Miracles Are

Exhibit A.
You flew in the sky from there to here, to see your family, but you came to see me too, and I got to wrap my arms around you, and you are still you are still you are still my dear darling girl, my friend, my you-know-who. That's the sweetest blessing and benediction to a week that began with my getting dumped (thankfully not by Rob). That was the worst. You are the best. I love that we are still heart and soul friends and I hope I hope I hope that will always be our joy. I believe I believe I believe it will be.

Exhibit B.
You, amazing person who also flew in the sky from there to here, are exactly the person I expected. I don't brag like lots of people do that I am a good judge of character, because really, who can suss out that sort of information without a great deal of work and actual revelation? Such a declaration always embarrasses me. What I do claim is that it doesn't take long to love people, and every once in a while that feeling seems to predate the friendship itself. So when did I start knowing you, anyway? Logic says it must have been the first time I studied you in photos. But even then I felt a sense of recognition, so it must have been earlier still. Huh. Well, nice to meet you and finally get to say I like you out loud and to your face.

Exhibit C.
Thunder and rain. Comfort sounds.

Exhibit D.
After my third hamburger in less than 24 hours, I am completely ready and can hardly wait for The Great Garden Produce Purge of September. I wish I was starting my juice fast tomorrow, I am that tired of food, but I still have some prep to do. I am so ready to wash my brain and my whole system with veg and fruit. A full month of harvest season relief and bliss! It was that final devastating hamburger, the one at the ward picnic this evening, that pushed me over the edge. I don't care if I eat meat again till autumn. Or maybe ever. Ack!

It Followed Me Home

Some people find lucky pennies. I found a lucky squash, when I was passing the high school on my ride over to the track this morning.

It made me laugh. It followed me home. Okay, that's stretching the truth. Technically it didn't follow me—it rode in my bike basket. 

I'll cook it tomorrow so I can get two days' mileage out of this particular miracle. Maybe I'll find an onion in the morning while I'm out riding. A feral cucurbit and a feral allium fried in butter and sea salt—what could be tastier?

The Wonders of Wednesday

#1.

Rob and I have made frequent short trips to our favorite thrift store recently, on the hunt for audio components for making sound art. Today we shot across town to be there just after the doors opened for business. Rob got caught up inspecting equipment so I wandered into the book section. The store was crowded that time of morning—teeming with deal hunters (deal hogs?) with visions of eBay sales dancing in their heads, and maroon-vested employees, busily stocking shelves. I was standing there, scanning titles, hoping that one that would really grab me, when a maroon-vested book sorter with no apparent sense of personal space came up too close to me on the right, stretched his arm across my line of vision, and waggled a photo at a man who was nearby at my left.

"Heyyy, where d'ya think THIS one goes, Tom?" Maroon Vest chortled at his section manager, pleased with himself for making a good joke. Some book this is, huh? Har har!

Manager Man didn't answer him. Maroon Vest flapped the photo practically in my face, so I had little choice but to look. And, lo and behol', there was the smiling face of a friend with her husband and children. The picture was date-stamped 2003.

"I know them!"

Manager Man turned to look at me.

"I know those people. I'll take it."

Maroon Vest and Manager Man stared at me, blankly.

"You know them?"

"Yes!"

Maroon Vest then attempted to be in charge: "Umm ... so willya take it to them?"

I don't remember exactly what I muttered in response, but he reluctantly handed me the picture, like it might be a dangerous thing to allow to fall into the wrong hands, which mine probably were.

Not.

But I am keeping it.

Of all the places to be standing in that big store this morning! I'm glad Catherine and her family didn't have to go home with some stranger and serve as his bookmark, or worse, end up in the garbage. Glad I intercepted them.

So I got a book of flash fiction and this miracle, for just a buck and a half. Bargain!

Hi, Catherine!

#2.

I got to spend part of the afternoon with some of my favorite women of all time, enjoying haute cuisine at a popular local eatery: J-Dawg's. I had the enormous privilege and pleasure of working with these ladies in a Relief Society presidency and I fell in love with them in a great big hurry. Because of a geographic boundary change earlier this year that affected our church congregation, we had to kiss our little band of leaders goodbye with a promise to remain friends, a promise I intend on keeping forever.

The four of us decided to get together one last time before Heather moves to North Carolina with her family. J-Dawg's is Heather's special place and she complains that nobody will ever go there with her. I don't know why not. Best Polish dogs anywhere!

It was so so hot outside in the fancy parking lot with the beach umbrellas. It was fun. And I'm still in love with these girls. After Heather, Merideth moves next, and then Holly. *sigh* I'm counting on the phenomenon of the Great Provo People Magnet to draw them back someday.

Here's a quote from Ezra Taft Benson that I want to dedicate to these great women. I've watched them prove it repeatedly:

"Men and women who turn their lives over to God will find out that he can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He will deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their souls, raise up friends, and pour out peace. Whoever will lose his life to God will find he has eternal life."

We got to know each other through serving others together, and that made for some beautiful bonds. I'll always be grateful to God for raising up these friends for me. I love you, ladies. You've been miracles in my life. 


P.S. Thanks for introducing me to J-Dawg's. Deelish!

Rex, Heather, Holly, Long Tall Sally, Merideth, and me

Chicken-warm

Rob was up before me this morning and greeted me early with this pretty gift, passed on by our friend Leland. "This one's still chicken-warm," Rob gushed, smiling. He put the freshest of the eggs into my hand, and it warmed me as much as it did him. It got me off to a thoughtful start, and I tucked the experience away as a little miracle, in case I didn't find another I could count for the day. Oh, me, of little faith!

It was an anxious day, agitated and unsettled. I hiccuped through the first two hours of being awake, without a break. Then those hiccups submerged and headed for my nervous system. Jumping blood, my stomach in a knot. 

As soon as the next miracle started, I knew I was onto a big one, and wouldn't have to wait for the vantage point of a quiet midnight to reveal it to me: music. Music saved my day. I typically listen to music while I work and go about my life, but today it wielded an impressive transformative power. When I felt tightness taking hold of me and that weird nausea of anxiety rising, I sat down at the old upright and starting working out a Mozart sonatina, and even lacking in grace as my playing was, it calmed the sick waves. It felt fantastic to play, never mind the mistakes. 

Work eventually called to me, so I turned up the little transistor that sits on the fridge—I turned it up loud—to broadcast classical through the entire house. Gorgeous music! Nothing I knew, but so big and fine and life-affirming. 

Sometimes I'd drop what I was doing and go back to the piano and play some more. I'm out of practice by many years, but I'm sounding better than I was two days ago and two weeks ago. How is that we get nearer and nearer to music just by continuing to try? What a rush to touch the stuff, shape the notes and chords and progressions, and build ideas with sounds and silences! 

The transistor reliably kept me company while I made lunch, and that's when I got to hear an old favorite: Gershwin's American in Paris. So incredible. It just wasn't possible to listen to it and feel anything but joy for those several minutes it lasted. 

Anxiety was waiting for me at every turn today, but I took a lot of big swigs of musical elixir to quiet the symptoms. It was an interesting sort of war I fought, and those songs honestly felt like some legion of guardian angels doing my battles for me. I don't remember the last time I felt so strongly connected to the high power of music. 

Just listen to this, would you? What a terrific performance!

At the end of this day that was my musical lifeline, I remembered I had my other little just-in-case miracle still in reserve, so I scrambled Leland's brown and blue egg harvest for supper. Even better than eating them was the perfect thin sounds their delicate shells made when I cracked them against the side of the bowl. More music. I could have cracked those eggs all night!

I'm Looking for a Miracle a Day

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.” --Alexander Graham Bell

My miracle today came after a treasured door was closed and locked in my face: a new door of opportunity was flung wide open, and two beautiful people stepped into my world, bearing gifts of kindness and friendship. One of the pair reminded me to look for a miracle each day and keep a record as they collect.

Good people. Good miracle. I will be satisfied and I'm not going to let myself stare sad holes into the old door. I'm moving with the moments.

Thanks, friends.

Stuff I Didn't Buy

As my great-granny used to drawl, "I didn't shet my eyes fer sleep all night!" Today I am absolutely hammered, and so far have been good for much of nothing. About the time I should have been thinking about making lunch, the idea to pay a visit to D.I. seemed like a stroke of genius, so off I went, praying I wouldn't crash the car in my fuzz-brained state. Oh, the siren song of thrift shopping!

I did have the presence of mind to say no to all but two of the items that ended up in my cart. Want to see the rejects that tried unsuccessfully to follow me home? Analyze if you must.

Fabulous shades, heavyweight, the real vintage deal. Wouldn't stay up on my nose. Must have originally belonged to a true melon head.

Bipolar toothbrush-holding(?) lidded ceramic thingie: violent electrical storm assaulting a lonely homestead on one side... peaceful moonlight fishing scene on the other. What I want to know is, who hooked the trout?

A pattern for making felt baked goods. (Instead of this I bought a Portuguese cake pan that makes a giant bundt flower. It's my standard policy to always go for the most edible option.)

Another pattern. Anybody else remember Walt West, the man who for so many years ran the best used bookstore in Provo? He was, I'm guessing, Mensa smart, and he always wore the cutest old guy blue coveralls. I just know that every time we stopped in to browse Walt's shop Rob secretly wished for his very own manly jumpsuit. What do you think—maybe in something jazzy, like sharkskin? Shoulda bought this one.

Maternity. Size D. Eggshell. Scary packaging. "PANTYHOSE." Five excellent reasons to go without stockings "while I wait."

Goose dervishes.

Oh, wow! A really beautifully made granny blanket. Practically perfect in every way except I didn't want to spend $20.

A mysterious little safety film tin that I couldn't bear not to open. Inside was Pandora's Candle, talk about troubling! It was the same color as, and I'm not kidding, the EXACT same scent as Silly Putty. Nasty. Not something you really want to burn. 

An inflatable "Get Well Soon!" pooch. You and all your friends can sign your names and sympathies all over him and then give him to somebody you know who needs some cheering up. Hint: Plastic wiener dogs go great with helium. 

Collectible Christmas tree ornaments, because nothing captures the beautiful spirit of the the season quite like a dirty vodka martini. Really? 

Giant sprouting jar. A little too much live food to feel comfortable handling all at once. What if all those sprouts started cooperating and turned on me?

And the pièce de résistance, this—

Go ahead, click the image two times for a closer view. Can you find Cheryl Crow and Lance Armstrong? Dinosaurs? Robots? Cowboys with smoking guns? What else? This is I Spy at its best, or at least, its cheapest. Talk to me. Sure it's cryptic... but is it art?

Why I'm Here, Today, Blogging

Heather. Heather, you're the reason. Because it's your birthday, and because you are moving to my old home state long before I'm ready for you to go (which would be: never) and because you said something by way of sad goodbyes like: "We can still be friends!" and "I love you!" and "I'll read your blog!" Yep, that did it. You'll read my blog? That means I need to post something for you to read, right? Write?

Since I'm not a stellar communicator when it comes to telephones and letters and such, keeping in contact with people I love was probably the main reason I started this blog anyhow. That, and exhibitionism (the inhibited kind). We won't talk about which of the two reasons exerted the stronger pull on my psyche. 

I'm determined not to go all navel-gazey over this question of why I've been blog-ditching, or why I've considered so often pulling the plug for good. I'll just start blogging again. Write more, pre-edit less. Easy, right? Write? Keep in touch. Keep. Touch.

Okay, so today I got to hang out with Heather. For two hours! Who gets to do that, waltz in on somebody's birthday and steal their time? It was pretty presumptuous of me to just barge into her big day and ask for a chunk of visiting. I love it when I'm presumptuous. I love it more when there's no objection. Thanks for reinforcing my bad manners, Heather. And thanks for the bagel date. I had fun even though there was that sad thing happening in my heart every time I looked at you and thought about how you'll soon turn into a Tar Heel, many miles from here. *sniff*

So I guess I'm lucky I was here to crash Heather's birthday today. I had a bad mushroom experience last night. No, not that kind of mushroom. It wasn't a magic mushroom. It was a soccer ball-sized brain, I tell you, a western giant puffball. Leland and Charla hunted it down over the weekend in the wilds of the Alpine Loop and brought it to us as a Love Gift of Pure Intentions. I've never seen anything like it. Rob has been saying for years that he used to find and eat puffballs back east when he was a kid. So he was our veteran. And Leland and Charla did their homework, to make sure it wasn't a dangerous kind of fungus. It was 100% edible, this fungus, their reference books and expert sources agreed. Apparently, their sources didn't mention that western giant puffballs need to be 100% white inside when you eat them, not ivory, not pearl, not eggshell, not beige, not even the teensiest bit antiqued, in order to avoid stomach upset. (Thank you for the belated clarification, Wikipedia.) You can, of course, see where this is going?

Anyway, it was fun to have the fungus hunters come over yesterday, watch Rob and Leland slice up this amazing soccer brain into sticks, egg it, bread it, fry it with green onions and garlic, and then eat the finished product in good company. Leland said, "I don't taste anything. I don't like it." (But know this about our friends the fungus hunters: they never want to eat the mushrooms. They hunt for sport.) Rob said, "It tastes like it's a little past its prime." The menfolk put their noses up at our puffball. Charla was more open, and had a few pieces: "It's not my favorite, but it's alright." I said, "Sure it has a taste! It tastes like mushroom!" It wasn't bad. I generally approve of mushrooms and harbor kind of a weird affection for them, so of course I wanted to like this one. I practically proselyted for the fungus. Give it a chance, I wanted to say. Come on, people, it's Found Food, wild and wonderful. I think I mentally rolled my eyes—just a tad, and with all the love in my heart—at the pickiness of the fellows. Add to my enthusiasm the fact that I was pretty hungry. Sunday afternoon post-church is generally a busy time at my house, and not the most well-fed stretch of hours in our week. Remember that: empty stomach + slightly antiqued western giant puffball interior. A forest growth that came with no cooking or eating instructions. Fungus gusto. 

When we all went over later to join Rob's folks for dinner at Tribal Headquarters, my stomach was aching. Pretty soon Charla was saying she needed to go home and lie down. My mum-in-law asked repeatedly, "Are you poisoned? Do we need to take you to the E.R.?" No, no, just to the Home for Careless Fungus Eaters.

It took me till this morning, about the time that Heather and I went out for bagels, to feel normalish. I hope Charla's doing better; last I heard she was still with us.

I would eat another puffball, yes, I would. But the next time that soccer brain's gonna have to be pristine inside. White as angel food cake, and a perfect texture to match.

Okay, that's it. One profound post. Still want to read my blog, Heather?

I have to say that when I opened up Blogger to write this post, there were close to a dozen wonderful comments waiting for me to moderate and publish. I never received any notification about them, so they've been piled up for weeks, waiting around to jump out at me and yell, "Surprise!" But how did that happen? My blog settings don't require comment moderation, at least not at my command. Huh. I guess that proves my blog and I need to get reacquainted.

And Heather, you and I must always stay acquainted. Happy birthday!

(And thanks, friends, for the kind comments you left for me on earlier posts. Wish I'd seen them when you left them so I could've responded right away.)