ensure I got a face full of the gray wispy stuff.

I'm not a photographer, for a variety of reasons. Sometimes this makes me feel a little anxious, as I follow people who are photographers and I'm not anywhere near their standards. I have a little leaning toward competition and I have a strong leaning toward doing things well, so I want to present pictures that are decent. But here's where I've landed: I do some things quite well and some things adequately and some things poorly. And I'm beginning to be OK with that. That is a new attitude for me. The voices in my head (my own is the loudest) scream, "You must do things perfectly!" But I don't have to. The world won't stop if I'm a hack at certain things. My reality won't slam into a block wall if I take on something without needing to grind out every molecule of its essence.

I grew up in a photographer's home. My father is quite accomplished and owned a photography studio for years. I've had a camera pointed at me for all of my life. I know about lenses and filters, f stops and cable releases. I recognize a Rolleiflex when I see one from a distance and I like the smell of chemicals used for developing film (a thing of the past, for the young reader). During my marriage, Ex always handled the camera. He bought me a beautiful Nikon set up that I used a time or two and then it fell to him. There are entire trips to Europe that yielded up not one picture of Ex. He was always behind the camera. And in my most recent years, I have shared life with a fine, truly talented photographer. I've been allowed to be lazy. "Hey, can you capture that over there for me?" I have a good curious mind and I never hesitate to take on new things, so one can only conclude that photography just doesn't grab me in the sense that I yearn to do it. Then there's my attachment to language ~ I prefer to make pictures with my words.

In that spirit, as I work on the side at a longer writing, I will present some "pitchers" I love from my holiday outing. If you want the photographs, and I believe you will, visit Digital Existence.

From our camp, looking toward the dunes, two miles off. There is something I love about that mountain range. My camera equipment and the distance prevent me from capturing it, but those mountains are made from layers of different colors. A small rock was found and presented to me that shows everything going on in those mountains ~ blue, green, magenta and purple.

I do not use the words "I can't." Virtually never. If those words pop out of my face, I immediately say, "That's not what I meant. I meant that I haven't been able to yet." We'd hiked the two easy miles out to the edge of the dunes. We'd traversed several of the individual dunes and circled the base for a mile or two. They undulate and as one hikes on them, one can end up in tricky spots, or challenged by a nearly vertical wall going up or down. He wanted to shoot pictures from the top. We chugged upward and upward. I began to lag. It is one of only a handful of occasions where I have failed to simply follow in his footsteps and arrive at the destination. He hollered over his shoulder, "It's OK, just wait for me there." I did. When he arrived at the peak, I heard "Whoa! Razor's edge here, Les. No place to balance. Sheer drop off." He got his pictures, though his perch was precarious. Yonder comes the Badger, slip sliding away down that last 100 yards I didn't make. Yet.

I am good at puzzles. I had not been a camper long before I was able to identify animal tracks. I am proud to say it was I who figured out that the round paw prints in the sand were cat prints. I was pleased when he exclaimed, "Hey, you're right!" It wasn't so hard, readers. I've been kept by about 50 cats in my life. The big ones have paws similar to the domestic ones. In the photo, you see the cat prints and the bird tracks. They appeared to have been made at the same time. I imagine quite a little drama was played out here in the dunes.

In my ears right now: It's still The Mountain. I recommend it.

Something that charmed me: Cats are scarce in the desert. In all our years in the outdoors, we've only seen their tracks in a handful of locations. We spotted one on the hoof once - only the flanks and back end of it as it loped away from the Jeep trail we rode on. We both tried to make out what we were seeing, because something wasn't right. It wasn't a coyote. Minutes later, the Badger said, "Hey, that has to have been a cat." He was right. It moved that way. This time on the dunes, there were cat tracks in abundance. We followed some of their trails for miles up and down the mounds of sand. There was some evidence that there was at least a pair of them, and possibly a family of three. It made me feel good to think of them and their life in the sun on the dunes. I'm a cat person and a desert person. That's beauty to me.

Peace on Earth at Winter Solstice

I plan to keep writing pieces about holiday excesses because I have a visual wonder to post on the last such article. But the days are moving quickly through the holidays now and I have a couple of other things I want to post in between. I hope the reader will indulge my hopscotch approach. I figure it's still "the holidays" for another 10 days or so.

I love solstice. It has come to mean "the holidays" to me. And today is solstice. It is the morning I have leapt out of bed, beginning my four-day run for the finish line into solstice celebration. I have begun the lists, the shopping, the planning, the assignment making, the setting out of the appropriate clothes. I've sent e-mails and reminders and talked about it to home dudes when I arrived at the office this morning. For solstice is the season for me. I am the Solstice Fairy of Past, Present and Future.

The first couple of holiday seasons "after", I hardly knew what to do with myself. I was partnered with people who didn't care a lot for Christmas, as such, and "Christmas" is all I ever knew. I'd limp out of those holidays feeling unsettled and unfulfilled. I didn't know what I wanted, but I wasn't getting what I needed. I couldn't move forward because I couldn't quite leave the past.

And then came that year. Mother Badger had come for the holidays and to help get the Badger through a day surgery on his hand. She took him off in the predawn and they called me midmorning to say he was fine and they were going home. I was relieved and now could turn my thoughts to wrapping the last gifts, picking up the freshest items for our holiday meal.

About 2:00 p.m., the lab called me. I'd had a routine blood draw on the previous Friday so my doctor could monitor certain of my prescriptions. I was told I needed to go immediately to the nearest emergency room for blood transfusions and to be prepared to stay a couple of days. I was acutely anemic and I was flabbergasted. I called home, tearful, and the Badger said the lab had called there. He gave them my work number. "Come home, Limes. We'll get you there."

Then commenced an afternoon, evening and night from hell. I was a basket case, the Badger was a bit of a zombie having had general anesthia that day, Mother Badger was a fierce advocate on my behalf. The hospital emergency room, at a good address in Las Vegas, was hideously overcrowded and I wasn't injured or actively bleeding, so we waited and waited until Mother Badger started to raise hell. I was finally seen by an army of phlebotomists, internal medicine specialists and I don't know what else. We'd been there 7 hours when I was shown to the gurney where I would spend the night in the hallway - it was the only place they had to put me. When the first unit of blood was started, the Badgers bid me good night and told me to call when anything was known. I wanted sleep that night, but it was difficult. I clenched my purse between my knees beneath the blanket and closed my eyes, turned toward the wall so complete strangers wouldn't see me in my sleep as they walked by.

At dawn, I'd been given enough other peoples' blood to put me back on the "living" list, had been monitored, given a light breakfast. All the health care providers agreed I needed to be admitted to determine what had caused such anemia, but there was no room at the inn for me. I called home and the middle aged man and the elderly lady set out to pick me up. I was damned glad to see them, and choked up while sipping at my orange juice. They carried me home and we all settled into exhausted sleep.

When we met at the kitchen table around noon, Mother Badger said she'd had a call from the young woman who tended to her cat and home when she travels. It looked like someone had been in the house and burglarized her! She was distressed - we all were - and it was decided we'd open gifts and share our holiday meal that night so Mother Badger could drive home the next day. Not the way any of us intended the holidays to look, but we had to deal with all of it. Arriving at home, Mother Badger called to say she had been burglarized, and likely by a young man acquainted with the woman who was hired to watch her home.

I napped and rested - I needed to. At one waking, the Badger asked me to look at the computer monitor. "Look at the temperatures! Let's go camping, Limes." I didn't want to, readers. I didn't feel up to loading food and camping gear and clothes and . . . . "I'll do most of it, Limes. I'll just need help with things I can't do with my hand." He did, too! Although I am big on splitting the tasks 50/50, that time he did the lion's share of the work.

He drove and I napped in the car. We arrived at the place we'd never visited before, and stepped out into balmy air, clear, sunny, blue skies. The weather readings had been correct - it was warm. We spent a few days there in quietude and warmth. He hiked and I hiked when I could. We discovered an unlikely, misplaced swamp in the transition between the Mojave Desert and Death Valley. No, it wasn't a mirage. I know reeds and waterfowl when I see them. We found old mining structures and became familiar with the most glorious series of sand dunes to climb and hike.


But it is the solstice moon that draws me the most strongly. For in this place at this time of year, that moon squirts up over the mountaintop just about the time I am cooking dinner on the Coleman stove. It presents all fire and opalescence, lighting up the terrain as it rises, the time being not-quite-light and not-quite-dark. We always "ooooh" and "aaaaah" ~ "Badger, can you capture it on digital?" He can. He does.


This will be the third solstice camping in four years. Although on one trip, we found the beautiful gift of an out-of-place little violet flower on top of the dunes, it appears we will be more challenged later this week. First we had the possibility of rainshowers. That has diminished. It will be colder than we are used to in this spot. But it will still be quiet and it will still be beautiful and one can enjoy all of that with just a few more warm layers. I'll roll out of the car and be cradled in the embrace of the dunes. There we talk. There we enjoy our fire. There we read and refuel our empty tanks.

Happy Holidays, everyone ~ I hope you spend them in the ways that mean the most to you. Peace on Earth. Good Will to Everyone.

Photo credits for the real LimesNow and the last three photos above: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: Still Cyndi Lauper and Peter Kingsbury singing Walk Away Renee. In the new year, I'll seek out a 12-step program.

Something that charmed me: Tag just e-mailed me the damnedest thing I've ever seen. He suggests it might be "Limes Now". I submit I haven't worn that mustache for years!



Photo credits for THAT LimesNow: NOT J. D. Morehouse. And I'm NOT that LimesNow.