so long, farewell

good riddance May; month that brought death and weight gain to my doorstep.

 

and speaking of doorsteps, here are a couple of very cool ones which I walked past today.

difficult to fathom that a year ago today, I began driving westwards for this current adventure.

benefactions

songs without lyrics

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
Linda Pastan

I always knew I loved the sky,
the way it seems solid and insubstantial at the same time;
the way it disappears above us
even as we pursue it in a climbing plane,
like wishes or answers to certain questions—always out of reach;
the way it embodies blue,
even when it is gray.

But I didn't know I loved the clouds,
those shaggy eyebrows glowering
over the face of the sun.
Perhaps I only love the strange shapes clouds can take,
as if they are sketches by an artist
who keeps changing her mind.
Perhaps I love their deceptive softness,
like a bosom I'd like to rest my head against
but never can.

And I know I love the grass, even as I am cutting it as short
as the hair on my grandson's newly barbered head.
I love the way the smell of grass can fill my nostrils
with intimations of youth and lust;
the way it stains my handkerchief with meanings
that never wash out.

Sometimes I love the rain, staccato on the roof,
and always the snow when I am inside looking out
at the blurring around the edges of parked cars
and trees. And I love trees,
in winter when their austere shapes
are like the cutout silhouettes artists sell at fairs
and in May when their branches
are fuzzy with growth, the leaves poking out
like new green horns on a young deer.

But how about the sound of trains,
those drawn-out whistles of longing in the night,
like coyotes made of steam and steel, no color at all,
reminding me of prisoners on chain gangs I've only seen
in movies, defeated men hammering spikes into rails,
the burly guards watching over them?

Those whistles give loneliness and departure a voice.
It is the kind of loneliness I can take in my arms, tasting
of tears that comfort even as they burn, dampening the pillows
and all the feathers of all the geese who were plucked to fill
them.

Perhaps I embrace the music of departure—song without lyrics,
so I can learn to love it, though I don't love it now.
For at the end of the story, when sky and clouds and grass,
and even you my love of so many years,
have almost disappeared,
it will be all there is left to love.

The Rusty Chords

is the name of my retired men's group and this is the plant with which they presented me today.

um-hm, healthy living

My second bottle of this experiment,  can't say that I believe the hype on the label that states this is a delicious pick-me-up.  I haven't dropped 30 lbs, but notice that my skin is clearer, so will try one more bottle of it.

Conservatory Ramble

orchid room

interesting project--a lyre that plays on random vibrations

fern pool

gorgeous blooming cacti

fuchsias in full bloom in the NW Room

finally climbed the water tower--best stair master ever!

nice benches at the top; unfortunately, all the windows are covered with wire, so one can't get a good shot of the views.

penny and produce

p.f.

Up and Down
by Beverly Rollwagen

I don't know anything
for sure unless I look it up,
but sometimes I can figure
things out if I write them
down. So it's up and down
all day long. It's a good life.
Better than back and forth
or in and out which I find
constraining. I have up
and down in balance and
with my mother's death
have discovered the true
meaning of before and after.

forget health, let's go back to poetry

Go now into summer, into the backs of cars,
into the black maws of your own changing,
onto the boardwalks of a thousand splinters,
onto the beaches of a hundred fond memories
in wait, where the sea in all its indefatigability
stammers at the invitation. Go to your vacation,

to the late morning cool of your basement rooms,
the honeysuckle evening of the first kiss, the first
dip and pivot, swivel and twist. Go to where
the clipper ships sail far upriver, where the salmon
swim in the clean, cool pools just to spawn.
Wake to what the spider unspools into a silver

dawn dripping with light. Sleep in sleeping bags,
sleep in sand, sleep at someone else's house
in a land you've never been, where the dreamers
dream in a language you only half understand.
Slip beneath the sheets, slide toward the plate,
swing beneath the bandstand where the secret

things await. Be glad, or be sad if you want,
but be, and be a part of all that marches past
like a parade, and wade through it or swim in it
or dive in it with your eyes open and your mind
open to wind, rain, long days of sun and longer
nights of city lights mixing on wet streets like paint.

"First Year Teacher to His Students" by Gary J. Whitehead, from Measuring Cubits While the Thunder Claps. © David Robert Brooks, 2008.

quirkiness

Looking forward to the day when computers come with scent--it was a warm and humid walk to the library but it was lovely to smell the lavender and rosemary along the sidewalk.

At what age do we stop counting the .5?  I am forty-and-a-half today.  I distinctly remember when that was a HUGE deal.  "I'm eight-and-a-half."

And speaking of age and such, I've had this thing that I do with digital clocks; every time I see my birth date (11:19), I make a wish.  I've been doing this for as long as I can remember.  Don't know where I got the idea and I've never told anyone that I do this.  In a random conversation this weekend, found out that my sister does this as well.  And now all the cousins who were standing around will be doing the same.  Or at least thinking of their insane relatives as they look at a digital time.

un-captioned

Harvested my first pea this morning.

Ladybug in thyme.

Today's miracle was finding change in the HALLWAY of my building.  And while these chocolate (and yes, it must be admitted, some Fluff)-dipped strawberries are not elegant in appearance, they make up for in taste.

in the midst of life

we are in death" is part of the litany from the Common Book of Prayer and this phrase has been floating in my head this week.   The absolute gorgeousness of a sunny Seattle has added a layer of surrealness to funeral planning, but there are pockets of joy.  Found these crystal dishes along the road yesterday and have decadent chocolate plans for them.

Am happy to be living in a city where a mere cup of coffee is an art form.

The happy burble of babies eases grief instantly.

And there are still stunning sunsets on eternal mountains.

Cafe Flora

 This delightful cafe is in my neighborhood and I've been dying to eat here since I moved in.  Celebrating a good friend's visit with brunch.  And it's fully funded by my change-picking-up-habit.  Makes it worth every weird look I get when I swoop into the curb to grab some change.

Uncle Jerry

 (The men's sand castle building at Point No Point, Summer 2009)

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Enacted upon Earth

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity

Emily Dickinson

A more polished tribute will come in a few days, but my aunt Helen said that this poem was running through her head all night.  My uncle Jerry died yesterday morning and we're all reeling at the moment at the loss of this zany and loving presence.

maya stein

 muscle

It was time - I could tell. All these months of vigilance and caution,

and I'd let my body go too soft. And while I saw the reward

of this new permeability - the way my heart stirred at the slightest pain

it witnessed - something in me needed a steel-eyed gaze forward,

traction, focus, and launch. So I began the only way I knew,

hauled myself to the sporting goods store for a set

of free weights, then drove home, posed before the mirror, and drew

my fists in until my biceps hardened, each muscle resolute.

I know it’s just the beginning, that there are deeper risks to take.

But for now, today, it’s good to feel a different kind of ache.

image issues

fascinating movie from the library which focuses on a friendship between an anorexic and an overweight woman and their discussions on weight and life.

conglomeration of health

Healthy and happy toddler on Mother's Day.

Crisp peas from Pike's.

Okay.  I defend this premiere jar of fluff to enter my household under the genre of mental health.  The author of my new favorite cookbook (my b-day dessert book) gushes about this stuff and I've never actually tried it.  Was at CostPlus, buying my spices, when I walked by the display.  I love the old-fashioned label and it is rather tasty.   Shall try a dollop in tomorrow's coffee.  The urban hike yielded four pennies as well as a card with $.18.

And I finally found a metal water bottle that fit my economic and aesthetic requirements.  Now I can safely have water with me at all times.

a break in our regularly s'heduled programming

No food entry today--these trees were put in for Earth Sunday and everyone has fallen in love with them, so they're still on loan.  And I remembered to take a photo in between service.  !

And to my delight, one of my sopranos brought this children's book for me today.  She had remembered that I mentioned when I took the Wagner Seminar that my group had presented this opera.    And she's heard me mention my young cousins in the region and thought it would be an ideal gift.

sunshine on my spinnnnnnach makes me happy

Scrumptious saute of garlic and fresh thyme and oregano from my garden--tossed with 'shrooms and spinach and feta from Pike's, served with sourdough toast.  

Love Poem with Toast

Some of what we do, we do

to make things happen,

the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,

the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do

trying to keep something from doing something,

the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,

the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery

powering our passage through the days,

we move, as we call it, forward,

wanting to be wanted,

wanting not to lose the rain forest,

wanting the water to boil,

wanting to not have cancer,

wanting to get home by dark,

wanting not to run out of gas,

as each of us wants the other

watching at the end,

as both want not to leave the other alone,

as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,

we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

we learn to hope through pain.

Miller Williams