A Welcomed Challenge: 31 Consecutive Days of Quick Writes

In a sudden urge to collect my most self-possessed mindset, I have decided that it's time to hold myself accountable for something I can be proud of.  I complete tasks on a daily basis, but the thought here is different.

Really, it just boils down to the very basic need to accomplish something of value, according to the Gospel of Me.

Tomorrow is December 1st.  My writing goals are big...okay...they're grandiose.  I admit.  And yet, the magnitude of my goals holds me back, time and time again, as evidence that I tend to bite off more than I can chew.  I cannot write a mind-blowing novel in one month...it's just not in me, nor is it in my daily schedule, so I'll back off the trail a bit and start smaller.

Once upon a time (a few months ago) I was obsessed with the drive to "get fit."  Only, my goals were rather unreasonable...starting from scratch, with the intent to run 3 miles 5 days a week soon proved itself a rather impossible goal.   I became so insecure about my own goal, so intimidated that the thought of donning trail shoes became a chore, rather than the blessing it once was years ago.  Running, at this juncture failed to be the "place of personal peace" it once was years ago and became a battle. And then a wise woman spoke.  "Start with your daily goal, and cut it by half."

Ummm.  Duh.  This advice was the best jewel one could have bestowed to me- and fittingly, with the battle lessened and the goal became less intimidating, I have been in the gym, almost daily, working up to that "place of personal peace" I once maintained.

The next 31 days will be similar, in terms of redefining a goal.

As mentioned, I cannot write a novel in a month, but I can write for 10 minutes, daily for the next 31 days, prompted by a thought, created by my own source of thought, encased by things that light me up, calm me enrage me and in turn, remind me that I am indeed alive.  (Note to self by the way:  writing time will consist of a precise 10 minutes, flat.  No more).

Tomorrow marks the first day of December...day 1 then, of what will become the first of 31 random free writes....let the games begin:

Day 1:  Why Do You Write?  What Do You Hope To Gain From It?
Day 2:  Name the first song that comes to mind.  What about it?
Day 3:  Who do you miss?
Day 4:  In whom are you disappointed and why?
Day 5:  Gay marriage.  Yes?  No?  Why?
Day 6:  What's up with the animal thing?
Day 7:  A regret and why?
Day 8:  Blessing and Curse- choose one personality trait which proves to be your blessing and your curse
Day 9:  Name 3 things for which you are grateful
Day 10:  Name 3 things that enrage you and why
Day 11:  What's the first book you see on  your bookcase..write about it
Day 12:  What are you most afraid of in life?
Day 13:  Biggest regret
Day 14:  Choose 3 people who have changed your life
Day 15:  Dream job
Day 16: Choose a song on your ipod- why did you include it?
Day 17:  What feels like home?
Day 18:  Happy Birthday, Mom
Day 19:  Why young adult novels?
Day 20:  Why do you love to cook?
Day 21:  Best inside joke
Day 22:  Do you accept Jesus
Day 23:  Why Tori Amos?
Day 24:  Greatest memory as a child
Day 25:  What are you grateful for today- choose 2 things and 2 people
Day 26:  What do you wish you could change about yourself?
Day 27:  What about yourself do you hope will NEVER change?
Day 28:  Ummmm...how 'bout that Marilyn Manson concert?
Day 29: Personality trait you abhor most in others
Day 30: What do you think of when you hear the word "wine?"
Day 31: Admit a wish you've made recently

Alright...I timed myself...took me 16 minutes to come up with the above prompts...I'll hold to them...limit the writing to 10 minutes only and promise not to change up the prompts.

See you in 31 days!

A Jane Austen Mystery....

This leaves me breathless tonight....

The night holds a chill in her hands this evening.

Out of the shower, October shrouds me in some mild tinge of chilliness.  I'm not gas-savvy enough to figure out how to light the pilot light for my sweet little heater, thus I am left to the comfort of leggings, a tank, t-shirt, sweatshirt and Uggs.  I heart my Uggs- and finally it is their time.  Their time and my own.  Something magical sings to me in the chill of this season.

It is finally the time to dust off the collection of Reds, harbored in cabinets.  There's something smart about a red malbec, sweet, tangy and thick.  There's also something magical about the  marriage between such a warm liquid and it's counterpart: books.

'Tis the season to bring out the Period dramas.

Ms. Austen, Sir Lawrence, The Bronte Sisters, Dear Haubert, H. James and friends are fit for an evening such as this and more to come, though this particular year marks an especially intriguing mystery.

Since rekindling my fondness for a particular Ms. Jane Austen, I am reminded, with a fiery rush, of a stack of black and copper rimmed novels I've coveted since rescuing from my college library over five years ago.  Well aware of Ms. Austen's prowess and strength as a most beloved authoress, I am quite baffled by the four books which I've now gathered from the shelves and placed before me.

Each is written by a different author, but are each prefaced with the following:

"The Northanger Set of Jane Austen Horrid Novels"

Furthermore, each is described as being a "Gothic Romance."

Right then.

Could there be anything better?

For Austenites, this really boils down to a few key points. "Northanger Abbey" is noted: this we know to be Austen's only gothic romance, far darker than any of her other, more, dare I say, quaint novels.  Though a social farce in some respects, the novel stands on it's own as a romantic thriller of sorts.  Secondly, something described as a "gothic romance" is thus attributed to at least four volumes of Austen-esque authorship.   As mentioned, there's only one such Austen novel that could proclaim such a title and to now discover the magnitude of this is....well....it's like discovering a pot o' gold at the end of a rainbow.

I wouldn't suppose anyone might be able to shed some light on the beginnings of such a foursome of novels?

S'pose I have quite the Fall and Winter set of reading before me....what girl's not up for a darkly romantic journey in to the unknown?

The Girl from the Sea and Her Dog, Boris.

There once lived a small girl with no mother, but a quiet man for a father and a dog named Boris.

Boris was a large ugly thing, with a scruffy mass of uneven thick hairs standing all about him.  A rather disorganized measure of black shaped him muzzle with a snout of ebony, usually wet with snot and a mouth with a perpetual drip of saliva.  Boris.  Oh, Boris!  A mutt of such an unkempt appearance could only be so loved by a small sea-faring girl.

She was a child-beauty, our young girl was.  She had a  pair of dirty green-lit eyes and a head of hair which fought to be red, but was rather hinged by an emboldened chocolate brown color, constituting a precise measurement about her face.  And yet, it was the child's lips which drew the eye with a spectacular force.  A pair of berried lips, pouted, standing out, even among even the perfection of such large and perfectly lash-lined eyes.

Our sweet sea girl and her mutt, Boris, made it a habit of trailing the secret ghosted steps of those who tread the sand before them. The girl often told her ugly dog the stories of those who once danced upon these same shores, the ghosts, whose presences followed her to the edge of the sand, where pavement met shore, and stopped altogether.  Whispers of lives past, upon the wind, only a child could hear.  That only a child might believe to be more than what simply is.  She followed the belief that magic kept spirits within reach.  Some harbored heartache from lost and missed loves, gone to the Sea, unable to wait.  Others, at peace, wings spanning the entirety of their backs, flit about overhead.  Such lovely creatures, thought the girl from the Sea.  Stories filled her mind, like the bright images of the reel of a movie, upon a giant screen before her.  Those lost, drawn to our small heroine found friends in the odd couple, girl and ugly mutt, who traveled the long-forgotten paths along the side of the sea.

The girl from the sea and her dog sought the presence of the gilr's mother, daily, certain that a mother's wings must rise to the sky, higher and more grand than any other.

But the girl and Boris were yet to meet the magic of a lost mother.

Crabby old Mrs. Lance, the widowed sister of the girl's father, had sneezed a hundred times, upon meeting Boris, one day soon after her mother's death.

"Why for must that dreaded beast accompany such a lovely child, and why ever must such a small thing spend so much time, alone, at the edge of the sea?" she'd asked.

Mrs. Lance, though with no children of her own (she now mourned the loss of her husband, even after 32 years) judged herself the most obvious replacement for the girl's mother.  She thought it impossible that a fisherman might be able to raise a small child of his own accord.  A man would never fair well in the presence of a small child, and would fair worse as that same child aged in to the demure stature of a woman.  After all,  crabby Mrs. Lance had come to find the small child had collected rocks, shells and leftover bones from those whose fates were met at the edge of the sea.

Sand collected among the treasures spread throughout the house as though left behind by the small presence of a sea-faring sprite.  Of course Mrs. Lance would never think of such a silly thing...and yet it was the imagination of our small own dear girl which caused the spread of the ocean's remains.

Upon the very sight of the rugged, though well mannered Boris, Mrs. Lance let out a continued mass of sneezes, eyes rimmed with a pink and dripping with a clear liquid.  The small girl only looked on, hand upon the large head of the beast, placid and calm at her side.

"Such a drat of a creature, I should certainly say!  Unacceptable for such a small child to be trailed by such an ugly thing as this, believing that she should meet the spirit of her mother upon the shores!"

And at such a moment as this, dear old Boris began to whimper with a small sound and then a very long sequence of his own sneezes, blasting out of him, soaking the old bat of a woman before him.  For minutes this lasted, while the young girl spoke words, sweet as sugar, to her large friend, carefully wiping his own dripping black snout.

"Whatever made such a mess of this dog so suddenly," cried Mrs. Lance.

And now our young girl's own father sat before a large hearth, glass of Scotch in-hand smirked slightly to himself, looking upon his young daughter, admiring the affection with which she handled large old Boris.

"Ay," the father began.  "He must be allergic to bullshit."


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Tact and Mascara

I've recently rekindled a lost love for the library.  A recent venture to my favorite house of books, met me with a day of flaming heat.  I'd begun to sweat, and irritation spread over me as my makeup began to smear.   In my quest for vanity, (why deny it?) I knew that within a few days, I would find a makeup who's sole purpose was to stay put on my face.  Since the age of 16, I'd had the same problem.  But I was certain that my makeup man at MAC would solve my nasty little problem.  He had, after all, found me the perfect mascara- and my love for mascara nearly matches my love of books.  Okay, not really, but you get the point.  I thought of his card, in my wallet, with the upcoming date of a consultation, cursing the sheen on my face, knowing it would end soon.

This "thing" I have with makeup began when I was young...I had to have been 14 or so, and not much older, if that.  I'd struggled with the concept of "beauty," throughout high school, and rather than learn the ways of the wise, I chose to defy it completely, which led to a number of epic fails in my time.  I was certain that my personality would shine through the misery of my exterior and that the good in people would come through once they came to see the failure in their quest for high school war.

This was not a smart assertion, as much as it was a hopeful one. This was a young girl, dreaming, with a still-compassionate heart and hope for the best.  I came to eat my words on more than a few occasions.  

It started in middle school. Boys pulled my hair and tossed trash at me.  Flicked my bra straps and tripped me in hallways.  You can assure yourself, this was not an attempt on their behalf to get my good attention. During a dance in sixth grade, I had the chance to dance with, who I thought was the cutest boy in all the world.  The lights in our small gym grew dark, and a Metallica song sprang from the speakers and this boy, this prince, an 8th grader asked me to dance.  Though stunned, I'd pulled myself by my boot straps and confidently placed my hands upon his shoulders, certain that this would be the life for me in middle school.  Falling asleep that night was like living in a dream.

And come Monday, I came to a school filled with the smacks of hi-fives, whistles and smiles from a swarm of 8th graders.  My mood elated, I walked the halls with a confidence unknown to me.  In a flurry, a small friend of mine came up with a look of dread.  I could not understand why she would not share in my happiness.

"Brett.  He told the whole school you paid him $20 to dance with you."

Oh...of course he did.


As a freshman, I was deemed "Troll" no surprise by the hottest senior in school.  He said it to my face, whispered it to me at my locker, under his breath and through a number of his classmates.  The name "Pizza Face," was soon to follow, though I'm pretty sure that "Troll" was worse.  By my sophomore year of high school, I'd come to understand that a person could in fact make enemies with just a physical presence.  This became especially clear while pulling books from my locker, in prep for my next class.  In what I now deem quite an entertaining furry, an older boy took my backpack from it's resting place before me, and tore the contests from their rightful place, kicked my backpack like a soccer ball far from me, and ended the escapade  by yelling "faggot vegan,"  I assume to me and not the backpack he was kicking.  Yes.  Verbatim, and I quote.  Humorously, this boy became a vegan one year later, though I find it hard to believe he did this out of compassion for animals or that he was actually wise enough, at the time, to discern the ecological, social and political morals, grounding and justifying the lifestyle choice.

Junior year seemed a little less hostile, and I think I'd accepted my fate as the "ugly girl," and found a way to cope with my existence.  On a bright afternoon, a friend of mine and I sat in her brightly lit bedroom, pouring over her sister's yearbook.  We'd giggled and eyed the boys we thought were cute and then, stopped short at the image of one school photo, in particular.  My breath caught in my chest, and a small panic brought hot tears to my eyes, with a sharp pain.  My friend's sister had circled my class photo in bold purple marker, with a line leading to the small margin beside the row of pictures.  In the margin, written in the same purple pen were the words, "Dog of The Universe."  As if the line connecting the circle were not enough to mark the title, a giant arrow sprang forth, above my photo.  There was nothing funny about that moment, and there still exists in me a ripe hated for that girl, despite my age and my assumption that I should know better.

The concept of beauty was certainly a cheeky little bastard, and my mom's attempts to build my self-esteem, with the introduction of makeup, was well intended though not enough, evidently, to armor myself against the onslaught of adolescents....which brings us back to the library.

A girl, and who I assumed to be her mother, sat at a table on the first floor of the library, pouring over a stack of fashion and beauty magazines.  I thought of my mom, at that moment, sure she'd wished I would have been a girl like that, spending time reviewing the latest makeup trends and fashionistas.  That was until I saw the girl's face.  She was crying- the girl was sitting at a table, head hung over a magazine and she was crying. Feeling an awkward dread, I walked past both and stood before my coveted Sunset Magazine.  Standing before the shelving before me, an exasperated sigh escaped the lips of a woman to my left.  Looking over, I noticed Mom, from the table behind me.  She looked at me blankly, and simply said "I don't know what else to do."  Silently, I glanced back at her daughter and back to mom.  "She starts high school in two weeks and is devastated because says she can't apply her makeup correctly, and a childhood friend of her's claims she's dumping their friendship because she's not 'pretty.'"

I smiled and thought of my own "dog days" and reached into my purse.  I pulled out the MAC appointment card, and passed it to the woman.  "This is Robert.  Take my appointment- he's the best ever.  He can give her some tools and keep it simple."

The woman looked as if a train had hit her, and smiled.  "Are you sure?" she asked.

"Absolutely.  It's hard being a girl.  I know."

I left the library without a book in-hand and called Robert immediately.  He's familiar with my own horror stories and seemed excited about the chance to bring a young girl in to what would hopefully be the beginnings of a strong identity.

Folks might fall at their feet at the thought of young girls wearing a mask of makeup, in order to maintain an identity, but I don't take those fears too seriously. I would never simply assume that the application of make-up would have made me prom queen, back in the day, but it's certainly helped pick me up, in recent years- and though I did not pay heed to her advice early on, I appreciate my mom's own attempts to help shape an identity of my own, by letting me find it myself....many years later, and on my own time, even at the cost of a number of ugly years early on.

And now at 31, I can say with a smile, and with a somewhat vain sense of pride, Goddess Bless mascara and red lipstick.  So it takes me 15 more minutes in the morning, to ensure that my mascara's perfect or that my lips are filled properly.  Call me shallow but these days, with a stronger sense of character and a tube of mascara (my own Excalibur)  I smile at the thought of my past as the " Dog of the Universe."  A certain amount of pride extends when my own red lips smile at the knowledge that my own dog days instilled, in me, a strong sensitivity and a resounding and surprising sense of gratefulness to those who made life miserable years ago.  Folks occasionally still tilt the dagger my direction, and I still find myself appreciative of their own callousness as they continue to encourage me to be everything they are not.

Words are a powerful thing, no doubt.  Yet tact is far superior to even the wisest or wittiest of words.

Dancer's Black

Song of the moment: Iron and Wine's "Boy With  Coin"

It's been some time since I've added something here, and at the thought of writing tonight, I stumbled over my inability to formulate a real solid concept of what it was, rolling around in my fat head.

...and then I saw it...the video accompanying this song.  And I wept and became a little lost in my own confusion, unable to determine what it was that made the tears well up.  The ladies in this video are the loveliest of creatures shrouded in what I fondly like to call "dancers black."  This is not simply a black.  This is the black of dancers, which refine their features, enliven sculpted and fluid movements.  This is a black of elegance and quiet drama, the kind which sparks tales of lust, makes men fall short, and pulls a dancers eyes from the depths of her face...emotional movements made clear and precise against the backdrop of a solid mass of color.  

This black is perfection in its refinery, indeed.

The smooth wooden floors beneath the clap of heels and whips of toe brings back the smell of a dance hall, a stage, a practice set.  The wood polished and then suddenly sodden with dancers' heated sweat and laden with the swells of blood from cramped toes and torn toe nails.  

...and then she took to the floor, in the video- an image of a woman I once imagined I might be.  Strong, elegant, refined, beautiful.  Wrapped in the color void from the dancers attire.  Shouldered in a grey wrap, crimson band of grace and a skirt of feathers, which turn, at sudden movements in to birds, flying off in to some distance.  This woman, to me, is a garden of idealism.  She is the beauty I once sought and the grace I once thought lay just beyond the horizon.  She looks to be a woman of staunch practice, stamina and quiet, but madly tapped strength.  And the song which guides her movements balances the dramatic colors which wrap her and the stern guild upon her face.  It calms the moment.

And as I watch this video for a third time, I become suddenly and overwhelmingly cognizant of the cause for my tears.

I am watching what I once begged to become and failed to be while simultaneously enraptured by a song whose lyrics befuddle my understanding.  I can't quite figure out what She was doing when "God left the ground to circle the world."  But I am curious now to know what happened that day God decided to give a circle away and why.  I am trying hard to listen to the lyrics with something other than my logical brain, hoping that I can make sense of this puzzling lyric while coping with the image before me, watching what I lost somewhere, not certain where I last saw who I wanted to be, and where I've left her.  And all the while I am crying more, grappling with too many things swimming in my mind.

I pause.  Walk away, only to come back, and watch the video again...

And when I see the dancers, I realize that I am staring, effectively, at a dream I let reality take from me- fearful and unable to hold on tight enough to make it my own.  It's not the dancing, alone, which makes my heart swell, but what dance is to me, and what I had forgotten it brings to one who treasures its art and honors its life lessons in stamina, aptitude, practice, grace...grace...grace, emotional reaction in a structured release.  Dance teaches us to hone in to the power music has over our movements, dramatizing moments.  It is the boxed up expression, wrapped in a package of elegance, structure and refinery.  All of these things I had hoped to be, all powerful elements the strongest of women, I assumed possessed.  

In short, it is the expression of an impossible range of emotions without all the mess.

Somewhere down some path, I lost my way in becoming the woman draped in the color of hearts, her vision and movements clear and readied.  Prepared for the task at hand...teaching her brood, by example, of the true power of practice and strength and of the magic that fortitude brings...should we have the eyes to see it before us.  Beneath her steps, trailing the skirt of feathered birds, remains of path of swirls, encircling themselves, as one line becomes a trail of many rounded movements.

It's hard to look at that which you once sought and remember your aim, and then realize you've become lost amidst the chatter, opinions of others, expectations and blase realisms this life pushes before you.  It's harder, still though, to understand with very simple and plain clarity that more importantly what became lost was your drive and that ultimately, you allowed things outside of yourself pull you from the path you fought so hard to bare and make your own.

That I gave up, really, is what hurts.  And to see that someone succeeded where I failed cracks my heart a little.  I wonder how strong those women had to be in order to compose their bodies and hearts with such passion and stance.  I wonder how they overcame those obstacles, or if they merely stepped over them, or to the side of them.

And suddenly I am struck by something- a flicker of acknowledgement.  The women in this video are being taught.  This solitary dancer is not 15.  She is not in her twenties, and I would venture to guess that she is not in her thirties, dare I be so brazen to guess at a woman's age.  But she has built this gift she has with the time she's been given. 

And I succumb to the understanding that your chances are lost, in this life, only at death.  Thus, it never too late to refine ourselves in to the grace we seek.  In to the movements and style we wish to present to those before us.  Suddenly it is the movements of these women which make them so powerful and so lovely, in my eyes.  Yet, it is a power of quiet, somewhat stilled and hushed and obvious none the less...they are guided by feet familiar with the grace of this one dance.  Feet enclosed in shoes of practiced stance, atop a floor of sound structure.  And while the floor upon which they glide may be scratched, torched, muddied farrowed and bloodied, it still manages to shoulder their weight, their conscious movements and battered toes.

It is never too late...

...and one last time I watch the video- and this time I don't cry because I understand that while I am looking at a life I once so wished for myself, I also know that the clarity of this moment is honest.  I am starting at something I believe to be the pinnacle of beauty, an emotional reaction to something magical.  At least, in the chaos of this life, I have not forgotten what I believe is beauty and I am still fragile and and honest enough to be affected by it.  So, my heart still beats...and while I may never find that girl I used to be, at the very least, I am composed enough in mind to begin looking for her in familiar places, and perhaps find the space to become at least a small part of what I had hoped for myself.

Sam Beam ought to be damn proud of a song this pretty and for the inclusion of the sight as beautiful as these dancers.  

Tiny Miracles

Oh...America.  Home of the Brave.  Collecting (and then admonishing) the tired, the weak and the hungry.  It's a free country, though some might tend to argue otherwise.  So exists in this land of ours, shared and confined, opened and free and battered but gracious and all things in between some great contradictions.  But one thing holds true- the value of opinion and personal freedoms.  

Some may choose not to pay respects to the flag.  As an American, this is their right, and in my humble opinion is a contradiction in an of itself, rather amusing in nature, I'll admit.  Some support out placement in varied wars, others not.  Some support the soldiers and others do not...some of us, support not the wars but the soldier as a hero, none the less.  Most powerful a right, standing amidst the waves of grain, is the right to maintain dissension.  Against government policy, NATO actions, global policies, and...I could go on for days.  Dissent is a freedom which I maintain, honor and harbor with open mouth.  And I vote so that my opinion matters.  Some would disagree, but it's the action which justifies any dissension I might display.

And with all things I wish I could change about the goings on home and abroad, I am eternally grateful for the freedoms I maintain- like my education as a woman.  My empowerment as a woman.

And the freedom to blaze trails and run in the mornings, alone without the fear.  

Awake, this morning at 6:30, I ran, ran hard.  Ipod on, ear buds virtually sewn in to my eardrums, I ran.  The wonderment I felt at the beauty of my small town goes noticed when this running meditation of mine takes stride.  In an attempt to remove myself from the confines of comfort, I pushed myself this morning, praising the freedom to exist as I do, fearless in my safety.  It's a small token, I realize, but one that stands firm in me.

As the run comes to a close, I happen upon the front entry of my tiny house, realizing the run has exhausted me, and as I look at the plants rising high, and the birds chirping musically I am elated.  

Gathering cash, bag and phone, I walk then to the Saturday Farmer's Market.  The smell of basil is overwhelming and the sight of red berries, neatly packaged in tiny green mesh baskets makes me smile.  I wonder, then, at the possibilities of a basil- strawberry vinaigrette...and I smile again just because.  I am walking past piles of potatoes, stacks of orange carrots and bold, giant purple onions.  A flash of color catches my sight and I find that flowers are splashed about the entire market.  I am in love with this market...and the fact that it's only 7:40am, and I have already run, and collected my produce for the week.  

Walking home now from the market I pull out a juicy peach from my bounty and take a giant bite, sweetness dripping about my mouth, dripping down my fingers and finally down the line of my arm.  I'm walking home from the market, after a run, dreaming of the hot cup of coffee waiting for me in the kitchen.  I'm eating a peach, the fog is parting making way for blue skies and sun and I realize my life is wonderful and perfect just as it is.  How could it possibly be get better?

I suddenly recall the date and fear overwhelms me slightly...rent will be do in weeks time and I have lost my Rental Agreement, and suddenly recall that I am not sure to what address I am to send in my rent check.  I know that I have foolishly placed it in a purple binder, which holds a number of other such important documents.  I can't recall, however, where I have placed it and now my pulse races at the thought of losing something so silly and yet so important all the same.  

I also remember the crashing I heard on my porch, and realize I have forgotten the fear I felt from last night at the sounds of something crashing about my back patio.  It had been to dark to explore the nature of the sound, and I know that there is a snake, or a rat or a giant python waiting to suck the breath from my lungs...harboring itself in a giant swirl, waiting for the moment it can swallow me whole.  My mountain man will show up later this morning, only to find me half swallowed by a ginormous reptile.  Dead.  Maybe he will call the US Army to pull me from the depths of the pythons clutches.

And then I chuckle...finding my rental agreement shant be an issue if I am swallowed whole by a reptile.  One thing less to worry about, I suppose.

At home, I place my bounty upon the counter, taking in the colors and the recipes now swarming my head...

While over-stimulated and rather dreamy, considering the upcoming week's suppers, I know that I must face the creature, now living on my porch.

Opening the kitchen door, I am met by a tiny bird.  She flaps her wings, frantically searching for the way in...so that she might now find her way out.  She is hitting the screens, wrapping the porch, and my heart is sad for her, this caged thing who belongs out of doors.  She chirps and suddenly clutches a screen in front of me, her chest beating wildly- I can see her heaving, her black eyes, searching and panicked.  Opening the opening to the porch, from the exterior, I realize that I am now talking to her...out loud.  I am coaxing her to relax, focus and fly out of the door I have opened...aiding in her escape.  If this bird dies in front of me, I will not make it.  I panic, as she does, grabbing gloves, pondering how I can just wisk her up and send her off to freedom.  Her tiny beak stands pointed, as she chirps so lightly, so sweetly and desperately.  I am thinking it might be wise to throw a towel over her, as she clutches to any given screen so that I can help her...and suddenly, she is on the rafters of the ceiling, scattering, flying, and falling.  I am not about to watch this bird die- she must have caused the clanging, clashing and banging from last night. 

Afraid of a bird are you my subconscious says to me, mocking.  This is what kept me up all night...creating the imaginings of waking up to snakes.

I realize she has been in here all night and I wonder just how long her little heart has been fighting to escape this patio.

And I am talking to her again, telling her that I have opened the door for her, begging that she please make it out of here so I don't have to watch her die from exhaustion.  And she looks at me from the rafter above me, flies then, barely missing the door frame and is out.  She met her freedom, hours after a frantic attempt to free herself. 

I smile now again.  

A great morning already.  Run done.  Weekly shopping done.  Bird saved...and what is this I see?

A purple notebook lying right in front of me on a shelf.

I see the top of paper peaking out from the edge of the notebook, bound by a staple and wonder if this is what I need.

I tug at the edge of the packet and see my Rental Agreement.

I've met this morning with a few tiny miracles.  

It's a simple little life I live, but soon I will see my mountain man, and I am finally back in a place where I remember that life consists of tiny miracles.  

Mama Earth Made Saturday, Saturday, For A Reason

 Song of the moment: Big Hard Sun by Eddie Vedder

Not that anyone really cares how I spend my Saturday mornings, but this one, in particular, was pretty awesome, and it reminded me of a small appreciation for the small things in life (like notepads that operate on battery, so that I could write this, under current circumstances).

First, I awoke this morning to black.  It was 4:06am.  This is not unheard of.  I typically wake up each morning, somewhere between 4:00am and 4:12am, only to roll back over and head back to my dreamscapes.  I'm starting to wonder if perhaps life is preparing me for the 4am hour, somehow.  Pushing me wake naturally at that hour.  What's to come, life?  And why 4am?  You don't expect me to, like, get up and ready my daily regime at that time, in the future, do you?  Because...that would be the opposite of awesome.  This morning was no different.  I woke again, to sun the next time at 7:37am.  I fell asleep for the third time because it's Saturday.

I finally rose from bed, some short time after 8am.  Coffee, is numero uno, for me, each morning.  I am not really functional until mid second cup, really.  So, life is good.  I'm awake.  Sipping coffee and sprucing up my diggs.  I'd even swept, mopped, de-grossed, and sanitized my bathroom by 8:36am! I've got cleaning my tiny bathroom down to a science.  

I'm feeling good about getting things prepped before I head to the mountains to see my mountain man.

And then...the lights shut off.  The fans cease to spin.  The hum of the refrigerator comes to a jumbled halt and worse yet?  I no longer hear the sacred drip, drip, drip of my percolating coffee pot. Madness I tell you....not even 1 cup yet...

I'm wandering about the house wondering if I've paid my bill, when I realize, No...I've wisened up with my bills- they come out of my account....those fancy computers and tech things make life pretty simple.  So, no.  It's not that I've not paid it...it's the automatic PG&E shut off date.

Amidst   a small flood of relief, I hear beauty filling my tiny house.  It's overwhelming and it's total calm.

It's dead quiet in my house.

No drips, no hums, no jangles and jingles.  

Nothing.

It's silent.

And then, I remember the beauty in silence.  So quiet.  So humbling to remember that life moves forward without the drum of electronics and cares not about the timing of things.

So, the bathroom is clean and I decide to hang out, for a bit with these guys.

I realize that one tiny Sweet Cheery Pepper has made an appearance from the petals of a late flower.

And then there's this one.  This one is a Spicy Thai Pepper....is it supposed to look like...eeee (sorry Mom and Dad for the mild inappropriateness.  I want to write things you can be proud of, but you have to admit, it's sorta funny).

And here's the small gang.  A pathetic attempt, perhaps, at honing my gardening skills, but alas, there they are!!

And while outside, I remember where I live and the beauty that surrounds me.  When life is quiet, I spend my time staring at this small town, with total awe.

For example, a few weekends ago, I spent some time here:

My camera phone doesn't do this spot justice.  Suffice it to say, this took my breath from me a few times.

I live right beside this!!!

That same day, a new friend and I drove out to drop off and pick up these nuts who decided it would be fun to ride a class 3-4 river filled with snow melt:

So, my new friend and I drop off the boys and head out 5 miles up a dirt road, filled with visions of enormous expanses of wild earth and trees.  We talk about families, men and what makes us happy in life.  We come around a bend in the road and who do we see?

It was Paddington Bear!  A bear cub, walked across the path right in front of us and he just, sort of, hung out.

And, again, Ii am reminded of this place I call home and what it was that drew me here in the first place.  Some pretty staggering beauty lives here, right in front of me.  And when I am calm, quiet and still, I see more than the trees in front of me.

I love this place, and funny as it may be, I am thankful for a quiet and still Saturday morning, which allows me the space to pay attention, again, to the small things around me and an appreciation for life without the hum of a refrigerator.  

Happy Saturday!