Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Winter is hard in some ways as the favorite vegetables of the season have gone away. The harvest land is now covered with the white of winter snow in some areas or has the constant cold rain pelting on the ground in our part of the county on the West coast.   When visiting our local Farmers Market, my husband pointed out the salad greens on display and asked if I want some for our dinner.  I was delighted.  We grabbed a bag of greens, a few other things from the organic vegetable vendor and continued our shopping.  It was a delightful morning as we had met up with a friend and I strolled arm in arm with her for a bit. We stopped to buy bread, a new hat for me and beautiful red-black place mats for her. My husband followed with my shopping bag ready to be loaded up with my purchases. My friend parted with us at the door after I picked up my Saturday fresh brewed cup of coffee.  It was a good beginning for our day.

Saturday is our grocery shopping day.  We make a list. We head to the store and if we are lucky, we have the list otherwise two great minds struggle to remember the list sitting on the table at home. Generally, we try and cook something up for the week in order to have something for a quick lunch when we come home from work. Our commute is five minutes from work if the traffic lights are with us.  The supreme advantage to living in a small coastal town. Vegetable chili is our pick for this week. For our Saturday dinner, fresh wild caught salmon and the greens for our salad.  It was a good day for shopping with no wind and no driving rain just beautiful sunshine. Lucky us.

This Saturday is the day that I decided to have some of the stories I am working on printed up to make it easier on my eyes to edit.  We picked up a new thumb drive and after unloading the groceries, having something for lunch I started to load the thumb drive with the help of my man.  For us, a quick drive to a local print shop was all that I need. Or so, I thought.

Trip number one:

I grabbed the thumb drive, headed to the front door and put on my shoes.  Realizing I have the wrong glasses on (my reading glasses for the computer), I cried out to my husband to bring my glasses. I make it to the printers.  He printed out my stuff handing it to me.  I say, “Is that all?” I was looking for more.  I quickly check and realize I had selected a wrong file. He sends me home saying I can pay when I come back. I let him know I am minutes away as I head out the door.

Trip number two:

I open the door to my house. Calling out to my husband.  I need your help.  I forgot a file.  He quickly loads it up and happily I head out the door. The young man greets me and takes the thumb drive. “I can’t print this,” he says. “It is in the wrong format.”  I ask him what is wrong with it as he lets me look over his shoulder at the computer screen.  “Okay, I will be back.”  He hands me the thumb drive and off I go. At least, it is not raining, I think as I drive down back streets, across the highway remembering to miss the bump on one of the streets as I go.

Trip number three:

My husband is vacuuming.  I have to wait as he finishes the cleaning of the heat pump on the wall.  “Help. He says it is the wrong format.” I explain what I need and my husband replies he is my IT guy.  Soon the thumb drive is reloaded with the proper format and as a plus I found some of the story hidden in a different file so we add it to the thumb drive. I head out the door, sure I have everything.  As I wait at the light to get back on Hwy 101, I recite to myself, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

The third time is the charm.  With a small box of papers I head home.  I am content. After all, the day is sunny. I have a lovely dinner to look forward to, books to read, there are board games to play with my man before we watch television.

Dinner.

My husband works on baking the salmon as I work on reading my collection of mysteries, selected by Ellery Queen.  I have read mysteries here and then.  Mostly, Agatha Christie.  I am working on branching out from science fiction and fantasy.  I take a break from reading when the salmon comes out and later when the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies come out.  My contribution was chopping the walnuts.

I get out the salad greens and pile my plate high.  My husband says, “Did you wash them?” 

I reply, “I think they were already washed.”  I added my salad dressing.   I sit down and start to read again deep in a mystery of a new author.  Carefully spearing bits of lettuces, etc. on my fork gazing absentmindedly at my load before forcing the fork full in my mouth.  They are fresh, tasty.

 

I ate several mouthfuls before I see antennae sticking up, followed by a brown head as a three inch slug begins its journey around my plate.  I don’t scream.  Calmly, I let my husband know of the invader as I head into the kitchen to dump the creature into the compost.   After seeing a slimy thread connecting some of the greens, the rest of my salad follows the slug into the compost well-seasoned with a shiitake sesame vinaigrette.  I head directly to the fresh warm cookies eating two in my suffering.

I washed the rest of the greens in a slightly salty water bath.  I inspected each piece on all sides.  I placed them to dry on a small red towel on another cookie sheet.  I am thankful.  I missed spearing the slug. I am thankful. I missed cramming him into my mouth to rest on my tongue or to slide along my teeth before my teeth closed down on its body to force cold internal fluids into the cavity called my mouth.  Now as I sit here writing this I think I just might need another cookie as I think about slugs and other vegetables in my salad.   

 

Digging Potatoes While Nude

Digging Potatoes While Nude

I have found the very best way to dig potatoes on an early Saturday morning is standing in front of my picture window with a hot cup of tea in my hand while in my all together.  This morning on one of the last days of September on a Saturday, I was awaken by my husband watering a few plants on the patio that insist on blooming.  We have a few stragglers with our peas as well as the Delicata squash with a one squash still on it. Meanwhile, he waters. His attitude is if it is blooming, he is watering. Having finished the watering, he moved on to the potatoes, or where the potatoes had been as the vines had all died back.  I tapped on the large picture window to let him know that I was awake.  I was still unclothed but content in the slight chill of the morning in our house with my cup of tea firm in my hand.  My man turned and smiled when he saw me standing in the morning light.  I could see that he already had quite of bit of potatoes in his white harvesting Tupperware bowl.  I left for a nice hot bath.

As I soaked in my bath, the voice of my man rang out.  He was telling me, “These are big boy potatoes.”  When I finally got out of the tub, wrapped in my towel, I padded into the kitchen to see his gatherings. He was right.  We had been blessed by some very large purple potatoes.  All of our potatoes are volunteers.  We find them in the bottom of the cupboard. Depending on whoever is growing we end up with either purple, red or white potatoes in the fall.  Often, they are growing in the patio pots in early March because we have missed a few in the harvest.  They are one of our small joys. It is a sign of spring. It is a reminder winter is coming when the vines die back.  I wonder what winter harvest my soul has for me.

The little birds are returning to see if the feeder has been filled.  The blue jays have made an appearances.  We had a true blue jay as well as the Stellar blue jays show up yesterday.  I reminded my man his birds needed their peanuts so he dutifully headed to the kitchen to gather the peanuts for the blue jays.  They are greedy.  One will hop down from the fence to fill itself with peanuts and will not leave until all of the peanuts are gone. It is a small gift and well appreciated by the beautiful Stellar blue jay.  Something we can all remember as summer leaves us with only the comfort of our homes and joy of companionship with friends and family if we are so lucky.  Perhaps I can work on the not being greedy part.

A week has passed since I started this bit of writing.  The jays are still greedy while I am thinking of ways to slow down, to enjoy.  In Melissa Eisler’s ebook “12 Secrets to Feel Younger & live Longer” she states “Okinawans practice “Hara Hachi Bu,” a Confucian mantra said before a full meal that reminds them to stop eating when their stomachs are 80 percent full.” I am thinking a mantra in the morning before I crawl out of the warmth of my bed would be good.  Something along the lines, “Survival begins in moments” which would be good convincing myself the chill of the bedroom is only for moments.  My feet just might be willing to lead the rest of me out of the warmth to begin the day as the day of the digging of the potatoes. I was caught up in the moment of watching my husband in the morning sun.  There was quiet beauty in sunshine striking the dew left on the grass, the leaves of fading roses and I could relax digging potatoes while nude in my thoughts only.

A Bee, a Spider and Moth Walk into a Bar

A Bee, a Spider and Moth Walk into a Bar

Last week was filled with insects on the march, turning up here and there as reminder there are others living, breathing, and busy about their work or place in the greater universe.  It is good to get small wake up calls though the day, though the spider halfway down my water glass in the bathroom was a surprise.

I have for years put a tissue over my glass full of water in the bathroom.  I have told my husband, it is to keep dust, bugs, etc. out of my glass so when I stumble, half-awake into the small room of rest in the middle of the night I won’t be getting more than a mouth full of water when I drink.  His comment when we discovered the spider, a very big, big black spider in a half-filled glass of water, “Well, that didn’t work very well.”  He quickly went to work to rescue said spider from the glass without spilling the water, drowning the spider or breaking the water glass.  Did I ever mention the man is talented?

Once the spider was removed to the bottom of our driveway in order to hopefully keep it out of the house, we work on getting back to work.  We crawled into our car and set off to work.  After half a block, my husband said, “Look, there is a bee on the windshield.”   I replied, “Oh, no.  It is one of Travis’s bees.  Quick, go around the block so we can take it home so it won’t get lost.”  My man complied and slowly turned the car to the next block and we watched carefully the little bee holding onto the windshield of our car. I told my husband, go slow so it doesn’t fall off.  We lost the bee part of the way though the block and hoped the bee would find its way home.  We were about two blocks away so the chances were quite good.  At least, it is what I kept telling myself.  I kept gazing back for several blocks as if checking would make a difference.  Probably not.  It wasn’t Travis’s bee for sure. I decided to just be happy.

We went to work.  No more insects to bar our way, no wings fluttering in a maddening flight to make use of the fading day as the season works on drawing to the last days of summer.  But still, my mind traveled to the little visitors and the moments we shared.  I am fascinated by insects, bugs, life in general.  When I was younger, I would climb up the cottonwood trees to view the world through sunshine dappled leaves, and branches from my perch.  I would stay for hours.  Various ants, beetles, and other insects and bugs would share with me the tree though they viewed me as an obstacle to get around. I was never bitten but I am sure during my scrambling up to get into the tree many of the occupants were dislodged, smashed, homes, dwellings destroyed as my Gulliver size body invaded their Lilliputians’ world.  I am a bit more careful now.  For one, I don’t climb trees any more but my yard is filled with wildflowers growing with abandonment.  When I walked out today for a possible picture for this blog,  I was sadden not to find any bees flying, no bugs on the walls of my house, and only a few tiny grass spider webs in the shadows where the glass is still green but where the sun shone, the grass crackled under my feet. But the crickets were singing. Last year was the first year my ears caught the chirping of crickets. They are moving in as the area gets dryer.  Change.

Our day of visitors was not over.  It seems that most of the time, our bathroom collects various travelers who have somehow made it into the trap.  I am sure the existence of travelers are elsewhere as in my closets where it is dark, perhaps, living in a forgotten set of shoes flipped in a corner after a long day of walking around.  I am happy not to know and when I find out I respond with the right amount of alarm and head out to find our spider jar and old envelope to capture the previous unknown occupant to take out the door. They will be back, I know it but for the moment they will be gone.

 

We found the moth in bathroom on the mirror studying its reflection. It seems to suit a moth’s nature this attention to its appearance.  They are as a species rather flighty. Once again, the jar was grasped as my husband worked to catch the small grey miller moth. I admonished him to be careful as they are particularly fragile and I did not want the velvet covering on the moth’s wings damaged.  With great care the man capture fragility in a jar and head out the door to let it go in the bushes next to the house.

Why not the end of the driveway where our spiders go? Well, because the end of the driveway is where spiders go. Moths are delicate.  I hate to think of big, fat raindrops drowning the innocent whose only crime was getting into the house. Spiders on the other hand are sneaky, they crept up on you when you are relaxing reading or eating when suddenly they are there on your arm and you are shrieking with unfathomable panic. The end of driveway belongs to spiders.  Bees are noisy as a rule, they buzz.  Buzzing is good. You know where they are and can get out of the way.  Back into my house works for me.

I love my life.  I love the unexpected moments. I like the reminder calls coming gently into my life. Most are small things at least in my limited space upon a vast planet in a bigger area of other planets, stars, galaxies and whatever else you can think of. Call it the universe. What bothers me is the abundance I remember when I was a child, a young girl and woman is gone.  Butterflies flitting here and there, ants crawling everywhere on the ground, beetles flopped over on their backs with legs wildly moving, and the bees buzzing everywhere. Bees drinking from flowers growing in green of lawns where we as children rolled in the sweetness and coolness of grass and clover on the ground. Life was brimming. Now? A bee, a spider and moth walk into a bar. 

     

To Read or What not to Read

To Read or What not to Read

I am a reader.  I read all varieties of books.  Informative, inspirational, pure candy novels, hard fiction, horror and mysteries.  You name it, I have probably ventured to try it. My preference, however, would be science fiction, and fantasy with a couple of monsters thrown in.

Recently, my man wrote a novel that he was able to get published.  It has been released as a kindle version with a paperback version to come out this fall.   It happens to fall in one of my favorite categories, a space opera.   For one of the best in my point of view, I would go with Lois McMaster Bujold and her Vorkosigan Saga with Miles Vorkosigan.  My man has been reading the books to me.  We still are not finished the series as he switches to various other novels in between.  Terry Pratchett is a favorite with the Disc World books for our nightly reading.  Currently we are working on a new book and author to us on the kindle, Robert Lee Beers, “A Slight Case of Death”. It is “A Tony Mandolin Mystery”.  I am enjoying it.  My man, the actor lends his voice to the characters in this quick moving novel.  I have grown to like Mandolin and hate the fact my husband limits my bedtime stories when he sees my eyes at half-mast.

A few weeks ago, my man wrote in his blog about the change in reading from books to electronic devices such as the kindle.  He has his opinion which pretty well mirrors my own.  A glance about our house will lead you to believe our preference because of the various bookcases in every room we read books.  Well, not all of them.  None are for show, it just that we haven’t gotten to them yet.  For years and years, we have forsaken various books on shelves to the point that I am surprised that we have only gotten one or two duplicates in the thirty eight years we have been together.

Yes, we do use the library.  I am addict.  I work across the street from the library and despite the full bookcases at home I will wandered occasionally to see what is new, interesting and tempting enough to walk out the door with it tucked under my arm.  I love the feel of a book in my hands, I like the turning of pages, using various slips of paper to mark my place with a few bookmarks thrown in here and there in the piles of books that I have placed on the table waiting for my return.

A kindle just doesn’t seem the same.  I have probably fifteen total books loaded on ours.  Two came with the kindle. My husband reads in the bathtub, he loves a good soak with a good book.  You can imagine my shock to walk in and find him with my kindle (correction, our kindle, my man so kindly pointed out to me) in the bathtub with him.  A drowned book, okay, a very sad occurrence but the kindle?  The man pointed out to me because of the new cover, it wasn’t as slippery.  I backed out, sputtering to myself under my breath, my kindle, my kindle.  I didn’t have the heart to wrestle it from him when he smiled with his blue eyes twinkling at me.  But, growl.

Frequently, I chided myself about the content of what I am reading.  I am torn between “improving my mind” with my reading and a simple just quick good read.  Recently, I had an idea for a blog “The Zen of Shoelaces”.  I figured that I should read up on the matter a bit more, refresh my memory though I practice some form of mindfulness daily.  As we were picking up a friend at the airport, I was able to stop at the bookstore there and found two new books to inspire me.  “Mindfulness on the Go” by Jan Chozen Bays, MD seemed to fit the bill for a refresher on Zen.  I picked up “How to Love” by Thich Nhat Hanh, a favorite author of mine plus a quick read by Gail Carriger.  Needlessly to say, I have finished the Gail Carriger book a couple of weeks ago and I am still working on the other two.  Perhaps, it is because I misplaced the books for a couple of days?

No, I think inspirational books require more work, more attention with less distraction occurring around you. You can’t read while eating, watching bits of the news, talking or listening to someone else while trying to absorb or understand a theory, notion or great revelation.  You have to be present. You need to be alone.  Oh, God or Goddess can hang out with you, angels may hover but essentially you and you alone must hit the book or books and read with intent.

I am a morning person.  I prefer to wake up naturally which I do on the weekends.  But being a forty hour a week employee, I set my alarm for early, like in five am early.  It gives me time to read, sitting quietly at the table with a quick read or some a bit heavier and more inspirational.  This morning, I am up writing as my husband whisked himself off to work out at the community REC center.  This is my time.  Ordinarily, I would be out walking but as fall comes closer, the sun is still waiting to arrive.  I don’t walk in the dark.  I read with the light of my lamp. I pray. Mostly, I read or write depending on my morning inspiration.  Yesterday, I did stripped the beds and did laundry. Sometimes, I just exist.  It is a good thing.

Link to my man's book
Link to my man's blog

The Zen of Shoelaces

The Zen of Shoelaces

Sure, today it was easy to come up with a title for the blog with a faint idea of what I might want to write about but when I sat down to really knuckle down to hitting keys on the keyboard for something interesting, stimulating and thought-worthy, I think that I have lost my mojo, my muse, and the last pickle is gone from the jar.

Maybe I should go back into the bedroom, sit down and begin my ritual of putting my fancy black walking shoes on.  I try hurrying with pulling laces together in a way so they don’t come undone while I am walking.  As I was sitting there on my wooden hope chest that is covered with various quilts, woven blankets, a workout jacket, I was thinking tying shoe laces should be a meditation experience instead of the rush, rush hurry to get out the door which was in my case back to work.  The man, my husband was hovering.  I asked him if I was in his way, his reply, “Yes, of my shoes, my hat and my jacket.”

Really?  I was having mind opening experience and all he could think of was his stuff and me in the way of it all.  This was my Zen moment.  He was right, I had no time for Zen.  I needed to keep on track, tie the shoes and head out the door.  After all, returning to work was important, people were expecting me to show back up.  Particularly since our lunches are staggered. Hungry co-workers are the worse.  It is almost criminal to let them out the door, back on the street to rush with hundreds of others to find lunch, run errands until their brief interlude of freedom is gone.  Where is the Zen?

I tried to have another Zen moment while I was walking across the parking lot to my office.  We live on the coast.  We have gulls everywhere.  Laughing gulls, regular shrieking gulls, gulls just riding the currents or sitting on rooftops checking out the world.  Probably having a real Zen moment when they are not terrorizing us little workers trying to get into our buildings while nesting season is going on.  Fortunately for me, the birds are in the calm state as the babies are getting quite big, parents are getting very bored so I was able to look with some security at a baby chirping for food.  My little Zen moment, as I talked to it, telling it, look how big you are getting. I tried to listen to really listen to the birds in the sky, calling as they flew.  It was calming.

A day later when we were traveling to pick up a friend at the airport, we crossed the coast range where the new road runs on top and through the mountain ridges, the trees were shrouded in the low lying clouds, the valley hidden in moisture. We were in the clouds.  I hovered in the moment, my spirit soared. I was very aware of the beauty of the sunshine glimpsing through, sparkling on dew left glistening on the evergreens, the hemlocks and aspens. This is a Zen moment. This is awareness of the moment unfolding.  I quickly wrote a note to myself as a reminder to include this in my blog and we continued down the road filled with awe for a beautiful morning.

Often I am captured by the knowledge of how many of us there are when my man is driving rapidly down the freeway. An endless supply of humanity.  I say my prayers, I surround us with divine light and bless the roads we travel on.  As I do, I extend my consciousness, allowing the peace and love to flow to the drivers we pass, the drivers who pass us, asking for protection for all who travel, for the families who wait for them.  I experience my interest with a sort of childishness.  I am awed by the quick movement from spot to spot.  While just a brief hour ago, we were in the clouds with no other traffic and now, I am being crushed with cars, trucks, vans and mobile trailers whizzing by.  Where are they going or coming from? Are they happy? What do they do in their lives?  I salute their divinity. With my consciousness expanding, I guess I could call this another of my Zen moments.  Breathing in the moment.

I started out this morning with the intention of working on my blog, cooking, and baking food for the week after a long weekend of travel returning the friend to Portland to await her flight in the early morning. Time well spent as we enjoyed eating at a bakery/restaurant, wandering down a sidewalk looking in and out of little shops, clothing boutiques, and a bookstore always enjoying each other’s company.  The man herded us into the car and once again we were on our way.  Though I felt very present, chatting away with our friend, I didn’t think of it as Zen. Perhaps, I should have.  I was smiling, I was happy and totally aware of my one of my dearest loves being with us. I know that I was thinking of it. The Zen, the awareness, the being.

I had bought two new books, “Mindfulness on the Go” by Jan Chozen Bays, MD and “How to Love” by Thich Nhat Hanh when we had picked my friend up at the airport. I started the first while waiting in a parking structure in Portland while my friend visited with some friends.  My husband was reading. Another dear friend who came with us was reading; we enjoyed being absorbed in our books and the time flew.  I needed Inspirational reading as I was out of practice with taking care of myself. I enjoy reminders.  Sometimes I really don’t like the wakeup calls, most of which I observe happening to others.  Let me be happy.

We finished our trip back to Portland with a walk up and down a big mall until we spied a restaurant where we could eat.  It was a very nice dinner followed by a brief drive to the hotel near the airport to unload ourselves, our luggage. My friend and I grabbed a trolley and maneuvered it and ourselves to the room while the man parked the car.  Can you find Zen in a hotel room?

 

After my friend repacked, consolidating stuff given to her by friends into one suitcase and a carry-on, the three of us started to settle in.  I had washed my face, had the night cream on, my teeth brushed, flossed and my retainer in as well as slipping a light nightgown on to prepare for bed. My husband, the man, prepared to read to me while I curled up in the warmth of blankets, a soft bed and contentment.  I enjoy being read to. He had bought the Kindle with the book we had started.  After reading to me, he sat on the edge of the bed as my friend stretched out, relaxing and began reading to her as well.  He reads to me nightly and her, weekly.  He has written a book. My friend only gets one chapter of his book every Sunday.  I think we were all in a Zen moment. At least, I like to think so.  It is all after all, just moments after moments.  Let’s enjoy them.

Puzzle Number One: Remind me to tell you the tale of the scalloped potatoes.

This comment showed up on my page on Facebook.  I have no idea what it means.  I posted it on August 21, 2015.  Friends want to know, I want to know.  When faced with a serious issue like this I have no choice except to write.  To invent, to create if nothing else a good reason as to why I posed such a statement.  One of my friends is already expecting the story on Sunday when I go to her house for high tea on Sunday.  Note to self, you better get busy and write something.

The obvious to me is possibly I was cooking and a disaster happened with the scalloped potatoes.  Mine are probably not the best in the world but they are good enough for the man as the first time I placed them in front of him he exclaimed he liked my scalloped potatoes better than his mom’s.  High praise, indeed.  However, I am thinking on this particular occasion, a slight variation occurred of the “scalloped potatoes better than his mom’s.” 

 

What could I have possibly done? Potatoes, did I forget them?  Highly unlikely due to the name “scalloped potatoes”.  Cheese, I doubt it.  Onions? Possibly, a new twist on the old standby, a different cheese or cheeses? A different approach to the cooking, baking of the dish? As I sit here writing I am wondering how much time should I devote to figure out what I did right or wrong with the scalloped potatoes. 

I decide to check to see if I had written a blog about it so I searched through old documents according to the probable dates around August 15, 2015.  No, I did not find any blogs or stories written about the scalloped potatoes but I did find out my blog has been going off and on since early 2014.  I also found an interesting bit of writing which I will share with this blog simply because like the statement, “Remind me to tell you the tale of the scalloped potatoes.” I have no idea where it came from in my mind or where I was heading with it. I have read through “Nearly There” which keeps my head shaking, what was this story about.  Perhaps if I pull it out and gaze at it numerous times, I will figure it, work on it and finished it.  Perhaps a reader will have a couple of ideas. Just another of life’s little mysteries.

Puzzle Number Two:  Nearly There

            Walking was an effort, one more step, one more lifting of the foot, placing it on the earth.  She was doing it, moving closer and closer to her goal, a tree that seemed to be loaded down with fruit on the side of a grassy hill.  The grass had already turned brown, waiting for the autumn winds to come with the rain before the winter snows covered the hillside.  She was closer, she could envision the softness of the fruit, the juice running down her throat, moistening her parched throat that could no longer send out noises of pain, sorrow and longing.  Her lips were cracked, streaks of tears long gone held their place on her sun scorched face. Her face had once been fair. Beauty was no longer a priority.  She was alive, she was breathing and now there was hope.

            She could live another day on hope.  She gauged ten more steps to be under the branches of the still green tree. The fruit hung heavy, silhouetted by the sun sinking behind the branches, stems, leaves of the hope of her continuing existence.  The angle of the sun allowed no shade, no shadow from the tree to fall to cool her pathway to the tree.  Her tree, it was her tree.  Simply because she had found it. No trails lead to it.  No one had passed here before her, neither man or animal.  The tree was simply waiting, holding onto its fruit until she could reach it.

            Step, step, one more painful step on feet swollen in shoes nearly worn through.  Shoes that somehow had lasted every minute, every hour through what had seemed like days to her mind.  So very tired. So very thirsty.  Nothing mattered except moving towards the tree, her salvation. I can stop here, I can rest after the fruit and I can sleep.  She shivered, barely wrapped in her torn clothing, arms bared, with deep scratches or cuts that could not bleed because she had nothing to give.

            She had closed her eyes in concentration making the final steps to the boundary of the waiting tree until the side of her face scrape the bark of the tree’s trunk causing new wounds, new hurts but with it came the relief of being there, no more steps.  She drifted away from the new pain in her mind as she stood there, leaning against the solid comfort of another living being, who would give her what she needed. With her arms wrapping around the trunk she fell to her knees in gratitude not caring of more scratches or scrapes on her arms, not caring of the further ripping of the cloth about her body.

            She slept maybe minutes before she somehow shook herself awake from the grip of a slumber. If she had stayed asleep, she would have remained until her flesh melted from her tired bones to mingle with the dirt until she moved further down into the ground to nourish the roots of the grass and the tree.   But before that, the insects would have their day of feasting on the wisp that was her shell of a body. She did not want to give up, she did not want to stop here to linger in the roots where worms traveling through cool earth left their burrows. 

            She moved her body, the shell that housed her spirit.  The spirit somehow lingered giving her the ability for the slight movement of her arms that turned her away from the embrace that she held around the tree.  Her back seemed to mold itself tight against the trunk of this symbol of life for her, she felt more complete somehow with the spirit of the tree reaching out to mingle with the faint light that flickered in her.  She felt at home, strengthen somehow without yet eating the fruit that hung before her eyes as she tilted her head up letting the back of it rest on the tree’s trunk that retained some of the warmth of the day. It was so close, tantalizing, waiting, the fragrance of the sweet fruit teased her tortured dry nostrils, urging a dry mouth to conjure up moisture that she did not have.  She willed her arms to push, she whispered in her mind to send signals to legs that were numb, “Get up, salvation is near.”

“Nearly There” ends at this point.  As for this gem of start of a story, I just am at a lost. What was in my mind?  I will keep echoing the question until my thoughts are pulled off center to dwell on something else.  I feel as I were surrounded by a great growth of vegetation about my feet, vines twisting pulling me off balance to fall flat on my back to realize, I just don’t know where I am going except for this moment and the story “Nearly there” might just have to wait until I am nearly there, reaching out with my hand to grasp a memory in order to say something brilliant and puzzling again.

So as my days go by, I am surrounded by mysteries, small confusions, little revelations, and surprisingly great peace.  I still don’t know whether the scalloped potatoes were brilliant or just a disaster.  Maybe my husband, the man will know.

Butterfly Suicide and Other Things

Butterfly Suicide and Other Things

The man and I did a road trip to celebrate our 36^th wedding anniversary this week. (July 9^th, 2018 to July 11^th, 2018).  It was a reenactment of sorts of his trip to a conference in February to Sunriver, Oregon. Because I had not been able to accompany him through the cold and snow during February, I felt it was my duty to have him retrace his journey with me alongside him during the sunshine of summer. I want to see where he had been, hear his story of travel. Though I don’t like being really cold anymore or being really hot but I was willing to brave the heat in my air conditioned car to see the path he had taken earlier in the year. 

My husband had in February looked carefully at the weather conditions to finally settle on taking Hwy 22 from Salem to Bend in order to hopefully avoid some of the ice and snow of the high altitudes of the Cascade Mountains in our winter. He avoided Hwy 20 from the coast to Bend due to worry about the snow that had already been coming down as a blanket on the highway. Hwy 22 was his best bet. It worked.  He made it there and back.

July, as we travel from our home on the coast we were greeted with beautiful sunshine here and there trying to make it through the clouds. The sunshine never quite made it, we huddled in our light jackets through the coast range, along I-5 to Salem, up Hwy 22 to nearly Detroit, Oregon before the sun finally broke through and I could turn off the heater in the car. I liked it. Being bundled up in my jacket, adjusting the heat without the sun burning down on my legs was my happy idea of a road trip.  

Sunshine, warmth and good companionship, what more could you ask for? We hadn’t traveled far when we started seeing butterflies everywhere. I wince each time we plowed through a cloud with our car on the highway.  Even slowing down did not help as the butterflies were mad with their intention to mate, loaded with pheromones, smashing into the windshield, or the grill of the front of the car with unintentional butterfly suicide along the highway we were traveling on. I kept crying out, No, no, no, but the butterflies continue their dance in the sunshine, heat radiating from the pavement of the road to warm their delicate bodies. It was a reminder of the beauty and fragility of nature.  

We were able to stop by a lake where we use the facilities, no paper available adding to the fun.  I was reminded of my trip to Japan with my sister and how we always carried tissue in our pockets, a purse or jacket or the Japanese friends would reach into their purses to hand out a tissue whenever the need presented itself.  Back to the lake, there was a lovely breeze which was kicking up waves on the shoreline, tall older Ponderosa pine trees providing shade.  I talked briefly to a young man resting in a hammock while waiting for my man.  It was very peaceful, beautiful, and relaxing at the perfect temperature. I kept looking for the butterflies but the breeze coming off of the shore of the lake probably had sent them sailing into unseen meadows where the sun could warm their frantic dancing.  If we hadn’t been on a time limit to reach our Bed and Breakfast lodging we might have stayed longer gazing at the water instead we loaded up in the car and headed back on the road.

We stopped again at a rest area, no facilities.  My husband headed to the bushes, mindful of ticks, etc. so he avoided brushing against the various plants along a footpath.  I amused myself with photographing butterflies resting on the pavement of the rest area.  Finally, I thought to myself a few sensible individuals with a good chance of perpetuating the species.  They were pretty with their wings opening and closing in the heat of the morning.  On my video, I was able to capture only glimpses of the bright orange color of the wings. Beauty resting.

I am thankful for being granted moments of great beauty.  My heart aches for the countless butterflies that we drove through but it is such a part of life, living and being.  Somehow, I felt just a bit better when we drove off, knowing that there was countless places where the butterfly suicide was not happening but an unfolding of wings, a joining of bodies creating hope for the next moment in the future.  It might be all we have.