Full Moon Blue Moon

Witch, Wisewoman, Sage, Wild.

Daughter, Lover, Sister, Child.

Quiet reflection....

Moon shadow blue

Moments remembered:

released, renewed

Silent intentions cross

oceans vast,

Presence swirls, ebbs;

and the Next ones crash...

and thrash and sidle and flow

towards the Unknown.

Witch, Wisewoman, Sage, Wild.

Daughter, Lover, Sister, Child.

Prayers swept skyward:

Keepers of the Past.

Songs of Tomorrow

dreams yet to cast.

Rainy Days

I am still sick.  Nearly voiceless.  I have so much inspiration bubbling up, just aching to well and swell over with effulgent creative expression.  If only I had the energy to match it.  Painting, crocheting, maybe even learning a new needle-craft... seems limitless all I want to tackle.  Instead I am tackling this cough.

Chloe doesn't understand why I sound like a squeak toy (which is upsetting to her, in and of itself) and has problems understanding what it is I want of her.  Thank goodness we've taught her hand signals, too.  This afternoon she begged me to do something, anything, please please please! with her.  Well, I did need to go to the grocery store- I was nearly out of nasty cough medicine, and our poor piggles needed food.  It was a start.  The look on her little puppy face as I loaded her into my car was enough inspiration (despite the looming grey clouds that were beginning to splatter the windshield with ice-cold droplets) to agree to a brief trip to the beach.  Yes: in the rain, with a hacking cough and snuffly nose.  She was thrilled... bounding down the cliffside to our favorite spot of sand.  We shuffled, hopped, raced, danced and played together.  She grinned from ear to ear and knocked me down to roll in the wet sand together... truly, it was quite fun.  Eventually it was getting cold for both of us and although neither of us wanted to leave, Chloe was good about putting her leash back on and climbing the slippery slopes.

Now we are home, with the heater cranked, in layers.  She, in layers of towels, happily gnawing on a bone; I in layers of sweaters and blankets, curled up on the couch.

Maybe I'll reorganize the closet.  Or start a preliminary sketch for my next painting.  Or take a nap.

Citizen, Coach and Doodlebugs

As I had discussed earlier- Husby and I went Together-Present shopping on the 23rd.  We had fun- went down to Pacific Avenue, window shopping and strolling along the chilly avenue with yummy chai tea in hand (that part was me, not Husby).

I decided art supplies really were what I wanted most and had a field day... we hadn't exactly set a "limit" for our purchases, and as I shyly kept piling brushes and pigments and pastels and-and-and into the heavily laden basket, Husby just smiled and said "you need canvases too!".  I felt like a kid in a candy store- and probably looked like one, too.  I haven't taken anything out of it's packaging yet- I just keep staring at the large canvas bag brimming with creative yumminess and giggling to myself.  It is placed right next to the bed, so it is the first thing I see when I wake up.  Husby thinks I'm silly, I'm sure for far more than just this, but it really makes it feel like each morning is Christmas all over.

After our mini-excursion we dropped off my goodie tote at home, played with the pup a bit, got gussied up and went out for hors d'oeuvres and cocktails.  Lovely and yummy and intimate.  At this point Husby was just starting to narrow in on what he wanted his Together-Present to be.  By this time, we'd ruled out the toesy shoes (because, really?  would he wear them?) and a guitar, because maybe a sax (which he played briefly as a child) would be more fun- though the neighbors mightn't agree... leaving us at a musical impasse.  So we shifted directions.  Electronics?  No.  Kitchen gadgets?  No.  Clothing?  No.  Sports equipment?  No.  A watch? .....pause..... that was an idea.  He had been wanting a new one.... ponder ponder ponder....  well, we could look.  And look we did.  Sometimes Husby can be excruciatingly slow in his decision making process.  Someone had to make an executive decision and there was only the two of us.  I had it narrowed down to three nearly identical watches- different designers, and vastly different prices.  He narrowed it down to two.  And oh was that proverbial clock ticking!  Finally we decided on the one that didn't have to be wound.  That didn't have a battery.  That was charged by BOTH natural and artificial light, and, should he be trapped in utter darkness for six, yes six whole months, his watch would still run.  Praise be!  We'd made a decision and he would be safe and  punctual in the pitch black voids of Hell for months on end.  It was a momentous occasion.  As was taking out the correct number of links to make it fit properly.  And did I mention that the face of his masterpiece was scratched by noon Christmas day?  Maybe  I'll leave that part out of the story.

It was a wonderful day and it was just ours.

Christmas, on the other hand, was everyone else's.  Four different homes over the course of 11 hours.  In those 11 hours was breakfast, brunch, appetizers, dinner and copious amounts of cocktails, punches, wine and desserts.  Somewhere in the mix I received the most lovely of clutches, Coach, none the less! and Husby received a table lamp modeled after the infamous Leg Lamp from "The Christmas Story".  Apparently Leg Lamps top expensive, stay running in the dark watches, because he exclaimed quite loudly "This is the BEST Christmas Present EVER!" and the gift-giver wasn't even present.  Humpf.

Chloe, on the other hand has yet to decide what her most favorite Christmas present was, as she has not actually received all of them yet- we're rationing them to her,  s l o w l y.  The Periwinkle Dragon from Husby and I went over very well (once we got the damned squeaker out), but once "grandma's" goodie bag showed up, well- screw the dragon, hello Toy Heaven!  She received a tie-dyed fleecy tug-toy which lasted exactly seven blissful minutes.  Then there was the ginormous Doodlebug that she has not let leave her side.  She sleeps with it.  She naps with it.  She grooms it, gnaws on it, wiggles it, trips over it, and shows it to Husby and I triumphantly throughout the day.

For when she's left alone, Grandma got her a trick-treat dispenser... it's a clear plastic jar that you place treats in, with a hole at the top that has a knotted rope in.  As the rope is moved back and forth through the hole, a treat will fall out... it's challenging and entertaining for Chloe to try to figure out how to make the goodies come out- she loves it and it literally keeps her entertained for hours.  She bats at it, gnaws at it. rolls it, and carries it around in her mouth.  Today we were gone for about two hours and came home to her still trying to puzzle it out!  Now she is thoroughly exhausted at my feet, with her treat-toy nearby, still full of yumminess and Doodlebug snuggled under her chin.

The Spirit of Christmas

Being of the Christmas Spirit has become increasingly difficult for me- though I have always known how to smile on cue.  Such things in my house were taught early on.  Rest your fork before lifting your glass to drink.  The unoccupied hand is to be in your lap at all times.  Dab- never wipe your mouth.  Smile with your eyes.  Match the strength and energy of the one whose hand you shake.  Please.  Thank you.  That was lovely.  Always offer to help with clean-up.  Never leave first.  Never leave last.  Same goes for arrivals.

Today, the festivities are past, and I can be myself.  Not that I am not actually polite or proper, or prim (and yes, I view prim as an attribute.  I'm old-fashioned that way) but today I can be sad.    Today I can stay in my robe and light the Christmas tree, then turn the lights off twenty times, if I desire.  Just to see which suits my mood better.  Today, I can mourn the loss of my Mom- the Spirit of Christmas incarnate.  I can miss her fudge and her cookies, her hoarse laughter from the kitchen and her bird-like limbs which could never quite carry all the presents and joy she filled them with.  Today I can sadly remember the proud, quiet smile of my Dad on Christmas morning as we opened our gifts, shaking with glee.  A smile I saw a glimmer of the day I married Husby- but haven't truly witnessed since Mom died.  It was not there, yesterday- though I looked for it often.  Today I can cry because I will never have a Christmas with both of my parents- with either of my parents, ever again.  And maybe I didn't treasure yesterday enough.  And maybe I didn't know how.  Today the sky is grey and it is appropriate.  I simply couldn't bear the sun.  Not today, when I can be myself.

Today I can be morose, and playful and weep and giggle and be unapologetic.  Chloe knows how to live in the moment and she doesn't mind such mood swings.  She will lick the tears off of the tip of my nose when it is a crying moment, and she will lick my cheek when it is a laughing one, with the same devotion.  And occasionally, she will sneak my used tissues.  

Tomorrow, or even later today, will be a blog of all the joys and food and lovely gifts and memories that graced this holiday season.  But not now, now is not the time.  

New Traditions

The holidays have been trying for me this year.  It is hard for me to live in the moment- to relish the little moments of time.  It is hard for me not to focus on the inevitable- the loss of my father, and all that entails.  Trying to not think about that is as effective as not thinking about pink flamingoes when someone brings them up.  Impossible.  Now my mind is muddled with my father's dying and pink flamingoes.  (Which, is a more than slightly humorous juxtaposition, is still more than slightly morbid.)  Our tree is up, and lovely; though our wreath has yet to be hung.  All the Christmas shopping is complete for family and friends, though nothing is wrapped.  May not happen at this rate.

Husby has been very busy with Holiday Parties and Gatherings at work- it has ran him ragged, and he is now snarffully, which means I am, too.  Timidly, we both asked each other if we could go Christmas shopping for each other, together.  This is something we did a few years back for Valentine's Day when the pressure of finding loverly presents, wrapping and bow-tying them was just too much pressure.  We had a wonderful time.  We raided Sur La Table, and had fun playing with all of the gadgets and never-before-heard-of contraptions that left us wondering how we'd ever lived without them.  It was intimate and delightful.   It resulted in a luxurious home-cooked meal by the two of us with our new together-presents.  It was one of the best Valentine's ever.

Today we are going to Christmas Together-Present shop.  Husby thinks he might want a guitar.  Or maybe those toesy-shoes that are waterproof, so he can pretend to be a mountain goat with Chloe on the beach cliffs.  Or something completely different, and neither of those things.  I am aching for new paint supplies and maybe a canvas or two.  Or one of those lovely, large woven baskets to take to the Farmer's Market.  I don't go to the Farmer's Market nearly as often as I'd like to, but I might- if I had a lovely, large woven basket.  Or a drop spindle.  I really want one of those.  We shall see- it will be an adventure.  We could come home with anything, and it will be just ours: intimate and delightful.  Our new tradition.

Raging

Click-click.

Heels on silent roads

crimson leaf carpet- derisive.

Breath whispers snow-white

billow beyond sunrises into

nap-noons.  Crisp. Flushing.

Waves crash, pummel, roil

Icy tempers thrash

and sand acquiesces... soothes.

Shiva at Kali's feet

Heels on silent swain

crimson tongue furled- humble.

Wonderment

I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be a mother.  To have Innocence Manifest trust you implicitly.  To innately know the needs, loves and desires of something so tiny and precious and vulnerable.  I wonder what it would be like to hear a cry before it's sounded and drop everything.  To comfort, cradle and coo with Infinite Possibility.   To have nothing else matter.

Chloe had an accident. OR: Why? Why? Why?

I rose early this morning and headed straight to the breakfast table, a stack of bills (not my own) in hand, ready to take on the world- in between yawns.  (I am far more productive and responsible when dealing with others' finances then my own, in case you were curious.  Just don't talk to me first thing in the morning.)  Open bill, notice discrepancy, call the company, rectify the snafu, write a check, balance the books, repeat.  Repeatedly.  

Cue Husby waking up and trodding heavily towards the couch, eyes half-closed.

And- sit.

And- expletive.... expletive... expletive,

And- Chloe hiding under the table, between my feet.

And- me, whispering under my breath "why? why? why?"

It is too cold and damp, in Chloe's opinion, to do her business where business is to be had: outside.  Last night, mid-stream, with me shrieking, she was brought outside, off of our carpet.  Obviously, she learned her lesson: you do NOT pee on Mom's carpet.  Seriously.  So, since outside is still obviously out of the question, the next logical spot would be where Husby sits on the couch.  Obviously.

 I am no genius, but I get puppy logic.  I wouldn't want damp icky mud next to my bum when I'm going in the cold and the rain either, and linoleum (such as is in the kitchen) would cause splashes and puddles and that's not acceptable.  The couch is soft and absorbent and not the carpet, which causes Mom to make squirrel noises.  

I must say, I am proud of Husby.  He only slammed one door and didn't go berserk on the pup.  He did growl though- quite gutturally and in a lower octave than I'd ever heard.  If I wasn't distracted by a cowering pup I might have been impressed.  "Call your father and tell him you'll be late."

"Excuse me?"

"We are going to take this couch to the dumps, and we are going to get a new one.  Now."

"Now?"

"Now."

"Oookay." Today, this very morning to be precise, was my "visiting Dad" morning.  I was rushing to take care of his finances so he wouldn't worry about them over the weekend, before heading out to spend the day with him.  I'd yet to shower and I looked somewhat like Medusa at that very moment.  Yet sometimes you have to pick your battles, and seeing as there wasn't any yelling taking place and Husby was standing in front of me in puppy-pee pants, I decided to call Dad.  Husby took this as an opportunity to shower.  Wise choice.  Dad was quite concerned that Husby would want to get rid of Chloe (not a chance) and that I might possibly end my marriage by siding with the dog (slight chance, had it come to that).

In record time Husby showered and found an amazing couch on CraigsList that fit all of his personal couch criteria, and even some of mine- but I wasn't about to be picky.  So, me, styled as Medusa, and Husby, looking quite dapper without even the slightest hint of puppy-pee, drove off to Felton to a lovely commune with an impressive vegetable garden to pick up the couch of his dreams.  His mood was bright, bubbly and cheery.  We lugged the couch into our home;  leaving my attitude anything but bright, bubbly or cheery, and laid down some new ground rules:  "No, Chloe, you may not jump on this couch.  You may not sit on it, lie on it, climb on it, sneak on it, or catapult onto it.  Even when I'm (Husby) at work."  "Babe" (that's what Husby calls me) "Babe, she is not allowed on the couch.  She may not sit on it, lie on it, climb on it, sneak on it, or catapult onto it.  Even when I'm not home.  Understood?"  I mumbled yes, and Chloe's eyebrows said "why don't you love me anymore?" as she plopped at our feet.  Husby is at work and I have dutifully, and sternly exclaimed "Off!" in my most authoritative tone each time Chloe has tried to do any of the aforementioned no-nos.  She is the most dejected looking pupalupagus I have even seen, despite my attempts at bribing her with copious amounts of peanut butter.  I wonder how long this will last?  I give it to Saturday.

Unicorns, trees and Anemones, oh my!

Tuesdays are our Saturdays.  Really, Tuesdays are Husby's Saturdays.  Everyday is Saturday or Sunday to me, depending on whether I feel inspired to productivity or under-cover blanket hiding.  Yesterday, under Husby's direction, was our Saturday.  We rose early and went to one of our (new) favorite breakfast places.  Husby always orders exciting things off of the menu if he isn't ordering an exciting Special scribbled on a board.  We play a game where I guess what he should order by saying "You are going to order _______", pretending as though I know; occasionally I'm correct, and when I'm not, I tell him he must have changed his mind last minute and that is cheating.  Husby plays a similar game of guessing what I will order- but I always order the same thing, so Husby is always wrong, though I'm sure he's caught on by now.  I like it when he lets me win.

After breakfast games, (which, for me are far more fun than actually eating breakfast, since I always order the same old, boring thing) we went home to pick up Chloe for a quick adventure.  Quick as in "jaunt" worthy.  Speedy.  Fast.

We piled into Green Truck and drove into Bonny Doon.  Which was considerably farther and windier than I'd anticipated, and both Chloe and I were a tad green around the gills upon our arrival at the picturesque Christmas Tree Farm.  We were Christmas Tree hunting, and Chloe was to be our Christmas Tree Hunting Dog.  She was so excited! Tail wagging, sniffing every tree, shrub and stump trying to discern what exactly it was we were looking for.  Her eyebrows saying: "But this IS a tree.  Look.  It is a TREE.  It smells like one, too- that is the first true sign of a Tree being a Tree.  What more do you silly humans want from me?"  But, alas, Chloe and Husby and I all have different interpretations of what a "Christmas Tree" is.  I like the Noble Firs, because they are noble.  They have a stately elegance about them.  Their branches are spaced just-so to showcase all the lovely bobbles I enjoy hanging from their boughs.  They *have* boughs- glorious ones.  They aren't skimpy, or scrawny, or lacking in any way.  Just unoffensive, unobtrusive luxurious nobility in the form of an evergreen.  Husby likes the ones that look like inverted ice cream cones.  (What are they, Douglas Firs?)  They look manicured and manufactured.  There's no place to dangle ornamental globes and bobbles from.  They are solid and I hate am not a fan.  Chloe likes the ones that have been previously peed on by other doggies.

 I should backtrack a tad- this was the *largest* Christmas Tree Farm I had ever encountered, and with more varieties and species of evergreen than I even knew existed, and I *knew* that with so many choices we were sure to come to agreement on at least one tree.  I now firmly believe that before one marries they should have a serious talk about what each considers a "Christmas Tree" to be, because it can just get ridiculous, and hairy and may even be grounds for an annulment.

We were there for hours.  Hours, as in, maybe, almost two.  But really, who goes Christmas Tree hunting for anywhere near two hours?? (Besides us.)  Husby even went so far as to call us indecisive.  I am not indecisive, I am particular, and I set him straight on that point.   Chloe trudged along, refusing to sniff out a single conifer more, staring longingly at Green Truck, as if to say "What you are looking for doesn't exist.  It is a myth- like a unicorn".  We abandoned the handy Tree-Wheelbarrow within the first 18 minutes of getting there, and upon resigning, I refused to retrieve it and bring it back.  That would involve facing the sweet little man whose farm we were stomping around, and telling him amongst acres of trees, none were suitable to our standards.  I couldn't do that.  I was too ashamed.  I just wanted to make a run for it, and duck behind the dashboard, gravel flying as we made our great escape.

Chloe leaned against me as Green Truck wove along the road laid out between redwoods and chaparral (one of Husby's favorite words) back towards home.  We decided to cave, and go to the lot down the street from us.  We brought Chloe out, with her newly found enthusiasm, and this time walked the aisles.  I hated them. They were needle-dropping, grey, over-priced Christmas Tree Corpses.  I almost cried, and Husby ushered me back into Green Truck, pup in tow.

A quick detour brought us to our secret-hidey beach spot, which involved traversing down algae covered cliffs to reach the sand.  Chloe had never done this, being a puppy, and was battling trepidation with the urge to be with her humans.  She found her footing, and in no time was fearlessly bounding over the slippery rocks.  We played at the ocean's edge, and in the caves and with the anemones.  Chloe had never known such wondrous joy.  Far more fun than overhyped Christmas Tree Hunting could ever be.  "Husby, do we really need a tree?"
"Yes, or it will never smell like Christmas and Santa won't come."  Back into Green Truck.

We decided to try the school down the street (they were selling trees as a fundraiser.)  ALL Douglas Firs.  At this point Husby was starting to agree, they really aren't all that great.  We left Chloe in the truck- she just couldn't handle any more disappointment, and was content to slurp from her bowl.

Our adventure was drawing to an unsuccessful close.  Christmas Trees, or at least worthy ones, apparently were as elusive as unicorns.  We'd been out hunting for nearly four hours at this point and couldn't bare it any longer, so we headed home.  In a tiny, half-hearted voice I said "The nursery across the street from us has trees."  Husby sighed and pulled in.  Chloe didn't try to get out, just stared dejectedly out the rear window as we walked toward their meager selection.  "See any possibilities?"

I pointed at the third from the left, propped up in a water-filled 1/2 oak barrel.  Husby lifted it out, gently shaking it's boughs loose.  It was beautiful, majestic, and quite Nobel.  Tears welled up in my eyes.  Someone from the nursery came over (probably to see why I was about to start blubbering) and asked if we needed help- I blurted "We've been searching for four hours- FOUR HOURS.  You don't understand, it's just been such a long day."  Wordlessly he handed me the tree's tag and then asked Husby if we wanted it wrapped in netting.  (I think he was afraid to speak to me and accidentally set off the waterworks.  Good call on his part.  I am unpredictable in highly emotional settings.)  I skipped, yes, skipped, off to pay (and to sneak a lovely wreath and anything else I could get my grimy fingers on while headed toward the register).  And returned to Green Truck fully loaded with Tree, boughs, a stand and wreath.  Chloe was in the cab, wagging her tail excitedly.  (Maybe just because we were finally so close to home?)

We pulled into our drive and let our exhausted pup into the house.  She collapsed on the couch while Husby and I went to work clearing a space for our prize tree and securing it into it's stand outside, before bringing it in.  Chloe roused herself for the final, triumphant moments of Tree Hunting, and in South Park Stan fashion, vomited just as Husby brought in the tree.  We are racking it up to overwhelm.  Exhaustion.  Car-sickness.  We are racking it up to SNL's Kristen Wiig's "Aunt Sue" who "can't keep a secret" type-excitement.  "A tree??? In the HOUSE?? NO WAY?! That's what all this was adding up to?  Why didn't you tell me!  It's too much, it's too much!  It's in the HO-U-SE!"

*Puke*

At that point she lay down and watched with amazement and confusion emanating from her brows as we did the unthinkable: We put lights on it, and hung shiny objects from it's boughs.  Strange, absurd and transfixing, all... at... once... and then our little, brave pupalupagus was out for the count, with visions of unicorns, trees and anemones dancing in her head.

Breathing

(excerpt from "how to breathe"...10/05)
Can't catch me while I fall,
cuz I'm praying for the ground to swallow me whole
and leave me splintered in a field
of miscommunication and wild frustration-
a score we never really settled,
now it's lost in the underbrush of trampled
wishes and dreams and maybe-to-bes
that strike their own match, waitin to be consumed
by a fire that knows no passion, only rage,
and a sad, sad, lonely little song
of what might have been....

(A reply, four years down the line)
 
Percival shies, doe-brown eyes
the answer to heart's delight
a brazen heat that flushes, brushes
and coos. Guttural, resonant, swaying
laughter-showers incalescent.

Questioning between shadows
ink-dripped longings,
achings, soothed: past ego bruise.
No scars- they've healed
a shining silver in gleamings of
lover smiles and whiskey eyes.

 
Tender, tenacious, tenuous.

Aspiration found in dew-dreams,

underwater scenes that swirl, fashion, forge

in frames slow- opaline clairvoyance.

No defining this romance-
gestalt blossomed, blooming, budling...
comic brilliance, lithesome dance slightly off rhythm,
tender through it's core:
roots deep in earth-urge sighs.

I'm late! I'm late!

These are the words Husby used in an attempt to rouse me from bed.  (He was not late, nor was I.)  I was tired, and asleep and content from a late, long night of rabble rousing.  Husby understands that the clearest way to communicate with me is by using verbiage from fairy tales and children's stories.   And to his credit, it did make me sit bolt upright in bed and ask where my white gloves and fan were, before I was awake enough to recognize it was sheer trickery on his part.  Husby's motivation behind his looking glass manipulation was a hankering for Otter Pops at 10:30 in the morning.  They are his kryptonite.  If the grocery store set up hoops, I am certain he'd jump through them.  His love and devotion for all things popsicle is absurd to me, as I can only imagine all of my tics and quirks are to him.  Not that I have any.

A marriage is built on a foundation of trust, understanding, and the ability to maintain a pokerface when your spouse is being idiosyncratic.  So, in the midst of a four day storm, at 10:30 in the morning, I threw layers on to trudge and trek through the elements (really it was only drizzling at this point, and we drove the entire two blocks- but did I mention I was sound asleep?!) to buy multiple boxes of Otter Pops while Husby lamented that they should keep at least *some* in the freezer section for instant gratification, as well as make ones that freeze instantaneously when you snap them, like sports cold packs.  He filled his basket with other delectable 10:30 am items like fruit punch, Big Sticks and mini, individual ice cream cups... wait... those were mine.  (He is such a bad influence!)  We raced home (to freeze the Otter Pops, STAT) and waited impatiently patiently for them to freeze.

Husby consumed five Otter Pops, before I could even say "You are going to turn into an Otter Pop."  Usually he eats them while lying on his back (quirky?  yes, but I always maintain a stoic visage) and when he does this, he resembles an otter, and it really is quite adorable.  Before he left for work today, he said in a thoughtful tone "We should go to the Monterey Bay Aquarium next week."  (Obviously missing his furry sea-friends, I quickly agreed.)  I think for Christmas I will get him a flat rock for his tummy, so he has a place to balance his waiting-for-consumption pops, as well as his empty pop-pouches.

'Tis the Season

I am an adopter of orphaned orchids.  I shelter, pet, and sing mantras to inspire them to blossom.  Today a close friend knocked on my door with a sad little orchid in her hands.  The poor thing, crammed in a plastic pot, whose stem was cut all the way at the base, looked as if it would cry if only it knew how.  I welcomed her with open arms, and now am trying to figure out what will delight her little plant heart.  A new pot, for one, and being next to other lovely flowers, I'm sure will help her.  

Husby thinks I'm insane- I haven't any semblance of a green thumb, yet somehow my orchids always pull through.  They live happily on our antique sideboard, and I think part of the reason they thrive is due to their appreciation of fine Spanish antiques.  Orchids have impeccable taste, you know.  Yet, at the rate I'm going, our sideboard (which also moonlights as our bar) may have to become solely devoted to plant display, much to Husby's chagrin.  I simply couldn't say "no" to another neglected orchid;  'tis the season, and everyone should spend the holidays with loved ones, even orchids.

Impermanence

I have enjoyed a week of creativity and brilliance.  Nothing is lasting.  Today I have fallen out of orbit and crashed back to earth.  How sad.  How fleeting any one moment can be.  There is a natural ebb and flow that occurs, whether we rage against it or are swept along by it.  Impermanence.  To sit in any given moment and experience it for what it is and what it signifies is no easy task.  Easier, of course when the moment is pleasurable, though too easy then to slip into clinging to it's glorious memory.  At this very second my heart aches;  it is full with a sullen, melancholy vibrato.  Effulgent.  It will not last- yet, there is no way to speed it's passing.   And so I sit, feeling it thrum and pulse in my chest- a beautiful, sad song.  I will practice.  Reciting mantras in silence, because my voice is failing me, and observe my thoughts.  They blur and change and streak through my mind like storm clouds this night.  Mirroring the activities of the western skies. At any moment everything will shift and inspiration will transcend.  A boon.  A blessing.  A reminder of the extraordinary nature of mind and impermanence.  What a tidal wave reality appears as to the unawakened.

Letter to the Masses

following is a letter sent to many friends of my father's who are not handling his transitioning well.  This is neither witty nor funny.  It is a true reflection of my being and a milestone along my journey of self discovery.

To Whom it May Concern:

I apologize for not keeping everyone updated in a way that is considered acceptable by you all.  I have never done this before.  Watching my father, my dad, die is not something one can be prepared for, consulted on, or figure out from reading a book (I am certainly not prepared for this).  It's a steep learning curve.  Especially when your dad is Rich- who doesn't want to play by the rules, or deviate in the slightest from his version of how things should unfold.  My dad has always been there for me.  He has defended me, protected me, and raised me to be the most caring, loyal and compassionate person he knew how.  He raised me to be strong and self-sufficient.  Every day I try to live up to his expectations.  My dad has never asked anything of anyone.  He has provided unconditionally for so many.  He asked me to take care of him.  He asked me to protect him.  To defend him and to provide for him the safest, most comfortable environment to spend his dying.  He trusts my judgement and so do I.

Compassion is a cultivated quality.  There is a Buddhist philosophy, or thought, that states "love others from their point of view, in the little moments of time".  I am trying with all my being to do that.  Not to treat Dad how *I* would like to be treated, or look back and think "wow, overall, I think I'm doing a pretty good job", but to love him and treat him the way he wants to be loved and treated and respected with every bit of me.  All the time.  I am completely devoted to him in a way that I've never devoted myself to anything.  And it is a humbling experience.  My decisions are never made from ego, never made from a place of "easier" or "less stressful".  They are made for him.  No matter how excruciating.  I don't want to hurt anyone else in the process, either- but I cannot control how others view me, or my actions.  I'm no saint, and I am not capable, at this time in my life to nurture, support and love every being that I interact with in the ways they are needing- I have enough bodhichitta for Dad and (hopefully) my husband.  I have a life that I am trying to manage in addition to the well being of my father, his estate and a multitude of friends that he has collected throughout the years that keep coming out of the woodwork.  He has a huge network in the Bay Area, in addition to the Desert.

I don't have updates. I don't have anything to say.  He's still dying from cancer.  He's still a private person who doesn't want his life, and subsequently his death, broadcast to the general populous.  (Yes, I am aware that none of you consider yourselves to be the general populous- you each have a unique and special bond with him that I am by no means attempting to belittle).  Yet, when he doesn't want to talk on the phone with his own daughters, suffice it to say, he doesn't want to speak with anyone else, either.  From what I understand (which dad has only recently shared with me) he gets headaches easily, and talking on the phone or even in person triggers those more often then not.  Also, he doesn't have much to say.  We spend most of our visits sitting next to each other in silence.  He doesn't want to discuss his disease, and there isn't much else to talk about. Nor is he bottling his emotions up- he speaks openly and freely about his feelings and experiences with hospice, and that is how he likes it.  He also doesn't want people to see him sick.  There haven't been any drastic shifts or changes- there hasn't been anything to report.  He hasn't slipped into his final decline yet, and, unfortunately that is what the next step is, and that is what we are waiting for because there is nothing else to do.  It could happen tomorrow, it could happen next spring.  I've no answers for anyone, but I have a lot of voice mails from people I've never even heard of. He is dying.  And it is heartbreaking.  It's heartbreaking for me and I know it is heartbreaking for all of you, as well.  It breaks my heart open how many people truly love him.  He is trying to live in the moment and enjoy each as it arises, and when those moments are painful or difficult, he is trying to experience those with as much grace as possible.  I am proud of him.  I am proud that he is not letting himself get wrapped up in the stigma of dying and all that it entails in our culture.  I am proud of him for living and dying in his own way that is best for him.  I am proud of his authentic nature.  I think it's admirable.  I think it's beautiful.

I will effort more to keep you updated through ***, and *** in hopes that it will ease this difficult time for everyone else that is being affected by his dying.  Your prayers and well wishes will benefit all of us far more than frustrations towards my fumbling efforts to uphold my father's wishes ever could.  I am trying my best and would appreciate, if this holiday season everyone could try and remember that we are all doing our best with the skills and tools that we have.  This will be my last holiday with my dad and I would prefer to focus my energy on making it everything he wants (or doesn't want) it to be.

If there is a shift in his condition, or if his wishes change I will let you all know.

(That's all I could find to write.)

I will huff and puff and...!

And eat your couch!  Says our little Chloe when we are gone past her interpretation of our curfew.  There is nothing more frustrating or comic than opening the front door after a long day of just about anything, to inner-couch pillow fluff strewn meticulously about our living room, hallway and kitchen.  I know it's meticulous.  I can tell by her terribly expressive eyebrows which initially read: I redecorated!  I did so all by myself, because you left me, and you were not here to consult.  I prefer soft fluffiness every where don't you? (This quickly shifts as she realizes I am not enamored with Puppy Fluff Chic), and then it transitions to: I do not know why this fluff is everywhere!  It is horrible, and naughty fluff and we should get it! gggrr! 

How do you scold something, someone, any pup who looks at you with a look of: yes, I did do this.  But I can't remember why I did this and it just happened so fast and I couldn't stop myself, and I am not good at putting things back together, so I was hoping maybe you'd just let this one slide... maybe?  Please help.  Please don't tell Husby.

How indeed.  Husby has scolded her.  I have scolded her- though not nearly as fiercely, because I am determined to remain her favorite, no matter how many sumptuous, sexy stilettos she re-styles.  We keep firm faces- a stiff upper lip if you will, and we make her sit, and stay, and be still (which is puppy torture, in case you were unaware) and we re-insert all the fluff back into our couch pillows, which are now lumpy, and deformed and terribly, terribly sad and we plead and cajole and beg Chloe to let us have our furniture.  We bribe her with toys.  We distract her with bones.  We tempt her with treats and sometimes it works, but tonight it did not.  So now she sits at my feet, with me on our lumpy couch and chews her favorite bone merrily, because she has already forgotten that she had huffed and puffed and eaten our couch.

Summit Snow

It's snowing.  Not outside my beachy window- but it is snowing, somewhere- and that somewhere is very near.  I knew it was cold this morning when Chloe said with her expressive eyebrows "no, we will not get out of bed today, I will bring my bone to you".  Which she did.  Sweet, and a little gloopy, too;  not to mention against all rules and regulations set forth by Husby (who had already left for work, so I let it slide.  I'm the fun puppy parent).  Unfortunately, Miraculously Responsibly, I am up and showered and scheming about what to tackle today; granted, I'm still in my snuggle-robe, with my snuggle-slippers on, but I am clean, bright eyed, bushy tailed and freshly tattooed.  I had planned on driving over the hill to run errands, but I don't think Husby wants me to (due to said snow, and my lack of snow-driving skills)... he offered to run those with me tomorrow.  I wonder if he knows how hard he's making it for me to be productive when he just sliced my to-do list in half *and* he cleaned the kitchen yesterday?  He is forcing me to quilt and make pictures out of felt.  Little mess-piles here and there that I will forget I made until he comes home and says "what are all these mess piles? What have you been doing all day?"  I will more than likely respond "Making mess piles!  Aren't they pretty?" And show him my creations the way a child does after finger-painting most of the table and little of the paper.  He'll like them- I know he will.  I should start now, as he's getting off of work early and I want plenty of time to make our house look like a war-zone.  I wonder if we have hot chocolate?

Time, tattoos and teachings

The little moments of time.  My Teacher has spoken those words often- be present, in the moment, be in love in the little moments of time... even in between those little moments.  That's not a direct quote- just remembrances of smatherings of what I think I've heard her say.  Very subjective on my part- hopefully somewhat accurate, otherwise I've been focusing on obtaining something that was never in a teaching to begin with.

I spent the latter part of this morning and the beginnings of this afternoon with a man that I met online a few years back, who I've struck up a friendship with.  We pretend to be superheroes.  He delights my heart, and he's a tattoo artist extraordinaire- so inking was also involved in betwixt sharing about our lives and all that's transpired since last our paths crossed, three years ago.  We spoke much of how well we know "the character the other plays on tv" (as he so aptly put it) yet so little of one another in person, and I was struck with how magical that made our relationship.  It is, truly, based on nothing besides our deep-seated attraction to the other's silliness, imagination and a Superfold Adytum that exists in cyberspace where mass amounts of purple sugar are consumed.  Regardless, and for that very reason, he delights my heart.  What I love the most is that when we are knee to knee on a sofa, it's as though we've known each other for lifetimes and it is the most natural, open, warm feeling that envelopes us.  

Mid-afternoon was spent walking up and down various streets searching for an open restaurant to share a meal with another delightful being that I hadn't connected with in quite some time.  Due to letting life side-track me.  We ate enchiladas and shared our stories of love and life and our versions of reality, and we smiled quite a bit.  We also bought flowers and wine together for our Teacher's birthday celebration I was to drive us to.

***

I just returned from the "cocktail hour" of a birthday celebration for my Teacher.  It's difficult to vocalize how deeply I love this woman- the less I try to encapsulate or define my relationship with her the more it blossoms and authenticates itself.  It warmed my heart to offer her flowers and hug her and re-connect.  I am so grateful for a sangha that opens its arms to my meandering, wandering nature whenever I blow through... which is exactly what I did, as a throbbing headache had begun to set in, along with a dizzying nausea that I am thinking may be due to the emotionally cathartic tattoo I received earlier today. I only stayed briefly, but was able to spend time with people who have greatly influenced my life; who have shaped the very character of my being.  And no, I don't miss seeing them every day- I am happy with this will o'the wisp relationship... a gentle gleaning of mercurial moments.  Break-your-heart-open moments to experience Love in, all day long.  It feels good to be home.

   

Procrastination

Procrastination and I are intimate.  We spend time together in the early morning, and mid-morning, and sometimes straight through noon.  We take baths together... and doodle and canoodle and eat too much together and sometimes share a glass of wine- only after noon, of course.  I am protective and defensive and infatuated with Procrastination.  I let few things come between us, and sometimes I feel Husby gets the short end of the stick- though I am sure I remembered to tell him about this affair, before we married, though maybe I never got around to that...

I am an amazing writer of lists- and I delegate well.  Though, many times I don't actually get around to writing those Pulitzer-worthy lists, which makes them terribly hard to execute, let alone complete.  So, here, now, while I'm in the throes of the written word, I will make my List for today, and see if I can release myself from the comfortable arms of Inertia (that's my pet name for Procrastination, because sometimes it's just too much to say *yawn*)

1. get up (I did that!)
2. walk Chloe (check.)
3. feed Chloe, Zucchini the cat and our three little piggles (check.)
4. examine FaceBook closely for something original and amazing that someone I know may possibly have posted. (check.)
5. re-examine FaceBook.  Just in case I missed something, and maybe accept a FarmVille gift, or two. (check. check.)
6. shower... because bathing is simply a trap, it leads to more slovenly behavior- I just know it
7. eat something, anything.  Well, almost anything- I think the pets are off limits, though they are considerably plumper than before I fed them.
8. laundry 
9. visit with Dad
10. race home
11. eat again- it's a never ending battle, I swear.
12. iron the laundry
13. walk Chloe again, or at least play fetch.
14. work on something beautiful and creative to make up for all that laundry
15. create a mess in the kitchen for Husby.  (Wait- no.  That can't be right...) 
15. create a mess in the kitchen as a result of some culinary masterpiece I concocted FOR husby, and try very hard to clean up after myself.  Maybe even before he gets home from work.  Who am I kidding?
15. create a mess in the kitchen for Husby.
16. snuggle
17. go to bed.

The key to a good list is A) you have to have things on it that you KNOW you can do, like get out of bed, and B) it can't be more than 20 things, because that would just be exhausting, and 20 things, no matter how small they maybe always makes you sound busy.

Preface

Sometimes I wonder how I find myself in the predicaments I so frequently do.  This very morning I was standing in one of the most fabulous, unique and enchanting bridal shops giving an attempted one month’s notice, (simply because I’m considerate, and “two weeks” is kind of blaise) after having been chided LOUDLY for “not saying hello first” to the proprietress of said boutique during the first 10 minutes of my shift.  Sometimes you can only be scolded for so many ludicrous things before you throw your hat in, flail your arms about and retort “I’m not insane!  You are!”  LOUDLY.  One month’s notice quickly turned into 2 minutes‘ notice, and I really enjoyed having this afternoon off.

I’ve worked with animals, children, yogis, esthetics, hospitality, and most recently retail.  I can easily spout what I don’t want to be when I grow up- but even that answer usually equates to a list of recently encountered character flaws.  (Insanity, anyone?) Why can’t I just be a wise and competent version of myself who is compensated handsomely for my sheer fabulousness?  “Amazing!  What a wonderful pet-guardian you are, here’s enough to cover rent.  I know how valuable Chloe’s walks are.” or “How lovely is the little vignette in your living room!  Will this cover groceries?”  Is that so much to ask?  And why did society move away from the barter-system, again?

Somewhere along the way I’ve been taught that certain goals and ideals aren’t feasible, or reasonable replies to the ever-present “What shall you be when you grow up” question- which really feels more like a sentence of sorts than any type of awe-inspiring conversation starter.  First and foremost, growing up is over-rated.  Secondly, I firmly believe the following answers are valid and should never be chortled at: Scarlett O’Hara, Snow White (Cinderella, Rapunzel, or at the very least the Princess with that annoyingly uncomfortable legume under her bedding- really, I could pull that off), a spinster with a lovely spinning wheel, tarot reader extraordinaire, fairy tale researcher, vision board designer or guinea pig troubadour.  I do have skills, really, I do.  

At what point in my co-dependent, people-pleasing, grating existence will I overcome the mountain of expectations everyone else seems to enjoy setting for me, and just find my own niche?  Maybe this process will help me to discover my path and maybe the wise, competent version of myself along the way.  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her lurking in the periphery.