Fooling Around

Some days fools are fun.  This one is a doodle from my sketchbook, done one Sunday at the beach. One of my friends called this fool a hussy; good use of the word. I was called a hussy during a job interview because I said thunderstorms were "entertaining rain." I did not take the job they offered.

"Fool" carries so much history.  They are entertainers, people without sense, in Lear of course - the fool is....well that depends upon interpretation.  They are masqueraders who dress peculiarly and hide in plain sight; what could be more intriguing?  Every day is Halloween and what appears unwise, uneducated and unpracticed is none of the above.

Are fools polite?  Not on the surface; there is that masquerade again.

I like to be foolish.  I juggle, though not nearly as well as I would like.  I can juggle three balls and two balls, but not four and not pins, fire, knives or tennis raquets.  I stop and smell the roses - well not roses because they give me a sore throat, but flowers in general: it is so cliche that it is foolish, but oh so wise.

I am no longer a fool for love, too old and mean, or maybe I just no longer need to be; I married a pretty steady person. I am a fool for animals; still.

Foolish behavior can bring light into the heavy ether of our lives. A tiny version of joy, cut into fluttering confetti, it spills everywhere and is never fully retrieved.  We find bits in our memories and flash back to the moments of giddiness that relieve tension with laughter and revelry.  Good stuff; don't let it fool you.

Tradition!

I got my school ring back from the jewelers today, I finally admitted that my knuckles were never going to get smaller, so I had them make my high school ring larger.  The jeweler polished the ring as well; it looks brand new.  It was so astonishingly new looking that I checked for my initials and graduating year, even though I know that this particular ring has not been made since 1979.  I felt fifteen again, though neither my hands, nor the rest of me, look it. 

I went to a prep school; started in Kindergarten and completed all thirteen years through high school.  We were told in lower school (K-6) that if we were not good students we would be held back a year or expelled; I was always a little terrified.  I flunked lunch in first grade (I have the report card to prove it) but I guess that didn't count.

My class missed middle school, they eliminated it as we entered seventh grade and brought it back as we entered ninth grade.  I was in Upper School at the age of twelve and treated to all of the freedoms that Upper School entailed. I never got into any real trouble, through I certainly could have. There was an incident when a full box of Ohio blue-tip matches in  my book-bag spontaneously combusted, but the fire was oxygen starved and therefore contained to the box; thank goodness for my heavy math and science books.

We had a lot of traditions in the school.  They started in Lower School with responsibilities allotted to children by grade.  Sixth graders had the most duties, including reading the red words (Jesus' spoken words were printed in red) in the New Testament during Friday assemblies in the Study Hall. They stopped the Bible reading just as I entered sixth grade; I really liked the red ink, I was disappointed. Sixth graders also produced The Sundial, our Lower School literary journal, which was mimeographed. Sixth graders laid out the magazine and ran the mimeo machine with the help of Mrs. Dohler. It was awesome!

Upper School had the best traditions; ones that deepened the glue of experience which binds our graduates together.  In Tenth grade we received our class rings.  Ours were made by a local jeweler: we had the choice of sterling silver for $18.00; gold, yellow or white, 10K  for $56.00 or 14K  for $72.00.  We could get our name or initials, and class year engraved inside for a small amount per letter and number (sorry to say, I don't remember how much each letter was).  Mine is 10K gold;  14K was too expensive and for a person who works with her hands (I was already very active in the arts) it was too soft.  I still have the box in which my ring was handed to me. 

When we got our rings, having written new words to The Beach Boys' Song: Little Surfer - now known as our "Ring Song," we dressed all in blue, sang the song to the school in assembly, and tossed blue candies to everybody.  The truly critical part of the day was that the ring must be turned by others that same day.  The number of people turning the ring, must equal the year of your graduation.  I needed 77 people to turn it. Each person turns the ring three times and makes wish with each turn; a wish for themselves, a wish for the school and a wish for the ring recipient.  If you don't get the correct number of turns, it is bad luck.  I got all 77 turns times three, by 3 PM.   

The tradition is still practiced at my school, though it has become much more elaborate and therefore less unifying. I love traditions because they accentuate the common experience across years of people going through the same paces. Tradition is about unity and I am strongly in favor of unity, not uniformity, unity; traditions must be chosen wisely.  Ring day occurs in the Sophomore year to make the students feel a connection to the school and to each other before graduation; it is very effective, which is why so many of us still wear our rings.

Today with this shiny new looking ring, I felt like asking people to turn it and I am still singing in my head, to the tune of Surfer Girl:

Ooooooooo oo ooo ooooo oo oooooo

We just got ours, they just came

We're so pleased we can't explain,

So we're asking you to turn our rings,

Turn our rings, won't you please turn our rings?

We have waited for today,

Now it's here what can we say?

Will you turn them, will you turn our rings?

Turn our rings, won't you please turn our rings?

The Lower School says we're atrocious

Mrs. Balant thinks we're through

But through it all th,ough we're obnoxious

We're still proud we're the Class of Blue

So we say from us to you,

Will you make our dreams come true?

Will you turn them, will you turn our rings

Turn our rings, won't you please turn our rings?

Ooooooooo oo ooo ooooo oo oooooo

Ooooooooo oo ooo ooooo oo oooooo

Diving In

This past weekend I spent time underwater;  I love being underwater.  It is quiet and I cannot see very clearly, so looking is easy.  Artists look at things intensely, we are trained in looking; it can be exhausting.  In the Atlantic at the Jersey shore, the water is a murky, ochre green and all I could see was color and darkish green blobs on the bottom; occasionally an out of focus collection of pebbles would appear. Above water, I could see the mass of the waves and a far horizon. The waves would lift and drop me and I laughed and laughed. Diving into the larger swells, allowed me to minimize their frightening mass and force.  I felt vital. Vital is an amazing feeling for someone who has once been close to death;  the sea is all about vitality, and mortality.  I love the water.

Yesterday, was a wonderful day. After I returned to suburbia, I spent time with an old friend and with her family. We discussed art, art, art, life, mourning and helping people mourning... We laughed and we were serious, I learned new things and shared ideas with them. We had a wonderful lunch and a wonderful dinner. Our time was useful and dynamic.

There is nothing so marvelous in the world as unrestricted time with dear friends; it has been a long time. Like diving into the sea to feel embraced and soothed, by diving into their company I have returned to my own skin.

I slept completely peacefully last night.

Angry Wookies, Waves and Ballast

It's terrible to be mad at someone; it feels awful.  Anger starts out righteous and blooms into action which are sometimes regrettable.  I was angry when I wrote my last blog post - could you tell?  I used that anger, for the first time in decades, to reason out an argument and face my indignation with reason and traction.  I have gained not only  a stronger understanding in the mind of my aggressor, but also his respect; about time too.

I have a tendency to back down in arguments.  I hit and then waffle, seething inside. Then things go wrong, and I am personally wounded, while I fix a situation to regain what I should have demanded in the first place. In addition, I feel badly since I should have stood up for what I knew to be right, and because my temper and cowardice have prevented the outcome required.  I railed in my blog post Friday, instead of arguing my point with an individual.

That said, there are some people with whom arguing is a waste of time or dangerous.  In those cases "let the wookie win" prevails.  I know a few wookies.  Mostly I try to avoid unreasonable people; they bore me. Occasionally I am one and then I bore myself too.

Loving a person does not mean "...never having to say you're sorry,"  but it does often mean loving them when they have totally lost it; as least I certainly hope it does! Those hours, days, months of time when loved ones are out of sync or out of their minds can be desperately long.  As Gordon Lightfoot said in The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald  "Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?"  When some one you love is in that kind of emotional turmoil, which like storm waters comes in waves, or when I myself am in such a state, time moves arduously slowly. However, also like storm waters to a ship, the water remains the only way to complete the journey to safety and to port.  Love is the ballast, but it can get knocked around a lot on the journey.

 Keep floating.

Questionable Humor and Zipper Earrings

I can be an embarrassing person.  I like to tell bawdy jokes and I laugh too loudly at them. I sneeze like the end of the world has arrived.  I sometimes like to dress outlandishly and I love my zipper earrings.  Mind you I can wear a ball gown or a suit and pass for almost normal, but mostly the artist who just does not want to conform seeps out.  When I am angry you know it, usually by silence and dark looks, but sometimes by comments that can make even my blood run cold.

I have a friend, and it is amazing that she is my friend, as I recall an evening in a bar eons ago when my comment made others blush.  She was sort of blonde and flirting madly with a man I liked, a redhead and I love red hair.  She was commenting on being blonde (a pet peeve of mine, blondes with hair that behaves - no jealously there eh?) and she said  "I'm really just a dirty blonde, Ha a ha ha."  To which I replied very dryly, without missing  a beat "Yes, we know."  A male friend of mine let out an "Oh" and ran his hand through his hair, while looking askance at me.  As I said, you can usually tell what I am thinking and feeling; yikes.

I loved Janis Ian's song "At Seventeen" though it made me sad; in a sea of relative propriety, I was that dark haired, dark eyed, peculiar person who clearly and simply, could neither grasp nor follow, the rules.

In my house the rules were different;  I am half Greek. We talked about expression and the value of an improper passion which broke new ground.  My parents admired and accomplished work that went in new directions and helped others by so doing.  I was not supposed to be cool, though ladylike was encouraged; I never quite got that one either. When I was a small child, we danced in the living room and quoted "Zorba the Greek," I knew that "Never on Sunday" was referring to a prostitute who would not bed a client on the Sabbath and nobody ever told me that repression was good for the soul. I can be embarrassing.

I have a few friends who love me and I am very blessed to have them in my life; I love them too.  They embrace my quirks, and rather than being embarrassed, they just gently let me know when I am a bit over the top with a gentle touch and a knowing chuckle. They celebrate my exuberance and sometimes choose to leave me off the guest list of certain kinds of events; it's kinder that way.  I know the price of choices.

Once in a while someone lets me know that, to them, I am not an acceptable person.  They make me aware that they are able to stand being in a room with me, but barely; that it is because of their great tolerance and self control that I may live, breathe, walk, eat and sleep.  I am grateful for such magnanimity (note sarcasm).  My mother used to say "A cat can look at a King."  In those moments, deep in the grace of great, controlled beings, that "Meow" crosses my mind, while I cat-like, lick my wounds. I feel for those who bear the weight of self importance required to keep the portrayal of great souls. Meanwhile I revel in the silliness of some word play and irrelevant, irreverent dance and laughter. I have not lived fifty five years through dialysis, transplantation and parenthood to owe anything, not even polite compliance to behavioral "norms."

Hey Zorba:   "Dance?  Did you say dance? Come on my boy!" 

Obstruction As My Guide?

Today was one of those days that slip through my fingers.  I often watch some of the morning news during my breakfast and finish with coffee downstairs.  The new shows become repetitive quickly, so sometimes I check the movie stations; they play interesting movies in the morning and today was no exception.  I do not remember the title (I started watching more than half-way through) but it was a light duty movie with a couple of thought provoking lines.  I thought I might base a little work on the idea of obstruction based on those lines; I lived it instead.

Though I had ideas of starting a painting with a beautiful subtle undercoat, I soon realized that we were out of bacon and peanut butter.  Washed with guilt, I knew a trip to the buying club was sadly overdue and sadly would be accomplished today.  I hate the club, but I like the prices.  I also had to finally face the bridal shower gift I had to choose and Target was on the way to BJs so.... (don't tell the bride where I was).

As I made my list, I realized I had to go to the other side of town to retrieve my son's wallet, which he left at a friend's house after kindly dropping me at dinner last night.  While I was over there, I could get my daughter to the salon to get her bangs trimmed. I could also finally bite the bullet and admit that my high school ring will never fit me without being re-sized so I took that to the jeweler over there too.

Back home to lunch, Target, BJs and then...the call....."I need to go to the doctor - today." OK I will come home and get you when I am done at BJs.  Doctor's visit accomplished, home again - rally the troops for DQ  just because; I had a great cone with a chocolate shell.  Then home to the laundry which has piled up over the last week, and hallelujah, the dryer finally got fixed this afternoon; load three drying now.

My son arrived home a few moments ago to announce that he feel he needs to see a doctor tomorrow about a consistently sore wrist.  Oh no; tomorrow brings new adventures.  At least I have managed to care for my family today. In the meantime, as soon as I am done this, I will place a coat of under-painting on my canvas, not the way I intended to, because I never did get that one supply I needed to do it right, but at least it will be a start; I will make it work.  Perhaps it will even work better, often life has a way of leading, without telling us why.

The Joy of Fitness

I am not a successful athlete.  Currently I am in physical therapy to recover from joining a gym.  It seems that I irritated an old hip injury incurred when I fell from a high diving board onto the concrete below; did I mention I was in Las Vegas at the time?  What were the odds? I landed on my thigh and immediately following onto the back of my head; it is a sound I have not forgotten.  Everyone was so concerned about my brain, that they ignored my leg. It took about ten weeks for the three inch wide and twenty inch long purple bruise to heal. Each week, when  we went swimming at school, my classmates gasped. They were not surprised that I was such a klutz, just that the bruise was so tenacious.

One day while my husband and I were walking on the beach, he remarked that it was good exercise; this ruined the entire experience for me.  Exercise is not what I do.  Last year's gym membership was a nod to middle age and compliance, and look what happened.  I do not exercise, I live my life, but with illness and now injury, my life became too sedentary and too injured.  It also became concerned with the business of others' daily lives. I had to choose on what to use up my energy and it got used up pretty quickly.  Now that I have more energy I need to rethink what matters to me.

What has always mattered to me is joy.  Gym is not joy for me.  I can see that for some, athletics is bliss and I almost envy them.  I harbor no ill will for consistently being one of the last chosen for a team in school, I should have been; logic dictates the choosing of the strongest and most able first.  While I can be very strong, I am not very good at putting a ball where it should go, at least where it should go if you are following the rules.  I was delighted when my classmates begged me to be the "other" lacrosse goalie, since I could neither cradle the ball effectively,  nor did I understand the rules.  I could protect a small square of net, please them and solve all our problems; I became a sports heroine - once and only once in my life.

My kind of exercise involves heavy work in the studio and dancing; these day I don't do either one.  Most of my studio work no longer entails large scale woodcuts, two hundred pound stones or giant zinc plates.  I no longer have the opportunity to go to a bar, down a beer or two and dance for an hour, three times a week. I used to paint in my head while I danced;  It was pure joy for me and I noticed the people in the bars liked it too. When I dance and really dance, I become merged with the music; I escape.  I  probably get an endorphin high as well, but I could care less.  It is joy in all its' forms that pervades the experience; joy.

Who needs to run to nowhere, injure a hip and do clam shells with a rubber band around her knees when dancing is out there?  Perhaps when I am older, I can become that ditsy grandma who dances by herself and gets a million hits on YouTube; I just have to be sure to leave that big yellow rubber band at home when I do.

Retrieved from the Old Box

For some time now, I have been trying to transfer photos from my malware ridden old desktop.  I got my Laptop in 2009 so when I say for some time, you should realize that I have been patient in some ways and extremely obtuse in others.

I finally discovered that the thumb drive I had been using was not large enough and broken, but what's five years in solving a Comp Sci problem. I am delighted to have found some old friends from spring and summers past:

Happy Summer

Possibilities

In my studio are two large canvases.  I built the frames and stretched the material over them this weekend.  I am now enjoying the slow process of covering the raw canvas with layers of gesso; a very stable form of white acrylic paint which seals the canvas material so it will not rot over time.  I have not stretched or gessoed canvas for years.

My last large painting project involved painting on boards, sixteen of them. Boards were perfect for that series; the paintings took me years to complete.  Each painting was three feet by four feet and each demanded a lot of thought and feeling.  It was exhausting, especially since I was weak from kidney failure.  I am no longer weak and wrestling with large canvases is now a treat again.

I first stretched and gessoed canvas in high school.  Prepared canvas had become too expensive so we learned to prime it ourselves; a terrific skill.  My teacher was thorough and we began with a material called rabbit skin glue, which is exactly what it sounds like.  It smelled disgusting and we were all delighted to learn that it is not necessary when using acrylic instead of oil based gesso; we stopped.  I like rabbits and I am allergic to them, so the glue was nasty on many levels for me.

Today the delightful smell of damp cotton and fresh acrylic medium greets me as I enter my work space.  It is the aroma of possibilities.  The pleasure it creates reminds me of a classroom full of eight year old students with their noses pressed deep into the spines of their new school books.  We loved to inhale the new book smell; it was full of possibilities.

In the spring as the ground defrosts, one of my favorite smells is of earth. The warm soil, so long locked inside layers of frost, slowly begins to be released, to breathe and exhale a delicious scent of fertility which calls nature to live again. Each spring I know, not only the possibilities, but also the realities of the days ahead and I become eager.

It is spring in my studio, I have ideas, but the paintings themselves will lead the way.  For right now, I am preparing the "soil," nurturing the surface into yielding an image for me and for whomever chooses to see it:  I am eager.

Spending Time to Live

These are the days of summer I adore.  The masses of the population have fled the city for the shore, the weather is warm, the humidity low and the streets blissfully empty; paradise.  Tomorrow the roads will be clogged again as the masses return to work and their kids return to camp; the humidity will rise and the AC units will drone.

For now, the soft chirp of katydids fills the air and a contented cat slumbers by my side in the fresh air of a night breeze.  We have both spent the day on various distractions and labors and have earned our rest near to one another. I can’t think of a better way to wrap up my week.

Tomorrow, refreshed, I will start up with renewed vigor, to solve the non-earth shattering issues that bother daily living.  If I can recall the pleasure of these moments, then those meaningless tasks will pass without remorse or bile.  The trick is always, while stuck in traffic or laundering shirts or calling repair people, to recall that a few cherished moments each week are the prize for most of the moments we spend.

I do not regret the moments spent, they are necessary to know the moments lived, and that is worth everything.

Movie Night

We had a family movie night tonight.  We ordered various types of Pizza and chose a free movie available through the cable company.  We have not had an opportunity for such an evening since last Christmas.  This summer is the first time in a year that we have all been in the same place at once with free time to spare.

Both my kids are home this summer and since my son has a cold and a computer to repair, he decided to stay in this Friday evening.  My daughter took time off from writing and composing to share an hour and a half with us, which was also generous.  It was nice evening.

The tradition began when the kids were little.  I can't remember the first movie we watched together, but the ritual quickly became a tradition on Friday nights; pizza and a movie. Often the movie was one we had seen before.  I enjoy watching movies over and over; I pick up different nuances with each screening.  I can quote lines as they are spoken and anticipate the words with an appetite for each syllable; their utterance satiating.

My husband likes to watch specific movies each year. Christmas brings round an obvious group, but in January he likes to watch "The Deep," just to feel warm. Once a year he watches "Jaws" and much to my initial horror, he watches "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

This movie came out in 1970 and my brother and I went to see it when the hospital in which our Dad was dying, refused to let us see him.  Typically he was admitted to a different facility and we usually we had the run of the floor when he was hospitalized; he spent most of my childhood hospitalized as he was terminal for ten years. We were sent to the movies to give my Mom some time to visit him.  Our Dad died the week we saw that movie and it has carried the tinge of that experience, especially tied to the final scene of the film. The first time I watched it with my husband, my brother happened to call and ask how I was; I said I am watching  "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." My brother said "Oh my God;" shorthand between siblings.  The net result over the years, of seeing it over and over, is that not only do I have new memories attached to it, but I like it.  I actually used to wake my son up for school with a line from the movie as a joke. Family movie night has healed the wound; without a scar.

Cuddled up in habitual places in the room, cold evenings with a fire, warm nights in the cool of the half-subterranean den, we munch pizza and drink beers, quietly sharing a story in the dark; and like modern cavemen, bond over the tale.  Often the soft regular breathing of  the dog and the soothing purring of the cat are accompanied by the subtle snore of the patriarch, while the three of us knowingly, silently giggle in the compelling assurance of trust and comfort.

Too Much of A Good Thing

This photo was taken when I was 19, now imagine that hornet's nest in grey!  Fine for Halloween, but at other times not so; it is just too much. (The insipid look really adds a nice touch).

Now: Less is more.

Off to the salon for a buzz and a trim, it's almost an inch long in the back!  

July Sixteenth, Nineteen Twenty Two

Today was my Mom's birthday. Though I feel a little sad, it's not an overwhelming feeling.  She died at 89 and never expected to live past 50.  She suffered fourteen or more pneumonias, ten as a child, and recovered from tuberculosis when she was five years old.  Her four year old sister Alice, died of TB on my mother's 5th birthday. Her aged grandfather died while nursing her through TB.  She had a difficult childhood and that is the understatement of the century; it was Dickensian.  She was a private person, often ashamed of her past, yet proud of her tenacity. She lived in a boarding school from the age of 6 to the age of 12; the court placed her there during a custody battle ensuing from her parents unpleasant divorce. The school awarded her their highest honor inthe early 1960s, captioned with "For achieving the most against all odds." She graciously accepted it, but was mortified to recall her roots and face her tenuous beginnings in a public forum.

She hated death and dependency.  She enrolled in medical school in the late forties, extremely unusual for a woman in those days, to assure financial independence and I think to give her the upper hand in her own healthcare.  Skilled in surgery and neurology, she chose psychiatry because the death rate was so much lower.  In the dark days of mid-century medicine she told me the death rate of most neurological cases was over ninety percent; as a psychiatrist she had more control.  My Mom also became an analyst studying all the various forms; no simple Freudian she.   Her practice was primarily focused on children and she cared a great deal about them.  I was proud of her work and her teaching, she was a full professor of Psychiatry, even training one of my current physicians.

Mom was generous with our education and tried to give us the stability to grow into successful adults.  She chose to stay in a place she did not like for the sake of our root systems. Our education cost her the chance to move back to her beloved New York City and the opportunity to travel, though she did finally return to NYU in her seventies to do psychiatric research. Fiercely independent, part of her life-long quest was to assure that her own medical care would be good, and not paid for by us; she got that accomplished too.

Not all of our relationship was candy and flowers.  She had very mixed feelings about me; I reminded her of her mother which made her blood run cold. After dementia took hold she always thought I was her Mom, who was also an artist.  She said I looked like her mother, but clearly,  I  look like my mother.

The photos were taken by my dear friend Nancy.  She came with us to Greece in 1978 and took wonderful pictures of my Mom.  They got to know one another on that trip and that was a good thing, since I love them both. These images are the woman I admired; happy, intellectual, a fierce reader, she typically read the newspaper and a book a night, after a full day at work.  Add a blue glass goblet of iced coffee and a Kool cigarette and that's the Mom I spent my time with, much of it quite amazing.

Communication Glitches

Last night's storms took away our cable, so no internet for me and a quiet night on Blogspot. Since we are expecting more storms tonight, I thought I had better post while the posting is good; here goes.

I have typically been a sounding board to friends; often asking pointed questions to help to guide someone through a quandary and into their own solutions.  I was good at it and it made me feel useful. Motherhood changed me; I became a problems solver. Hungry, I will feed you. Hurt, I will bind and comfort you. Sad, I will dry your tears and pat your hand, and on and on.  I morphed into someone who met needs and in so doing became someone who attended to the guessing game of What's Your Problem instead of "What's My Line."  In losing myself to a role, I diminished my ability to elicit from others and lost my knack for guiding them or myself.

Guiding through a state of confusion is a wonderful program of walking with someone; sometimes just ahead but more often, side by side.  The two critical tools are a loving knowledge of the person and listening. Listening in particular diminished for me with parenting.  It began in the infant stage when cries were always open for interpretation only; non verbal, you learn to distinguish need by tone, intensity and pitch.  I am pretty good at that with spoken language as well.  With infants my goal was always fix it, fix it, fix it and that became my habit. With young children and teenagers the age old "Because I said so!" reared its' necessary ugly head and it too, became habit. Reasoning with terrorists, teenagers and critters can be fool-hearty.

Friends do not need repair, they need a soft place to land; a place made out of ears and heart.  As disgusting an image as that is, the reality is true.  My friends of late have been barraged with responses from me of an "I can fix that" nature, and have lovingly listened while I waxed profound.  In truth, I am not that well informed as to solve their issues with a band aid; not very surprised are you.  Now that we are older, solutions are not readily, if ever, available.  Time, wear , beliefs and experience often preclude them and rather than guiding through murk into light, we walk together through thickets without escapes.

The joy of walking side by side, sometimes clearing a slightly wider path, or chipping at thorns, is the new course.  I don't have a the answers to the questions and my friends don't expect any, but having company is comfort, salve, joy and laughter we can share.

"Lend me your ears" is an intimate request, the result of which is the deepening of bonds well heeled in experience.

Moon Must

The Super moon rises high in the sky - you must watch it!

The "Super Moon" is reported as being 30,000 miles closer to the earth than the next closest moon orbit.  It is the same moon as always - just closer.  It rises and it shines and it looks big on the horizon. 

Harvest moons impress me more.  Some appear so enormous that they appear bigger than the sun and close enough to pluck from the heavens, except that they are too large to hold. The moon has the allure of allowing our eyes to bear looking at it, which makes her a delightfully generous companion in the sky.

Did anyone ever think of this particular moon phase as super, before the news told us to?  I think all moons are super, save those shot out passing vehicle windows - only a few of them are remarkable and rarely around long enough to actually appreciate.

I often look at the moon (the one in the sky).  Before my saw wielding husband "trimmed" the pines in our back yard, we usually slept with the shades up, allowing me to appreciate the brilliance of moonlight and the distinctive shadows it throws.  One winter evening when the light was bright enough to rouse me, I was given the gift of watching a red fox cross the yard, vivid against the pale blue-white moonlit snow. 

The moon is always there and is always miraculous;  a constant invitation to observation, appreciation and joy. It is an evening promise that the sun has not vanished; that beautiful things and experiences, which wax, wane and rest, always return. 

Any Pot In A Storm

Two nights ago a very short-lived but very strong windstorm ravaged the Philadelphia area. Our house lost power, along with over 250,000 others.  An ice storm had a similar effect on many more people this past winter; we were spared which was a huge blessing - Brrr.  Being warm and entertained however, made us complacent; we failed to purchase a generator.  To be fair we got two estimates on gas-powered, whole house generators.  What was priced a couple of years ago at $6,000.00 is now estimated to be $17,000.00.  As I mentioned, we failed to buy a generator.

I am not a fading lily and I do not have any life threatening illnesses which require electricity, so if we lose power, I may not blog, but I will not perish either.  Thanks to our township though, we have a problem.

Three years ago we were commanded to "hook up" to the newly installed sewer line.  That cost us over ten grand, but since our septic was on it's last legs and a new septic service would have cost 24 grand, I thought we were lucky.  HA!  The small detail of which we were informed as the trucks drove away and we dutifully watered our brow beaten lawn, was "Oh, by the way, it has a motor - so you best not flush much or at all in a power outage."  No showers, no dishes...   We have a twelve gallon tank, but since I have no idea when the "grinder motor" operates I could have twelve gallons of room for waste water or twelve ounces.  When the space is full, all ends up on my family room floor, which is adjacent to the lowest level toilet - terrific!!

Our recent black-out was predicted to be three days.  Suddenly I was a pioneer with three other pioneers in the house.  I was proud of perking coffee on the grill and cooking breakfast in similar fashion in a cast iron pan. I washed dishes outside in two buckets, one soapy, one clear (ran them all through the dishwasher today).  The bathroom issue, is just plain hooey. Whose idiot idea was it to force us to have electric sewers?  We ran away to a town with toilets that flush; nothing else mattered.

All I need is a tiny gasoline powered generator and an electrician to put an electrical plug on the grinder motor so that I can run that, and only that, in the dark.  Let my neighbors run their huge generators that sound like idling trucks all day and all night.  I miss the silence of the black out, but for heaven's sake I miss the gentle reassuring sound of toilet swoosh even more.

Onion Flowers

Every spring some of the first long green hairs of new growth in my yard are the curled tendrils of onion grass.  They rudely show their dark green bobbing tendrils in the midst of my sleepy grass and stubby weeds, demonstrating my poor lawn care.  They also let me know that winter is almost over; a sweet greeting from an aromatic weed.

As the recipient of a transplanted kidney I am encouraged to forgo gardening.  I may garden - if and only if, I wear long pants tucked into socks, boots, long sleeves gloves, hat and an N94 dust/particle mask.  After gardening I must immediately remove all said items and wash the clothes, discard the mask and shower.  I no longer garden.

This means that my family must pick up the slack.  I gardened all my life, not well mind you, but I pulled weeds and planted things; flowers, veggies, trees. Most are still around the yard and most require weeding. When my husband weeds, very little is left behind, he is very tidy. This year he has been very busy and the weeds are having a great time in the garden.

I like to photograph plants and so I have taken photos of the weeds, as they have grown with wild abandon. The onions have reached a height of three to four feet and last week showed a cap of what looks to me like Phyllis Diller's wig, only green:

I was delighted.  

This week I was astonished. I thought last week was the height of their display.  It was not: they bloom.

I have a garden full of these flowers soon to be followed by lovely pearlescent seed heads.

Many onions appear in the gardens of our lives.  We are quick to weed what does not belong, to replace it with something less aromatic and  more spectacular in its' display.  The Iris I expect to bloom, and I am delighted when they do; so it is with my other plants.  The joy of astonishment comes from the surprise, not only of something totally new to me, but so very unexpected.

I will be more mindful of what I weed in my life. Stop and smell the onions too.

Passion for Control

I often mull over the issue of control.  In "Get Smart" the enemy spy agency was Control.  In the original London production of "Star light Express" the voice of Control commanded the players until the end of the musical, when they all shout "Shut it Control!" From these media examples, amongst  many others, I can suppose that the issue plagues many.

There are little ways of stealing time and attention from people; I notice them.  Am I paranoid or oversensitive?  Probably. Talking on a cordless or cell phone, in a room where others are trying to converse or watch TV is a classic: just walk out of the room!  Another beaut is beginning a story and mid-sentence taking a huge bite of food, so that all who are listening must wait to hear the next words, while you chew and swallow.  Not bothering to say where you are or when you will return with important equipment or data; same effect, life pauses while we wait. These are not mindless acts, but subtle demands; demonstrations of who is in charge.  Does a polite person on the receiving end, deal with them and lose time? When do manners cease to be the cause of acceptance and when does cowardice take over?  Is one politely passive or revolutionary?  That seems to depend on the fight likely to ensue and the consequences of such action.  In my new life I am trying to not care. This does not suit my nature.

I do care, but mostly I silently fume.  Am I polite or cowardly?  As a harsh judge of my character, I am a coward.  I hate fighting though I feel passionately about most subjects.  I often strike a jab to prod action in another person and then back down with the assumption that I will cause more harm than good. I also back down when someone attacks. This is from experience, as on the few occasions when I won arguments as a very young person, terrible things resulted;  revenge served oh so coldly.  So I have learned to go against my nature and ability, and to let things alone. This is often irresponsible, but I can argue that away as pride. The main loss of my polite withdrawal,  is that of my own passion.  I have learned to suppress my vigor to avoid wasting energy on projects where I cannot effect change.  Sadly this affected malaise has seeped into my soul. I must recover from this self-inflicted, cowardly moderation, as without passion, there is no life.  I am, alas, too Greek for that kind of controlled life.

No Swimming

Rip Tide

Waving to the Storm

As Hurricane Arthur approaches we prepare for tension filled days of rough surf with surfers reveling.  I admire the agility of these people as they face the strength of the waves, but I do not admire them.  They seem to me to be, either disrespectful of the force of the waves or ignorant of it.  As they spend much of their time practicing they must be significantly more aware of it than I, so why do they do it?  Is it the perceived mastery of nature or the joy of the run? They place the guards at terrible risk, but the store owners love them.  Many love to watch them as well.  I do not. I want to see the incredible power of the sea unmarred by the blot of whoopee, thrill seekers.  Perhaps I am merely a jealous clumsy person, but they do invade my awe of the storm and I hate that interference.  

May they be safe regardless, as may all who face storms.