Taking the First Step

It isn’t always easy taking the first step but when things take a change in your life, you often have to step up to the plate, take a deep breath and try not to holler or scream.

When the man of my life was preparing for surgery, I was faced with the inevitability that I would be driving home.  I know that I am a good driver with years of experience but years of being married to a man who drives us most of the time everywhere plus the fact that I suffer from double vision when my eyes grow tired left me a bit anxious and concerned about the traveling home with a man under the influence of good drugs.

So I talked myself out of it.  I know that this does not work for some people who may need a lot of good medications to help their anxiety.  Fortunately for me, a good talking to generally does the trick.  Not to say that I did not toy with the idea of asking various friends to drive us or to come and pick us up after everything was done.

When we were driving home the next day after the man’s surgery, I told him that I was thinking of a blog.  His response, “It is not going to be about me, is it”.  I assure him that it might be a bit about him, meanwhile, I was thinking that it was going to be more about me and the battle of my various little minds fighting to get control of another event in my life.

Recently, I told a friend in the supermarket that I was at the point of just wanting to get off the world and let someone else take care of things.  It has been a busy, somewhat difficult couple of years. Not only for me but for various members of my family which in turn affected me in some various fashion.    

With the loss of our two cats, two sisters, a husband undergoing surgery, and new tasks at work, it is no wonder that I am tired. One of my sisters left quite quickly on her way to feed the chickens while a younger sister finally passed after a long illness.  I have been left injured but looking at my list, it is certainly a small one.  For some individuals, it could be considered a relative small list with simple things on it.  After all, we are born, we live and we die.

It is after all, how we handle it, how we react, how we respond to those in our circle, to those who are experiencing the same event.  Getting back to driving home after my husband’s surgery, my question was how I going to react and respond to the responsibility of getting us home safely.  Wisely, my sweetheart arranged for us to spend the night knowing that everything takes longer to get done than generally what is expected.  He was right, about after not being able to leave the hospital until dark. It was pitch black when I drove us to the lodging on the hospital campus.  I sighed thankfully when I checked in and saw two twin beds in our private room and a common living room and kitchen/dining area for all to use in the rest of the building.  Things were looking up.

 After my husband was settled in one of the twin beds, I parked the car, hauled in the luggage, the cooler with ice packs, grabbed my turkey sandwich and went to sit in dining room with a tall glass of water, and my cell phone. Ah, life in the fast lane. I unloaded the ice packs into the freezer of one of the refrigerator, placed sandwiches, muffins and four oranges, two bananas in our food bin as well. That was the relaxing part of my evening.

I can’t say that the rest of the evening and early morning was a blur nor did it go quickly. I set my cell phone alarm on for every four hours to administer the pain meds.  I would mention to friends later that it was like having a new baby as I would have to get dressed (to go out into the common room) about every twenty minutes to the ice packs in the freezer  so we could continue the icing per doctor/hospital orders.  Silly me, I had put on a gown for sleeping when I should have remain completely dressed for the duration of our stay.

Up and down, up and down all night.  Lucky me, poor little husband who wasn’t really sleeping either with the all of the icing of his wounds and taking his pain meds.  We survived and with lots of coffee for me we headed out in the morning.  Thank you, God, Goddess, Angels for the sunshine and dry roads home was all I had to say. 

I don’t drink coffee, I don’t like coffee but coffee was my friend that morning. My bosom buddy, my drug of choice and it certainly helped to quiet the various little minds that were trying to help me on the road.  Really, you are going to drive all the way home?  How much sleep did you get? I hope that your husband is able to direct you out of town.  Once out of town, another cup of coffee which I could not drink until I stopped at the rest stop when it was lukewarm and I downed it all down.  Yes, I am one of those people who cannot pat my head and chew gum at the same time.  I am unable to drive unless I have both hands firmly on the wheel, eyes ahead or checking my mirrors.  So hence, I had to wait until I stopped at a place where I could devote all of my attention to the cup of coffee turning colder in my hands. Ugh, coffee is really bad when it is getting cold.  But for a brain that it would make more alert, I was willing to drink it and then we were on our way.

Hooray, we made it home.  The man is healing, I slept that night 14 hours and let him deal with the pain meds to be taken every four hours. Taking the first step was letting him be responsible for self-care while I recharged.  Taking the next step may be harder, allowing myself to cry when I need to, to say uncle when I have had enough, to realize that I really can do it. 

As for the various little minds in my head, I told them to take a holiday. For I found that taking the first step was all I needed to do.

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.