Really? I Said "Yes," To This?

Yesterday I once again submitted myself to the hands of another skilled professional.  I do this, every time, with great trepidation; I hate this part of my life.  I often berate myself for allowing these people to do with my flesh as they will; I hate the loss of control.  I hate the barbarity, while admiring the deftness, training and courage of the people to whom I so willingly (and unwillingly) give my body. They are surgeons.

I had a basal cell carcinoma, first biopsied by a blade and then later removed.  The biopsy was a "shave biopsy."  When I shave, I glide a razor over the very surface of the skin, when a Dermatologist shaves, a hole is created; then the pathology report arrives.  Cancer, but the very best kind; basal cell is very curable and is to be expected in transplant recipients.  I am at forty times greater risk of skin cancer; I bathe in sunscreen.  Nevertheless, I had a small lesion. I would be awake for the removal performed under a local; I would so much rather be asleep. You may now start clucking like a chicken to mock me, for I am a chicken.

My husband went with me, though the nurse said I would be able to drive (it would have been an interesting ride).  I am so glad he went with me. I do not react well to epinephrine which is added to the lidocaine.  When I start out scared and then add a stimulant, the result is not pretty; sweaty hands, racing heart, shaking - pathetic.  My husband held my hand and also watched the procedure, he's pretty amazing that way.  I was glad he watched, I certainly did not; I am not amazing that way. Having done so, he could give me information afterwards.  It is not my imagination, that is a bigger incision than I expected. I hope I am safe from the basal cell nonsense now.

I am delighted to report that my surgeon used glue to close the three inch wound.  There will be no stitch removal, I have almost no pain, and it will, eventually be a nice line of a scar, rather than Frankenstein's sutures. Still in all, while I am very grateful to be relieved (fingers crossed) of this illness, I am still amazed that I walked into a room, with a slop bucket on the floor for my body's spillage, and said "Please cut me open and tear away part of my arm."  I know that part had cancer, but it still sits uneasily in my mind. I thanked the doctor, his nurses and assistants, they did an amazing job. They have my loyalty and my admiration, I do not have their courage, only a patient's courage (such as it was, trembling and sweating, rather like my dog at the vet).

The long and the short of it all: I hate what happens in surgery, but the people who practice their skill on me have saved my life, several times.  I just wish it would get easier and less frightful. Advice: wear sunscreen, and try to accept (better than I, tremble, tremble) what comes your way.

OH NO! Tell Me it Still Works!

I dropped my phone the other day.  I was trying to read a text in the garage and I dropped it on the concrete floor.  I have done this before, many times; the skin of the phone is dinged, scratched and marred.  It has lost all of its' port covers and will not accept a memory card, but it is a terrific phone.

People laugh at me whe I show them my phone.  It can get the internet, I can watch TV on it, it texts, accepts voice commands, takes photos and video.  It is a marvel of engineering and extremely durable; until this recent drop.

There is a bat-wing shaped black blob at the top of my screen followed by a fascinating series of arcing cracks in the glass.  The cracks are on the interior of the screen; the exterior glass of the screen is smooth as ever.  I can still do everything, but once in a while, something seems to go amiss.

I need a new battery, which fortunately, I can get for a couple of dollars on Amazon (yes you sad Smart Phone users I can replace the battery).  I know a need a new one because the charge only lasts a few hours instead of a few days.

By now you are beginning to realize that I have a special phone.  It makes me feel like I am in Star Trek, because it flips open and I can almost talk to Scotty on it.  One day I am sure to answer it "Beam me up Scotty."  I do no have to enter a code or slide an imaginary bar to receive a call, I open it, as I do to dial.  I do not pay for data use because I opt to not pay for data,; I can do that.  I do not pay for insurance because I do not need insurance and I do not have a contract, haven't for years.

My phone is a 2006 LGVX8300 and it still woks beautifully, except for that bat, those cracks and half a text message the other day - but that may have been a glitch in the system. One day however, I know that I will have to replace my phone and I dread that day.

https://www.cellularcountry.com/manufacturers-lg-c-60_134_136_199/lg-vx8300-camera-phone-bluetooth-for-verizon-p-10165

I do not want to learn a new phone, or lose the history I have with this one.  I got it just before our first trip to Disney.  I carried everywhere while I waited for the call from the Transplant Center at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I received at least eight of the calls from the transplant center on it (it took twelve tries and several years to finally get the transplant so my  phone and I were very close for a long time).  I received endless support from friends and family over the same phone. It went with me on all our college visits and delivery trips to the chosen schools.  It is a part of my life and it is old. In phone years it is Methuselah; I respect that.

New phones come and go and are built to expire.  Mine was built to last.  My children's phones, which I bought at the same time, were both stolen; they were worth stealing at the time.  By today's standards it is no longer valuable, but loyalty and experience tell me otherwise.

May my little flip live on with its' resident bat, lest I line up to purchase a brick with no soul, but lots of toys.  I know that new flip phones are still available, but if I have to buy new, I will get a phone with a much better camera, even I have some technological lust.

A Ghost Part Deux

A success never realized, a brilliance never polished, a  passion never peaked; are these the motivations for a ghost?

Early last week, I wrote a post about a ghost (and now I write like Dr. Seuss).  The ghost was the host of tired woman's roast; for none have left me to ponder my woes.  My son thinks I'm crazy, my colleagues fear lazy, my daughter immune, my friend's son quite hazy.  Many long nights have I much tossed and turned, to think of the reason they so dryly spurn, belief in my senses; they laugh rear my stern.

Seriously, I do not believe in ghosts, but my experience last week was palpable.  I realize that the conversations of others implant ideas which are then more easily realized, but, I have never been influenced in that direction.

I have spent the last few days wondering not only, what did I feel and why, but also why did I write about it so rapidly?  I wrote because what I felt was real and because I did not want to wriggle out of facing the sensation; no back-pedaling in the light of day nonsense.

I went to the studio the next day and went into the other rooms, adjacent to my studio, to tell the ghost that it need not worry, that the rooms were to be a place to honor and remember history, therefore it would become the perfect place for a ghost to reside in peace; that was weird.  Speaking to myself is not an uncommon thing for me to do, it helps me think ideas through because it engages more than one sense, and more than one area of the brain; talking to the air, that was weird.

It was the air, of course.  In considering why, all of a sudden, I should feel something ghostly, it did not take too long to determine, that the ghost I was sensing, was myself. I have been in the building since I was five years old; fifty years.  Parts of me are certainly ghosts in that structure. In the archives are old white Victorian dresses worn for graduation, not unlike the dress I wore to my own graduation; my daughter also wore it, to hers.  The dress is still in my closet upstairs.  It has ghostly memories of a tragically awkward girl in a costume remarkably unlike her, in every possible way.  I even wore it to a charity cotillion to honor a debutante; absurd.  A flying rhinoceros would be more logical, and likely more attractive.

It was in that place that I learned art as well.  Last year, I spent time with a teacher I had not seen in over thirty years, she was important to me at a terrible time of my life.  It was wonderful to see her; she is as special as I had remembered her to be.  Next week I am having dinner with the teacher who taught me to paint and to etch. The history of the place and of myself is intertwined.

As I re-enter the world of art, I must ask: "Am I up to the task?  Am I just a ghost of myself?"  It is a terrible question and one I must answer in the next couple of months.  As I paint, day after day and eventually face the etching press on which I learned my trade, I must find out: Did I kill the skill or does it love me still?

The work I did this week, have silenced any ghosts in my mind.  I am alive and can get to the place I once knew with my work; we are in stride and I am so calm and happy to be in the presence of the muse, whom I feared had become a wraith.  There are no ghosts in my studio, nor anywhere else in my life.

Distress to Success

Thursday, having taken my computer to the studio, I started this post:



STRUGGLES    Frothy mess of a painting;  yeow.

Some days I should look only and not touch.  Tomorrow will be a a day of undoing, the undoing I did today.

Cocktails will be in order, to order the disorder of the afternoon.



          I did not post it.



Today I went back in to the studio with fresh eyes, and instantly saw that in the upper left corner of the canvas, the marks need to be made more subtle and the color quieted just a bit.  I put the painting on the mantle over the fireplace (yes the studio has a fireplace and a mantle) and there it sits so I can look at it.

I am now working on the second canvas.

Perspective is everything.

Where is that beer?  It's frothy; celebrating success.

Insight and Inspiration

Today was a full of thoughts, ideas and flashes of expressive insight.  These are the moments that I hope to hold and put on paper, clip to a notebook, pin to a wall; lock them down with the energy of the moment. It rarely happens.

The hell fire of inspiration, the flash of lightness, is that it is more fleeting than a sneeze.  How do you relate a sneeze?  I feel the lingering effects; the thundering sound of sudden force, the gently wafting spray that reaches farther than one can imagine, the release of that incredible desire to cleanse the soul through the nose.  All the same with inspiration (except the nose part).  How odd that such a sudden outburst is so similar to a sudden influx of ideas.

The sharing of inspiration is not so sudden.  On happy occasion, it flows instantly through the fingers and can be related almost, almost, as it feels. Typically it starts well, then fumbles in the darkness, fighting with he medium of expression, confused by those means, until it falls short of the goal. If luck is there, the feeble expression finds a way to stand on its' own merits.

If it communicates one tenth of the urgency of the moment of insightful inspiration, then its' translative expression will give to those who encounter the artistic expression, and the work was worth doing.

I have my fingers crossed; all the time.

Sudsy Bubbles

Tonight I am thinking about suds.  I have spent a good deal of the summer days looking at the suds of the ocean as the crashing waves beat each other up,  on their way to oblivion on the sand.

Then of course there is beer and its' lovely suds.  Guinness Stout has the most amazing waterfall of rich tan suds.  If the waitperson is excellent at what they do, your Guinness will be placed before you in mid cascade so that you may marvel at the amazing dietary show of brewing prowess.

Next, suds for cleaning, tonight everything from dishes to cat poo (not in the same place thank goodness).

Suds are also responsible for the removal of hair from our bodies and therefore for most of the amorous successes of the human race in this and the past century.  The reduction of smells, from suds' close contact with skin, is also a great boon to romance, and to appetite in general.

I will leave you with chaotic, delightful, tasty and refreshing suds.  Next time you want a bubble bath, grab your old fashioned egg beater, some liquid soap and go to town in the bath.  Be sure to take a Guinness with you.

A G-G-G-Ghost?

Every once in awhile I hear rational people telling stories about encounters with ghosts.  I respectfully have listened to them wondering what on earth they have experienced.  I didn't to want to believe them for two reasons;  I had never felt anything akin to their descriptions and I felt it was so unlikely to be real as to be absurd. Yet, they were not absurd, so in my mind a grey area of respect mixed with superior doubt, existed.

My studio, that I am using for the next six months, is a single room on the third floor of a former hotel building from 1871 which burned almost to the ground and was rebuilt in 1890.  It was used as a hotel for a very short period of time before it was converted to a school building.  Rumor has it that a ghost has lived there for decades.  When I was a child the ghost was supposed to be on the fifth floor attic level.  In the last twenty years she supposedly roams the third floor near the hand-bell choir rooms. I have always pooh-poohed this notion. The archives, where I have spent many hours the last fourteen months, have a door which moves every time we approached it, but the building is drafty and obviously the door rattles from imperfectly sealed windows. We used to say that Mr. Nobody opened the door, when doors slowly opened or closed, which happened several times each school year.

I have been in my studio for one week and it had been delightful to have a private space in which to paint, draw; make risky attempts and grotesque errors without witness.  Errors are the key to new horizons which flourish in the safety of privacy.  It has been grand. Today, after working effectively for several hours, I had to attend a meeting from 6- 8:20 PM.  I planned on cleaning up and going home right after the meeting, which was one floor below my space.  At 8:30, I climbed the stairs to the dimly lit hallway leading to my studio.  The light is not bright, but it is my space and comfy.  To get to the sink in the bathroom, I have to pass through two other rooms and there is yet one more room past the bathroom. They were all pitch dark, but I know the layout well.  As a poor sleeper, I frequently wander through my house in the dark and I have spent much of my life alone in empty houses.  I am not afraid of the dark, nor of being alone.  I was not alone tonight.

I have experienced many sensations, emotions and experiences; this was unique and new.  I felt very clearly that presence of a woman, likely Victorian.  She was not fully comfortable with me.  I saw nothing, thank God, but I got about my business and got out as quickly as I could. I do not ever want to see anything up there.  The bell teacher, who has worked with her presence for years,  calls her Priscilla.

I have never felt so creeped out in all my days.   I will; not be up there again in the evening.  As winter draws colder and darker, I may find myself in the dark again, but that really doesn't matter as she is there all day as well. I don't know what changed in me, that allows me to sense this now when I did not before, but it is changed and I am not too happy about it. Ignorance was bliss, real bliss.

I may move back home to my house if this keeps up.  Yikes.

An Unusual Child

Tomorrow my child shall be discharged form the care of her physicians at The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP).  She will be twenty three in October and a patient in their care for twelve years.

It is wonderful to be in the one percent of the wealthy, the intelligent, the gifted, the sublime, the secure.  She has been and remains in the one percent of patients at CHOP. Her ear surgeries failed, and failed again.  Her ear drums, simultaneously recalcitrant and weak, refused to stay in place; either bulging or retracting with infection after infection. Pierced by tubes, they refused to heal and close. Finally her right ear drum angry and exhausted simply vanished.  One unfeeling pediatrician upon seeing the depth of her ear and all the tiny bones therein, exclaimed "Where were you when I was studying the bones of the ear?"

When she was all of nine, the year her drum disappeared, her teacher, in some mad effort to attain control, struck her when she, in pure and unrelenting  isolation, would drift into her own thoughts, too tired from straining to hear to pay relentless and worthless attention to lessons.  When I withdrew her from speech therapy, where she was drilled in what to say over and over again, the same teacher screeched so loudly at me, that her students turned in horror to see what on earth had made their teacher so insane as to make such a noise. I knew then, a mere part of the pain she suffered daily.

In years of effort, headaches, illness fever, disbelief, frustration and tears we came to Children's where after six more surgeries, she finally suffers a mere moderate hearing loss, which cripples most adults. This is the "success" with which she lives in the one percent of CHOP patients. We have wept that she could order in a restaurant with out asking "What?" I have wept when at parent teacher night a teacher asked me what was different about her, she answered a question this year. She has been appalled that the cruelty showered upon, what she thought was only her, was in fact drowning all the middle school students, once she could hear the conversation in the halls.

Tomorrow all that history is passed out of the hands of the physicians of children and into the hands of physicians of adults.  I pray that they have the compassion and kindness that she has had at CHOP. I cannot imagine that any group of doctors will ever understand the journey that she and these surgeons have had together.  I pray that they will come to know and respect her capacity for setting and unyieldingly attaining a goal.

I have an enormous amount of respect for my daughter, who has walked through a life of suffering, pain, prejudice and isolation with a determination I have have never come close to possessing.  She remains an individual  dedicated to peace, love, happiness  and compassion, married with a fierce and unyielding rage at injustice, inequality and cruelty. She writes beautiful books, stories and music dedicated to encouraging self determination, evaluation and growth.  She could have wallowed in self pity and fury but she as chosen another path.  She has my admiration.

Where Were You?

The school my children then attended, had demanded yet another meeting about my child.  My hard of hearing child, who was treated so poorly, every day at this irrational school.  I dreaded these meetings, where they told me all the things wrong with my child; when I told them again and again, "She can't hear."  The hearing tests were inconclusive, so we met again and again and I complied; foolishly.

The morning was clear, their heads were not,  my heart was not.  Half an hour into the meeting the bells began to ring in the school.  The head of the lower school, who knew this was going to happen and scheduled our meeting in the middle of it anyway, said "Fire drill." I was outside lining up on Tuesday September 11, 2001  for a fire drill.  I was glad to breathe fresh air and to be away from the ignorant conversation which would quickly become a part of the past.  We filed back in and completed the stupidity. I went to my car and drove away.

I was headed home, but had to stop for dog food, because my puppy was a very picky eater and we had not successfully found something she would eat every day.  She was three months old and her ribs showed.  after finally negotiating the puppy food issue, I climbed back into my obligatory mommy mini van and turned on the radio.  You know what I heard. I called my friend Nancy, while I was driving home and she was narrating the TV reports,  the first building fell.  I was five minutes from home.

Once home my phone chains began, checking in with my mother and then my husband. I was unsure what to do about my children, their school was not close and I did not want to disrupt their day, nor did I want to scare them. When I spoke to my husband and he said he was coming home because Independence Mall was being evacuated, I went into action to retrieve my children.  Others did not do this; they felt that the children should feel safe in their school.  To me safety evaporated that day with the towers, the Pentagon, the field and the planes.

Safety is relative; it is always an illusion.  Some of us live with extreme danger every day, others are more protected by location, wealth, good luck and choices.  I am unspeakably grateful to those in our society who face danger every day, on my behalf; police, fire fighters, soldiers.

I remember looking at pictures of the ash, knowing that some of it was people.  I remember the silence of the country's planes all being grounded and of being comforted by my family gathered in the same room, preferably in my arms.  I remember the photos, walls and walls of them of lost human beings.  Photos family members desperately posted in hopes of finding their loved one, somewhere.

The end of the movie, The Bridge On The River Kwai" ends with two words "Madness, madness."   What else is in our world, but madness and love?

Nothing bad happened to me or to mine on that day; not directly.  I am tonight where I was that morning, watching television footage from that day; my head pounding, my heart breaking, again.

                                         "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?"

Where have all the flowers gone,
Long time passing,
Where have all the flowers gone,
Long time ago,
Where have all the flowers gone,
Picked by young girls every one,
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone,
Long time passing,
Where have all the young girls gone,
Long time ago,
Where have all the young girls gone,
Gone to young men every one,
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young men gone,
Long time passing,
Where have all the young men gone,
Long time ago,
Where have all the young men gone,
Gone to soldiers every one,
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone,
Long time passing,
Where have all the soldiers gone,
Long time ago,
Where have all the soldiers gone,
They've gone to graveyards every one,
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone,
Long time passing,
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Long time ago,
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Gone to flowers every one,
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

-Pete Seeger-

A Pause

On this eve of the thirteenth anniversary of 9/11 let us pause to remember the injured and the dead.

I picked my kids up from school that day, early.  I went right after I spoke to my husband who told me that his office, which never closed, was closing.  He worked on Independence Mall and said there were snipers on the roof of the Federal building across the street.  I wanted my children next to me.

I told them I was there to get them because the world changed that day.  Other parents did not come. I wanted my children to recall that day, and for us to all be together.  The world did change that day; it is not the same.  We are changed.

We want to pretend that everything is the same, but that is a lie.  If we cannot face the truth,  then how can we live in the world and how can we move forward?  

One day at a time is the mantra of change;  tomorrow I will take as it comes.  May tomorrow come and go in peace and thoughtful memory of too many who have suffered and died.

A Day in the Trench

Today was a rocky day in the studio.  I have been having a great time setting up and painting on my own.  I have had to face the time and the fear of messing up a painting in progress, but each day has been a delight of delving into the work.  Today...today, was a test of my strength and character.

I was not in a good frame of mind to paint today, so I had a choice, I could do nothing or I could face the demons and work.  I spent a great deal of time looking and a bit of time using a brush, but I worked.  For a while, I felt that all I had accomplished was to lose the decent qualities of what I had on the canvas a already, but I did not quit.

Sometimes in life we must destroy in order to build.  Today I was the forest fire, in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, which allows the trees' seeds to burst out of their cones; without the devastating heat of the fire, new growth cannot occur.

Today was trying and painful, but there is a future.  I was tenacious and must continue so to be.

Tonight, I sit with a purring cat and a soft coated hunting dog.  Tomorrow I retrieve a birdhouse from a show (yes, a birdhouse)  and head back to the painting.  We will work it out together, that canvas and I, or I shall wrestle it to the ground like Jacob wrestling the angel.

To OZ?  To OZ!

Emptying Out

Everybody I know has a house to empty out.  Either they are moving or a parent must downsize; it is very stressful for them, all of them.  I was spared all that by a house fire (in which no one was injured.) That was stressful too, but I knew what to do with all the stuff; nothing.  When they tore down the house they tore down the stuff too.

I have watched and helped people go through lifetimes of accumulated treasure, which turns out to be worthless after the life is complete.  The things were of use to the living, and wonderfully full of hope when new, alas are merely the remnants of a completed run. They are sad reminders that stuff is as stuff does.

That having been said; I am a saver. I am trying to throw away debris in our house to avoid the day when someone goes through my junk and says "Why? Why on earth would anyone save THIS?" When my husband, who throws away anything and everything, says we don't need this, a wave of panic, rage and defensiveness runs through me.  It isn't so much of a protective act, as it is a moment or two, or a year or so, to get used to the idea of living without something. "Something" is connected to the actions from which it came, to the shared experience, to the energy and youth it absorbed; now so precious as it wanes.

I remember the day my kids discovered that we could make a tuba from a flexible hose and a funnel. I remember going to the store to get those items and constructing the tuba.  I remember playing it and dissolving into gales of laughter; again and again.  We, of course, keep the memories, but it took me about eighteen months to let go of the tuba.

I let the Wicked Witch of the West's hourglass go today too.  I built it for my daughter in 1996, for a play.  It was constructed out of two large soda bottles, red sand and a tornado tube, mounted in a wooden bracket, which I also constructed, and held in place with burlap string and wood glue.  My daughter used it for a nightstand until this year.  I kept the tornado tube, they are hard to find these days.  Ding dong, the Witch is....grown up.

The kids are grown up and the house is getting clean(er).  The kiddie books went to a hospital library, the clothes to the thrift shop, the toys as well.  Yards sales, dumpsters, charity, eat all our old days, whether recent or not. I like touchstones, but I do not want to live like a hoarder. Letting go of the stuff is freeing. Today I passed an old tree which had been hewn down; usually I feel very sad. Today, I allowed myself to realize that I have no control over the actions of others and that my memory of the landscape with the tree, will stay with me forever (hopefully). So I went on my way to create new days for me and for others.  Perhaps it is time to plant a new tree.

O To Be Amphibious

Yesterday I got rolled; by a giant wave and several of its' siblings.  I have the bruises to show it too.  I spend so much time in the water that I can barely walk when I get out and so the waves have their way with me.  I had over a cup of sand in my bathing suit and I still have sand coming out of my ears.

I love the water.  The salt stings stings my eyes like crazy, but I cannot help but open them underwater. It is green, so green and tinged ochre with the swirling sand.  Occasionally I find sea lettuce or red weed; sometimes having been startled by its' brushing up against me.  Unlike being on land, however, when this happens, I laugh.  I laugh when the waves lift me to their peaks and drop me down their backs, three, four sometimes a six foot drop into the waiting water below.  I laugh when the breakers tumble and roll me into the rough sand and pebbles.  I laugh when I dive through the huge breaking wave as it bubbles over my feet and call it nature's Jacuzzi.  I laugh all the time in the water.

I sound rather mad out there, but other people seem to get in on the humor. They too, smile and laugh as the surf rolls them, drenches them, and generally teaches them to play again.

By the time I stumble to my towel on the sand to dry off and regain my strength, I am totally relaxed, sandy as a half eaten lollipop dropped on the beach, but relaxed and happy.

There is nothing like water.  Underwater it is quiet and colorful.  The sunbeams stream through the depths and fill me with calm and hope.  I swim underwater so as to keep the stillness intact and to feel the ether flowing all around me. Were I amphibious, I might stay under for hours.

The Warmth of History

Today as I walked through the halls of a school I have known all but five years of my life, I was struck by the influence the place has had and continues to have on my life.

I started there in kindergarten and stayed through twelfth grade.  I returned through my college years to visit and to assist on field trips.  I went to a couple of fund raising parties and generally had fun with the place.

I went on to volunteer every year, serving on the Alumnae Executive Board, on which I still sit, taught, worked at the their camp, even went so far as to enroll my daughter and watched her graduate.

I have seen three new portraits of former heads of school,  rise to the walls.  I have watched in dismay as buildings were torn down and in amazement as new ones went up.  Furniture has come and gone, hell blackboards have come and gone. Many of my teachers have died, I might go so far as to say most of them and a few of my peers as well.

Last year I finally found and met with one of my most important teachers from Lower School; an art teacher of course.  She was as kind, intelligent and thoughtful as I remembered her.  Today I found I have been working with the son-in-law of my Lower School French teacher, another outstandingly kind and intelligent woman. I was delighted to hear news of her and sent her a message of gratitude and affection.

Those old crusty walls of the buildings I know like the back of my hand, are like the walls of my childhood bedroom; they know me.  Unlike my bedroom walls though, they know hundreds of students and bind us together in a common experience. The unity of that group of people, is that we, faculty, students, and the staff of every single department, worked together towards our common goal; waking our minds.  We did so very well.

Weed Welcome

Talents come in many forms.  I seem to have a natural talent for growing weeds.  Some may say this comes from my inherent laziness, and yes that plays a factor.  However a larger factor is my fascination with what grows in my yard, naturally.

My house came with lovely gardens, fully planted with, almost exclusively as it happens, poisonous plants.  I found this amusing.  Their blooms were delightful surprises all the first year we lived here.  In my intelligence I have added even more toxic plants over the years. We bloom delightfully from March through September or so, every year, the same flowers in the same places.

My weeds though, being capricious little plants, grow as they please and where they please. I encourage this. I let them grow to their full potential and some have proved quite amazing. My husband was annoyed when he was weeding one day and I told him  "NO!"  Don't pull the violets, I like them.  I put them there from the lawn."  "Why?" he asked.  "They have beautiful flowers and grow into large leafy ground cover with heart shaped leaves.  I like them"  "But they are weeds."  "Only in the lawn, dear.  I invited them here."

He and I agree on that point.  A weed is only something that is uninvited. (I know a lot of people who might qualify under that status.  An Australian friend of mine used to say "That guy is such a little weed.").  A rosebush in a corn field is a weed.

Weeds in my garden have included, wild daisies, wild snapdragons, thistles, grasses, millet, sunflowers, lots and lots of black walnut trees (silly squirrels) butterfly bushes, at least three each year,  and many others plants that I cannot name.

Amonsgt the nameless are the weeds in the photos below.  Note that these three magnificent plants are about eight feet tall.  My hubby is chomping at the bit to kill them, but I am thrilled and have pleaded for their mercy until the go fully to seed. I have to admire their exuberance.

Perhaps that is the secret of my fondness for weeds.  I admire something that grows so well where it is unwelcome.  I also love the sheer surprise.  We all have times when we feel we do not fit in.  Be like these weeds; grow tall and bloom. Surprise the world out of its' old order to introduce your unexpectedness, joy and energy. Admire a "weed, "  know the "weed, "  be the weed."

Note the car which is right behind them;
the fence is is just over four feet tall.

 

 

                                                                              

          A completely different, giant plant.

Reality Check

After returning from ten days at the beach, I have one conclusion, as follows.

Chaos:  live with it or wash away.

An Error in Judgement

My neighbors had a beautiful cat, who has, alas gone to "kitty heaven."  He had a thick luxurious coat covering his large frame and muscular body.  He loved to come over and rub up against the leg of anybody (everybody) who would pet him and speak nicely to him. Eventually he would flop over onto his side and roll over on his back, like a dog, begging to have his tummy rubbed.  Woe to those who fell for this trick! One touch and the errant finger on his upturned belly entered the domain of the sharpest claws I have ever encountered in any cat.  The claws would instantly, from all four paws, simultaneously, close upon your unsuspecting, loving hand, drawing blood and obvious feline delight from this clearly confused creature.  Not thirty seconds later, he would amiably rub up against you and try to entice again.  Once I thought,  perhaps I had hit a sore spot on his poor hunter's body. Nope, he was just a deceptive, clever, beautiful, purring feline human trap.

I fall into all kinds of human traps.  I am very gullible.  A priest once told me it was one of my finest qualities, but he was after all, a priest.  I find it one of my most annoying and embarrassing.  I trust, I believe...until I get cynical. Once a person arrives at cynical it is hard to overturn; it often takes me an hour or so.

There are exceptions of course and I can hold a real grudge forever, but my grudges are always mixed with the feelings of love or affection, hope or joy that led me to trust in the first place.  The result is that many of my feelings become mixed and confused; thus decision making becomes clouded through past experience.  Nevertheless, like staying in art despite the knowledge that it is unlikely to win me respect or success in any worldly way, I continue to find avoidance of art or of human caring an impossibility; I have tried.

In a quiz I took today on some silly online site, I was asked "What super power would you choose?" I answerable as I always choose- invisibility. However, I realize that dreams of hiding cannot save me from cat's claws or from human tsk tsks.  It can't let me avoid being tapped for help and then smacked on the nose for my way of helping either. What I require is self control; if I could just keep quiet  - oops I am blogging.