24 July, 2014. (Journal)

Some of you are dancing to stay focused on a single candle flame of thought.

Some of you are wrestling with obligation and responsibility, and choosing indecision as the companion who leads.

Some of you are up late pretending you’re not tired or that, soon, sleep will come and the sofa will be ‘just as good’ as the bed, where you would otherwise be sleeping alone.

Some of you are not alone but with family or friends, celebrating something elated and sweet – or simply held captive by banal late evening news.

Some of you are paying bills or mending socks or finishing the dishes or folding laundry, watering the dog, wishing there were fresh sheets on the bed, sweeping the spiders outdoors (or into a square of tissue into the toilet).

Beside an oscillating fan or bathed in dry, cool air conditioned bliss.

All of us are seeking.

Sleep, a partner, a missing piece, a cure, a level of satisfaction, an answer, a reply, a touch, a word, a recipe, a bit of enjoyable nothing, a meal, a grace, an overwhelming need to just give in and stop (or go), a growing list, a shrinking waistline, a good laugh, a bad joke, a moment of pure joy, a titillation, a note, a diminished sense of responsibility, a mentor, a guide, a map, a tool or the ability to leap a barrier – just once.

All these are ingredients, life-affirming, no matter how annoying or pleasant.

All of the scenes in all of our different windows are breathing and living and contributing to this July summer night. You contribute to mine, and I to yours, however miniscule and unbidden. I hope it is good for you; it is perfectly out of sync and lopsided here, for me – and that is really just fine.



Might take a while but I think we all recognize the “good” in “goodbye”.  Maybe not simultaneously or even assign it the same weight or meaning.

Weightlessness is fine for wandering or aimlessly bobbing around, here and there.  But there came a desire to be grounded, certain, and that never happened.  It is then we choose, again, direction and propulsion.  

We do this, change course, many times in life — whether by choice or organically.
I am so blessed to be loved and valued, and that is all I know, right this minute.  Right, this life.

September 20. 

’tis a gift, this life.

How the heck did I get so lucky to
-be here (one smart mother).
-know what I know (open, curious, insatiable mind).

-shepherd my child (excellent karma).

-be loved by a handful of stellar souls (and I mean honestly Loved — in that 4 AM, unconditional, whatever-you-need, take-you-as-you-are way we Love people).

-and be lucky enough to have people to Love, and like, in return.

Don’t know how it happened, but I am so very lucky…and I would not change a thing or lodge a complaint with the manager or send back scrambled eggs when I asked for over-easy.  Everything is a gift.  Including you.


August 9, 2013. (Journal)

If Saturday is the last day of any week, then Sunday is the start.
That said, this has been (is still) a rather nice week, in all the weeks of this year.
A little travel, a little cooking, a little exploration (some unintentional, some very intended). One plot came to a close while ideas spring forth from those embers into potential for next year and beyond. Other ideas on different subjects begin to form and shape – it is amazing what a little shared time and conversation will produce.
My child, (a junior already?!) gathers steam to begin one of her favorite summer-into-October activities  Monday; returning as a Section Co-Leader; she could not be more proud or enthusiastic. It is uplifting to watch your children invest themselves, then reap the rewards of something so meaningful as music – or writing or science or medical training or law or chess or math or dance – regardless of “the thing”, their joy and expansion far outweigh all the driving and odd-hour dinners and late nights of homework. Happy kid = happy parent.
As for us, tomorrow, ‘good morning’ turns into ‘see you soon’, and we part for an unknown time; rails bending in two directions. One to the land, one to the water (in poetic essences. In reality one will rest while the other drives home.) Not that I’m counting but there are only three months and 18 days until Thanksgiving. (110 days for you pencil-sharpeners.) By then, the fruits will be harvested and the menu plannedI .  be happily ensconced in my new job (pending), and tucked-in with storm windows and blankets versus summer screens and single cotton sheets.
Happy Week End, and Happy Week Beginning.

On Belief, Trust & The Universe. [2014 journal entry]

In 2001, My very good friend taught me to “ask the Universe for what you want. Be specific, and ask that whatever it is, it is the best one for *you.*”  So, I did as I stepped out the door of The Institution* into a new chapter.  The crumbling Mercedes I’d been driving was barely good for parts; the garage offered $450 to put it out of it’s misery but I could not be without wheels.  So, I quietly asked the Universe for a car.  One that would be perfect for us – a single working mother and her even busier child.  12 years later we are on our second PT Cruiser (the first a lemon but no fault of my asking).  It has been the perfect car for us.

In 13 years my asks have been few.  I fear emptying the well with my requests so I have kept the asks to a bare minimum.  Someone’s health, another’s healing, mending of a broken heart, money for oil/gas/food/a school activity, etc.  Most of my asks have all been answered. I see this now this morning, my hair wrapped in an old towel covering muddy henna hair, the cat asleep on the table beside my typing, she’s napping on a ukulele case, the byproduct of another small, quiet ask – albeit a longstanding one.

A couple years ago I silently asked for a new guitar (or ukulele).  The 30+ year old guitar from high school days had finally given up and breathed more mold than music.  We sold it at the estate sale last month, and the household uke we had popped the bridge nearly taking out an eye.  It was irreparable and we tossed it in the dustbin.  Yesterday, a new friend, who makes and repairs guitars and other fine strummery, offered to sell me a barely used ukulele from his stash.  Our conversation was quick, efficient, and most of all unforeseen.  We exchanged tokens and I returned home last night, Martin uke in hand.  I stayed up late teaching myself what I used to know, and feeling grateful for how everything eventually falls into place.

Journal entry, 17 April, 2014.


*of marriage

Wrestles Still. (NaPoWriMo 2017)

The dairy farmer is out with his gun. 

 Three shots fired.  Almost too quick for a rifle.  Handgun, maybe?

In the dark, three short explosive pops briefly echo through the hills.  I breathe quiet, waiting.  I imagine the spring calves scattering nervous wobbly-legged, and nightblind.

Two minutes, three, five 

no moo nor coyote howls.

Yard dog, central air compressor.


Pre-Launch. (Journal entry. 8 April 2015)

Him: “Looove your wild, plaid poncho!”

He is shepherding his two wiggly small people into their way-too-big mini-van; one of whom, the smaller, has dashed out behind the car between our cars–the driver trying to back out of her space, thankfully aware of the dasher, who has been dragged back by his father to the van. The other small, a girl, about six, is not misbehaving, and seems to know how not to be naughty. She climbs in and buckles herself, competent and quick.

“Thank you!” I reply, waving a hand, sweeping behind the steering wheel as my two teens (mine and her guest) ready to nap on the rainy drive home. They are fed. Now they sleep. Big babies without the car seats.

The dasher is suddenly flinging about the lot in the light rain. His father lurches to haul him back.

“HORACE!!!” And the father — slim, 30s, brown collegiately-messy slightly professorial hair with side part, in jeans and European looking jacket, latches onto the boy’s arm. There is much squirming and squealing, reminding me of how our dog (also three-ish but with two less legs) thinks ‘come inside’ is an invitation to run away and leap all over the backyard. Father clicks the imp into his cushiony perch-with-belt and begins a light but dictatorial lecture.

“Now, Horace? …Holiday…?” This is when my teens quietly chime in about the significance of names and what possesses people to identify others so uniquely. I roll up my window and head west. One likes “Horace”, one likes “Holiday”. We think of other “H” names that would be rare and less-than-playground-common.

Our favorites were “Helium”, “Happenstance”, “Hummingbird”, “Hatch”, “Herse”, and “Halitosis”.

Horace and Holiday, finally tamed.