or something like that.

if i had more community. if it were easier to make friends. if it were easier for my son to make friends. if i lived on the other side of town. or somewhere else. if i didn't have as much lawn to mow. if i were different. if i ate (or didn't eat) certain things. if i had more time to read. if i made time to read. if i had time. if the weather were different. if i got more sleep. {or something like that.}

and really, it's not that any of these things is wrong. {or that there is a wrong.} to want.

(of course not.) it's just that- right now- without them {or with them} is living, too.

and honestly, it's the balance between the two. the list at the top- and- what is. {and anything else in between.}

Gee...

G is for giving up. It's all well and good to come up with an inspiration like words or the alphabet to help me post on my blog. Or to do anything, for that matter. I'm a big fan of the new system, that's for sure. But at what point do you drop the new system in favor of a newer system? Or no system? And is there anything wrong with that. Do you continue to slog through the mud or the tar or push past the roadblock of the currently-uninspiring-was-new-system, in the hopes that it becomes inspiring once more, or do you simply let it go? Or, more negatively put, give up? For me, it's always a bit of both, with a nod that has become stronger as I grapple with these questions, the longer I grapple, to the parts of me that enjoy developing new systems and the parts of me that enjoy breaking free of them once they become less inspiring and more hmm... shackle-like. But funny that giving up showed up with the letter G. Who can say what will happen next? A continuance of the alphabetically-inclined post? A reprieve? A follow up days later, after several un-alphabet-related posts? It's these thoughts that I encounter in most of my endeavors, on my way to the lovely balance of form (the new system!) and freedom (the inspiration!) and where the two shall meet.

ants

It seems like the ant scouts have come out a little earlier this year-



At least someone enjoyed the tangerines.

snowy wood violets

We woke up to {a little bit of} snow this morning. I'm happy to say that the flowers who were blooming seem to be all set for a little surprise snowfall.

An amazing mushroom covered tree we saw on our way to lunch.

grocery store {ped}antics

There are various checkers at the grocery store we frequent that I generally avoid if I can help it. Today I added one more to the list. Although- when I think about it- it seems like I was already avoiding this checker for a reason I can no longer remember. Whatever the reason was before, he's definitely back on my list now. And closer to the top. As in the first or second slots. Although to be fair, the first slot is very solidly held by a woman who I avoid as close to always as possible, even though Samuel sometimes eggs me on and asks me to go through one of my banned checkers' aisles. Just for fun. He likes the thrill that annoying people can sometimes bring. Plus I think he learns a lot about social acceptability and how to handle difficult people. Plus he likes to laugh afterward. Or practice his scowl. Who can say really. I rarely, let it be known, take him up on it and mostly choose to stick to the checkers I prefer. The tried and the true, if you will.

But things happen and today, the teen who helped me carry my turkey to the checkout line picked this particular checker's line and I didn't feel like quibbling, saying something like, "Um. He's on my banned checkers list, could we move a row over?" So I stayed and thought I was feeling magnanimous enough to get through whatever encounter presented itself, irritating or not. I'm usually able to rise to the occasion, I just don't always feel like using my energy in that way, if you know what I mean.

So it's our turn and he starts checking out the couple of things I couldn't get when I ordered the bulk of my groceries online last night. He asks the kids if they want a sticker- a common occurrence at this grocery store. When they say yes, he then says to them very seriously, "What's the magic word." Good grief I am so tired of the magic word patrol and all of it's promptings. My kids are polite kids. They say please and thank you. And not because I prodded them and poked them with talk of magic words their whole life.

So they stared at him and made no move to answer or to take a sticker. I laughed and said, "Abracadabra?" He did not look amused at my attempt to divert attention from his magic word trick and said very seriously to me, "Please. That's the magic word to me, please." As though we really didn't know what the magic word was. My children- ruffians- running about in the world, not knowing what the magic word was. I laughed some more.

There are a couple of things here that bug me. The first is offering someone something and then demanding them to say please before you give it to them and accusing them of being the impolite one. Did I mention you'd already offered it to them? Also- can you imagine saying that to an adult? And then- why is the checkout person at the grocery store deciding to become a member of the etiquette police with my kids? While I'm spending money at the store he works at. For Thanksgiving. Over a sticker he has already offered to them. This constant desire for people to turn into the etiquette police around children, faultless users of the magic word themselves, I'm sure, is sometimes humorous. But more often nosy. Meddlesome. And pedantic.

Thankfully, our transaction with him was nearly finished. Before we could leave, though, he asked me one more question, which led to another, while I was punching in my pin to pay for a donation to the food bank. He asked if the schools had been closed today because of the snow. (We got a little snow last night and it's not unheard of for Portland schools to close over less.) I should have lied and said yes. Or lied and said no. Because I didn't know the answer and instead I said, "I'm not sure. We homeschool." So we're nearly done, right? Almost out of there. When he asks, "Oh? And what have they learned today?" But not curious. Serious. With a hint of the pedant still lurking about. And now he's quizzing me.

On another sort of day I might have felt irritated or I might have simply laughed at his question and then left the store, but today I said with a smile, "The magic word?" Yep. And he blushed. And I still don't know if he thought he really had taught my kids the magic word or if he knew I was calling him on all of it. And I wished him a happy Thanksgiving and we left the store.

I don't know. Normally I don't say anything. I don't like to match the pedant's pedantism with my own lesson-teaching. Some days, though, the fussiness and meddling and nosiness become tiresome and I just wish someone would ask {simply} if we are enjoying our day. And I would ask them the same. And then we could smile and recognize that we are sharing this human experience, this day. And that would be enough. Plenty, even.

Hence the banned checker list. And the tried and the true.

I'll be honest. There seemed to be very little of interest or anything inspiring to post about when I woke up this morning. Contrast that with other times, other days, when it seems as though each thing I think about or see can pass itself off as the meaning of life. I've been feeling very down and thick in the head and that sort of feeling can be challenging to write with. It's not that I don't recognize the beauty around me when I feel like this or the endless possibilities inherent in life. I do. It's more like a stream of so many blah blah blah's filling up my experience and laying a film of what else? on top of everything.

Yes. So I cleaned the bedroom. Which was amazing. Which is amazing. Because now! I can sit in this incredibly clean space and feel the sensation of the blah blah blah's washing over me and it all seems that much more manageable. It is that much more manageable. In fact, it almost seems like nothing at all. Almost.

And, I'm *pleased* to note, there turned out to be something of interest to write about after all. I love it when that happens. So now, I have a clean room and a blog post. And both came out of a very bad mood. Remind me to take stock of the day nearer to the end than the beginning more often.

wholeness and then some

So basically I've been thinking a lot about wholeness lately. And what I love about that is how so many things- articles, conversations, thoughts- {seem to} flow together, all talking about or referring to, in one way or another, wholeness. Making a case for wholeness, as it were.

How to create wholeness. Or rather- allow wholeness. In our lives. Because wholeness is one of those qualities like love that is already present. There is nothing we have to do to make it be. We don't have to create it. It already is. What we can do is change our thinking about it. In this way we can begin to allow what already is. What we already are.

And so begin the arguments- almost at once- as I try and reconcile the seemingly incongruous ideas of allowing who I am *right now* and all that this entails (all being the key word here) and continuing my penchant for self-help, self-thought, self-growth, and on ad infinitum, or such like, as I am obviously prone. A hobby of mine perhaps, or simply a way of life, I do enjoy examining how I live and working toward truth and authenticity in my daily life. With myself, with my kids, with my friends and family. And in how I spend my time.

The question then becomes, how do I reconcile these two modes of thinking? How can it be both fixing and everything-is-right-as-rain at the same time?

Frequently when discussing wholeness, the line of thinking goes something like this. There is a core you. The authentic you. The true you. And depending on your religious or spiritual beliefs, that you (often seen as You) has either been taken from you or hidden from you- from our culture or the parenting you received (or both) or religion or even as a lesson to be learned during this life. The idea being that we have to learn to reconnect with wholeness and dump the inauthentic you- the impostor, if you will. I get this line of thinking and can see the value in its explanation, at least in part, for why we don't all feel connected to our truth all the time. As we most likely did as babies. And as young children. But less now. Etcetera.

What bothers me, though, with this line of thinking is the sort of inherent dualism that comes along with it. For instance, if there is a better me, there is a worse me. If there is a higher me, there is a lower me. And so on. There's no denying there are parts of me that are less skillful than others. Parts that would benefit from more awareness. Parts that would benefit from more love. But- as long as I view parts of myself as less than. Unworthy. Unwelcome. I won't see myself as whole. And I will tend to focus on those parts rather than the parts that, say, are more skillful than other parts. Parts receiving lots of love. (Or even just getting around to actually giving the love. Appreciating.) Wholeness will continue to be some elusive state-of-being to be found in the future after I have finally gotten my act together. And then some.

And so what about this? What about the parts that I want to change and the parts that want to do the changing all counting toward the whole. The parts that I love and the parts that make me gulp. Each a part of it all. A part of me. And embracing that. Seeing the balance of it all, already put together as it is. It's not a new concept. For me, though, it does constitute as a {brave} step into the unknown, this business of allowing and believing in my own wholeness. It can certainly take me by surprise when I don't judge a thought that I would previously have banished. When I don't kick myself for a habit I wish I could have changed ten years ago. And when I notice that I have taken care of myself when I might have otherwise glossed over it.

Wholeness includes all of these things. It also comes with the caveat of not taking any one part it too seriously. Not getting too attached, as it were, to any of it. You never know, for instance, when one of the parts might just float away. Leaving you whole. Once more.

autumn dreaming

I woke up from a dream this morning. Well, more to the point- I woke up this morning from a dream when my cat Agnes came into the room meowing at me to wake up. In the dream it was autumn{already} and I was writing about it being autumn. There were red and orange leaves on the trees in the front and back yards and I took a few photos and compared them here, on this blog. One before, as in the transition to autumn, the Japanese Maple tree in my front yard with a few red leaves here and there. Can you believe there are red maple leaves in my front yard {even now}?

The other was a glorious photo of red and orange leaves in the backyard, which won't really happen, not now or later, because the Silver Maple in the back always has golden yellow leaves. Her leaves change much later than the Japanese Maple's (who I usually think of as a male, in case you wondered. The Pin Oak out front is also male.) And I love how in the dream I could be both then and now, looking at leaves that are changing now (in waking life) and seeing that as then (in my dream) and how I took both of the photos- both then and now- at the same time, moving only from the front yard to the back yard.

In the dream I posted the photos and then began writing a post with something like "Autumn is here!" The tone was one of finality and interest and enthusiasm, of course, all wrapped up into one. And I notice as I write this now, this writing is eclipsing the writing in the dream {that seemed so clear before}. And that is the way of it. The dream has done it's job of {waking me up}- inspiring me to wake up and write. Wake up and notice. See what is then and what is now. Think of that, all of it all at once and knowing what will come, but not quite, and making it up as we go along. And the sheer beauty of it. The dream got that right on as well. I felt as though I had never seen such beauty as in those red and orange leaves.

notes on risk

On the way out to the upick the other evening, I was thinking about a photo I had just seen of a friend's son on his new dirt bike, getting ready to go on a ride with his dad, who also has a dirt bike. I know nothing of dirt bike riding, motorcycle riding, snow mobile riding (although a bit more here than dirt bike riding, having grown up in Wisconsin and all) and the like, but assume, depending on who you are and what your opinions are, that learning how to use any of these devices involves at least some amount of risk and varies from person to person, depending on skill level and desire. The first type of risk that comes to my mind when thinking about learning how to ride a dirt bike- or any bike, for that matter- is physical risk. The more I thought about it, however, the more I saw that there are other types of risk involved as well.

And this got me thinking about risk in general and how there is risk in anything that we choose to undertake, physical or otherwise. Anything worthwhile, it seems. (Or at least most things worthwhile. Risks abound.) I started thinking about these other types of risks- emotional risks, fear of failing, risks dealing with self-esteem and acceptance. Feeling overloaded. Unqualified. Fears of success- that we may have to continue if we succeed even if we don't enjoy something. And on and on. So many types of risk, so many fears. And the alternative to not taking risks? Living a life of dissatisfaction and mind-numbing sameness.

And yet, even as I thought this, I realized there is risk there as well. So many quotes clog our minds and hearts about not wasting our chances. Not squandering life. Not grabbing the bull by the horns. Not letting life pass us by lest we regret our choices and fall into a pit of despair over what could-have-been. Each prompt based on a fear (someone else's fear, I might add). Someone else's experence with risk.

We risk not only what we are comfortable with but what we have learned to be comfortable with, often basing our choices on what others have told us is acceptable to risk. Missed opportunities, otherwise known as enjoyment, often come from following the advice of well-meaning *others* intent on teaching us what their comfort level is with a particular risk, taking us outside of our own bodies, away from our own hearts to follow another road often leading to confusion and dissatisfaction.

Unfortunately, risk is often too narrowly defined in our culture. There are activities that are commonly held to be risky. Indivduals who are labeled as risk takers. Someone who doesn’t take enough risks, however, is seen as overly cautious. A stick-in-the-mud. What these labels fail to convey is that risk taking is not objective. What constitutes a risk is highly personal and varies among individuals.

So how do I know what risks I am willing to take? It takes two things- awareness and courage. Awareness of my own limits. Where I draw my line and where I reach out. And then? Then it is a matter of courage. Courage to pay attention to what I am aware of. And then to act on it. And because I was raised the way I was and am the person who I am, all of this can take time. Time to sort through all of the competing “other” voices to get to the heart of what exactly I am willing to do. What risks I am willing to take.

One of the reasons I have chosen to unschool my kids is to {hopefully} allow them to sidestep at least some of the process of weeding through external influences and how they shape who we are and what we are willing to do with our lives. It is my hope my kids will be able to develop in their own time a knowledge about themselves (who they are) and about what sorts of risks they are willing to take. With themselves. With their lives. And I realize there are risks in that. Risks that things won't turn out. Risks that things will go wrong. When I think about it, though, these risks are no bigger than if I were to make other decisions. The difference lies in the fact that these are risks I am willing to take. Risks I have chosen to take. And *that* makes all the difference.

sitting outside during {one of} my favorite times of the day at {one of} my favorite times of the year. i've been taking note of the increasing number of signs that autumn is moving in. the transition of a transitional season- autumn takes us from summer to winter and is a season in it's own right, known to me as the season that takes beauty to a new level. i've written before (or at least thought it to myself!) that autumn makes beauty for the hell of it. sure, we know *why* the leaves have their many shades of reds, oranges, yellows... *why* they fall and blow tsk tsk tsk across the patio. not necessarily *why* everything seems to need sleep. rest makes more sense to our minds conditioned to make each moment count. be productive. get something practical done. or at least enjoy! ourselves, for goodness sake. and where does that leave us with sleep? with autumn?

even in warmer climates where autumn is less noticeable, there is still a changing of the flower guard. vegetables in season and out. sometimes. kale, not tomatoes. not all the time. here in the pacific northwest there is autumn- a much longer autumn than i knew growing up in wisconsin where autumn really *is* the transition to winter. a beautiful transition to a steadfast season who comes early and stays late. an uninvited guest who is nonetheless always expected.

it's this time of year that i start to wonder if the remaining tomatoes on the vine will ever be able to ripen with this left over sun. will the sunflowers not-yet-bloomed ever burst open for the bees? will there be bees left flying or will they only groggily stumble from flower to next-burst-open flower, taking one last sip of sweetness before the winds really begin to blow.

but of course. then i remember how long autumn stays. how there is plenty of time for ripening (tomato upicking hasn't even begun, i remind myself) and picking and canning and bursting and blooming. a whole pint of berries is still on the last blueberry bush! there are fall raspberries to be had and pears to be tasted. the transition to the transition, always a harvest friendly time with vegetables from then, finally ripening now.

so i sit in this. this time. and make plans for how quickly i will or will not rake the leaves this year and wonder if the neighbor will care, now that she isn't raking her own leaves. i plan canning days and dismiss other projects, wondering if the kids will need new hats and mittens and fingerless gloves. should i even make mittens? will i ever have the time? i think of framing the ones they won't wear again...

autumn brings a wistfulness, a closing down, a contented beauty. and at other times- a zing! zow! i drive down the street laughing and pointing excitedly- "would you look at that!" trees bursting now, blooming in reds, {no blues, no greens}, but golden! and oranges. of all shades. just because. a few pink flowers linger in the flower box out front, the pots in the back.

but not yet. that's later. right now the flowers bloom pink, purple, bright gold, yellow. the mint blooms peaking, with bees hovering, flying back and forth, mint, no- sunflowers!, no- cardoons! plenty for all while spiders grow in girth, getting fat on fly season, once again upon us. it keeps coming, again and again, each time like the last in flavor and quality of light. but distinct, as it always is, unique and singular in this moment. i love recognizing the signs of what is to come, what is now. in this recognition there is appreciation for this season, for the next, when i never can quite decide which i like best and realize i don't need to. each a beauty of its own, gliding slowly, then quickly, into the next.

slowly, then all at once

Sitting outside ready to meditate, I noticed the sun had shifted ever-so-slightly in the direction that signals the coming of autumn. The pagan holiday for this time of year is Lughnasadh (Lammas). It is a pre-harvest celebration, midway between the autumnal equinox and the summer solstice's longest day of the year. For me, it is signaled by this subtle change in light, particularly in the morning. There are peaches, blackberries, tomatoes (finally!) the beginning of melons, the end of my blueberries. The heat of summer can still be found some days even as the sun's intensity is diminished overhead.

I love holding these two seeming dichotomous states- the {sudden} shift of light and the knowledge that this process has been in effect each day. Every day. An imperceptible change in sunrise, sunset, until one day a noticeable difference. It reminds me of Hemingway's quote on how people go bankrupt, "Slowly, then all at once." And so much of life. Our children's transformations, learning new skills, new developments. How did I learn to knit? Slowly, slowly, over the course of many years. Then all at once. And suddenly I had a project I couldn't believe I had made.

Of course, the movement of the seasons hardly stays all-at-once {for long} and is by it's very definition, a continuation of slowly. The process constantly changing, shifting, moving in the direction of the circle. We notice the all-at-once on a particular day, label it fall, and watch as it shifts again toward winter, the uneasy nebulous nature of change given a static label. We switch our shoes. Coats. Activities. As the movement becomes imperceptible again. Until the next subtle shift of light becomes noticeable to our eyes. Our minds. Slowly. Then all at once {we notice}. Again.



Very hungry caterpillars. I don't know why I thought the slugs were eating these petunias. (A hazard when growing petunias to be sure. Everyone seems to want to eat them. They must taste as good to them as they smell to me.) Eva and I have been studying the three, four, then five! caterpillars living on this one petunia plant for a few days, noticing their different colors and how they sometimes stand up or lay down, depending. Somehow one of them (or a family member) ended up on the patio near the peaches and we duly placed him back on the petunia with the others. Perhaps later in fall when these guys have all turned into cocoons would be a safer time to grow petunias. The two I planted out by the sweetpeas have {so far} remained untouched. It is flower central out there with plenty to choose from, which probably has a lot to do with it. Or maybe purple petunias are particularly tasty.



The sweetpeas and chamomile are having a long season this year. I have been drying the chamomile as I remember and am thoroughly enjoying the strong fragrance of these particular plants. I love these multi-colored sweetpeas with the different shades of purple.



I let several of these plants stick around this year to see what they were. I love them with the sweetpeas and calendula. Their clusters of tiny flowers are a lovely shade of pink. Any ideas on what type of plant they are?

dragonfly encounter

click click. silence. buzz. more clicking. i look up. someone- some bug or some such or other- is caught in the patio, buzzing and clicking at the plastic roof over my head. i squint. a dragonfly. of course i will help him.

over the years i have given up on helping certain creatures who find themselves trapped in the patio. as much as it drives me crazy to think of being trapped like that myself, some of the creatures are less likely to be helped than others. birds can be helped. definitely. although sometimes, depending on the species (take juncos, for instance), it can take some time. the time i helped free a hummingbird who had his beak {actually} caught in the screen was memorable. flies are a no. they don't cooperate. rarely. i help some queen ants- something about them being caught in there, unable to fulfill their destiny, gets me. then it wears thin when there are so many. some bees, honey bees or some of the native bees, can be helped some of the time. wasps. yellow jackets. of course. bumble bees, though, no. they are far too angry and beside themselves with their predicament and i can rarely get them in a container safely. they fight it until they wear themselves out. then i can come in and lend a hand.

dragon flies often find their own way out. if they don't, i can usually help them, one way or another. take this one, for example. he avoided the container i tried to use to contain him and it wasn't until i went and found the net that he got serious about getting free. he actually- and this is very common with dragonflies- climbed onto the edge of the net and let me walk him {on the net} outside. once outside, he stayed put while i set the net down, propping it up against the sandbox, ran inside, set up the camera, came back outside and {voila!} took a picture of him on the net.



but just one picture. once i started fiddling around with lighting and angle, he was gone. out of there. flying off to wherever it was he had been going before his path crossed with mine. caught in the screened in porch. one summer day. i wonder if he'd been there before. did it seem as familiar to him as it did to me? drat. this plastic ceiling blocking my way once again. when will i remember not to fly this way, this way that always seems to find me caught? trapped. on my way to where i need to be. unless this is where i need to be. or simply where i am.

and as always, for me, it is a perfect encounter, giving me food for my thoughts, for this writing, for my day. i wish i had been able to catch the glint of his wings in the sunshine- although the way it looks, you can almost {almost} see how he is holding on tight, keeping an eye on me, waiting for just the right time to fly off.

Death has been hovering about lately, keeping me primed and focused on living. Maxwell is a good teacher in this respect, waking me up at 4:30 in the morning, even after having such a hard time breathing the last few days. I get up to let him out and question him- don't you want to stay resting, go back to bed, stay still? Take care. In the way I think of taking care. He looks back at me, clear. Certain. If I am going to live, I am going to live. And I understand. Why bother staying alive, doing this living business, if he can't enjoy things as he does, enjoy his catness. Being. His time prowling about in the back yard, sleeping in the tall grass, checking on the squirrels. Trying for one last bird. Mouse in the shed? Even just getting up to greet the day, lounge in the shade while I sit outside to meditate in the morning. Sit on my lap. Neck scratches. Head pats. Plenty of time to rest and breathe easy. Breathe hard. Live. Such as it is. I actually saw him jump the fence yesterday. Focus on that as it comes. As it goes. And not throw it away even though it is not as it was. As it used to be. I think of our life. How really it is never quite as it used to be. Because it is now. Not then.

I take him snacks in the yard now, hoping to coax some eating from him here and there. This food toting thing has worn off on Eva, who found him in one of his resting spots near the side of the house, between two large patches of daisies, in the sunshine. She now takes him tasty plates of beef and salmon or lobster and chicken each day to keep him enjoying his time here. Licking his lips one last time.

At night he sleeps with me. Or he doesn't. I keep wondering when he will pass, hoping his time will be peaceful and easy. Close to home so that I know. He pushes on with living, taking what he likes, living life {as fully} as he can. As he always has. I laugh, remembering his high jinks from years ago. Opening doors on his own. Ringing the bell to be let out. His strange fascination with every printer we have ever owned. Sleeping on the neighbors' couches. Opening the yard up to other cats, much to the dismay of Agnes.

The other cats treat him well. Magoo still asks to have her head washed. Agnes still eyes him warily. Both are enjoying the greater variety of food entering the house these last several weeks.

I imagine what it will be like when he dies. How I will miss him. But {honestly!} (surely) that's cheating. After all, I will not really know what it is like to miss him, be without him- not really- until he is really gone. Really. I keep this in mind as he sits purring on my lap. I try to be like him. Focus on living. Purr. Enjoy. Be. I feel his presence, as it is now, as it has been for the last 13 years. My cat. My friend. And I know that if he's going to go about this business of living, the least I can do is go about living with him. And set death aside, as it always is, for the time being. And be.

And other times? I cry and know how much I will miss him when his time surely comes. And I let that be as well.

zen and the art of summer

We three- Jack, Maxwell, me- sit outside together in the morning brightness. Jack, on the patio, in the shade. Me, on the patio, in the sun, a little further out. Maxwell, in the grass, in the shade, furthest out of all. I sit in the sun for hmmm ten minutes, maybe less, then move to the steps in the shade. The animals knew it was too hot to begin with. I sit in the sun {initially} because it is probably the only time today- the only time for the next couple of days- when it will be cool enough to sit there.

Yesterday I sat in a field at the park in the shade, undone by the heat {for the time being}. Looking around me, I noticed literally dozens of blue dragonflies flitting about among the patches of dried grass left by the lawn mowers. They sat still long enough for me to look closely, then buzzed off to greet others. Two flew together, ran into a third, split into singles. They flew parallel. They flew alone. I was- stunned? pleased? rapt?- and kept watching. This going on around me shook me out of my summertimefunkwiththeheat and reminded me {again and again and again I see the beauty in all seasons but have the hardest time with the heat of the summer, even as the beauty is obvious} of the many ways of summer.

I thought about picking blueberries in my front yard last year in the 100 degree heat, drinking water, wearing a hat, not-staying-out-too-long-but-long-enough to save the berries from the heat and focusing on what it felt like to be in that heat rather than pushing it away or hiding from it as I so often do. I don't do this often, so fragile to the heat do I feel. But sometimes- some times- I will embrace it. I will sit in it, like today, in the morning, with the cool breeze tricking my skin. It feels at once the heat from the sunshine, not yet fully warmed up for the day, and the cool of the wind. I reach for a fleece even as I know it will be too much just now to put on. And I think about this summertime feeling, of bringing a sweater, but never really using it, except indoors in the air conditioning. I let goosebumps rise on my skin in the cool air more readily than I would during the other seasons. There must be something to this, the knowledge that it will warm up, it is warming up, and the goosebumps will fade away at last.

And of course there is so much to love about summer. It ranks first among favorite seasons. There is the heat. The time outside. The light. The greenery. The growth. Abundance. I walked home from the park yesterday, bowing my head to the powerful sun and thinking about tomatoes. Tomatoes, after all, love the heat. And I very much look forward to my first fresh tomato of the summer. It can't be long now. It looks as if the sun and heat are here to stay. I repeat a little mantra in my head as I reach home, "Tomatoes love the heat. Tomatoes love the heat." And then I enter my house and bless it for the air conditioning within.

what's your turtle

After a botched trip to Toys R Us wherein we found out that not every toy found online is actually carried in the store {and before we could figure out what to do about that} I took the kids to the Audubon Society where we checked out the birds and then headed down to take a hike on the trails. For Eva this meant possible encounters with the resident newts. For Samuel this meant extreme irritation culminating in definite groundedness {which he had hoped to find during said trip to Toys R Us but which obviously alluded all if not most of us}. Mostly. Still, it's better when I listen and listen and listen without offering very much in the way of advice or fixing-it solutions (which will surely lead to even more frustration and less groundedness, whatever my intentions are pretending to be). I will say that I thought we left the Audubon Society in better spirits than when we arrived but Samuel might disagree with me on that point.

What I loved most about this trip- aside from the fact that we got to try out a new trail and walk deeper into the woods than we had before- was when we approached the newt pond, a boy about Samuel's age called out to us to tell us there was a turtle in the pond. I heard, "There's a turtle!" announced with such certainty and enthusiasm that I was hooked. The kids and I walked over to where he stood with his mom quietly- but enthusiastically!- watching the turtle. I didn't see the turtle at first and asked if he had been the one to mention the turtle. He said yes and pointed him out to us. He also told us there had been a mouse standing right there by his foot near the bank of the pond but that the mouse had left. Thankfully, the turtle had not and we- all of us- stood looking at the turtle with his head and shell poking out of the water. And then the turtle began to swim! across the pond. This was startling enough to catch the attention of the other person there, an Audubon volunteer who was wading through the pond searching for newts. She voiced what I think all of us were thinking- wouldn't it be fun to catch! the turtle? Unfortunately (for us, not the turtle), she also let us know she was there for the newts, not the turtle, and was committed enough to her cause to not allow herself to be distracted. The rest of us sighed {quietly} as she resumed searching the pond for newts. She was, after all, the only one of us who was really authorized to "catch the turtle" and without her we were left to continue to watch the turtle as he swam a little further out into the pond, away from us. Once he reached the tall reeds and we could no longer see him, we headed back into the woods to continue our walk.

I tell you, this is just the sort of thing that is sure to get me out of bed in the morning- the idea of seeing a turtle- or a tree frog- in the woods with my kids. I love that a stranger called out to us to let us know of this extraordinary event. I loved the thrill of it in his eyes. His enthusiasm. His mother patiently standing with him while he watched that turtle {even as it was apparent that seeing the turtle wasn't monumental for her, per se, she saw that it was for him and that was monumental for her}. She was there. I was there. We were all there. With the turtle. And you could feel it. At least I could. And I hope that even if my kids didn't, that they will remember it. Recognize it. Link it to what they love so that they will have a web of- what? A web of so many experiences and memories and knowledge of passion and enthusiasm and love in this life to return to over and over again. Enough knowledge of it all to know for certain what thrill-ing-ness gets them to jump out of bed each and every day in anticipation and delight.

natural optimism

I love so much about this image. Last month the maple tree in our yard sent out hundreds of maple seeds {at least}, each helicoptering outward to a suitable growing spot. This little guy, along with a few others, took root in just enough soil and such on our patio. Check out the ant crawling along the tip of one of the leaves. Amazing the possibility in any attempt being worthwhile. It doesn't have to be perfect or forever. It just has to be.

Spiders and squash and such like

I spent the day unpacking and doing a general pick up around the house, focusing a good bit of my energy on the patio. I am reminded of how very alive it is out there when I attempt to sweep the floors, particularly during this time of year. The broom uncovers one baby spider after another, running for cover. I quick! rush to sweep up the dirt and clutter before they find their way to safety within the newly swept piles. (I don't want to throw them away. I help them to safety. Find a new spot. Spin a new web. ) Ants, spiders, dried flowers, piles of Eva's drawings, knitting projects in mid-stitch, squirt guns.

The liveliness- the very aliveness- is tangible when I walk out to the compost pile with the last of the squash. (Man it was a good year for squash. Is it just me or was there enough squash to feed everyone and their dog this year. {Of course, I mean those dogs who will actually eat squash. Of course. Which leaves out my dog. Of course. Which may be why I had so much squash left over? Perhaps.} I had my fill, of course, back in November or December and simply bided my time over the next couple of months until I could carry the last of them out to the compost pile in good conscience. {That's not entirely true. I must have eaten more squash than I remember because I usually do. The large quantities of squash were most probably extra-punctuated by the complete lack of cabbage. That's all. That, and the fact that once the greens start flowing in earnest, I tend to forget about other vegetables like winter squash. And green beans.})

I walk through a part of the backyard near the compost pile that has been slightly flooded from all of the rain. The ground is saturated and there are several large puddles of standing water in one area in particular. Large worms lay on the open ground, half submerged in thick mud. I see others making their way across a few of the round stepping stones. I smile at this, glad the stones can help. I can't resist and stop to help one of the worms who immediately scrunches himself in that way worms do that prevents any but the smallest fingers from taking hold. It's the worm's equivalent of going limp, making it impossible to pick him up. Don't eat me. Don't eat me. This squished up worm hides as best he can among the stone crevices.

I move on. A good bit of mud squishes between my toes as I walk barefoot to the higher ground where the compost pile actually stands and I comment in my head how once again the woman-who-lived-here-before-us was so incredibly thoughtful about each thing, right down to making sure to put the compost pile on slightly higher ground so that it was less likely to flood when even the area with the elijah blue has flooded. Even there, though, the worms have congregated in heaps just under the lid. The ground is too thick with moisture and they must find higher ground. Safety. Inside the bin, slugs crawl along the debris, spiders spin what are possibly the most productive webs I have ever seen. Copious amounts of fruit flies make their home in this compost pile and while I am aware that this signifies an imbalance {technically} in the composition of the pile, I know I am not going to do anything to remedy it. I am fine with the fruit flies inside the bin. Fine with the spiders and the slugs. Fine with the worms gathering in heaps. Fine with the mud between my toes. Fine as I stand and look around at the yard, for once blocking out any directives my mind produces to take care of the lawn or weed the iris bed or listen to any one of a long list of things to do, things that need to be done. Always things that need to be done. I am free of it all for this moment, appreciating the roses and irises in bloom. The piles of buttercups overflowing now that the gardener has cut back the roses. The mud squishing further between my toes. It's lush. It's glorious. It's this amazing aliveness that I am able to notice and appreciate in this moment. And then it's gone. And I am walking back up to the patio, lingering as I smell the thyme. Picking a little lemon balm.

Back up on the patio, I toss out the last of the debris and move the garlic up to the shelf with last year's Chamomile and Calendula left overs. And that's when I notice my pogo stick. Right there. Where it's been for the last, oh I dunno know, four months? Five months? Gosh, it's been such a long time since I made time to pogo. Such a funny verb to use. I play with it in my mind for a split second. Bounce. Pounce. Pogo. And I grab the stick and head out to the open area just outside the patio. A perfect place for pogoing.

I bounce and it feels free. I notice the flowers in the neighbors' yards. The ones I rarely see because they are blocked by the fences surrounding us. We have our privacy, our own space. I bounce above it. I think of bouncing when I was a kid. Of jumping rope. Of flowers. Of smiling uncontrollably. Of counting. After about 50 bounces on the pogo stick my dog comes out to join me. As usual, he play bows and bounces in his own doggie way. I stop my own bouncing for fear of pouncing on one of his paws as he jumps forward and backward, up and down with the pogo stick, barking at me, at the action, at the fun.

He can feel it. He is it. He grounds me in this moment of noticing this life around me, this life in me. All of it. The pogo stick. The flowers. The rain starting to sprinkle down on us as we make our way into the relative dryness of the patio and finally into the house where I am able to see, at least for this moment, the aliveness inside. My kids. The guinea pigs. Spiders in the corners. An extra dog. And me.

5 amazing things

{my} list of things to do to feel good about life-
write
sit with a cat on your lap
go out {into the garden} and smell the flowers
look- really pay attention- to guinea pigs
take a walk {in the woods}
notice good things around you

there are others, to be sure, but this morning i took note of five amazing things in my bathroom while i brushed my teeth. it was a lot. it was enough. to put a smile on my mind. sometimes a mind really really needs a smile. even when it just won't budge. five amazing things did the trick- or enough of the trick- to get me over here to the computer to write, which should help to finish off the trick just enough to get my whole self outside to the garden to not only smell the flowers, but to plant some as well. double whammy of goodness this morning. and all before the kids have woken up.

so 5 amazing things i noticed in my bathroom while brushing my teeth this morning. five things i love.

there is a spider in the far left corner as you walk in who has a second egg sac that is about to hatch. her first egg sac hatched about a month ago and those spiderlings have since dispersed. we are looking forward to watching these babies hatch and disperse as well.

sitting on a frame hanging on the wall, there is a wooden block on which eva drew a picture of two green stick figures- me and eva- holding hands. i smile at the goodness in that drawing. where it came from within her to imagine holding my hand. being with me. so much love to notice in a drawing like that.

hanging on that same frame is my yin/yang necklace. some days there is nothing better than yin and yang to really sum it all up. the truth of it. the simplicity. the cliche. the cynic and the poet in me can both have a really good laugh. and a sigh. and a smile.

in the soap dish in the shower is a small plastic frog who i hope will always be there to remind me of the time when eva put her there.

standing on the top of the shower's sliding glass door are two playmobil unicorns. eva put them there during one of her baths and i keep them there. if ever they fall, i put them back up. if you look at the wall behind the door, you can see the unicorns' shadows. there is something about seeing unicorn shadows on the wall to remind you of how magical life is. how sweet. how not everything has to be put away.

with all of this gratitude skipping around in my head, smiles lingering in my mind, cleaning out the guinea pig cage seems like an amazing gift. those little guys are going to love the fresh fleece under their toes. leave it to guinea pigs. hey, that's almost my whole list. imagine that.

clear off your kitchen table or how to seize the day

I tend to think that a cleared off kitchen table (or wherever your table) is one of the best ways to feel a fresh start. When I walked by the cleared off kitchen table first thing this morning it felt so open and filled with possibilities. No matter what else is going on in the house, if I can clear off the kitchen table and have the dishes done, things seem infinitely more manageable. I know the flylady swears by a clean kitchen sink- I mean really clean. Bleached out and ready to go. There is something about having grime and crumbs lingering in the sink after all the dishes are said and done but I still don't usually get around to actually scouring it, at least not every day.

There is also the technique of setting out goodies {on the table} for the day each morning to pique your kids' interest. I have tried this and even sometimes still do this but it is not enough a part of my natural habit{itat} to keep it going for very long, plus I get bored with this kind of routine. I tend to do it until it isn't inspiring any more and then I move on to a new system (thanks again to that article in Oprah several years ago for giving me this phrase and a giggle whenever I use it). Or until the kids move onto a new system. Let's face it. Just because I think it would be nifty neat to get all creative with blocks today doesn't mean it will necessarily match up with what my kids want to do. It might. It might not.

Today, though, I have an idea that I think might go over well with all of us. My first thought about how I wanted to spend the day {How do you want to spend your day?} had me thinking about getting outside and finding some newts. Or frogs. Or suchlike. Unfortunately, Samuel has been sick and I don't think he is really quite ready for that kind of outing. Fortunately, this time at home has given me the time to take care of a few things in the yard that I hadn't gotten to yet. Just when I think it is all a bit too overwhelming to really take care of any of it, I take a few small steps, do some one-thing-at-a-time thinking and there you have it. I am all set to conquer the last of the leaves in the front yard. {Lest you think I am as leaf-delinquent as our neighbor does, let me clarify. We have an oak tree in our front yard who continues to drop leaves all winter and into part of the spring. There's no way to ever really be done with oak leaves until the new leaves come in the spring. And that's now.)

So back to the day at hand. I plan to conquer the front yard. And! start that sugar-crystal-growing-experiment I meant to do months ago {and good grief, wherever did I pick up that how-to on growing sugar crystals? No idea. How did it happen that I don't know how everything that came into this house got here?}. The directions for growing sugar crystals showed up on the kitchen table out of nowhere yesterday and I got the idea to go through with it while clearing off the table last night. We'll see how it goes. If anything, it might get some other creative juices flowing. That's how it can be. The thing that you think is the creative thing might actually be the thing that *inspires* the creative thing to get moving. Just like that. You don't know how it will happen, just that it will.

This is a bummer to me sometimes. Sometimes I would really like to see the poetry unfold and know that this is the poetry. You don't always know it's poetry until it's over. Another good reason to love what you are living while you are living it rather than waiting around for when it gets really good. This might be the really good you were waiting for. Too many cliches for this early in the morning? I say not enough. Here's another one that Samuel threw my way the other day- carpe diem. When I told him it meant seize the day he threw his head back and burst out laughing and said, "Why not? Why on earth would you not seize the day?!" I kid you not. These kids are nothing if not complete and utter inspiration for living a life of love.