Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Two Socks Wandering the Streets

Or the case of the two black socks wandering the blocks.  For the past couple of weeks, I have been doing a random sock study which was imposed upon me by chance.  First, I saw a lost black sock laying on the pavement of one of the streets where I walked.  As I rounded the corner, down the sidewalk to the next block, its mate was sitting in the grass looking just as lost as the first one. They are nice socks, thick black with fuzzy tops which embrace the ankles.  I left the first one I saw resting quietly on the damp road, the thought coming to my mind that a child had lost their sock by taking it off to run barefoot in the grass but looking at the sock it seems to better fit an adult’s foot.  When I walked the next block, I found the mate waiting, gathering moisture from the air.  Two identical socks, lost without an owner living in the street. How lonesome must they be without each other to keep themselves company in the hours passing in the day and night.  

I am reminded of Robert Frost’s poem,” The Road Not Taken”, when I think of these two socks.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,”

My uncared for black socks are certainly diverged from one another.  I think about picking them up, putting them in the wash and wearing them whenever the mood suits me but they remain on the street waiting, continually getting damp, perhaps partially drying to be picked up by a wandering dog as it walks or runs down the street before moving to a different spot on a different block.  I can see a dog owner, telling a beloved pet to drop it, adding the moisture of a slobbery tongue and mouth to the dew of the night.

I am easily amused, my mother-in-law has commented on it numerous times.  I have a quirky sense of humor and the oddest things just seem to set me off until the man, my husband has to remind me when I am convulsing with laughter. ”Don’t hurt yourself”. This is probably why I find the socks migrating around on the streets so interesting and amusing.  I find myself looking around the corner willing the little bits of fabric to be somewhat along my path.

My mind races when I walk, sometimes with philosophical questions other times with mundane thoughts about a new recipe for dinner.  The man is resigned to beans.  I cook them nearly every week, he is lucky that I haven’t thought of the socks as road kill and bought them home to put them in the kettle for flavor.   Hard to digest? Probably. I know his limitations and someone else’s dirty socks is high on the list. 

I could write a short story about the mysterious socks.  See how they have metamorphosed from lost to mysterious? Hero or heroine? Night or day? Future or past or a blend of each?

The dogs were definitely on her scent and closing, stumbling to her knees, she drew off one of her socks to throw it several feet away.  It landed with an audible thud.  Not surprising with the amount of water that was in it.   Looking with what light was left in the sky, she jumped from where she had been several feet away to a large rain puddle wishing the whole time that she had a creek to walk in or at least more rain to wash all traces of her passing.  She continued her hopping from puddle to puddle leaving the one black sock sitting alone on the pavement.  Finding that the other sock was not helping she stopped pulled it off with frozen fingers and threw as far from her as she could.  She would miss them, the fuzziness, the warmth and just the comfort of having dry socks, she would miss them.  She continued hopping and stepping into the rain puddles without a backward glance.  The baying of dogs hovered in the air.

In all probability, the black fuzzy socks fell out of someone’s backpack on their way home from school.  Unless they were attached to the socks, I doubt that they were missed.  Except in the laundry where all socks disappear.  Mysteries, each day is a mystery to me.  Actually, more like miracles.  I am constantly amazed at me, just me.  I go to sleep, I wake up, I eat and do things.  Amazing.  The black socks on the street are not amazing.  They are just two socks wandering the streets but then I am just wandering the streets as well and I still can’t read the signs for I don’t know where I am going.  But it will be amazing.

French Toast without Syrup

French Toast without Syrup

I am sixty-four years old.  I shouldn’t be surprised but it has given me a reason to examine my lifestyle. I have had hopes to have myself in the state akin to the carnations still in bloom on my dining room table after these three weeks--long lasting, still looking good with some flexibility in my stems.

I am doing my stretching more frequently.  The other day I was greeted by my toes much quicker than previous tries. My knuckles resting on the floor I concentrated on holding the position while straightening my legs. I am working on holding the posture longer each time that I attempted it.  So far I have not passed out for which I am thankful as I sometimes stop in the hallway at work on my breaks and work on my stretching.  I would be very embarrassed for a co-worker to find me laying down on the job.  That is why I don’t do the exercises in the hallway by the defibrillator which sits in its box on the wall.  Yep, it would be very embarrassing to explain to everyone that it was a case of head rush and not a heart attack.

The man, my husband has stopped making cookies.  He loves cookies, I love cookies.  Cookies are my sugar downfall.  Before I thought about giving up most of the sugar in my life, I would mention to the man that I would like some cookies.   I would eagerly await the finished product which was generally peanut butter or his fabulous chocolate chip cookies and eat about six or eight fresh out of the oven.  It has been over a month since we have had freshly baked cookies in our house.  I have even told my favorite cookie vendor at the local Farmers’ Market that I have given them up though I still pick up a loaf of his honey wheat bread now and then.  We all have our vices.  The sugar (honey) in this case is still there but it is a lot less than the cookies that I love. 

Among the changes is just keeping up with the regular habits that I have.  I am a walker, I love to walk. I am particularly fond of heading out the door in the early morning in order to catch the birds chattering, trilling, and whistling their various calls through the air.  Often, I work on my affirmations while traipsing around and around the little track at the grade school close to my house. Because I walk so early I walk close to home just in case the hot cup of tea I drank is ready to come out.  One can never tell.

My husband and I have a wonderful relationship, I cook, I do the banking, handling the money from the pennies to the dollars, pay bills, organize vacations (lodging, air travel and whatever else is needed). Meanwhile, he cleans.  Just yesterday, he was busy in the kitchen, loading his dishwasher, sweeping and rubbing down the floor with his cleaning rag.  Me? I was busy sitting at the table.  I was reading and staying out of his way.  That is my main job.  I get out of the house while he vacuums, sometimes I am in the kitchen to help him by bringing him more dishes that he might have overlooked.  But for the most part, I make myself scarce. 

The other day, he mentioned that some clothes that I had taken off of the wooden clothes rack were still in the living room.  I giggled with some embarrassment, guilt and let him know that I would deal with them later.  Now for later, I removed a few strays from the wooden rack, threw the rest of the partially folded clothes into the wicket basket and headed for the bedroom.  I smoothed out the bed a little more and dumped the clothes onto the bed with a promise to myself to put them away.  Promises often go awry.

Bedtime. As I was in the bathroom, brushing and flossing my teeth, my husband put his head in the door and said, “Some clothing monster has thrown up on your bed.”

Ah, I knew in the back of the clutter which is my brain that I had forgotten something.  The man had gone into the bedroom to fetch the book we are reading to discover clothes covering the bed.  “Oops,” I replied.  Sighing he left, book in hand.

With the silence hovering outside the bathroom, I knew that he was patiently folding t-shirts, matching socks, and carefully putting it all in the dresser drawer.  Often, I wonder if he just suffers in silence, how much he minds taking care of his little wife who often doesn’t worry about getting the laundry put away, doesn’t bother to sweep the floor, and has no idea how to run the vacuum cleaner. 

I wonder about my self-worth as I really don’t seem to do much about the house.  Oh, but let’s not forget that I work a forty hour week sometimes coming home totally exhausted and thankful for all of the cooking that I or my husband did on the weekend. It is how we survive.

So I am not going to worry the things I don’t do.  I do thank the man for all that he does for me, for us and our life together. Having been together for nearly thirty-six years, my husband is good at reading my mind.  I was busy walking outside, leaving the house before he was awake on a Sunday morning. I came home to freshly made French toast.  I had thought about the toast while walking, wishing I had mentioned how nice it would be to have some with our fresh bread and fresh farm eggs.  But in the back of my mind I thought how is that going to work, no sugar, remember.  No lovely strawberry jam, blueberry or blackberry just to name a few of my favorites. However, I found out that French toast without syrup was glorious with the fresh bread.

Sometimes we just need to find the sweetness in life despite what we have given up.

  

Time for Writing Letters

Time for Writing Letters

I was out shopping—not with the greatness of spirit in the enterprise but more as an obligation as I had been talking to a little boutique owner about what she might have in her shop to suit me.  I was looking for a certain shade of green in a new sweater. My hopes were high.  So after grocery shopping with the man, eating a sumptuous lunch (freshly made sushi made just to order for me), freshly baked bread from one of the vendor at the farmers market, tasty Bing cherries and fresh picked strawberries; I was willing to head out.

But first about the sushi, really, it is who you know. Or perhaps, it is the perfect alignment of the planets, stars and some god or goddess who is bored looking down at the right moment waiting for something to do. I was simply looking at the sushi at the market and was asked if they could make something special for me if I could not find what I wanted. So after a bit of discussion, a decision was made. I was told to come back in ten minutes. The result.  It was probably the best sushi that I have ever eaten with the exception of some that I had in Japan.  It was proving to be a great day.

Back at home after finishing up my green tea I watched briefly my husband weeding in the yard.  I let him know that I was heading out to the boutique.  I live in a small town so parking about a quarter mile away from the shops I enjoyed the breeze coming off of the ocean while I walked to my destination of beautiful clothes, soft to the touch, lovely to look at and hopefully, something to take home.  I tried several blouses, one sweater which was the wrong shade of green to finally settled on a pair of black leggings with a soft skirt attached. Saying farewell to the wonderful staff at the store I started to amble towards my car.  I didn’t make it far.

I stopped in another small boutique of odd and ends, cards, ornaments, lotions, etc. to look at the various greeting cards which they had on display.  I picked out several only to place them back before leaving the store.  Why? I don’t like spending money on cards which are quickly tossed after someone received it.  Cards are fun, beautiful and thoughtful but it is like throwing your money away.  I still send them, I like getting them but today I was not interested in mindless frivolities or so I thought as I walked back to my car.

I should write some letters, carefully written out since so many of my family are getting old and reading someone’s poor penmanship is not necessary a good thing.  Finding a young person with good eyes is even worse since learning cursive writing in school has not been taught for years, I rather not frustrate and torture my elderly family members with the duty of looking for a handwriting interpreter.  I have a good hand in cursive if I just remember to slow down. Getting myself to work at a speed of 33 ½ rpm versus 45 rpm or 78 rpm is not too difficult (here I am dating myself, some of you will remember records and phonographs). 

After all, I stopped to gaze at clouds in rain puddles after a storm, I prefer walking outside without earplugs in my ears in order to hear the chatter, trills, and longing calls of birds early in the morning. I enjoy the silence of my house in the morning without the negative blaring of the television news, reality TV and other brain drain events.

I still write letters though not as often as I should.  After all, how many of us rush to the post to check on whether or not we will have received something other than a bill.  Even my bills come on line as I am practicing green measures when I can.  I have a policy: pay the bill when it appears in my email.  Before I used to line the letters up, put a date on them waiting until I could send a check out for payment.  Checks, I use them rarely.  Donations to the church, paying for our acupuncture treatments as he doesn’t bill insurance or take credit cards.

So what is a letter? Why should I write one? How do I begin?  For me, it is a note telling snatches of my life to another human being just to let them know I still exist.  I have one sister who is partially deaf.  I don’t call on the phone as it would be a disaster with my soft speaking voice combined with her hearing loss.  I write.  I pick up the paper, sometimes a card; search for a pen and just start telling her bits and pieces.  She writes to me. She tells me of her life unfolding in her home that I don’t even remember visiting except for the hot homemade cinnamon raisin bread thick with butter. I haven’t see her since I was a child, I was probably, possibly 15 years old.  Today, I am 64 years old.  I have written to her yearly at least 3 times a year.  She used to send birthday cards. 

It is getting close to another time for me to write to her, perhaps I will start my letter tomorrow when I have more to say after all, she only gets a few letters a year from me.  When you think of it that way, tomorrow has already started.  It is time for writing letters.

Flashes of Color

Flashes of Color 

I have a routine. In the morning when I get up, I push the curtain aside in the bathroom and gaze out the window. Looking into the sky, past the fences, the rooftops, I look to see what kind of weather I might be facing when I walk out the door.  Lately, the multi-colored climbing rose with yellow-orange blooms has been gazing back with its beauty. Regally satisfied, the roses sit on the branches, content to have their blossoms revealed at last. I have to look past the red rhododendron which has flowers at eye level to see the rose and beyond the rose to judge whatever might be happening in the sky. Not an easy task with the flowers that vie for attention.

As a rule, the sky is cloudy, overcast or sometimes entirely hidden by the fog that has formed and drifted in hiding the flowers, the world beyond my window. Fat drops of water linger on the rhododendron bush leaves until too heavy the water streams toward the ground.

However, yesterday morning, I was greeted by a rainbow in the western sky above the ocean. Excited, I ran through the living room with my naked body chilling in the air—looking for my camera, searching for my purse where my phone should be.  Opportunity was calling.  I tried taking pictures through the window of the bathroom, frustrated by the screen blocking the view, I hurried into the front bedroom and without regard for my neighbors’ sensibilities, I pulled up the blinds, standing naked with camera in hand I snapped several pictures before deciding to chance getting dressed to scurry out the front door.

The man was still sleeping, it was Saturday morning after all.  With complete disregard for his opportunity to sleep in for I was up, after all, awake, and heading out the door; I yelled to him “Get up, get dressed and get out here.”

Later on, I would realize the earliest of the hour when I and the dutiful husband came back in from viewing the wonder of a double rainbow in the sky.  It was just after five thirty in the morning. The day continued with showers, clouds highlighted by the sun and a chill in the air.  The rainbow was a memory, its flashes of color hidden again.

Maybe all memories are flashes of color. I know that many of my memories have been washed off the canvas, painted over with only a dash of crimson, cerulean blue, or true black showing through.  I can’t say that I want the ones that I remember hanging in a gallery waiting for a viewing. Why? How personal are they? Or do I think that they just are not too interesting?  Definitely not titillating.  How exciting do I want them to be? I am just not paparazzi material nor do I wish to be.

 

I like living in the quiet. The man likes living in the quiet alongside of me.  The only drama that we generally experience is when we are on stage performing as actors on a community theater stage.  What bits of drama we experienced currently is on the world stage.  I tried not buy a ticket.  It is a difficult thing to do until something reminds me living a life is on a stage.

As I get older, my body is shoving out subtle hints that this stage I am playing on seems very real indeed until I am encouraged to self-heal, to gather myself out of the imaginary hole that I have allow myself to fall into.  Perhaps, what I really need to do is to gather the flashes of color place them back on the palette, mix them to begin painting my naked body with possibilities. I want to run out into the world to glow, to dance, growing in joy because the canvas is still here so I am going to color mine.

The Great Constancy in Life

The Great Constancy in Life

Lately, I have found that many things occur over and over without any input or output from whatever I think I might be doing.  In some ways it is very comforting.  I don’t have to do anything, things just happen.  The sun comes up and goes down without my thoughts, gosh, I forgot to make a sunrise, drat, sunset time again.  Where is my mind today?

Looking on a smaller scale, there is the daily ritual of the spider in the bathtub.  Every morning as we start getting ready for work either myself or the man, my husband goes in the bathroom to start the water for the tub.   We have a small jar, a small cardboard piece of paper that we keep in the bathroom.  It is our spider jar.  As the days have grown shorter, our equipment has been in use every morning when we discover our spider sitting or racing about the tub in a frantic state of bewilderment.

My husband’s comment this morning as I greeted him at the door with jar, cardboard and spider was the same as always, “Is this our spider?”  My reply, “Yes.”  Without another word, he took everything away and headed out the door, down the driveway of our house to deposit the spider somewhere out there.

Constancy. This creature is part of the great constancy in my life.  Somehow, every day, I imagine its mind saying, “Here we go again.”

It has been months since I started this latest addition to my blog.  Where have I been? What thoughts have crawled or leaped through my mind and really does it matter.   Christmas is nearly here in just a few more weeks.  I am happy that our Christmas tree is finally up as I was hit with a nasty cold which managed to bring with it a horrid cough that made me happy for codeine to keep me resting for three nights.  I have spent a whole week of resting at home, missing doing things I love to do, like walking outside in the beautiful weather that we have been having, cooking Christmas goodies to share at work, and just enjoying whatever comes along.  I really don’t like being sick, it cuts into my social life.

But getting back to the great constancy in my life, my random thoughts just don’t seem to be quite as random as you might think.   Months ago, I asked a local artist to make some felted hats for my son and his girlfriend.  I didn’t think about it much knowing that she make contact with me after my request was finished.  Until this week, I didn’t think about the hats because I have great trust in having things come to me at the right time after setting things in motion.  I had after all, talked to the artist, gave her my phone number, address then I went my merry way.

On Thursday, I thought about the hats, I had told my husband that I wanted an outing because I was finally on the mend.  I had called a local bookstore checking for various books for Christmas, they had them, I told the woman on the other end of the line to expect me on Friday for dinner while I picked up my books.  I texted a friend, asked her to meet us for dinner.  My plans were complete so I took a nap.

Things just go nicely for me, we arrived at the bookstore/restaurant and were greeted by Kate who said “I have a nice table on reserve for you.” I hadn’t given my name nor had I asked for reservation but the universe as always had everything neatly in hand.  Caller ID is great.  It was a table for two, we let her know that we would be three for dinner and quickly we were given another nice table.  We were in luck, a band that we knew would be playing in the small, intimate space.  My husband sat down and I went to reassure the bookstore that I was there and would like to pay for dinner plus my other purchases all at the same time, wandered a bit, added to my pile, headed back to the table to rejoin my husband while we waited for my friend.

Well, it was a lovely night, my friend showed up, dinner was tasty, and the band was marvelous.  Making it perfect was my artist of wonderful hats arriving for dinner as well.  She had lost my phone number but had the hats at home.  She gave us the opportunity to come to her house the next morning and pick up the hats.  Remember my idle thoughts about the artist, the hats, perhaps it was a glimpse into the future, a moment allowing me to know that I would be seeing her or was it my thoughts bringing her to me?  There is an old saying, “Be careful what you wish for.”

 

As I look back at my nasty cold, I am aware that after my husband who had surgery over a month ago came home from his visit with the doctor stating that he had been released from all restrictions.  I felt a release, a knowing that now I could be sick, have it over and get well before our son arrives for Christmas.  It makes me wonder, did I give myself permission to grab whatever was in the office of coughing, nose blowing just feeling icky co-workers.  Well, it was a stupid idea.  Just because everyone else is doing it, it does not mean that I need to do it.

 

Once again, it seems to me that there is definitely a constancy in my life which revolves around my thoughts.  My thoughts bring both bad and good things to whatever reality I believe that I am experiencing. With this at the front of my mind, I am determined to work harder on the little, restless thoughts wandering through my mind perhaps corralling a few if necessary. I know that my heart, soul and mind seem to expand with music.  Music is great for rounding up various idle thoughts, it brings me to a place where I can center myself, enjoy the brilliancy of the divine light before releasing it outward.  

 

Perhaps, that is what I needed, a reminder of how carefully I can maneuver myself into a situation.  So what is the plan? Where is the strategy for allowing creative, constructive, divine thoughts to grow? It is near Christmas time, a time for miracles. This year, I allow myself the miracle of being. For being brings the constancy of life in every moment.  Merry Christmas to those who celebrate this day. To myself, I will open my heart to all possibilities, to all beliefs for that is the joy of being. 

Gratitude in Eating

You may think that being a “Pollyanna” is easy.   Before I go on, “Pollyanna” is a book written by Eleanor H. Porter.  Pollyanna was always finding a reason to be glad due to her very optimistic outlook on life despite whatever circumstances came her way and with her sharing this viewpoint, she succeeds in changing the world of others.  After the book and the movie, Pollyanna became a noun and an adjective for an optimistic outlook.  I am a Pollyanna.

I did not come by it naturally but rather through many years of living, experiencing, and surviving the events that show up in a life if you make it through your early years.  I have embraced being a “Pollyanna”.  I applaud the idea of finding the good in everything.  For in somehow doing so, I have found that my world has opened up, my heart is freer, my mind is more restful.  There are still days when my “Pollyanna” is hiding, whimpering in a forgotten closet but somehow she pushes back her shoulders, straightens up her backbone, and with a steadying breath heads out the door of the closet leaving the moths, the musty drawers and once favorite garments that have not been worn for years alone.

A recent example of my glad, my gratitude was brought to the front when I lost my dental bridge of some 45 years on a Sunday morning.  I had been experiencing some doubtful thoughts about the dental bridge earlier this year and had gone to my dentist in January to have him look about.  Dutifully, he tried wriggling the anchor tooth in the front and declared that he could not see a problem at the moment (it turns out he should have checked the back tooth).

I was listening to a Portland classical music station on the fated Sunday morning. I sat eating a slice of bread with my almond butter when it happened, the dental bridge came loose in my mouth. I sat not moving as my tongue explored this broken, hard stranger hovering in my mouth full of bread.  When I removed the foreign body, I realize that coated with partially chewed bread and almond butter was my dental work.  This was not a good thing no matter how you look at it.

 

I went to the bathroom where my man was still soaking in his tub of bubbles and shared my news before promptly shifting into my “Pollyanna” mode. 

“My bridge fell out”.  I declared to him holding the traitorous, useless party in my hand. 

“Oh, that is not good,” was his sympathetic reply.

“Pollyanna” replied, “This is good.  Because it did not happen while we are eating out with your mom after church.  It did not happen when we are traveling to Indianapolis to see my Julie and I am not in any pain.”

My husband went back to reading his book and soaking in his tub.

After sharing the news with my husband, I called the dental office leaving a message.  The next morning on Monday, I was able to get in and after a brief exam, my dentist declared that crowns for the front and back tooth was in order with a future dental implant between.  Lucky me, I thought watching dollars fly through the air as my days ahead were lined up.  I was given another appointment for the next day, Tuesday (things happen quickly when you are spending money).

Tuesday morning with the dentist happily starting to work on the back tooth when I heard him say to the dental assistant, “Well, you don’t see that often,” then a quick revised statement, “I have never see that before, have you?” There is a quick affirmative answer to the negative. Fortunately, I was not left out of the conservation.  Doctor stated that he would be doing a quick filling, don’t eat on it and I would have to have an extraction as the tooth was crumbling. One filling later and a crown prep I was out the door contemplating the days of eating one sided, arguing that soups are good, the world is filled with soups and that I like soups.  “Pollyanna” was right there.  “Well, you are not in pain, you have money and you like the oral surgeon. “  She was right, it was a good day.

I was fortunate, the back tooth such as it was did not develop an infection nor did I experience any pain. I was given an appointment for the oral surgeon.  Over a month later of careful eating, remembering that soups are good, I arrived in Corvallis to see the doctor. We were guided to a room and the assistant brightly asked me, “So are you ready to get this tooth out?”  My response was, “Really,” my next eager answer was, “Yes.” Both my husband and I had thought that appointment was just a consultation. Remember “Pollyanna”? She was really glad.  She was thrilled, jumping up and down with excitement. Yes, excitement over the impending extraction of the traitor in my mouth. Despite the wonderful needle pricks to deaden my mouth, my joy was high, nearly spilling out my mouth if it could have worked its way past the blocks holding my mouth open, the oral surgeon with his hands and extraction tools, drills and whatever else he might have been using lodging in my mouth.

 

One hour later with a large hole in my jaw, we were headed home with prescriptions to be filled for antibiotics, a mouth rinse (the blue stuff that I had enjoyed during the dental implant episode) plus a little plastic bag of goodies. Soft foods including ice cream, no straw and let the healing begin.

Yes, there would be no more worries about traveling to Indianapolis to see my Julie with a questionable tooth with a temporary filling living in mouth. The future with a long menu of soups spread out before me was disappearing. I was being freed, “Pollyanna” had been my companion throughout the ordeal of the tooth, and both she and I would share in the days to come along with the gratitude of eating.   

Knuckling Down and the Circumstances of my Life, Leaving Walnuts on the Tray

Knuckling Down and the Circumstances of my Life, Leaving Walnuts on the Tray

Sometimes you will be trying to do one thing and your mind will detach itself from the given task to begin running merrily down another path entirely. It is Saturday afternoon and after some time spent in the kitchen making and processing pear sauce, I am at last sitting down with my cup of green tea reading my latest selection, a mystery while Chuck Mangione’s “Children of Sanchez” plays in the background.  The mystery is one that I have been trying to finish reading for the past month.  I find that I will have to renew it yet again from the library (guess what, third time is not a charm according to the library, two strikes of renewal is all you get). It is a good read, Christopher Fowler’s The Water Room and I was refusing to give it up until I discovered that I could not renew it.  I was working hard on reading it while my dear husband worked in the kitchen cooking my dinner.  Chicken Enchiladas is on the menu for those who wish to have their mouths watering regarding my meal.  

My distraction is this, this writing. The stuff that keeps filling my mind was so persistent that I finally had to put my bookmarker in the pages of my book and look for a notebook.  Yes, I do use a pen and paper while writing.  It is so much easier to mark out what I didn’t mean to say than the highlighting, the dragging and deleting in my computer.

Knuckling down.  What an odd set of words to haunt my head.  For a bit, I had to return to reading in order to allow the filters to strip out of the way, causing the meaning of the two words to reveal a plan, to lend a drift of coherency to my voice so that  the stitching of letters together might give meaning.

It is at times like this when you are able to reach into the sky and can hold a star in your hand. There is a completeness, a wholeness of being. I like it.  This feeling of being part of everything. I am not sure what it has to do with writing but I end up on a different level somehow when I doing the writing. It seems as if everything is possible.

Well, here it is December 29, 2016, I started this particular blog in summer, in August when the full harvest that comes of the hard work of the farmers in their fields and orchards starts to fill my kitchen with fruits, vegetables and a mad desire to start canning this and that. But now, I am working hard on knuckling down as a friend requested a blog to end the year.  My question is what sorts of expectations and hopes are coming from such a request?  What will pile into my mind and onto the keyboard? We shall see.

I took a couple of hours off from work this morning to put a soup together in the crock pot so it will hopefully be ready for our lunch.  The goodness of the broth from turkey with a large assortment of vegetables and some of the turkey meat chopped up for good measure. It seems to be the one thing that is going my way.

For today has been a day of misadventures that often follows the rush to get ready for work.  The man, my husband, managed to sleep in, and somehow when he does we seem to run out of time getting organized with all of the ordinary chores that we feel necessary to make it out the door.

I had had an idea for such a day entitled, “The Circumstances of my Life”.  It seems relevant to today.  No great disasters but a few small things that happened or didn’t happened.  As most of you know I am living with a gap in my smile due to a broken tooth this summer and the surgery that occurred for a dental implant.  But let me get on with the circumstances of my life. 

It started with breakfast when I was cracking eggs for scrambling.  I had cracked two eggs, opened them into the mixing bowl then I proceed on the third egg, cracking it quickly and very coolly broken it into the compost. When I told my husband, he wisely did not laugh but reminded me that it was a good thing that we had lots of eggs. The scrambled egg sandwiches were good and I was very thankful for the abundance of wholesome eggs in the house. This was item one.

Ah, the circumstances of my life continued after we headed out the door for work.  We made it two blocks before we circled back to check to make sure that the garage door was down for the two great minds in the white Toyota were not sure.  Score one for us.  Door was down. Item two.

We continue down the block to the light.  “My tooth,” I cried, “I forgot my tooth.”  My husband gave me a look wondering if he was going to have to circle the wagons again.  I told him that I would take a break at work and come home to get it, for also, I was planning on coming home to get the soup going.  Item three.  But as we crossed Highway 101 and headed down the street to work.  I said, “I forgot my tea.” This has become known as item four.

This all reminds me of other days, with the tooth forgotten or the day when I wore two different black shoes to work and no one noticed not even me until I was stretching in the break room and happened to look at my shoes quite carefully.  Hmm, good job of dressing this morning.  Another day of my little clothing challenges was while we were on vacation in Ashland for the Shakespeare Festival, I was wearing a short dress with a sweater and finally that night while disrobing that evening I realized that it had been inside out all day, on parade throughout the town, in and out of various restaurants.  I was past embarrassment as the deed was done, the day was done and I was heading to bed.

This all brings me to believe that you sometimes cannot control the circumstances of your life but you need to keep knuckling down and always be willing to laugh somehow, somewhere in your day. 

I seem to be able to control the walnuts that I have patiently waiting on a cookie sheet for me to pick through in order to put them in baggies for the refrigerator.  But I got the walnuts in November and here I am still working on them.  The good news is that my son got his walnuts and hazelnuts in November two weeks after I picked them up.

The walnuts have a migration route.  They are constantly moved from the dining room table where they sit among the clutter of unread books, Christmas cards, a jigsaw puzzle, one emery board, one fleeced purple and pink jacket, two knitted hats and my husband’s laptop, (you get the idea of the treasures hiding on the table) at any rate, they are placed there when I am working on them, then they are put on the washing machine in the laundry room where it is nice and cold to wait for the next chance for me to attend to them.

I find that I have too many things that I want to get done and somehow the circumstances of my life get in the way.  I am fortunate, I realize that each and every day.  It really is the small things that occur each moment to moment that makes the difference.  Which is why I enjoy working with the walnuts, it is a meditative time for me.  I can believe that I am knuckling down to a given task and given enough time this too will be done, completed in some satisfactory way.  So I don’t worry about much else.  The given circumstances of my life can not intrude for this time I am spending at the table.  The only thing that I really need to do with the walnuts is practice my mantra, “Shells, shells, shells.”  This seems to help me put the shells in one bowl without the walnut meat going into the bowl as well.  For whenever I want to put the walnut meat in its bowl, I change my mantra to “Walnuts, walnuts, walnuts.“  It is good to have plan, a routine to keep myself on track.

If I was to put down ideas, goals for the coming year, I can only think of one or two.  To be kind to myself and to my other self, the remarkable man who shares the world with me.  The circumstances of my life come and go, the walnuts will soon be done, and as for knuckling down, well, that will depend on whatever presents itself to me.  Here is to a new year of changes, hope and forgiveness.