Catching up on Project 365: March 7, pt. 2

O, Tormenta, we dream of you night and day.


You say you will feed us, but you have broken your promises before.
Por favor, do not tease us, for we are hungry.


You draw us like bees to honey.


We have cash! We will tip you! Do not turn us away.


Is it true? You will receive us? Can this be the moment we have waited for?


Gracias. Gracias. At last we are filled.

Catching up on Project 365: March 7, pt. 1

Ladies, you put the fine in fine dining.

(Standers: i i eee, Azucar, Suedonym, Nitz Would, B., Compulsive Writer, Tiffany UnTwisted, Geo;
Kneeler, sitters, and leaner: ~j., Sister Pottymouth and her edible offspring, Gerb, Lucky Red Hen, Lorien, and pflower10 holding Tiffany's scrumptious little man)

Sometimes dinner has to wait

so the lamb's not rare,
till the asparagus and the penne pasta are al dente,
for the wounds to be cleaned and bandaged
and the friend to stop crying.

Getting the equinoctial point

Happy first day of spring!

Did you know? The word equinox comes from Old French equinoxe (I wish we hadn't lost the e; I think the word's much more charming with it) or Latin aequinoctium, meaning "equal" + "night." Tonight at 11:47 p.m. the sun will reach the celestial equator. I wish I could be standing on that very point just before midnight and feeling the sun kiss my cheek as it crosses. This day represents like no other the longing I feel for light to tip the balance and overpower the darkness. Just think. There will be a mere moment of equilibrium tonight; the opposing sides, for people in both hemispheres, will be matched in strength, and then, for those of us living in the north, the light will take charge. The sun will treat us to a linger-longer each day till summer's through. I find it so heartening. Autumn's equinox is beautiful too in its way, but the older I get the more I understand that more light is my fondest pursuit.

True to form, this day's been one of opposing forces, but I'm not complaining. Without some darkness to deal with, I'd take the sunshine for granted.

How are you welcoming back the sun today? Have you been successful at balancing your dark with light? Here's how I've managed so far:

Dark: I went in for my monthly voodoo doll therapy.


(This is not me. And this is not where my needles were poked. But I'm pretty sure I made this face.)

Light: A little voice whispered to me that the quiet young man playing computer games while waiting next to me in the doctor's office (we both showed up at 11:00 and waited till 12:30) really wished I would talk to him. I did and he completely lit up. I don't know why, but I tuned in to that kid immediately, almost like somebody had slipped me his personal file before we visited. It was a strange and sweet experience. I wonder, Was that important?

Dark: I added another mysterious dermatological oddity to my healthcare resumé today: Periorificial Dermatitis.



Light: It's not a skin cancer!

Dark: I was still too sick to do serious garden planning and seed shopping like I'd hoped today.

Light: I found two pretty springtimey perennials for cheap, one for outside—



and one for inside—



Dark: I came home worn out and achy.

Light: Rob picked out a sweet song to play for me, and suddenly I felt like dancing.

Here speaks the Comforter

If you've been inside my house at any point in the past few months you'll know that my old upright piano's been in a rather unlikely place: the kitchen. It was first pushed into there to protect it and to clear workspace during a home remodel, one which was unfortunately put on hold partway through. I can count on two hands, possibly even one, the times I've sat down and played since then. It's waited there, lonely, patient, and awkward, and done its brave best to blend inconspicuously with the old yuck-colored walls. I've managed not to use my piano as a butcher block while it's been kitchen-bound, but it has held a few grocery sacks now and then, poor thing. I don't know how many of my friends and family members by now have chuckled at its undignified placement. Do pianos have feelings?

Rob did some touch-up painting for me in the living room last week, and today I took care of the few remaining obstacles to moving the piano back to where it belonged. We carefully pushed and pulled that megaton of music and put it against a whole new wall, the widest uninterrupted one we have. My piano looks so much happier now. I think its self-esteem is already returning. And it appears to hold no hard feelings.



While I worked on last bits of preparatory cleanup I listened to the News from Lake Wobegon podcast, caught up on some shows. I heard some terrific Gospel singers perform a song that I hadn't heard in a long time. My heart jumped when I realized what I was hearing because it's a song with great personal significance for me; it was an unexpected healing balm that came to me during a very difficult time of my life, years ago. And it was something I needed very badly to hear and feel again today. The timing, just like when I first heard this song, was surprising, and couldn't have been better. It found me then and today as an answer to prayer. Rough, raw prayer that probably wouldn't sound like prayer to anyone but God.

Would you like to listen to my song? If you don't already have the Adobe Flash Player on your computer you can download it for free. Then visit this link and wait through the intro stuff. The song begins just before 92:00. It gets broken up by Garrison Keillor's monologue, but stick with it till the end (and click the play button if it tries to stop before the end). It's an absolutely gorgeous version of a hymn that some of you will find familiar. I grew up loving this kind of music thanks to my mother and my southern roots.

I listened to it over and over.

After Rob came in to help with the piano-moving and we got it carefully rolled and placed just so, he went back out to the studio and I was alone with my piano. I pulled out a hymnal, sat down in front of the keyboard, and played my own very rusty version of "Come, Ye Disconsolate." Second time through I sang—if you can call it that—with my horrible Hollywood smoker-style sick voice. I made music that probably wouldn't sound like music to anyone but God.

But I knew he was listening.

It only looks like grandma candy

I spent half the flippin' day following a recipe I thought would be easy enough for a sickie to put together. Apparently I didn't read the recipe carefully enough to make that call because I ended up using three large pots, one cast-iron pan, three big bowls, two kitchen appliances, knives, cutting board, spoons, forks, and measures, everything but the toaster, just to create a soup that was three and a half hours late for lunch and made me yawn when we finally got to eat it. Now the kitchen's a wreck and I don't want to know. I can hear my grandmother clucking her tongue at me for "messing up every dish in the house." I should have stayed in bed today and watched Jane Eyre.

We could have lived on these instead.



Are you thinking what I thought when Rob first showed them to me? That's grandma candy! Well, my friend, don't be fooled. This is lovely stuff. Addictive. And I can actually taste it, which is more than I can say for anything else I've eaten today. Thin dark chocolate wrapped in a delicate peppermint. Mmmmmmmm.

They came from Mary who, after spending a little too much quality time with an undisclosed amount of them, gave them to Paul, saying, "Get these away from me." Paul was eager to oblige her but soon realized he was also going overboard. He drove them down from Salt Lake and passed them to Rob, who liked them very much but likes me more, and proved it by bringing some in for me after The Big Soup Disappointment. I was so relieved to discover it wasn't hard, stale, filling-yanking Christmas candy from somebody's grandma. That would have been too much.

Catching up on Project 365: March 6

We live on a relatively quiet street, nobody's regular route except for the houseful of little boys around the corner; they keep the pavement hot with all manner of self-propelled wheeled contraptions. Other than that? Mainly neighbors driving to and from work.

This morning while Rob and I were eating breakfast, something unexpected drove past our house. "Look! A bus!" Rob said with surprise. I looked out the window in time to see its back end heading west. Hmph. That's odd. What's a tour bus doing on our street?

We went back to our breakfast, but a few minutes later, the bus drove past our house again. We both jumped up for a better look at it. Gray Lines of Seattle. "Maybe John S. is here for a visit," Rob laughed. I wish. (John? Are you reading this?)

We let our food get cold. Is the bus coming back? We watched out the east window and in a few minutes, here it came again. "Maybe it's a sign," I said. "Maybe we should run outside and stick out our thumbs." As yearning thoughts for the Pacific NW hung in the air, the bus stopped, right in front of our house. "They're waiting for us!" I exclaimed.

We stared as the driver got out of his seat and began to back down the steps, but he didn't open the door. He perched and waited as another person took his place behind the wheel, then the first driver stepped up into the bus again, and off they went toward the west.

"Do you think they're coming back?"

Breakfast was pretty much over by then. We were too enthralled to finish eating. I finally thought to grab my camera, but wasn't dressed for outside yet, so all I could do was stand somewhat scandalously on my glassed-in front porch and shoot a few quick shots through the window and leaning out the storm door as our bus drove past for a fourth time.

Hoping for better shots, I dashed in and pulled on some workout pants and a fleece and ran outside, Nikon poised. The bus never came back. The visitation from Seattle was over.

What does it mean?

I guess it means we are very easily entertained, and we both want to spend time again in Washington and Oregon . . . or anywhere.

And it means, John S., that you really should get off the bus next time and be our guest for a while.

This household needs some excitement.



For those of you who might be wondering if we went back to feast on Torment after our first failed attempt, I can assure you that yes, yes, we did.

Rob and I had a reunion to go to in the evening, but no dinner was going to be provided, so we left home with what we thought was just enough time to get in and out of Torment before joining our old neighborhood friends. As we neared the taqueria, I asked Rob, "Hey, what if they aren't open . . . again?" We laughed about it, and joked about how that really would be a great torment, to put the word out over and over that a restaurant was opening, and then never let anyone in. Ha ha. So we pulled up to the front door, where two guys were working—one upgrading the old sign with bright bright yellow paint, and the other, the fellow we met on March Forth, still fussing with the front door. They turned around to look at us, each grinning with more glowing teeth than the Cheshire Cat, and said in unison, "To-morrow." We drove away hungry, and laughing at how this place was really living up to its name. Then I had Rob circle around so I could snap a shot.

Oh, yes, hermanos, we'll be back. You can torture us all you want. You can't keep a coupla good gringos down.

Life is sweet

For the first time in a few sick days I got myself through the shower, into real clothes and shoes, and stepped out my front door to see the world. It was much greener than the last time I inspected it. More flowers are blooming. Spring kissed me on the cheek and told me to be patient with the healing process, everything is going to be fine.



And it's true. I know because this morning I awoke to welcome news from my friend who started chemotherapy last week. He's losing his hair (including the most enthusiastic and expressive eyebrow hedges growing on anybody's face anywhere on earth) and his energy is kaput, but his pain, which was excruciating less than two weeks ago, is under control, and it's likely he's going to come out of this battle victorious in several months. Add that to wonderful report another piece of prayed-for news this week, that my beloved cousin, whom I've been terribly anxious about, survived the cancer surgery people were worried he wouldn't, and is doing better than anyone expected. We get to keep him, for at least a few more years.

Spring apparently has a few tricks up her sleeve. I'm wondering whom she'll straighten out next. There are a few other dear ones on my list, but I trust she'll remember them too and spread around enough of her bee-buzz bulb-sprout love to mend all their hurting places. This feels very much like a season of returning life and thriving energy. We can be done with dying for a while.

"Life is sweet." That's the voice of Spring talking.

This one's for my nephew Sam, who doesn't get it

Maybe this video will help clear up your confusion about John Cage and his music. He's a different sort of guy, alright. But then again, I happen to know a family who also enjoys playing and experimenting with sound (and most everything else related to the senses) and that's the wonderful family which connects you and me.

Maybe after the video, you'll want to take a look at this link and consider making a banging wall and having your own John Cage-style concerts in your backyard. I'm thinking of asking Ahma and Grandfather if I can set one up maybe out by the barn. You ought to see the first fantastic "instrument" I've collected for it!

Caged

Sickness gets monotonous. Even after a rough night of unsleep, I got out of bed determined to will myself well and do something. You know how it is? Who cares that my coughs are turning me inside out, I have a choice, right? I washed my face, brushed my teeth, cracked an optimistic if germy smile at that really strange-looking woman in the mirror, and . . .

I made granola.



Isn't that the first thing you think about doing when you've been down for a few days? Me neither, but Rob and I did need something to eat for breakfast (okay, brunch) (okay, okay, lunch), and for some reason, I thought granola would be a cinch.

And it was till I was about halfway through the stirring part and realized my energy was gone, baby, gone. So much for the rest of the day. But the granola turned out nicely, even so. Need the recipe?

I spent the rest of the day glued to the couch reading, resting, and watching John Cage videos on YouTube. They were a perfect distraction today. When Rob brought me home a box of Kleenex with Lotion, I was almost in heaven. You tend to lower the bar when you're bronchially-challenged.

I got a call from a friend and I actually answered it. I watched a home movie of my New Yorkers ice skating to a Sigur Ros soundtrack. I received a care package containing a letter and a beautiful hummingbird egg cradled in rose petals from my favorite Hawaiian. My sweet mum-in-law showed up and dabbed my wrists with some mysterious and good-smelling healing potions provided by a mutual friend, and then gave me a bowl of cooked onions which elderly Minnie Somebody-or-other swears should be applied to a congested chest. (I ate them.) I had Family Home Evening with Rob, ate grapefruit and the rest of my onion poultice, and watched a Stargate movie. Not a bad day for being down and out. Not bad at all.

But let's get back to John Cage for a moment. Do you like him? Do you get him? I found I gained a new level of appreciation for him today as I read about his life, and watched some online performances and interviews. What really pleased me was his controversial composition 4'33". I especially loved watching the BBC Symphony Orchestra perform it in a tribute concert.

If you've got time, you might enjoy at least one or two of these videos. I'll start with the most likely to float boats, and you can say when as you need to.

Sneeze, sniffle, soothe, repeat

This is the last photo installment of my March '09 Sick Day Chronicles. Not that I think you aren't completely fascinated by my bedrestings and tuberculine hackings and offensive nose blowings, and not that I think I am actually going to be over this gack by tomorrow. Nope, I'm just going to force myself to shoot something else besides my puffy-eyed, wheezing self to satisfy my Project 365 goal. Can you blame me though? It's just so easy to let the computer snap a picture when I'm lying around like a lump, dull-headed, staring at it. Kind of silly though that my self-portraits so far are the covered in germs type. Sorry. And on a Sunday too.

Here's the last of my snot shots, and if you'd like, you can join in on the action. Everybody now—ah, ah, ah, WHA-CHOO!!!

Cabin feverish

Rob took pity on me Saturday. "You must be tired of being in this house, sick," he said. "Let's go to the lake so you can get out and at least see something."

It was a gorgeous day. It wasn't possible to say no, even feeling so crummy, so we went. Rob drove out along the bumpy the airport road and parked me in the sun, then he and the dog went for a walk around the lake. Getting out the front door used up my little store of energy, so even though I wanted to go with them I stayed in the car with the windows rolled down and did this:




and looked at this:



(Some shot, huh? I pointed my laptop out the window to get it. Who needs focus or framing?)

I could have soaked all the sunshine clean out of the sky and been very, very happy.

Sick day action shots

Rats! I was down for the count on what is typically one of my best days. But I wouldn't say my Friday the 13th was a total bust. I mean I did get to catch up a little on three of my favorite things:


SLEEP


STARGATE


and SEGULLAH.

Better luck next time, eh? (That would be in November.)

This one's for Sarah, who needs to be dancing

I believe in you. Don't let anything stop you from getting out there and moving. None of us is complete. We mustn't let that stop us from making as much beauty as we can with what we've been given. I love you. I will be there for your first performance, wherever it is.

Dogs dig Ikea

Izzy goes through pillows fast. I stopped spending money on good dog beds years ago and started supplying him with thrift store cushions so it wouldn't matter as much how quickly he gutted them. He's a fastidious bed-maker. A canine Martha Stewart. When we all turn in at night I can hear Izzy upstairs, digging furiously at his nest of the week, trying to get it just so. And it's never just so until the fluffy stuffing's out of the center and spread everywhere. I won't say I've made my peace with this habit, but I've stopped trying to dissuade him; it does no good. A few weeks ago he shredded a particularly nicely-woven red heavy cotton pillow, and in the process managed to whuffle up an intestine full of the fibers (dare to ask me how I know?) and it, erm, caused some rather worrisome sickness for a number of days. The trouble went on so long I was actually afraid he wasn't going to survive his latest round of home decorating.

Thankfully, he pulled through. Hoping to put an end to his problematic pillow-picking, I resolved to get my pooch a mat instead. This might seem like an obvious choice, but Izzy's a senior citizen, and sometimes has aches and pains like any other old guy, and so I've resisted offering him a bed with no, you know, comforting buffer between his bones and the hard floor. So, when Rob and I made a trip to Ikea last week, I found the perfect solution: a comfy rug, just the right size for a little dog. Perfect!

He likes it. But he hasn't stopped digging. The very first night I gave it to him, he expressed great delight, but as soon as Rob and I closed up the house and went downstairs to sleep I could hear Izzy's feet working like a souped-up rototiller on his pretty new red Ringum. Now every morning when I get up, I have to wade through wandering red fuzzballs on the stairs and all over the back room. They're like tumbleweeds. I find them in the kitchen, in the living room, on the front porch, on our socks. They fill up my Dyson repeatedly. But it's not just about the fuzzballs; there's also a pernicious red dust finely sifted over everything. I don't want to take a deep breath in the mornings until I've vacuumed, and that includes the dog—one of us holds him while the other uses the carpet attachment on his butt. Then he has to be brushed. Still, he's stained his socks red and the only way his hiney is ever going to look clean again is if I take him to a groomer, have him shaved naked, then swap out his red Ringum for a white one.

They say the camera doesn't lie? Mine does, because these pictures don't even scratch the dusty red surface of this situation.

But he's cute, huh?

I brake for torment

We did it. We went to La Tormenta for our celebratory March Forth supper. I forgot to pick up a roll of Tums, but since we hoofed it to the restaurant, I figured we could walk around downtown all evening, if need be, to help the digestive process along. I was in the mood for a ramble anyway.

As we approached the building, I'll admit, my heart beat just a little bit faster, anticipating the danger and romance we were about to embrace in joining our Spanish-speaking neighbors for the grande opening. I snapped some photos to document the moment. Rob and I took a deep breath, gathered up our gringo-ness, and rounded the corner to the main entrance. It was closed. ¡¿Qué pasó?! There was a short Latino man standing at the front door, chipping away at loose paint. "We will open Friday," he informed us. ¡Ay, caramba!

Apparently the Universe didn't want us partaking of torment on March Forth. I suppose there's wisdom in that.

So we walked all over downtown. Should we eat here? Should we eat there? Should we go home and eat? Nah, there's nothing good in the fridge. I requested a quick detour across the street as we neared the local beauty supply, for nail polish, the good stuff (OPI). I'm so very glad that, hungry as we were, we didn't stay perfectly on task, because if we had, we'd have missed seeing this:



What's that? Can't quite make it out? Okay, maybe a closer view will help:



Do you see now? It's been very windy for a couple days, and the west desert's been all churned up in the atmosphere, making everything in the area hazy with dust. Some poor bird, a very dirty bird, made a committed face plant in the window of this vacant storefront. I know it shouldn't be funny, but . . . if you could just see it in person, you'd understand! I mean, practically every feather is imprinted. I can almost see the bird's facial expression from the outline he left. Ha! I couldn't help myself; I laughed all night about it. Poor bird. Now there's someone who marched forth resolutely, headlong into torment. That could have been us. Maybe I'm glad after all that our newest local eatery put us off so we could make a better choice: Los Hermanos' chile rellenos required no Tums intervention and fueled our forward march safely, if not spicily.

My only real complaint there was that the waiter kept touching me. He did not get a better tip for his effort.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Other tidbits from March Forth (this is for you, Irina):
• I received love letters! (Way to reinforce my letter-writing experiment, friends. This week's sweet windfall is doing nothing but reconvert me to the beauties of handwritten correspondence. Maybe I'm going to jump on the Change Wagon.)
• I listened again to a remarkably beautiful address given by one of my favorite people, and it really set the stage for the rest of my day, and the year.
• I did some indexing, to help with the effort to make US Census and other records available to the public for genealogical research—Irish and French farming families this time.
• I decided to break down and do a little shopping, and stop waiting till I'm my most comfortable size again to be dressed in something other than my raggedy jeans. (My closet situation has grown downright pathetic while I've been waiting for magic alterations to happen.) Managed to find pants on sale that should tide me over till I can make some more things or get lucky thrifting.
• I bought the most gorgeous brown eggs from Nephi chickens from Good Earth. Sure, they cost more, but in our currently difficult times, my conscience tells me the only cost to count is not my own food budget, but also the livelihood of local farmers and small business owners. Besides, these are the tenderest, tastiest eggs I've eaten in ages.
• Rob and I had a great evening together, and it all ended with a discussion about what his name should be. He's never thought the name Rob fit him, and for years after we got married, I thought the same thing. We didn't come up with anything last night, although we ruled out a whole lot of possibilities (he'll never be a Bruce, I can assure you of that). We did, however, agree that Banjo is a terrific name for somebody.

Marching forth

It's finally here—my heart's New Year. March Forth! I love this day. And boy, what a bright, warm, beautiful one it is. Thanks to the person who ordered it.

Hold on, I'm the person who ordered it. Thanks, Geo! (Thanks, Nature. Thanks, God.)

So, what are you doing to celebrate and march forth today?

There are a few dear ones in my life who have fallen dangerously ill, strangely all in a batch. For that reason, and for reasons of my own, with more concentration than ever I'm dedicating this March Forth to preservation, to joy, and to healing. I had originally planned to spend the day on the phone, but that no longer feels like the right agenda. I want to pack March Forth full of little quiet things, nurturing and encouraging things. I've not been too steady lately, so today I want to work on getting my footing because it's no good going off on a big march when you're off-balance.

It's been a good day to this point. I got up earlier than usual after a non-insomniac trip to Slumberland. I prayed, made the bed, then sat with my laptop on my two fat layers of ducky down comforters and read good news from one of those dear ones I mentioned above. His cancer is treatable, and there's hope, and chemo begins for him on Tuesday. Relative relief—if that's not a fine way to start March Forth, I don't know what is. I wish for similar good news from other dear ones . . . . My friend sent me a beautiful poem along with his news, and I knew right away that one of the things I'd do today was work on memorizing a poem or two, starting with the sweet one that just arrived:

The Silken Tent
by Robert Frost

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.

Haven't you heard that memorizing and reciting poetry preserves the health of your mind? It also helps you learn and activate/integrate parts of your brain, just like singing or playing a musical instrument. Well, it sounds like a perfect project to begin today: turning myself into a walking collection of poems.

The other long-term task I want to begin today is Project 365. I started taking daily photos a couple years ago, but didn't keep up with it. Maybe this time I'll make it a full year, at least. Care to join me? Sounds interesting, don't you think?

What other activities will be part of the celebration today? So many options. The list of possibilities so far includes, but is surely not limited to:

• going for a walk in the sun
• taking a therapeutic deep tub study-soak, with music and candles
• making a dress (oh, you should see the fabric I got)
• finishing the novel I'm reading
• doing another Kundalini Yoga session (already did a short one this morning, and it felt great)
• attempting some creative writing
• thumbing through library cookbooks and planning a week's worth of menus from interesting new recipes
• painting a wall
• shopping for a yogurt maker
• buying some clay and sculpting a little guy, for fun

One thing which is firmly on the agenda is to go and try out a "new" Mexican restaurant in town, a place that recently changed hands. The new management somehow got my email address and sent me this humble invitation:

Hello:

My name is Alejandro and I want to invite you to LA TORMENTA RESTAURANT, in down town Provo. Now I am administrating the store and we are reopening on Wednesday 4th. of this month. We are working hard to make the restaurant a better place, with good quality of food and low prices.

Sincerely,

Alejandro Puye

How am I supposed to say no to that? You think for a minute I could resist eating at a place called Torment on March Forth? Why, it'll be like thumbing my nose at whatever nasty forces would bring me down. "See? I laugh in the face of danger! Ha ha! I eat torment for lunch! Get out of my way, La Gringa is marching forth!" And anyway, it's opening on my holiday; it's sure to be successful, and I'm sure to survive the ordeal. Rob and I thought we'd try it out a while back when it was still Taqueria La Tormenta, but when we got to the front door the closed sign was up, and a peek through the window scared us off. Now that it's "a better place" maybe it will be safe for us to go inside and order. My expectations are low, so it's likely not to disappoint. I'll have a roll of Tums handy, just in case.

Stay tuned for a March Forth update later on, and my first photo for Project 365.

Now get out there and do some marching forth yourself. Hup! Hup! Hup! Hup!