Sleeping Under the Stockings

It has been a while since I have put pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard. No excuses except perhaps that life has gotten in the way of doing things.  Wanting to pay bills, so we work, wanting to share what we have with our son and others so we work. I will admit to being tired, cranky at times when I can't get around to doing things that I like to do.  So on this Christmas eve, I give you this small gift, a short story of magic, faith and hope.  It was written many years ago.  Enjoy and Merry Christmas to everyone or a least have a good day.  

Sometimes the amount of excitement was so strong, that no coaxing could convince the children to crawl between the blankets.  It was after all, the magical night, the night before Christmas. Tired parents placed cozy blankets around the three children as they sat close to the glory of the dazzling tinseled tree.  There was no fire in the fireplace tonight for the children had begged for the jolly elf’s sake.   The house was warm for the fire had burned brightly all day.  In a second room, a pot-bellied black stove was banked and it would warm the house throughout the night.

            Stockings were hung on sturdy nails that were driven into the mantel.  Each one had been carefully knitted by grandmother with loving hands.  A plate of tempting molasses popcorn balls were placed on a three-legged wooden stool which sat close to the slowly cooling fireplace.  Carrots and apples sat on the floor, ready for the magical spirit to take to his waiting reindeer. 

The mother and father kissed their beloved little girl and two boys, wishing the nodding heads sweet dreams.  The gas lights on the walls were turned down.  The soft remaining light gave the silvery clad tree a mystical beauty.  A beauty that seemed to grow and fill the room.  The sandman quickly took the children to the perfect dreamland. 

            Emily was first to awaken in the stillness of night.  She gazed at the beautiful tree and looked to see that the popcorn balls were safe on the wooden stool.  The room was glowing softly from the feebly burning gaslights on the walls.  The moonlight shone gently through the wooden pane windows to rest on the floor and rugs.  Emily stared at the moonlight coming in the windows and suddenly she sat up and rubbed her eyes with wonder.  In the moonlight, sitting on the floor was a small angel.

            Emily reached over to her right and pinched Ben awake.  Then she turned over to her left and pinched Shawn to wake him.   When that did not work, she pulled on his arm to shake him.  Both boys were groggy.  Emily whispered to them to be quiet and she pointed to the angel who was still sitting on the floor.

            The angel was glowing.  As the angel glowed the room became brighter and brighter until it was nearly as bright as the day. The angel was humming, softly as a light breeze through the tall lilacs that stood by the side of the house.  Standing up, the angel started to pirouette about the room and in the soft moonlight.  The children were entranced by the lightness of the angel’s movements and without knowing it they began to dance by the side of the heavenly being.  Their hearts were so light and filled with happiness that without knowing it, the children started floating in mid-air.   

 They continued to dance for quite some time until the angel stopped with a sigh and sank into a graceful pile on the floor.  The children collapsed breathlessly next to the glowing creature of heaven. Carefully, Emily reached out her hand to touch the cheek of the angel.  The blessed being, laughed and stood up.  Then bending over, the angel kissed each of the children on the tops of their heads.  Placing a finger on its lips and nodding its head, the angel beckoned to the children to follow across the room to where the nativity scene was displayed on a low table by the window.  The lovely presence pointed to glowing display which sat in the moonlight.

Before the children’s eyes, the tiny figures became alive.  The figures started to grow until the room was filled and Emily, Ben, and Shawn watched with joy as Mary held in her arms the holy child.  Joseph, stood by her side, and welcomed the three wise men with their gifts.  In the stable, the soft lowing of cows and the bleating of the goats and sheep echoed the joy of the angelic choir that was softly singing Hallelujah.

It seemed to the children that the room had disappeared and that they were truly at the stable where the child slept peacefully in the manager where his mother Mary had placed him.  As they looked to the sky, the children saw the glory of the shining star of Bethlehem above the stable where the child was born. They kneeled in the straw with the angel at their side and gave the pure prayers of children in worship to God.  Their little hearts were filled with the holy love and joy of God.  The heavenly choir’s songs of joy grew louder and filled the children to the brim with peace.

The scene before the children grew dim, the holy figures grew small, and the nativity display sat once more upon the table in the soft moonlight.  The angel led sleepy children back to their beds on the floor and gently placed blankets about them.  Quickly, the little ones fell back to sleep and the angel kissed each one upon their foreheads. 

The divine angel stood up, and glowing into a brilliance that flooded the room began to fade away.  As the loving being faded away, the angel turned to the fireplace and winked at red clad gent who was leaving his wares beneath the tinseled tree and to those who were sleeping under the stockings.

Creating with Sticks

Creating with Sticks 

            We are always creating the world around us. Starting in the morning with the first cup of coffee or tea to get one’s self going before facing the day.  I am a laggard in this process.  Oh, I start off well with great ideas of doing this or that, working on such and such but somehow in the very act of living my day to day I get lost.  Weekends seem to be the best time for me as I get worn down from my work week and somehow my little brain has a tendency to shut down once I get home. 

            I remember the time that both my husband and I came home, threw off our coats and shoes and headed for the couch.  I spooned behind him with my back snug against the cushions of our brown plaid couch. We slept. When we woke up, we had been joined by our big black cat Puck who had found that his mother snuggled behind his father made a perfect little niche for sleeping in so he had positioned himself in the comfort of our warm bodies.

            There was no great creativity going on that night as we stumbled from the couch into the kitchen with bleary eyes and minds that were not functioning on all burners. My husband opened a cupboard door, pulled out a can of baked beans.  We opened them up, ate them cold and then after brushing our teeth crawled into bed. 

            I have started a new project with the help of my mom-in-law.  I have decided to learn how to knit the lovely scarf pattern that she uses so much for most of my winter scarves.  I have an idea to knit a scarf or two for some of my dear friends for the season.  If you are one of them reading this blog, don’t get your heart set on a new scarf quite yet.  I have ripped it out three times so far.  As my mom-in-law said to me. ”Oh, you don’t have time for that.” I am still hopeful to at least get my scarf completed before the month is out.  We will see.

            As always, when working on an idea for a blog, I try and take my camera everywhere I go just in case I find an opportunity for a quick picture that might work.  It saves me having regrets later as I mourned a lost moment because my camera was left sitting on the table or on the counter at home.  When we went to eat at our favorite spot, the restaurant Café Mundo, I found that I was indeed happy that the camera was with me.  Sitting at a table next to us was a group of five women who were busy with their various projects, knitting, stitching in their laps.  I have long gotten past being shy about asking for things, it can happen but unless you ask? Well, I explained to the women that I write a blog and would like to take a picture.  I told them that I don’t do faces because I like to keep things private but that I would like to take a picture of the table for an idea that I was working on. Thankfully, they consented and I worked on a few shots.

            One of the women shared that they had been sitting working at another table one day and a man came up and commented that it was surprising to see them not sitting and texting as most people seem to do now days.  I agree with him.  I am with an age group that when you are with someone, you are with someone. You look at them, you listen to them and when you have an idea or comment you share with them.  You might think of that as creativity. I do. Whenever I open my mouth to comment, share or voice something that is going on in my mind, I have created a moment that can never be changed, never taken back but probably with the space of time passing, I will forget the details, the nuances, and the great attraction that held my mind at the time.

            I hope to remember so that I can draw a more crooked line, color outside the edge of a drawing, and really taste the food that I am eating which is passing into  a new stage of creation in my body.  But now I can only hope that somehow creating with sticks will get me a nice warm scarf before the cold winds come.

            

From Summer to Winter

From Summer to Winter  

            I had an idea for one of my blog regarding taking pictures of my blue hat with the pink purse hanging on the back of various doors in my travels somewhere along the lines of the bathrooms that I have been in, behind closed doors, waiting in line, afraid to sneeze, and I think that I drank too much tea. 

            Today as I was in another of the little rooms, I found my little mind wandering after I had taken care of business.  It occurred to me as I sat draining all of the tea of the morning letting it tinkle into the pristine white bowl that suddenly, quite suddenly, the weather had changed from summer to winter over the span of a few days.  Ordinary, it creeps up on us with a different scent in the morning air, with leaves falling, pumpkins growing deep orange in the fields while fields of cornstalks start to turn brown.

            For me, this morning, it was my black winter raincoat hanging on the hook of the stall that I was in with the pink purse hanging with it.  It was an “ah” moment. After putting myself back together. I put the lid down on the toilet, unzipped my purse and pulled out my camera. Well, so much for inspiration as I backed myself into the corner of the stall, hoping that no one was next to mine wondering why my feet were so close to the back wall as I struggled to get the right angle, the complete picture of both the black coat and the pink purse.  I did worry about how I was going to straddle the toilet hampered as I was with a very small closed space, fortunately, I was able to achieve what I needed. 

            When I shared my adventures with my husband and mother-in-law as we sat waiting for a table at a local restaurant, she remarked that I was a strange one but after thirty-five years of knowing me it did not really surprise her too much.  After all, I am still packing out our bathwater to water my poor water starved trees and bushes under the drought conditions that we are experiencing.

            This morning I was awoken by a drip, drip of moisture going down a drainpipe outside of my bedroom window.  No, it did not rain and the drought is not over so I will be packing the bathwater out to water the roses this morning. Fortunately for us, we get the mist from the ocean air to dampen the ground occasionally.  It is not enough. So despite the appearance of my black winter raincoat hanging with the pink purse in a bathroom stall while I made my water, we haven’t quite reach winter and the rains that we often get.  We haven’t even achieved fall yet despite the turning of the leaves of some of the trees from green to brown.  That is an effect of no water, no rain.

            One of the things that took me by surprise when I was brought to Oregon by my then soon to be husband to plan our wedding was how green everything was.   When we got off of the plane in Eugene, Oregon, it was green everywhere.  We had left from Idaho in March from snow on the ground and where it was bare, dull, brown dead grass peeking through where the snow had melted. As we continued to travel to my husband’s parents’ house on the Oregon coast, it continued to be green everywhere and flowers, there were flowers, Daffodils everywhere cheering up the world with their bright yellow blooms.  I felt as if I was in a different world, a world of make-believe.

            My make-believe world has turned brown, parched and wasted by fire in some places.  In many ways, it is a reflection, a mirror of what can happen in our hearts, our minds.  We are bombarded by the media, the people in our community, by the family in our lives.  I find myself sometimes surrounded by the lack of summer in the world around me, instead winter seems to be everywhere. But as always, I bundled up in my black winter raincoat, sling the long strapped pink purse over my shoulder and head out to face my summer fading into winter with a smile on my face. 

Defensible Space

Defensible Space

It is strange or is it predictable that common place things have taken on a different meaning.  Freshly plowed fields that use to hold the promise of new life in the spring now bring up the thought – defensible space.   The plowed fields of the brown upturned earth surround stands of oak, maples, and alders among the fields and the farmhouses, sheds, and barns are equally protected by the dirt of the fields.  Defensible land.

Our minds are shaped by our environment and with so many fires burning grasslands, hillsides, timber, businesses and homes all we can do now is pray. I pray, I tense up when I hear sirens wailing in morning, the day and the night in the town that we live in.  I have always prayed for the emergency workers, police, and firemen who serve us when we go about our daily lives. It is the least that I can do.

We are surrounded by forest on all sides but one –the Pacific Ocean. I pray that we don’t get the 9.0 earthquake that they are predicting for the Oregon coast as we stand on the beach looking East watching the fire burn. It might be our only haven from a fire storm.

When traveling to Portland, Oregon to pick up our son, large information signs on the way on I-5 displayed “Extreme Fire Danger Use Caution” in yellow letters.  Worrisome, yes. The fire haze of smoke rings the valley and blocks the intensity of the sun burning down.  There will be no sighting of the dormant sleeping volcano, Mt. Hood which sticks up out in all her glory on a clear day.

Now that is a good idea for a disaster story.

The smoke haze filled the valley. It was another hot day with nothing to alleviate the fears and worries of more fires in the foothills, grasslands and forests surrounding Portland, Oregon that nestled beneath the dormant volcano of Mt Hood.  The local news had reported that in addition to the continued development of more smoke hovering in the valley, a heat warning was in effect for the rest of the week.   At the tail end of the broadcast was a footnote of a series of small earthquakes centered in Mt Hood.  They had been so deep that no one had noticed.

Cars, trucks, vans filled I-5, I-84 and I-205 with a lone motorcyclist weaving in and out of the ever slowing traffic but it was still moving. A married couple was heading to the airport to pick up their son who had flown in from New York City to escape the August heat. A man cursed in his car as he spilled his Starbucks, a mocha latte into his lap.  He was already late for work, thankfully, his pants were dark.

Jenica’s dogs stated barking wildly, two German Shepard dogs and then they suddenly stopped, standing still, listening.  Squirrels, she thought and continued to place her cell phone in her purse, noting that she had forgotten to charge it again. No worries, she would plug it in when she got to the gift shop where she worked at the base of Mt. Hood.  She was too involved to notice the slight rumbling under her feet as she ran to her car.

It was going to be a good season for the grapes, Martin thought as he gazed out onto his fields of growing grapes. He couldn’t see Mt Hood today through all of the smoke haze from the forest and range fires further west of Portland otherwise he might have wondered whether the plume of white was smoke or steam.  Whatever, it was, it was growing. A slight tremor shook the mountain. It had appeared overnight, causing snow around it to melt and run down the one slope of the mountain. It remained invisible becoming one with the smoke haze. 

Mary heard the clicking of the seismograph as the needle moved across the page, generally she ignored it and would wait for it to finish measuring the small barely registering tremors around Mt. Hood.  But today, she was bored for once and walked over to see the readings, 1.7, 1.3, 2.0, 2.3, 2.7, the depth ranged more than 3 miles down. The mountain was busy this morning.

The couple who picked their son from the airport was on I-205 heading home, the mom texted and called friends and grandma letting them know that they were heading home. Yes, they would be having lunch in Corvallis, picking up corn, peaches and tomatoes at the Saturday Farmers Market.  Getting bread from Great Harvest bakery.  It was warming up in the valley but they had air-conditioning in the car.

It was just before 11 am, Jenica turned onto I -5 heading towards work.  She thought about her phone and wished that she had charged it the night before.

The motorcyclist was still weaving in and out of traffic on I-5, he glanced to where Mt. Hood should be. Damn, these fires. The beauty of the mountain was one of the reasons that he had moved to the Northwest.  His bike jumped a little as he maneuvered around several cars until he was forced to stop along aside a double load semi-truck on one of the interstate bridges.  He saluted the driver, thankful for the shade that the big truck provided. The driver raised his hand in a half-salute in acknowledge of his jacket which displayed Airborne.

The bridge shook slightly, he glanced off the bridge seeing a large truck with a heavy load of boulders rumble by underneath.  The bridge shook again after its passing. He shrugged and hope that today wasn’t the day that the old bridge decided to collapse.  There had been a lot of coverage in the news lately about the inter-structure of the nation’s bridges. Still the biker wished that traffic would move and get him off of the bridge.

I am sure that you can run away with this little study in fiction.  Go for it.

It never surprises me anymore about the different directions that my little mind can wander off to but what is annoying is my lack of time to run down each little path that presents itself.   What do other minds do when traveling on the road?  I am always glad not to be driving, I prefer to gaze at the countryside, drinking in everything.  Sometimes, I have great philosophical discussions with myself, often asking my devoted husband to help solve deep involved theories that somehow managed to take root briefly in my head as we travel 65 miles an hour to wherever we are going. 

Right now, I am praying for rain, a gentle one that will last for more than a few minutes. I am praying for no wind, I am praying for the comfort of those who have lost much.  It is still all that I can do hiding in my own little defensible space in my mind where I can for the moment believe that I am safe.

Waking up to Santa

Waking up to Santa

            You know how you can get struck by a moment. You walk around a corner and there you are being walloped by an unexpected awareness of something that was lurking before you but you were blissfully unaware of its beauty, change or of the memories that suddenly jump to the surface of your mind.

                I had that moment a week ago when my husband and I were getting ready to go to the valley to have the Honda’s oil changed.  The light was just right, the angle and tilt of his head as he stood in the kitchen fixing his cereal caused me to exclaim in my mind, it is Santa.

                First, an explanation.  My sweet husband is growing out his beard for a play that he will be performing in this coming fall.  It has been a long time since he has had a beard.  Usually, it is quite red as all the men in his family have red beards even though their hair on the top of their heads is more of a sandy blonde or light brown.  Well, it has been a long time and now the red has faded away and is being replaced by white or grey. He is still quite handsome as far as I am concerned and as for him looking more like Santa, just perhaps there will be more presents under my Christmas tree this year.  It is something to think about even though it is only August.

                It does remind me that we are both fading away in some respects.  Certainly, I have developed an awareness of my growing limitations while hauling out my bathwater to the roses, shrubs and little tree. I ache more, I go more slowly carrying the water through the yard alongside of our house to the waiting plants.  I don’t worry about a misstep on the grass but it hovers in the back of my mind along with all of the other worries either real or imagined.  At any rate, I move slowly, making sure each step is a firm placement on the earth.

                I am reminded by what an old woman told me in a moment of lucidity from the depths of her dementia and I quote somewhat hazily.  She said that she did not know what was worse, losing your mind or your body.  As for her mind, in her moments of not asking the same question over and over again, she was aware and was deeply bothered by it until she wandered away, lost without thoughts about who she was, who I was and where she was. 

                As both my husband and I continue to age, we can only hope that we keep what we got, make it to the next day remembering that we have had a great life, a great love and as for waking up to Santa, I still can’t wait until Christmas.

Staring Again

Starting Again

When I talked to my husband about how I was worrying about not working on my blog, he told me not to push it but to wait until I had something that I want to talk about.  It seems that I have a thousand and one things to talk about but my mind is scattered here and there without a haven to land in.  Even now, I am struggling with this new computer, finding that when I wanted to work that I could not find Word to start my document, that my husband is still sleeping and since the move of stuff during the re-carpeting of the house, the arrival of the new couch and bookcases that I can not find paper to write on.  Thankfully, I remember that my blog has a writing program so here I am early in the morning when I could be sleeping in working on the blog.  Well, it is something.

I wore myself out yesterday.  I was hauling out the bathwater to water the new grass that the neighbors planted between us.  It seems that all of the West coast is in a drought as well as the rest of our state.  It hurts me to place my body in the pure, crystal water to scrub off the imagined filth of my body.  I hate to watch the still nearly clear water drain down in its whirlpool fashion when I know that the lawns, the trees, and forests around us are parched with the lack of moisture.

My hauling out the bathwater is an involved process since the putting in of new carpet.  No shoes on the carpet so as I pad in just my socks to the bathroom, dip my small saucepan into the water, fill up the blue mixing bowl, walk to the door, put on my shoes and out the door I go. I wonder is it all worth it. The roses seem to think so.  Sighing, 

I return time and time again to fill up my mixing bowel, put on my shoes and head out the door.

My project has gotten easier since my husband found a watering can in the garage.  I place it on the brown grass so that if I spill a drop or two of the precious moisture it will fall onto the brown damping it into a deeper shade of brown.

I found myself feeling greatly troubled when my husband drained my tub one morning as I was preparing to get ready for work. I went to the kitchen to grab my blue mixing bowl and went to find out that my water was gone. I stood in shock, wondering if I had time to strangled my husband before getting to work.

I am sure that the roses would have been fine but I told my husband as his punishment, he would have to water the new grass with the hose.  With the hose, I was horrified. Pure, fresh water and my water bill climbing before my eyes.  After all, one of the reasons for hauling out the bathwater was to save on my water bill.  

Yesterday,  when my man came into the kitchen where I had been cooking vegetables for the week, he declared that he needed lots of room to work in and his eyes went to the big kettle that I had boiled the corn in.  It was full of water.  "I need that," he declared.  The water was still too hot to place on the plants outside so I told him to pour it into the bathwater.  He had just had an a late afternoon bath after working in the yard pruning some bushes. Once again, I didn't want to waste the water by sending it down the drain. Dutifully, he carried the water to the tub to mix and cool with the rest of the water before returning to the kitchen to begin making seafood fettuccine. After he had dumped the water from the corn into the tub, I told him that I wished that we had used the same water to cook the pasta. He remarked that would have been a good idea. I heard the pasta water going down the drain later, thinking that we should have poured it into another kettle to cool until it could go on the potatoes but oh, well.

It is hard to remember that I should get a bowl out to catch the water when I am just rinsing my hands or the fruit and vegetables. Sometimes afterwards, I remember and cringe at the waste.  I mention to my husband that our son who will be coming home for a visit will have to get use to the new rules about water usage in our house.  I asked his father what he thought that our son would think when he found out that he would be hauling out his bath water.  Maybe, less baths?  

Someone asked me why I didn't put a hose out of my bathroom window.  I told them that it would defeat the purpose.  It is an exercise for both my body and mind.   But after yesterday, I am thinking that it is mostly exercise for my body.  I asked my husband to drain the rest of the water in the tub so I would not be tempted to do just one more trip, to water just one more plant or tree.

Still it is my contribution to the world who doesn't even know it except for the small fairies, and other spirits of the trees who I imagined are smiling at me.  Perhaps, the little wisp of a breeze on my hand is actually a gentle kiss of those we cannot see saying thanks.

  

The Awesomeness of the Day

The Awesomeness of the Day

            Sometimes it is hard to realize just how wonderful everything can be, at least for a moment if we are lucky.  I really dislike not feeling well and I succumbed to the insidious yuck that has been attacking everyone around me.  I put up a good fight but in the end on a Friday morning after taking my bath, eating my granola with almond milk poured over it, I put back on my white flannel nightgown with the little angels dancing all over it.  After being cuddled in its warmth, I called my supervisor, left a message on the main phone at work and went to bed to sleep after I had worked on stopping the faucet that was my nose long enough to crawl into the comfort that was my bed.  I slept all day getting up to eat some soup that my husband bought home from the Co-op.  I asked for two containers of soup whatever they had and was content to eat one for lunch and one for dinner. 

            I really was out of it because I do not nap during the day, nope, can’t, though there are times when I see my man snoozing on the floor with a sneaker under his head at any time of the day that leaves me wishing that I could sink into the depths of sleep so easily as well.  I can try it by crawling into my bed, snuggling under various quilts and knitted panels of love crocheted into a warm cream threaded afghan but as I rest there, my mind travels rapidly onto the oddest things, like the endless calculating of how quickly I can pay off my house, whether or not the 9.0 earthquake will hit before I get the house paid off and how will the insurance work with no place to be. Yes, I have earthquake insurance. If the big one hits I will have no water, no sewer, no power and no pot to piss in but I have insurance.   

            I have found it difficult to get back into writing this piece which I started in March 2015 and now it is June 2015.  The only reason that I am sitting here in front of my computer with fingers on the keyboard is that my husband has told me that it is time to blog hence the writing of whatever comes into my mind.  Oh, yes, the fact that I have peanut butter cookies to look forward to is extremely motivating.  Just maybe it is good to take time off from a project to have a chance to look at where you might be going with it.  This whole blog has been a project, a way to work on my writing, trying different things, combining essays, poetry, and storytelling into a workable method of communicating ideas that frequently pop into my mind. 

            Back to when I was sick, I was near frantic with hoping to get rid of the grunge before traveling to see my younger sister who was at the time diagnosed with ALS.  Fortunately, I was able to travel, able to visit various family members, returning home with a sense of gratitude that my little woe of a week in bed was just that a week of being stuck in the house, unable to go to work, see friends, or do anything except for resting in the bed.  But seeing my family gave me a great sense of well being, thankfully my younger sister has a new diagnosis, it is at least, something that we can all live with a bit of hope as the doctors now believe that she has a form of Parkinsonism that is treatable though she will still have many difficulties in just getting though a day of living.  I found out that we are all suffering from many different ills but are still moving around or trying to as we wake up in the morning to greet the awesomeness of the day.

            Really, it is all that we really can do, isn’t it?

When the Wind Blows, the Fence Comes Down

When the Wind Blows, the Fence Comes Down

            You can look and look at something in your life daily and not really see any changes, any meaning or growth then bam an event happens that either gets your attention or you shrug it off.  I am happy without big calamities in our lives.  Both my husband and I like calm and quiet in our life.  Our great adventure today was going to the beach for our daily walk.  We haven’t been on the beach for over a year and while this may sound tragic to some people since we only live five minutes away but we did not move here to be going to the beach a lot.  We moved here because I was pregnant with our son, my husband did not have a job and his mom and dad thought that moving into their house was a good idea all around until the baby was here and their son had a job.  Needlessly to say, we have never moved away from the coast.  We have put down roots we bought a house and after many years of working at various jobs we now have permanent jobs with retirement benefits.  Sounds good, doesn’t it?

            Ah, but it is on days like we are having today with sunshine, a warm temperature and no wind on a February day that causes small undefined events to happen in my heart, my mind and soul.  I long for the days when I can get up in the morning when my body awakens from its slumber in a leisurely manner and after taking time for petting the cat who believes that a great deal of attention is warranted after a night of deprivation, helping myself to a nice cup of green tea, a bit of time reading while sipping my tea with a walk added in after some consideration of whether or not the page turning can be interrupted by such a foolish notion as preparing something to eat before heading out the door.

            My husband is currently in rehearsal for another play and I have to admit despite the great comfort I received from his presence in the house, I am still somewhat happy to see him head out the door to do something other than catering to my needs, desires and projects.  I am trying to broaden my horizons, putting together a new puzzle, working on learning how to do crossword puzzle (I pick up a book on the easiest crossword puzzles for beginners, I am pleased to announce that I am smarter that I thought I was in working on the puzzles, I just wish that I had more time). 

            Really, it all comes down to time.  When you work at an eight to five job, your morning is quite busy with paying attention to the alarm clock (mine sleeps under a heavy towel, the tick, ticking annoys me).  After the clock’s alarm rings, it is a routine of checking to see if we can go walking for our daily mile walk depending on the weather until returning home for my morning tonic drink of hot lemon water, honey, cayenne pepper, ginger and turmeric.  My husband starts running water for doing the dishes, making his tea while I peel the banana, orange to begin our breakfast.  I won’t bore you with the rest of making breakfast, taking our baths, and getting dressed just be assured that somehow we make it out the door to work. 

            In between all of this routine, is the reading of the many books that I have placed on the dining room table as well as my tablet with a kindle book on it.  It seems that it is the only time that I get to read in a day is at mealtime.  Five minutes here and there with lots of regrets as I head out the door to work leaving various characters to rest on the unturned pages until I returned.  Ah, being retired is somewhat wasted on the older generation and the young, well, so many now have their eyes glued to their cell phones, texting as they walk down the streets, listening to I-pods without realizing that the trees that they passing are waking up with new buds on their bare branches or the simple beauty of white clouds passing in the sky.  I have my doubts that they read or have any deep philosophical thoughts.   

            I realized that I was part of the group that was ignoring the magic of what was happening around me when we were walking on the beach this lovely February morning.  I was caught up in worrying about sneaker waves coming in through the tide was heading out, my husband reassured me about the tide before we got on the sandy beach.  I was timid on climbing on the rocks as I watched the waves partially surrounded us.   On the return walk back to the car, I found myself relaxing more and more as I breathe the salty tinged air of ocean spray.  I was lulled by the waves coming onto the shore.   They bought memories of growing up on the main Salmon river in Idaho where the rush of water was constant, tumbling loudly in the spring when swollen with the run off of melting snow, twisting and turning along the banks in the summer with a slowness that comes with a river that had been partially drained off for irrigation of the various farmers’ fields that line the sides of the river. There were orchards of plums, apricots, cherries, peaches and vast plantings of the famous Idaho potatoes along the river, all which drink up the water of the Salmon River as it runs to join the Columbia.  

 The ocean has moods just as the river with the seasons, varying with the time of day and the temperature of the air that surrounds it. I have been constantly amazed by the ocean’s colors, power and changes of its surface and waves.  I have always had an overpowering sense of what my father called the God Almighty that seems to fill my soul whenever I walk on the shore.  I know that happened today while we walking on the shoreline.

            Once again, why don’t I do it more often?  Work, exhaustion, for sometimes when I get home, I know that if I sit down for a moment I am lost, completely.  There have been days when I just want to go to bed and I do.  I don’t care if it is five thirty or seven o’clock.  My mind shuts down, my eyes refuse to function, my stomach tells me that breakfast in the morning is good enough and I skip dinner as I tumble to bed.  My husband worries enough that there are times that he does work on making me something to eat to encourage me to do so, at those times, I become an automatic thing that lifts morsels of sustenance to my mouth for processing.   

            Back to unexpected events happening in our lives.  I watched the leaning of the corner of our backyard fence during one of our rain and wind storms, I pointed it out to my dear husband who took advantage of a break in between storms to try and prop up the fence with boards pushed against it.  While doing so, he decided to check out the sump pump under the house which did not seem to be running.  After crawling in 8 inches of chilly water, he determined that the sump pump had a great crack in it and we needed a new one.  I helped him by running him a hot tub, getting him a hot cup of tea and letting him know that I was calling around to find a new one.  I located one in Corvallis, an hour’s drive from our home.  While he was soaking in the warmth of the hot water to chase away the chill of his adventure beneath the house, I told my husband that we were driving to the valley to a Home Depot to pick up the sump pump and whatever else he needed.  He did not argue. 

            The next day was a holiday and my husband spent it getting the sump pump out of the box, reading the instructions and planning out his attack.  I went for a lovely hour massage.  He had worked a bit on gluing fittings the night before and while I was gone (he informed me when I got home) he decided to make sure that the pump worked so in the comfort of our kitchen, he placed the pump in a clean bucket of water and turned it on.  He explained to me that the pump had worked, perhaps too well.  While I was suffering under the hands of my  masseuse, my sweet man was busy drying off the ceiling, cupboards, floor and walls of the kitchen where the bursts of water from the sump pump had landed.   I was thankful that I had missed the event and was only present for the telling of the tale.  

            On a cold January day, I stood in the doorway of the garage watching my man strip down to his underwear, shivering when he put on the cold icy wet clothes of pants, sweatshirt, socks and shoes from the day before that he had taken off after crawling under the house in the cold water. I asked why he didn’t put on dry clothes, he answered because he was just going to get them wet again.  After he was dressed, I went back into the house, put on two more sweaters and turned up the heat in sympathy. I am all about sympathy and I was trying my best to be warm while he crept back into the cold water under the house.  I checked on his progress periodically with my hands gripping my hot cup of green tea as I peered toward the access way under the house where the comforting sounds of banging came.  

            After he had installed the new sump pump we both enjoyed watching the water stream into the gutter of our street. We turned to look at the propped up fence, sigh and called our contractor. The highlight of this project was a nifty flashlight that could wear on his head while he worked.  Some people get all the luck.

  Things come in three, right?  As I look back on it all, the warning light coming on in the car was not part of the pack of three. It was the washing machine that was starting to scream when it was spinning that started the ball rolling, followed by the fence being blowing down completely in a heavy rain storm that sported gale force winds and the sump pump that was cracked and had to be replaced so our house would remain dry.  You can look at it all philosophically as the outward manifestation of an internal turmoil in our hearts and minds but I think that you would be a long time looking for an internal source in either my husband or myself as both of us are pretty even minded and are luckily are generally filled with calm and peace. 

            I am not waiting for the next time the wind blows and the fence falls down to gather as much peace and happiness in my heart and mind.  It exists.  Not at the edge of my fingertips, or outside my door but in my heart where the divine spirit of everything dwells without any effort on my part, I just have to be.  

  

The Memory Hut or Ode to the Pirate in Soft Cat Paws

The Memory Hut or Ode to the Pirate in Soft Cat Paws

            There is a place in my mind that I call The Memory Hut.  It is where I go, open the door and walk over to an old battered oak chest of drawers that I keep there. Sometimes, I linger over a partially opened drawer with all of its bits and pieces, touching lightly with my fingertips, exploring, hovering over others telling myself not to go there but memories are like threads in a blanket or garment they hold things together, each is a unique stepping stone, a stopping place in our conscious or unconscious self, they come as they may and unravel without warning.

            These set of memories are called Puck.

I put you with your plastic bag

inside a ceramic pot to rest today.

I will wait until another tomorrow comes

when the salt has dried on my glasses

and having rinsed them to mingle with the ocean

I can pretend that you are purring on my lap.

            My husband and I have gotten through the days by telling ourselves that it was the right thing to do, to sit with you resting on the floor waiting for the light to go out from your eyes. But when we went home, we imagined that the shadows held you waiting to greet us, we heard your voice above the wind as we walked through the house.  While Vesta ate her meal, we heard your sounds at your feeding bowl that was now washed and put away so I would not see the memory of you sitting there.

            You decided that we were to be your home on a sunny July day.  I was not looking for another cat.  I had my Shadowfax at home. Even at barely four months old, you had a mind that told you that I was a sucker waiting, an easy mark, a warm lap with a steady hand and we went home.

            Your father named you after he had greeted you when he walked in the door saying, “Well, who are you?”  I told him that we had been to the Vet for shots so this small black stray of a kitten could find a good home.  My husband rolled his eyes, asking if I had stolen someone’s kitten, he said that we needed to find the owner.  You never left but you remained our running, leaping, purring, black shadow. 

            Butter was our friend when you ran up the tall pine tree outside by the driveway.  I worried, afraid that you would be stuck, cold and hungry throughout the night while you rested on a high branch.  While your father coaxed and encouraged your bright eyes to lead the rest of you to follow down the tree, I got butter on my fingers and called up to my brave climber, “Butter!”  You raced as quickly down the pine tree as up and your soft warm body was soon in my arms, purring and licking the butter from my fingers.

            You remained an explorer, climbing the rooftop of our home causing your mother to worry while my husband said that you had gotten up there and you would be okay.  I was anxious as the sun continued to set and the evening chill from the ocean crept closer to the house.

”You were a fireman, get a ladder and get him down.” I told my husband.

He did but only after he talked to you, our growing kitten.  You had raced across the shake wooden roof to the peak and peered down on my husband, your father standing on the ladder. Gazing with big yellow eyes in your black whiskered face, you listened.

“If you want to get down, you need to come over here to me.” My husband told you.

After a few moments, you, my small black Puck walked over to your father, letting him pick you up, going limp in his arms as he carefully climbed down the ladder, thus ended another day of adventures.

You longed for companionship and slept with Shadowfax, our soft gray and white long haired female cat (when she was asleep and didn’t know you were there). She didn’t like to play with you.  She didn’t share and barely tolerated the fact that you existed in her space.  But you were a bundle of love and energy that bounded about the house as when she was napping on my lap when the whirlwind that was you hit the couch three times including my lap and was gone leaving us both bewildered.

December came for our summer little black kitten with an artificial tree pulled out of long cardboard box.  I was prepared for when this little bundle of curiosity bit the plastic branches, cold water sprayed from the bottle, head shaking, you backed away and headed for another part of the tree. Two more squirts and you avoided the tree. 

But the strings of colored lights bouncing on the carpet as they were unwound enticed your quick black paws and sharp teeth.  Cold water streamed from the bottle in my hands until you tired of the game and left for a sunny spot to view the items of wonder coming out of boxes, taped up bags, and bins of plastic.  The tree was placed in the corner where it ruled supreme, ornaments dangled out of reach, an angel gazed down to bless the house.  We went to church for Christmas eve services, content that all was well.  

            When we returned, the Christmas tree was down and the Christmas angel was nowhere to be found. We laughed, the three of us, my husband, my son and I as we searched the house looking for an angel hiding in plain sight. 

            The years held so many memories of delight, amusement, and surprises that a growing kitten can bring to a house and home filled with those that love him. There are so many that I have decided that a partial list is better suited to the wonderment that was our kitten, our teenager, mature, stately grown-up  that continued his adventures into the age of old.

            Here is Puck’s list:

            Happiness is sitting on either the back or front porch with a friend but not too close, I am not that friendly, friends being other cats from the neighborhood.

            Getting my own kitten, mom decided because I was friendly with others that I could have a kitten.  Vesta, she is a small Siamese mix female named by my big human brother after an asteroid.

            I loved gardening with my mom in the yard, sitting in the sun, stretching out to have my belly rubbed. Rolling in the fresh dirt, it made my mom laugh and was guaranteed to get her to rub and pet me while she brushed the dirt out of my fur.

            Dad, he snores and sleeps in a room with me and Vesta while our mom dreams behind a closed door.  I woke him up with my claws held in while I poked at his nose.  It seemed to work.

            My mom has the warmest backside.  I loved to sleep on the couch underneath the blanket with her legs surrounding me, sometimes snuggling right against her bottom. Ah, Heaven.

            “Anyone want avocados?” My mom and dad discovered that I liked them when they forgot to put them away and could not find them in the morning.  Okay, they found parts of them or a nice neat little hole drilled to the brown seed with teeth marks all around.  Mom just cut around my work and she and my big brother ate the rest but Dad said, “No, way.”  Funny, because he is the one that was always cleaning the litter box for Vesta and me.   But everyone has buttons that they don’t like pushed. Oh, yeah.  Don’t do melons.  Believe me, I tried and my family is still trying to figure out how I got my teeth into it.  It was talent, just plain raw talent.

            Ah, food.  Pistachios, they were there on my first Christmas before the tree episode.  Hey, they were placed in a dish on the coffee table, I was there, they were there, my mistake, Mom was there.

            Beans, refried, have you ever noticed how when they are opened, they make a certain particular sound, not like tuna fish in the can sound but kind of a soft squish.  They were a favorite of mine that is all I am saying.

            I have a longer list but it is things that my mom and dad and big brother never shared but you can imagine, long days of sleeping in the sun, racing around the house with Vesta, climbing fences, hanging on rooftops with friends, visiting the neighbors for a snack.

Hey, I have moved on now and guess what, Shadowfax doesn’t hate me anymore.  I don’t miss my family because their love traveled with me.  After all, it is all we are, love.  Thanks, I had a good time. 

           

           

Altars and Gods, Goddesses and Waking up in the Silence

Altars and Gods, Goddesses and Waking up in the Silence

            I have an altar in my house. It sits upon a small oak bookcase on a hand-made white crochet doily that drapes partially down the front obscuring books that were read years and years ago.   I have a hand-made doll which is the center piece. It was created by a local artist.   She made the doll when I approached her one day telling her of the creature that I wanted for my altar.  She asked for a description of what I wanted.  My reply was that it was in my mind and that she would simply have to pull it out and when the time came she would know what my doll for the altar would look like.  She did not think that I was mad.

            I saw my friend several times before the doll came home, often she would tell me what a difficult time she was having because the doll had a mind of her very own and was not giving up very much at one time. I told her that I was not worried for I knew that she would be coming home to me at the right time. My faith was rewarded by a glorious creation coming home to me several months later.  She became a gift from my artist friend from the openness of her heart to my heart.  After tears and hugs, I held the doll in my arms then carefully replaced her in her lavender and white tissue papers for the journey home.

            I gaze at her daily at each of my mealtimes.  She is a bold reminder of my faith, my heart’s love and my mind’s belief.  She is surrounded by a wooden angel on one side (another gift from a dear friend) and with a small bronze statue of a woman on the other side. I bought the small statue one day when I was stuck by her charm.  The wooden angel sits and plays her harp while the bronze statue of a woman in a dress stands with her arms up gathering her long hair together. 

            Lest you think that all I have on my altar is images of women, I do have six Buddha statues ranging from being made of bronze, wooden, stone and some form of plastic made in China.  One little bronze statue of Ganesha (I find the Elephant God charming) and it is in honor of one of my friends who loves elephants.  The rest of my altar pieces are small metal pieces with inscribed with various words, for example, “Bless this House, Guardian Angel, Patience, Inspire and Wealth”.

            Each of the pieces serve as reminders as I go through my day, “Bless this House”, brings to mind that my body is my house for my divinity.   The Guardian Angel helps me to remember to help those who are in need and to allow myself to be cared for. Patience is for the knowledge to know that I cannot do it all, though I might want to and that everything comes in its own time to everyone. Inspire is to allow what I see in the world to fill my heart with joy because everything can inspire us if our eyes and hearts are open.  Wealth, for heaven’s sake, we have been given a whole world to play, to learn and be in. 

            The rest of my altar has various stones and crystals that have spoken to me.  They hang out among the Buddha Statues with the metal bits for company.  Two tapered red candles, one on either side of the doll.  I have an unglazed piece of pottery shaped like a heart with the word magic on its surface sitting in the crystal glass candlestick holder it touches the candle for company.  Another pottery piece shaped like angel glazed in white rests leaning against the other red candle.

            I have a new addition to my small place of worship.  A small wooden picture of an angel with tiny wings with the inscription “To every corner of the world: Peace & Joy.”  She rests against the doll.  Just another reminder of how things change as we add things to our world.

            I will admit that most of the time, I just sit and gazed at the altar without any thoughts of improving my mind, heart or soul.   I just enjoy looking. I have a painting on the wall that my husband had framed for me one Christmas.  He had handed the brightly wrapped package to me amidst the sounds of tearing of paper around us from our son as he tore open his presents.  I tore my paper off to find a framed painting. 

Me:  “You gave me, a painting.”

Him:  “Yes, I know”.  This statement was said with a pleased air.

Me:  “You gave me, a framed painting.”

Him:  “Yes, it is my favorite.”  Once again this was said with a pleased, happy air in his tone.

Me:  “You gave me, my painting framed.”

My husband remained smiling.  Needless to say, he could not have pleased me more than his simple act of getting one of my paintings framed so we could hang it on the wall instead of stacking it with others in the closet.   I am pleased with this particular painting as it symbolizes a great deal of my beliefs and philosophies.  I could share with you those ideas but instead I will let you gaze at the painting and allow you to find your own understanding.

            Finding our own understanding is where we all are on any given day finding altars, Gods and Goddesses and waking up in the silence.  We don’t need a special place or unique things to gather around us to worship, to gain real meaning, we just need that silence of the moment.