Llama love

I had an appointment with my naturopath today. There are several big issues that we are working on so we covered a good deal of ground, but at one point in our conversation he narrowed the focus to really emphasize a particular part of my "homework" that he feels I must work harder on: taking some time just for myself each day and doing something--anything--that makes me laugh or smile and nourishes my soul. I have so many different treatments and remedies I must remember each day, and so many fires to put out at home, that I confess I let this assignment go way too often. Why? It's the pleasantest of all my therapies, and yet it's the one that slips my mind consistently. I promised I would renew my efforts, and as a good-naturedly authoritative reminder, Dr. W. wrote me out a "prescription" for my daily play and told me to stick it on my fridge.

On my meandering way home from the clinic, I took a back street I know and turned off onto a private dirt road where there is kept a small herd of llamas. I parked and walked to the fence where two llamas were tethered. I talked to them quietly, noticing a new electrical wiring system that had been put in place to keep the llamas from getting out, and soon, several other llamas appeared a little way off and curiously approached as a band. I spoke to them with all the friendliness and gentleness I could, and soon, they were standing before me, blinking and ruminating, ears erect. I held out my hand and one stretched her neck forward to nibble me with her lips. Another came close and sniffed me softly, nose-to-nose--this is how they greet new people if they feel at ease. Then another did the same. One of the young ones stood there a little stupidly and stared at me, chewing and grinding his teeth and making a strange complaining sound, almost as if he had some sort of a nervous tic; that llama reminded me of certain playground boys from my early grade school days, the kind that ought to wipe their noses and close their slack jaws and stop bothering the girls.

It was a short break, but a nice one. I was thinking it might be a good idea for me to track my little daily therapies, to make sure I do them, but also so I can collect some ideas. I'm interested in so many things but when it comes to fun guilt-free breaks, sometimes I come up with far too many reasons to bypass them.

So, llamas. Talking to llamas is good. Being greeted by llamas is very good. I did my homework today, at least in one subject.

Praise to the man

The Prophet Joseph Smith, 1805-1844

Happy 200th birthday. Thank you. Thank you, with all my heart!

Do yourself a favor

I'm telling you, you need to take a four-hour break from your holiday music habit and give this playlist some attention:

RadioDavidByrne.com

I honestly can't stomach most modern country music, but gimme roots and classics and I'll freely admit to the world that I've got a real thang for twang.

I could just about kiss Mr. Byrne for the incredible boost he's given to my day with this smattering of lovin' and leavin' and yeah, even cheatin' songs. I catch myself dancing and singing every once in a while as I do my work and eat pine nuts. This music ain't about Christmas, but it's sure inspiring in me extra good will. Shoot, I'm near 'bout ready to deck my halls!

This is dedicated to the one I love

At a posh Manhattan dinner party, a Latin American visitor was telling the guests about this home country and himself. As he concluded, he said, "And I have a charming and understanding wife but, alas, no children."

As his listeners appeared to be waiting for him to continue, he said, haltingly, "You see, my wife is unbearable."

Puzzled glances prompted him to try to clarify the matter: "What I mean is, my wife is inconceivable."

As his companions seemed amused, he floundered deeper into the intricacies of the English language, explaining triumphantly, "That is, my wife, she is impregnable!"

Driving Miss Lady(bug)

[SCENE: Geo and Gram climb into Vinnie the Corolla, intending to somehow find a safe way out of a mall parking lot crammed full of too many uptight and ready-to-fight holiday shoppers. It's dark. Our heroines are tired and hungry. J.C. Penney has just pulled a fast one on Gram and she would like to inform the world that she is not happy. Geo starts the engine and the radio comes on. The clear tenor voice of José Carreras sings a sweet but unfamiliar carol, and then . . . ]

GRAM: Who's that singing? [She is thoughtful.] Sounds like the Catholics!

GEO: !!!

[THE END.]

Handwriting on the wall

a story

The silly school of glow-in-the-dark fish on the ceiling of the downstairs bedroom had seemed benign, if embarassing, when the couple purchased their first house. It's on my list, Vi had told herself early on, one day I'll get rid of those. But she slept upstairs with her husband, so it was easy to forget, and for nearly four years the fish circled in their upside-down pool and shone in the dark above the heads of a steady trickle of live-ins. Everyone mentioned them without affection over breakfast—Xerxes, who had tried to kill himself and came to live there for a while after being released from the psych ward; petite Yolanda, who was frantic to escape her stalker ex-boyfriend; and Zip, who was post-degree, pre-job, and no-money. Occasional guests also watched those fish on restless nights when an unforgiving futon was still the only available sleeping surface in the basement. Once, Karen from Colorado sardined her burstingly pregnant self with her brood of three into the small bedroom, and they all fell fast asleep, except for one tiny pajama-ed daughter, Lula, who cried in the unfamiliar dark. Vi slipped into the room and lay down beside the weeping child, letting her snuggle in close, then pointed out the various sorts of fish swimming overhead and gave them names. They were bright and distinct and that ought to have made them better than the formless dark.

Last November Vi and Sascha moved into the basement bedroom to make room for Grandma Bellow. Now I've really got to get rid of those fish, Vi told herself, it's plain stupid just leaving them there. Eight months passed and the

Let me call you sweetheart

What is visiting teaching? It's the beautiful sound I just heard coming from my 87-year-old grandmother's private "living room," the sound of her eager, wobbly voice blended with the voices of two fresh young women in their early twenties, one a graceful ballroom dancer and student, the other an energetic early morning custodian getting her new Russian husband through a university degree in Physics. They came over tonight so my grandmother and Marilyn, the dancer, could have a social visit with Diane and also give her an uplifting message to encourage her on her way. This visiting happens every month--they come here because it's difficult for my grandmother to get out now that her health is poor. At this very moment they are singing along with the random tunes that are coming from a musical fountain which was a recent gift to Gram, from another woman whom Gram and Marilyn visit this way. When I first heard Gram and her company singing tonight, so softly together, it was to the old tune, "Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you." The utter sweetness of their music stopped me dead in my tracks as I worked in the kitchen. Tears came to my eyes and are coming again as I write this. Can you understand why? How often do moments like this happen anymore in our society? As far as I can tell, not too often, not even among family members. My heart was so touched by just the simple goodness of that sound, and all the reaching across the vast divide of self it represented. I waited until they were done, then crept to the door and quietly clapped my hands. The three of them turned to me and they were already smiling, and the feeling of kind love in the room was tangible. Marilyn and Diane said they'd like to be adopted. It was such a small pretty moment, but I just can't get over it. I am so grateful that this sort of experience is part of my life. And part of Gram's.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshineYou make me happy when skies are greyYou'll never know, dear, how much I love youPlease don't take my sunshine away

I can remember one time this year I went visiting teaching with my own companion, Kathryn, who is one of the sweetest, most conscientious and intelligent people on the planet, and we went to see Rose, who has had a lifetime of difficulty overcoming a number of handicaps. Rose is one terrific, funny, special woman, though socially, she often completely overwhelms people to the point of panic--she's that different. Rose has a hard time focusing, particularly when we get to the spiritual message/time-to-concentrate-and-process part of our visit. Usually, we try to prepare just one simple, clear thought we can share with Rose, maybe a quote, maybe a single verse of a scripture, something that won't tax her but can help her feel encouraged. This one particular time I'm thinking of, Kathryn and I had a somewhat more complex message to share, and neither of us knew exactly how to simplify it so Rose could enjoy it and not struggle with being distracted. We ended up singing a very hopeful children's song together for our "lesson", one that was tied closely to the topic we wanted to teach. I'd brought a songbook with me and we all sat on Rose's bed in her tiny private room and sang together. The contrast between our experience that day and my grandmother's tonight is that Rose and Kathryn and I sounded like a pack of howling dogs. Really. If anyone in the next room overheard us and shed a tear, it was for pain and not joy! We seriously sounded miserable in the technical sense, but I have to say that real grace of that moment wasn't lost on me. It was a beautiful thing, the three of us concentrating together on something that was important to all of us, and however out of tune, singing words we all believed in. It was a unifying thing, and I felt a lot of love for those women then.

I'm glad for such interactions as visiting teaching. I'm glad to be part of the Relief Society.

Ughs to Uggs

I forgot to mention yesterday that after my lake of fire and brimstone footbath therapy session I detoxed a little further by taking myself thrift shopping. I told myself I was going to do some Christmas gift hunting, but what was the first beautiful, shocking sight that met my eyes? Naturally, it was a present just for me (oh, and how often does that happen to you when you're out doing your altruistic shopping?): A PAIR OF UGG SLIPPERS. That bears repeating: A PAIR OF UGG SLIPPERS. New, except for some tiny little paint drips that came off with almost no encouragement at all. Black suede. Sheepskin-lined. My size. Two bucks. Nobody is going to tell me that there isn't a God. After such foot-related trauma, to find dreamy shoes (okay, what I want more are the boots, but who's complaining?) an hour later was a reminder to me that a sense of humor and a desire to comfort are definitely attributes of the Divine Nature. It was a funny, personal moment of "Hey, I see you" when I found those fluffy honeys on a rack in the D.I. shoe department. I've got happy feet!

Swamp Thing

Yesterday I had my first experience with an ionCleanse machine. At 10:00 a.m. on the nose I walked through the front door of the naturopathy clinic where I seem to spend most of my time and money these days. At approximately 10:02:37 a.m. I was whisked down a long, close Wonka-esque hallway to the very end of the carpeted path, where there was no lickable fruity wallpaper for me to enjoy (I'm referencing, of course, the one true Willy Wonka movie, the Gene Wilder version) (and honestly, it hurts me to acknowledge that Tim Burton, Johnny Depp, AND Danny Elfman combined couldn't top it) and no impossibly long contract with disappearing fine print to pretend to decipher and then sign with a flamboyantly fluffy feather pen. Nope, there was just a tiled room with a few padded folding chairs, a small shower, a few books, unfamiliar gadgetry, footbaths, and as I discovered later on, two little handbells.

Smiling Jules, no diminutive oompa loompa, filled a footbath for me, poured in some RealSalt "to help conduct the charge better", stuck in the black ionizing part of one of the gadgets, punched some numbers into the control panel, and directed me to settle in for an hour's dip. She brought me a paper Dixie cup full of liquid minerals, in case I got tired during the session, but I couldn't bring it to my mouth; it looked exactly like a urine sample. I confessed the reason for my hesitation to her and she laughed. I'd brought along some knitting, so I pulled out the hot water bottle cozy I'm making for a girlfriend. I'd been mildly warned that the water in my footbath might turn colors as I sat there, soaking away my bodily angst. Orange, maybe. "Someone's water will even occasionally turn black as toxins are pulled out," Dr. W. had told me with knowing eyebrows during an earlier office visit. Julie, the head spook machine operator, had informed me also that, "Two men who worked as embalmers came in for the ionCleanse and they both produced large bright blue oily spots that floated on the water." So, muses I, is this really about laundering my aura? A few minutes passed while Jules tidied up the place.

"Oh, look," she said, "the water's already starting to turn!"

I glanced down from my knitting and noticed that the water looked a bit stained, like some young rebel's nicotine teeth. That's vaguely interesting, I thought, for a non-smoker, but so far I'd rather watch my stitches.

Jules went to take care of other work at the living end of the hallway and left me alone with my Denise set and my thoughts. Take a deep, slow breath, I told myself. Now take another. Make this time count. Get rid of those toxins. Knit. Purl. Breathe. Soak. Knit. Purl. Breathe. Soak. Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse. Nobody needs you right now. Gram's at home and can't holler for you to come. You don't have a cell phone. You're nicely stuck for an hour, so love it. Breathe. Knit. Cleanse. Do it.

I didn't panic when I noticed the water had turned bright orange. I like orange. Maybe my aura is orange. Maybe I am an oompa loompa, when you get right down to it. I set aside my knitting for a while to study my feet mid-calf-deep in that vivid tincture of Wonka. Wow. I did begin to feel a bit odd when I noticed that some of the orange was gathering into thick muck puddles floating on the water. When residue stuck to the sides of the footbath liner I felt a little woozy. Still, it's just orange. I like orange.

I knitted on, more preoccupied with my feet than I'd been at the beginning. I'd stitch a round, then check their progress, stitch some more, shift my needles, check the feet again. Pretty soon the water resembled what I imagine the lake of fire and brimstone looks like. Click, the charge from the ionizer switched to positive. A few minutes later, click, and a negative charge was sent out. Click, click. The control panel was set on a "heavy" modality. That aura of mine is a real mess.

Focus on your knitting; you're forgetting to breathe, I reminded myself. Several aspirated and ribbed rounds later, I put down my work and saw something horrible: pureéd moss, or something equally dark green, was making the muck much murkier. The experience was all downhill after that--no thrills of relief, just alarming spills as my feet poured forth all sorts of "stuff". You don't want to know. Or maybe you do, since you're still reading this. I can somewhat discreetly tell you that as the situation became more optically sinister I saw visions of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and two words kept sounding in my head again and again: SWAMP THING.

When the control panel at last shut off the ionizing action, nobody came to save me. I waited. I hoped. I looked around for some clue about how I should get myself free. No towels in sight, no easy access to water. Help, help, I thought. If you leave me in here it's going to eat me! Or worse, I'm going to re-eat it! I told myself Jules had a timer strapped to her person or at least a perfect sense of timing and would be coming to release me at any moment, but all remained quiet at my end of the lonesome hallway. With growing anxiety, I scanned the shelf where the ionCleanse machine sat and found, happily, the two little bells I mentioned earlier. Whew! I sheepishly rang one, then the other, and within seconds, I heard Jules' quick footsteps coming.

We had some animated conversation about the disgusting state of my footbath and she gave me a handout that explained what the different colors and textures and particulates could mean. Yeah, I wanted to know all that, but it made me dizzy to have the information right there as I was looking into the tub from hell with my feet still in it. Gack!

So, I survived, but my inner swamp thing wants its aura scrubbed again soon. It's too pricey to do as often as I need to. If anyone out there wants to buy me a Christmas present, I wouldn't mind having my own for $2700 or so, maybe cheaper on eBay. Maybe if everyone I ever knew chipped in a buck apiece, it could happen, and my inner swamp thing could go on for another year believing in Santa. Why not? I still believe in Gene Wilder. Anyway, please think it over.

Happy anniversary, Kyle and Peggy.

43 years ago my parents married. A few hours after the simple ceremony, my military pilot father flew to Cuba, entrusting my mother to the care of her parents until he returned. Instead of complying with everyone else's wishes, my newly-wedded mother took the family dog (which, although a female, had been named for her high school sweetheart), rented an apartment, and immediately set up her independent household. She bought furniture. The dog disappeared. My grandmother was the one who found Bo, Jr.; she was sitting, waiting on the corner in front of a house the family had lived in years before, just blocks away from the apartment where my mother was settling. In four months my father returned safely from Cuba. He and my mother didn't live happily ever after, but they loved and they lived until they died and somewhere in there they made me. Sometimes I miss them so terribly, like the missing is brand new--a fresh deep cut, not a still-tender decades-old stripe that tries to erase itself in vain.

I believe they are happy and busy. And together. I imagine them celebrating their anniversary in many joyful ways they were unable to here. I hope they know I'm thinking of them with love and gratitude and understanding. And I can't help but make a selfish wish and hope that they're proud of who they made.

The gospel truth

(Traditional; arranged by Geo)

I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
For my Lord, for my Lord

It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
For my Lord, for my Lord

If I was a sinner I tell you what I'd do
I would quit my sinning and work on that building too

If I was a gambler I tell you what I'd do
I would quit my gambling and work on that building too

I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
For my Lord, for my Lord

It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
For my Lord, for my Lord

If I was a preacher I tell you what I'd do
I would keep on preaching and work on that building too

If I was a blogger I tell you what I'd do
I would keep on blogging and work on that building too

I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
I'm working on a building
For my Lord, for my Lord

It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
It's a Holy Ghost building
For my Lord, for my Lord

(Untitled)

still bleeding

laundry

rob made the yard look nice—mowed, edged front, pulled weeds in back & front

put bush beans in ground in garden, acorn squash, and miniature peach cantaloupes

walked to farmers' market—scented geraniums—talked to faye and tom—faye charmed gram & gram lied about tv watching, etc.

visited w/sean—helped sean & michelle pack up little things, old laundry, etc.—inherited a bunch of stuff from them that would've otherwise gone to d.i.—stopped by the villa

fish & supper for gram, fruit salad for the masses

fruit salad to stewards' open house—neat house—quirky, artistic furniture & surroundings—nice people in our stake—6 chickens killed by dogs

fruit salad to bowens

decent visit with uncle pat & bowen cousins—yetti suit

watching tyson's movie—dancing, singing, killing

outside with cousins, talking—mission stories—sean's comp & chollo lady w/basket in ecuador—she wouldn't let them see inside it—comp held a pen to his ear—"hello, president clinton? this lady maybe has a bomb in her basket"—she screamed and ran—great missionary work

Naps and flaps

I got up early this morning and studied, and no sooner did I have my books closed when, wham! An exhaustion wave crashed over me. I thought, Okay, just a fifteen minute nap on the couch and then I’ll really start the day. Yeah. There went the whole morning. Gram didn’t wake me up intentionally today to tell me to rest; I found out later that I was somehow camouflaged without meaning to be (I was wearing my long white terry robe while sleeping on a dark plaid couch), and she couldn’t see me lying there when she went hunting through the house for me. But my rest was cut short anyhow when Izzy, egged on and cheered loudly by Gram, embarked on his daily “rip-snort” through the house. Rip Van Winkle couldn’t have slept through that kind of party. Rude awakening notwithstanding, I have done very little today but flop and read. I feel like my entire body is depressed; it is heavily weary. Tomorrow I go for my annual exam as well as a much-anticipated follow-up on recent events. I’m hoping that by the time this weekend is through I’ll be done with death for a while; I'm ready to come back to life myself.

I felt some guilt about just lolling about the house today, doing no work to speak of other than inventing lunch, but when I tried to understand what would be best for me to do, ready to remedy the ick feeling that I was wasting time–I even prayed about it, it was that bad–only “rest” felt like a reasonable answer. So, I determined to fling off the guilt and I rested–hung out on the couch and let gravity have me. I read almost an entire book, For She is the Tree of Life: Grandmothers through the Eyes of Women Writers. Overall, what a great read. I discovered a wonderful last section of the book I hadn’t noticed before, one dedicated to personal writing prompts, all designed to help the reader articulate her own grandmother memories and stories. I love it–a book that entertains and inspires and then directly stimulates action.

Our hummingbirds haven’t been here since Sunday or Monday. The last time I saw one was in flight over our heads as Rob and I hung our new petunias on Monday. We thought the petunias would attract them even more than the plain sugar-syrup feeder alone, but to our knowledge no one other than fat flies has fed at our window for days. Yesterday while I was grocery shopping I thumbed through a magazine that had a short article describing which flowers invite hummingbirds, and every single one of the flowers was red, and petunias weren’t even listed (though I doubt the list was an exhaustive one–Rob and I have witnessed firsthand pink petunia beds being thoroughly worked by hummingbirds). Were our petunias, somewhere between magenta and purple, clashing with the local hummingbird aesthetic? Were they simply blocking the view of the red feeder? Was it nothing more than the strange June cold snap and the week’s occasional rainfall that had kept them away? Hummingbirds have gotta eat in spite of the weather, right? I confessed to Rob that I’d been praying for the return of our birds, and he quietly confessed the same to me. They have become so much more than a delightful presence; they symbolize our tender hopes.

Rob went to the lumber store this afternoon and came home with a surprise. I went into the kitchen and spotted him outside the window, hanging a new pot of red fuchsias where the petunias had been. He’d asked me earlier which flowers I’d read about in the magazine, and fuchsias were among the advertised few that I could remember the names of. I helped him get the height right for birdwatching, and then he hung our pretty petunias in another conspicuous spot, out of feeder range. The fuchsias made me cry, as everything seems to nowadays. Minutes after we came inside Rob spotted two hummingbirds at the window and shouted for me. I missed them, but I feel sure now that I’ll have many other opportunities to see our friends this season. It’s funny, isn’t it, what becomes very important and finds its way into the language and manners of the heart.

Shop-n-shock

I was grocery shopping this morning and had a very strange experience. To give some background about one of my many quirks, I’ll say that I have a mild to moderate aversion to the handles on shopping carts. I don’t know when I began thinking about this, but some time ago I realized that those handles are cootie-catchers extraordinaire, possibly ranking alongside of public bathroom fixtures and doorknobs. Alright, maybe they’re not quite that bad, but they’re close. So I try to avoid the natural lemming impulse to grab onto my cart in the center of that diseased handle, where the plastic cover bearing the store’s name is always protecting the metal structure beneath; I try to forget about that section altogether and push the cart with my hands out farther to the sides, right on the exposed metal part. It’s less likely some kid with a gooey nose (or worse) has been gnawing (or worse) on the non-plastic-protected parts of the handle. Honestly, I’m not neurotic; I simply find layers upon layers of germs (or worse) revolting. But sometimes I don’t think about this dilemma at all and I hold onto the plastic part like everybody else does.

(Do you ever think about these sorts of issues on grocery store sample days when your fingers inevitably wind up in your mouth?)

Anyway, so I’m in the grocery store. I choose my cart. I think about cooties (oh, and here’s the other, less paranoid reason I often grab onto the metal parts–it’s easier to steer a heavy cart that way, kind of like keeping your hands in the underappreciated 10/2 position they teach you in Drivers’ Ed). I ignore the plastic and hold shiny chrome. I walk. I shop. I push. Then I begin to get an itchy sensation in both my palms, but at first it doesn’t register in my mind as significant. I get the feeling again a few moments later, but this time I notice that the sensation is prickly, like static electricity, only it’s surging. I decide to push on the plastic cootie part. Later, I absently revert back to grasping metal and as I stand, not walk, looking over a shelf of goods, I feel a current actually biting at my palms. Am I crazy? The feeling grows more intense and becomes painful. Back to the plastic I go, and by now I’m all attention and wondering what the devil is going on. It happens maybe a half dozen or more times while I shop, regardless of whether I’m in motion or not. It’s never like the usual jolt from built-up static. What is this? If I’d been receiving some sort of electrical therapy, I’d have asked the nurse to turn down the power a notch or two; it was a bit too much for me. Nobody else in the store seemed troubled in the least. Is this as weird as I think it is?

*************************

Good contacts with others today:

•ran into my neighbor, Anna, in the grocery store parking lot and handed off my magical mystery cart to her (yes, I warned her)
•Emily’s mom acted as her proxy and brought me a raspberry charlotte from the French bakery this morning–I was out shopping at the time, but I snarfed that charlotte in the afternoon, all by myself (luckless Rob was in Salt Lake on business)
•my out-of-towner cousin, Casey, surprised me with a visit today
•a phone call from my off-the-mainland sister-in-law, Becca
•Irina and her girlies came over to play my piano
•Irina and I practiced our love brokering skills on Casey and laid plans to work a deal with a nice Russian woman Irina knows
•took a two-mile walk with Debby, then shared a dinner of leftovers and some good conversation with her
•bumped into Liz and then later Eric, who are both training for a marathon, at the indoor track
•talked and laughed with Rob at the end of the day

*************************

This morning Rob told me about a dream he had last night. He met Bjork somewhere but wasn’t at all intimidated by her. She was having some kind of trouble and he carried her, drooping, to our house and brought her in. I was there too. He thought it was an odd dream. Later in the day I remembered that dream and something about it triggered my thoughts about adoption. A little shiver of a thrill passed through me. I don’t know that that is connected to anything; it was probably my imagination pulling a trick. But I did look up Icelandic adoptions tonight on the internet, and I did find out we’re probably not qualified. Too bad. I’ve been thinking a lot about cute Icelandic babies today. *sigh*

Neutrality

Valerie Kack-Brice, from For She is the Tree of Life: Grandmothers through the Eyes of Women Writers:

“As a psychotherapist I have seen many women who have struggled to heal their loss of childhood. I began to see, as in my own life, a thread of powerful memories involving grandmothers woven throughout their lives. Some women are grateful for the modeling and support their grandmothers gave. As children, many were desperate for the connection to a loving presence, relieved to have structure and routine from a mature caregiver. For many, snapping peas and kneading dough were simple activities that slowed the pace of life and marked significantly the passage of time shared between granddaughter and grandmother. In these moments grandmothers transmitted history, wisdom, practical information, and concern to [granddaughters]. For many women, their grandmother’s care served as a balm for mistreatment and loneliness; grandmother became healer to the wounded spirit.

“For other women, grandmother is a frightening presence. She is abrupt or overbearing, distant or cool. And sometimes her criticism motivates decisions toward a particular profession, lifestyle or behavior. Again, even in the disappointment of an unsupportive grandmother, women gain potent lessons about loving. Either in joy of her caring or the sorrow of her criticism, women find healing. Grandmother is rarely a neutral moniker.”

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My Tenacious List of Positives to Neutralize a Hard Day

•getting a call from Leslie and enjoying his funny and caring 15-minute chat
•getting my blood test results and learning that my level is about where it should be be at this point
•finding six simple white curtain panels and their tie-backs (gratefully received living room first aid) at the thrift store
•also finding a duplicate copy of a favorite book, Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Stories for Children, one I can give to Christine as a baby gift
•coming home after a long day of errands with Gram to find that Marianne had kindly left a wonderful dinner for me and my family on the doorstep–food so colorful, fresh, and ample that when I peeked into the containers I cried
•Yasmir also showing up with her latest kitchen creation–so sweet of her even though I am mercurially opposed to tuna fish
•knitting and realizing that silk must be one of the fibers in the mystery yarn I’m working with
•watching the documentary Spellbound with Rob
•Rob not having to work late
•watermelon, deseeded
•the liberating ability to read
•listening to an uplifting radio broadcast while I worked in the kitchen
•discovering KnitKnit

My life as a cookie

Morning: Me, on the couch. Rob and I studied together there, my head in his lap. I cried. Rob did what he could to comfort me–offered kind words and wrapped me up in a true 70s palette tied and appliquéd quilt my mother made years ago. He brought me a hot mug of rice milk and Pero which I forgetfully left on the floor, so it got cold while I rested. I wrote in my study journal, snuffled a bit, and went to sleep. Ladybug emerged from her Gram-cave at her usual hour, just past 9:00am, and energetically woke me up to ask me if I was sick and to lay into me for not getting enough rest. After that irony and some other items of fussing business, she left me alone again to do my job–rest, already!–and drink my cold Pero milk.

Mid-day: I stood in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, counting down the minutes left (under ten, finally) until I could leave the house and go with Rob to drive Bryce to the airport so he could catch his plane to England. Rob appeared behind me in the mirror and told me Bryce’s dad had volunteered to drive him. “I’m disappointed,” I said foamily. Rob had no idea. Since the ironic couch time my heart had been leaping at the thought of an escape–but even more than an escape–a big city lunch, Middle Eastern or maybe Indian, a quick trip to the my favorite local yarn shop, and time to hang out with Rob once Bryce was delivered to his flight. Rob had no idea.

Lunch: Thoughtful Rob suggested we slip away for lunch anyhow. While I waited for him to reach a stopping point in his work, I fielded a call from Dr. S.’s office. Her nurse talked with me about tests and such, and while conversing with her, I decided for sure that I would cancel my appointment with Dr. L. All along, even when I was still pregnant, there was something about the thought of going this doctor that made me uneasy. I really felt hesitant when the first thing Dr. L.’s nurse talked to me about–over the phone, the day I began to bleed, even before we knew for certain I was losing the baby–was coming in for a D&C. That turned me off at once. That’s not Plan A in my book, nor is it Plan B; it’s the last resort. So I decided, and have no doubts about the decision, that I will do whatever I may need to do with Dr. S. I cancelled the appointment with Dr. L., and soon after, Rob was ready to go. We buffeted at Red Lantern. I began to comprehend that my depression wasn’t lifting, in spite of the pleasant company and not having to cook. Even wasabi and pickled ginger didn’t dislodge the growing heaviness. Even Rob’s company didn’t. The beautiful orange wedge I ate last brightened me with surprise, but it was a short-lived thrill. How did our fortunes read this time? Rob’s cookie said, “You may attend a party where strange customs prevail.” I remarked that at all of the parties we go to strange customs prevail. Rob agreed and suggested that maybe the fortune was merely giving him permission to go. My cookie said, “Nature, time and patience are the three great physicians.” And naturally, I started to cry again.

Afternoon: Rob drove me to the hospital where I dully checked in at the lab, answered questions, signed my name, and politely said, “Thank you. Thank you. Oh, yes, please, I would like a copy. Thank you.” I read the form which authorized my quantitative blood test–how many of these have I had?–and in the bottom left corner of the page, in big letters, was written, MISCARRIAGE. I felt uncomfortable holding it, tried to spontaneously evaporate the tears that were collecting in my eyes, and fidgeted. My name was called. While Rob waited in the lobby, I went down the familiar hall to the blood-sucking room and a girl who wouldn’t speak to me stuck a needle in my arm in such a way that I had to look and see for myself that it wasn’t stabbed all the way through to the other side. I could barely get out of the claustrophobic phlebotomy cave before I was really crying. I rushed out of the hospital holding onto Rob’s arm. He tried to notice mild funny things around us and call my attention to them on the way out.

Moments later: Rob asked me if I’d like to go with him to do some errands. Oh, yes, if it means I can be with you and not have to go home now. Yes. A building supply store? Sounds wonderful–I’ll wait in the car and listen to the radio. There are times when station-hopping is a desirable pastime.

And the train conductor says,
“Take a break, Driver 8,
Driver 8, take a break.
We can reach our destination,
But we’re still a ways away”

I eventually settled on a community radio station that was playing a lot of odd stuff like I used to listen to back when I cared. I sat in the car with my feet on the dashboard, and ruminated on how my legs could go brown from mid-calf down if I sat there long enough. And I sat a long time, but it felt nothing like waiting. What’s this song then? Somebody obviously likes Brian Eno . . . and Robert Smith . . . and David Byrne . . . and that somebody should have tried writing more than one verse for this droning song. I can’t describe the feeling of flatness that overtook me. But it wasn't the music's fault.

When Rob finally returned, empty-handed: He wanted to go to another lumber place. He was in a hurry to get back to work. I was on empty. Partway home, he suggested we go and buy hanging petunias that we’ve been talking about putting in front of the kitchen window, for the hummingbirds. He turned around and headed north again, to our favorite nursery. It was hard for me to think clearly enough to choose, but it was a pleasure to walk through the rooms full of so many colors and shapes. Can you see how Rob got more than one gold star today? We managed to choose one pot of petunias after walking in circles a few times; it was full of magenta blossoms. I apologized for taking so long, and Rob replied that he was happy to be there because I was taking an interest in something. That startled me. Then I said no to an $8 package of ladybugs and we went home.

Late afternoon: Gram was not happy at home. I took her with me to our garden-on-loan to sit in the shade of the grape arbor while I planted beans. I thought it might lift her spirits. While I put Romano seeds into the ground, a very light, pretty rain began to fall though the sun was cheerfully out, and I couldn’t see one trace of a dark cloud. There wasn’t enough rain to get us any sort of wet, but Gram grumbled. After we got home, I asked her to help me pull out some hens-and-chicks starts for our neighbor, Crucella. She showed more enthusiasm for that project; I let her boss me, and that seemed to improve her mood.

Evening: We all skipped dinner–rather, Rob and I skipped dinner and Gram skipped "supper". Come to think of it, Gram skipped her “dinner” today too, choosing to gorge on ice cream and strawberries instead of buckling down with something sandwichy. We had Family Home Evening. I realized that a situation which gives Gram air time for rehearsing her stories is one of the few kinds of situations which please her. Okay, I already knew that, but it hit me with a fresh emphasis. Gram wants to talk and craves rapt, assenting, even submissive attention. Talk is about all she’s got left that she is always willing and able to do. It was Rob's week to be in charge of FHE, so after we did a little reading aloud together, Rob took us on a field trip to the library, in spite of Gram’s inertia-laden protests. He introduced her to the westerns section of the video collection and she picked up six, though she refused to consider getting her own library card. I signed up for the adult summer reading program and came home with knit and crochet books to look through, plus three I might actually read, just for fun and interest–Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation; For She is the Tree of Life: Grandmothers through the Eyes of Women Writers; and Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. Why is guilt an obstacle when I’m choosing books these days? I’ve gotten out of the habit of indulging in a good recreational read. Must fix that.

Night: Rob had to work in the studio tonight to make up for time he spent with me today. I stayed in the house and listened to a rebroadcast of a wonderful radio program about pianist Eileen Joyce. A recording of her playing some lyric pieces by Grieg was fantastically gorgeous. I’d love to get a copy for our own library. As I soaked her music in, I started knitting myself a summer triangle scarf.

It's surprising, but even hard days go by fast anymore; my life speeds away. But I can console myself that the passage of time, as my cookie of the day kindly reported, is a reliable healer.

Moments in love

Today was my mother's birthday. She would have been 67. Today was also the first time in eleven years that Gram has ever needed to be reminded of the date; usually she heavily confronts me with the announcement of it in a way that suggests to my mind hard expectation. The fact that she actually forgot, even for a day, was a terribly telling point in her deterioriation, a dismal pulse-check. I didn't know what else to do with her, so I suggested we stop for lunch at Pete’s, my treat, on our way to my in-laws' house. Rob met us at the diner and we ate our usual heartburn-inducing fare: hamburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger. Gram looked a little lost, but we all made an effort to be cheerful.

My sister- and brother-in-law, Heidi and Todd, are in town with their four young children for the weekend. Gram and I drifted over to Tribal Headquarters--my in-laws' house--after having our lunch and visited a while. I felt stupidly mute in that family setting, though I love them all very much and am so glad to see them again. I did brush Heidi’s long strawberry tresses for her, which she seemed to consider a treat. It was a nice way to hang out with her. Also, I did spend some time playing with the three older kidlets in their room downstairs and taught them how to make balloons sing and talk. That was lots of fun and good noisy bonding, though after a while I'd nearly sprained my head blowing up bright bubbles again and again and again and again and again. My little chorus of latex screechers wasn’t very enthusiastically received by the upstairs portion of the gathered family--but who can blame the adults for wincing when we decided to take our show on tour? I guess some music really is meant to stay underground.

Sweet moon-faced Maggie was wearing a great new thrift store find--a black and orange Halloween witch costume, complete with wilted pointy hat--so naturally to finish out our afternoon play-date properly I had to let her work some hoodoo on me; she put me to sleep, fed me a little poison, chopped me up, and cooked me into a rather nice auntie stew. Of course, I didn't get to taste me, but Maggie said I was delicious.

Dangerous spuds

WHOOOOMMP! That’s the sound a russet potato makes when it blows up in your oven. It’s a dense, fast, surprising sound, a lot like the one a gas burner makes when it doesn’t ignite right away and then bangs out a fireball with all the wasting gas that collects around the stovetop. At first I couldn’t identify the alarming sound--thought perhaps it was a backfire of some sort--so I peeped into the oven and found that one of my four baking spuds had spewed its innards all over the interior. Its skin was almost perfectly cleaned out. Did I poke holes in it before it began to cook? Yes, I poked holes in all four potatoes. I remember, because I was doing it at an awkward angle and I was a little worried about accidentally stabbing my left hand while it held those russets still.

I called Rob in from the studio, and Gram in from her toob-watching room, so they could inspect the damage. “Did you poke holes?” “Yes! I poked holes!” Rob went back to work. Gram went back to watching the toob. I went back to cooking and moments later . . . FWHHOOOOOOOMMMPP!! Another pomme de terre blasted to smithereens, louder than the first. I placed a second intercom call to Rob. I told Gram, who fearfully insisted I should take the rest of the potatoes out of the oven. I was afraid to touch the others. I pictured myself catching a third explosion of hot starch right in the face, burns all over. I turned off the oven and waited till I thought it was safe. What a mess. Rob came in and ate the empty potato skins with olive oil and kosher salt and said they were perfect.

Nice that we have a self-cleaning oven.

Fortune cookies

Gram and I took a walk/wheelchair roll today and had lunch at Chuck-A-Rama (her choice, not mine). It was Chinese buffet day . . . scary! I grabbed some fortune cookies for us. Mine was nothing astounding, though it could easily set me to dreaming: “You will take a trip with a friend.” Gram's response was, “Well, we already done that today.” Gram eagerly cracked open her cookie and it mysteriously asserted: “You will join with an old, forgotten friend.” We were both surprised by this, and I could tell Gram was very pleased at the promise (albeit a mass-produced one) of some excitement. We agreed she should keep her fortune so she stuffed it into her purse. Right away I thought, “That means Gram’s going to die. She’s going to see Poppa, or maybe someone else from long ago who’s waiting for her on the other side.” Gram’s thoughts turned naturally to the prospect of husband #5, “Maybe that old fella who lives next door to Sis . . . ?” I reminded her that she’d never met him before, and that fact disqualified him. She then pondered aloud whether or not she might meet up again with “Felix the Cat”–the boy who in her teens tried to woo her with bad love poetry. She rejected him back then, despite his amorous intentions, terrific car, and wealthy family, but I guess 70-some years and several pairs of prism glasses later he starts looking a little bit better. She considered a whole lineup of different friends, male and female, and muttered the likes of: “What ain’t dead’s in nursings homes” and “Oh well, I guess I outlived ‘em all”.

As she went through these memory maneuvers, the thought occurred to me that perhaps a great-grandchild was the old, forgotten friend that Gram would join with. (Of course I know that cookies aren’t true oracles, but how can I help but play at comprehending our so-called fortunes?) Maybe she’ll be around for the arrival of a long-awaited child--our child--a someday creature who once walked and talked with her in a brighter realm. I didn’t share this thought with her; I kept it to myself until I could say it quietly to Rob. Naturally, any child of mine would be an old friend of Gram’s. I believe that’s how it works.

But the child's not here yet, so we can't quite test the hypothesis.

Bob-bob-bobbing along

Remember? "Discipline starts with a haircut."

Yeah, but it's gotta be a GOOD haircut. I finally got one today, I think. We'll see how well I shape up from here.

Nothing could be finer than to eat lunch in a diner

I've got urpy heartburn, even nine hours and one well-behaved home-cooked supper past lunch. That'll teach me to deviate from the usual cheeseburger and fries that I eat when Gram asks to go to the one local greasy spoon she finds acceptable. I will remember to never again order one of the lunch plates at Pete's. Country-fried steak, for crying out loud! Everything submerged in gravy! What was I thinking? To be honest, I must admit that I was thinking, "Hey this time I'll really get into the true spirit of the American diner!" I thought I'd branch out. I should have seen it coming, this heartburn. Ecch. But it could have been worse. I nearly ordered liver and onions. And I HATE liver and onions. You see how the whole experience overtook me?

Aw! I have to cut this short. Here's another item I want to write about here, later but soon: the insane bird at the dentist's office.

Write or wrong

"That which we persist in doing becomes easier to do; not that the nature of the thing is changed, but our power to do is increased." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

"Every principle God has revealed carries its own conviction of its truth to the human mind." (Brigham Young)

"If ye continue in my word then are ye my disciples indeed; And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." (Holy Bible, John 8:31-32)

I'd really like to be writing about a remembrance I had today during church, but I will have to wait until tomorrow or later; sleep calls me. The quotes above are some I encountered this morning as I did some personal study in the quiet moments before Gram woke up. They impressed me with their rightness.

A scripture that was printed in today's sacrament meeting program also struck me, and seemed to point the finger of challenge in my face: 'Neglect not the gift that is in thee." (Holy Bible, 1 Timothy 4:14) The first and only thing that leapt into my mind at that moment was writing. I'm not asserting that I'm a great writer. I am saying that writing for me is usually a more reliable tool of clear communication than any other I possess. I feel most myself when I am writing regularly, and in so many ways it's a blessing to me. It helps me sort out my life, and find balance and peace. It helps me remember. It helps me know myself and make my plans and sometimes laugh when I get too bogged down. It's late now, and I won't explore this more, except to say that, in my opinion, writing and reading are sacred powers. I deeply appreciate the ability to do both. I feel in my guts the need to invest more time nurturing my gift for writing. It makes no sense to neglect something that consistently yields real joy and clarity, and also leaves a record of a life that's as important as any other. I want to get back to journalling, writing, corresponding, and yeah, even blogging here and there.

Rock, scissors, pussy willow

I should have learned by now, after over two decades straight spent in Utah, that the first week of March is not the time to pack away pullovers and Sorels. There's another freeze coming, at least one, no doubt about it. But how can I persuade myself that this lovely warmth is no more than a teasing preview, when my brain is so ready for spring cleaning and my heart is popping out all over with tiny buds of eager greenness. I can't stand it any longer; winter simply must be over for the year, and that's final! Are you listening to me, weather? I want a new season! Coop me up further and I'll bust down the walls, I will!

First thing this morning I spent some quality time with the rest of my lavender plants, and now they are all feeling well-disciplined after their yearly haircuts. The air was a fresh, healthy kind of chilly and the sun was comforting on my back as I worked. I took a good turn working outside again today; what timely therapy for my mental claustrophobia.

I resurrrected an old metal box--about 5 cubic feet of metal box--that my sister-in-law left behind when she got married and moved out of our house. Rob and I rode our bikes down to Home Base and Burleyed back about 80 pounds of nice new garden soil for that box. As soon as I get drainage holes drilled, I will fill that baby with all kinds of nasturtium seeds, and then won't our salads have a pretty kick this year!

I finally had an inspiration for the awful narrow strip of muscari-infested earth next to our driveway: a rock garden! The plan, which didn't reach completion today but is already well-underway, is to dig up as much of the muscari and friends as possible, then choke out the rest with a weed cloth which will be covered by big rocks from our back yard and side yard, the rocks the former owners of this house left behind, the rocks we have never figured out what to do with until now. Yipee! We're solving multiple problems at once! So far it looks great.

Just one more spout about plants and then I'm going to bed. Rob and I stole away for a while this evening, at twilight, and went to our secret spot where we harvest pussy willows each year, and . . . well, we harvested. We were afraid that our willows would be too tall this year for us to reach the softly fuzzed branches, but with one of us gently holding down limbs and the other clipping, we were able to collect enough for a few small bunches. We only managed to cut a handful of long, elegant stems, but they're all so wonderful, even the tinies. It's a dear treat each year, and there's such a small window of opportunity for catching them before they turn yellow with pollen that it always seems a small miracle when we don't arrive too late. It was a sweet thing to do together tonight. This is one of our family traditions. It ushers in spring.

Again, we hauled our treasures home in the Burley. I say our new bike trailer was an absolutely justifiable, worthy investment. I really enjoy using my bike (and my feet) to get me where I need to go. With the Burley , shopping and picnicking and running away and collecting pussy willows have become doable again. Honestly, I don't miss the old Trooper much. I don't even mind riding the bus when my destination is out of reasonable range (i.e., when I have a appointment with my dermatologist three cities away). It's satisfying to be burning calories rather than gasoline. It's sometimes a slower way to do things, but I don't personally feel that is a bad thing.

March Forth (things to do on)

Here it is, the back of the card, and your starter list for joy. Now, get marching!

March Forth

It's my day! It's March Forth! I look forward to my invented holiday all year. This is the day when I try to regroup and move ahead with new energy and big, rejuvenated dreams. In celebration, I spent the late morning and afternoon in my front yard, giving some intensive pruning therapy to my lavender plants, repotting the next generation of Mama's hens & chicks, and transplanting the English daisies from their old cramped homes in a perennial flower bed to private terra cotta and blue ceramic condos. I stayed outside a bit too long, working, perhaps; by late afternoon I had to come in because an awful sick headache had taken hold of me. Probably I was dehydrated. It took me a few hours to get myself straight again, but by evening, Rob and I were ready to flop on the couch together and watch a DVD (Children on their Birthdays--an adaptation of a fun Truman Capote story--decently and cleanly made, so I can almost forgive the rotten southern accents and the period piece oversights).

Anyhow, I've got a greeting card of sorts to share with the world, one that really captures the spirit of March Forth. I found it recently out on a city street corner, where it had obviously been run over a time or two. Before I had even picked it up to inspect it, I experienced a happy shiver of knowing that it was going to be a gem. I wasn't disappointed.

Happy March Forth, everyone! The front of the card, the enigmatic image, waits for your interpretation. Stay tuned for what's on the back of the card.

Haircut

I got my hair, or what's left of it, cut today. My latina neighbor, Veronica, has a blood-colored front room salon in her house. I bravely entered it at 11:15am, with a prayer on my lips that I would not regret going under the knife, so to speak, like I did the last time I paid someone to give me a hack job. She talked cheerfully and steadily in a strong, forcefully optimistic voice. One phrase passed from her mouth into my head not only through my ears but also through my eyes; I saw five of her words come at me in slow, bold, well-defined letters. I recognized Wisdom and wanted to laugh: "Discipline starts with a haircut." She was energetically talking about cutting little boys' hair, but instinct told me this was a personal message. So. Looks like progress is on its way; discipline starts with a bob.

Apologies to Nancy

Nancy Ann C. Yancy. That has got to be one of the funniest names I've ever heard spoken. Say it out loud to yourself and you'll hear how great it is; it's hard to appreciate how comical it is if you only read it. I heard it tonight at a friendly neighborhood Christmas dinner party, once dessert had been served and the jokes and storytelling got really fired up. Nancy is somebody's aunt.

I'm thinking of good things about this day, counting them like dollars earned and ready to be put into emergency savings.

•persuading Gram to eat three meals today
•having the will power to say no to the most tempting dessert I've seen in months
•candlelight, a festive table, and quiet jazz
•sharing a meal and laughter with good people
•being part of a solid neighborhood
•critical catnapping
•hairspray to keep my alopoecia under wraps till my hair can grow back
•recent loving supportive emails
•Brent & Anna's upside-down Christmas tree
•the Stewards' fantastic(ally fattening) rolls
•little moon-faced red-haired girls
•getting a thank you note from the woman I gave my orange chair to, and learning it's a perfect storytelling chair now and that her small daughters call the decorative pillow I also gave them "Queen Elephant"
•paying tithing
•Fast Sunday
•clean teeth
•Cheesy French Kiss-Me-Not sandwiches
•Freecycle
•not having to fight against a chocolate high for precious sleep

The girl with two scarves

She picked out pieces of beef and left the stew, with a transparent excuse. Three cumulative bites maybe, performed in slow, birdy increments for my benefit, a can of vanilla Ensure, and that was supper. I left here feeling discouraged about mothering my grandmother.

But I was on my way to a Christmas dinner with Rob, and since it wasn't my party I couldn't cry if I wanted to, so I tried to shake off the blues and leave them on the road to Tucano's Brazilian Grill. Anyway, I was successfully suited up in my black velveteen side-zip, form-fitted dress that Becca gave me years ago, and even better, I could actually breathe in it. My father-in-law showed up as we were leaving for the party and told me with feeling that I looked beautiful. (There's a special word power that fathers and fathers-in-law possess and wield when they bestow their rare compliments.) I found an old nearly-in-fashion costume brooch to hold myself together with. (Women who aren't into the peekaboo straps fad comprehend, as I do, the value of a well-placed pin.) I wound myself up in the anniversary shawl Rob gave me this year, probably the loveliest piece of apparel I have ever owned.

My point is, I felt sort of pretty for the first time in a very long time, and we were going out for a great meal I didn't have to think of or prepare. We. Best of all.

So, we got to the restaurant, and I though I wasn't particularly glammed, I was overdressed for the occasion. Everyone else was casual. Oh well, I thought, shaking off self-consciousness, it's Christmas. I wanted to look nice for Rob. For me. For a change. What's not to dress up about?

Dinner was so good. The salad bar had me humming little raptures. It seemed like I ate and ate as the guys in black came around and came around and came around with their great skewers of meats (what, me, a vegetarian?) but I never reached the awful point of being uncomfortably stuffed. By the end, all the others in our party looked as if they were becoming dangerous to themselves and encountering some early season holiday self-loathing, but I felt fine. I'll be dreaming of a perfect beef tenderloin and carmelized fresh pineapple for weeks.

What I'll be laughing about for weeks is the image of a little man in black showing up after everyone at our table was beyond finished with the many rounds of voluptuous meats. He presented his sole skewer which held what looked like a string of wooden beads and he asked, "Chicken heart?" As one body, we all stopped our breath, gaped at him, then began to laugh. It was terribly funny and surreal. Rob and I hooted in the parking lot about the various delicacies that could be offered up in such a place. My favorite was, "Pope's nose?"

Aside: My birthday is in April if anybody wants to spring for Tucano's.

After collecting our gifties and exiting, we stopped at WIlliams-Sonoma to browse, and then went to Leslie and Kitty's to check on them. Leslie took a bad fall yesterday while he was out walking. We visited for over an hour. Kitty remarked about my shawl and then started fussing about having something she wanted to give me. She left the room for a time and then reappeared, carrying a bundle wrapped in old tissue paper. What was inside was her own grandmother's bone-colored embroidered silk shawl, a really gorgeous thing. I was quite surprised, as was Rob. Kitty said she'd thought of giving it to her niece, but had decided it wasn't her style. She seemed very sure about giving it to me. Kitty's in her mid-80s; how old could this wonderful shawl be? Kitty thought maybe 150 years. She said she believed it had never been washed. It's wonderful. I put it on around my shoulders and tied it off to the right side, and proper Welsh Kitty said, "You've done it just right." Here's another first for me this week, this doing it right; I seem to do little else besides bumble around Leslie and Kitty. (Isn't it strange how around certain people you consistently become an instant lunkhead, no matter how good are your intentions?)

The really remarkable thing that happened when she gave it to me is that as I accepted it and opened it and then stood to examine it, fold it in half, then try it on, I suddenly recollected very distinctly a dream I'd had, who knows how long ago, about that very moment. I was immediately aware of its memory, one I hadn't consciously maintained. I couldn't place the dream in time, but knew that when I'd dreamt it Kitty and Leslie were still strangers to me. It was such a potent feeling, this dream-remembrance, and I nearly mentioned it, but wasn't sure how to go about speaking of it. I thought maybe Leslie and Kitty would find it too odd, and I didn't know how I would begin to describe what was quickly passing through my mind. It was as if something in my brain simply opened up, or some curtain parted, and I could look into a moment long-since passed and see myself there, perceiving the future. It's impossible, I think, to say this well. This experience, shared by no one else in the room, infused the situation with even greater significance for me. It was like someone ran a highlighter over this part of my life's script and said, "Here's a moment you need to notice and remember always. There's far more here to understand than you can see on the surface."

I went out of the room to a hall mirror and tried on my lovely shawl, around my shoulders, around my hips, embarrassed and pleased. A couple minutes later, the expansive sensation had gone and the feeling of "vision" had departed. The point is still clear to me: I saw this very interaction in a dream, many years ago, and it's of real importance. The dream itself has retreated again into the shadows of my memory and only the general outlines of it stay with me. But I will remember tonight. Kitty's given me her grandmother's shawl. It's a treasure to me and I told her so.

Kitty became embarrassed over having given it to me on a night when I was already wearing my anniversary shawl. I tried to assure her that it was a perfect time, but she still fretted. Leslie tried to comfort her with a joke, saying I would now be known as "the girl with two shawls." I really must let her know somehow about the dream. I think that might help put her dear, proper heart at ease and know a little better how deeply I appreciate this gift.

It's time now for me to dream again. In a few hours, I'll wake up to a beef stew world and I'll have to decide what to do with all the picked-over potatoes and carrots. My scarf will be of butcher-variety cotton, and I'll have it tied around my waist.

Sundog Bed & Burgers

I have arrived.

Today I received unexpected high praise, and hours later, I'm still checking my glory in the mirror. My grandmother, Ladybug, who moved in with me this week, said something to me I never dreamed I'd hear from her. She told me my hamburgers are the best she's had since she's been out here. "Out here" means the state of Utah. "Since" means from 1998 on. For six years she's complained bitterly about the local cuisine. The chicken doesn't taste like it does in North Carolina. The beef doesn't taste like it does in North Carolina. The FOOD in Utah is awful. You can't get anything decent to eat around here. Nobody out here knows what good food tastes like. We can't help it; that's all there is and anyway, we're just used to it. We're blind to the truth. Even I, who grew up in North Carolina, can't tell good food from bad food because I've been out here so long. That's the way it sounds. Only Pizza Hut and McDonald's are the same. (Exaaaaaaactly!)

So, nearly every day that I've talked to Gram for the past 6+ years, I've had these things explained to me with varying degrees of scorn. One of my biggest concerns in moving her in here has been feeding her in a way that (a) pleases her tastebuds as much as possible and (b) will keep her alive and relatively healthy. It's a delicate balance between ambition and realism. The only way I've dreamed up to do this and not kill Rob and me off in the process is to use a double-menu. That's right, a total of six different meal plans every day. For only three adults. I can't see any other way to do it, if Rob and I want to stay predominantly vegetarian, and Gram wants to stay Gram. I try to come up with dishes that are similar enough in structure that it's not a big fat deal to prepare them all in tandem. Still, I'm spending a great deal of time in the kitchen, both physically and mentally. But so far so good. She's been mostly positive and has been eating better overall than before she moved in. She hasn't binged on salt water taffy or made a meal of popsicles yet. I have to admit there are none in the house, but still . . . she's only mentioned taffy once. Dark chocolate Milky Ways, only once. I'll get around to buying that stuff, but I'm not in a huge hurry; I'm hoping she'll ease back into the habit of eating real food before and that her sweets addiction can be minimized. Anway, we're taking it a day at a time.

A few times in the last couple days she's told me that I'm turning out to be a good cook. You really have no idea just how huge a statement that is, coming from her, when she means it. Food is her life. Truth. And as far as cooking for an old southern country cook goes, I am flying by the seat of my pants, anxiously studying Fannie Farmer like it's holy writ, like my soul's salvation depends on it. I am NOT genuinely a good cook in Gram's world. There, I'm a total poseur. It took me most of the night to make a beef stew for tomorrow.

I am a good cook, however, in Mollie Katzen's world.

So today you might say I was named Burger Queen by the reigning local food critic. Would you believe I had to look up a recipe for hamburgers to make sure I was doing it right?

She ate a whole quarter pounder, with onions and mustard and a toasted sesame seed bun. That never even happens at McDonald's. In your face, evil Ronald!

Overcoming blog atrophy

I've been really focused on personal matters lately. Though I've been journalling furiously in my private pages for over a week, I haven't had much left over to invest in this public blog. I've thought about posting, but by the time I get through with my nightly brain-dump that is not intended for general consumption, I'm ready to pass out and be done for the day. Last night I was whacking away at the keyboard till 1:00am and later, and I had to get up early for church this morning. Sacrificing so much sleep to write was a bad idea. Staying up even later to blog would've ruined this whole day. I'm slow as molasses when I write, though you'd probably never guess it from the end result.

Anyhow, for the moment, I'm enjoying a break from the craziness of the week. Sunday afternoons are usually quiet at my house. Rob's out doing some visits, and the dog's securely child-gated away in the back of the house. It's nice and peaceful. I should take a nap, as this is the best opportunity of the week to do so, but somehow I just can't persuade myself. I'm the kind of tired that makes me feel contrary and irritable. Somebody, bonk me in the head with a rubber mallet, cartoon-style, so I can rest!

Have I mentioned here already, explicitly, that Gram is moving in with us in two weeks? This and a few other concerns are occupying most of my brain space and virtually every waking moment of my days. We are in the middle of reorganizing the entire house, practically, to make room for her. Our bedroom and office both must go downstairs now, into our mostly unfinished basement. Anyone who's ever seen my basement is going to begin praying now, fervently, for our deliverance from evil. Gram will have a bedroom at the back of the house, and next to it, a "sitting room", aka t.v. room, where she can watch the toob as much as she feels she needs to and also entertain her many friends. Being upstairs will keep her convenient to the bathroom and the kitchen, and to my dog, Izzy. Gram adores Izzy like nobody else does. It's going to be a terrific change of lifestyle for all of us, Izzy included.

Other pressing projects include beginning to solicit and hopefully gather and assemble writings and photos for our annual ward history. I've also been asked by our bishop to organize a massive, ongoing oral history project for the ward. The idea is to start with the elderly people in the ward and then find those who have moved away but are still accessible, and get their life stories on tape and transcribed for a permanent collection. I recently turned in a proposal for a system and schedule that will see us through next year. This morning, the bishop approved it. The basic structure is: (1) I teach the instructors about the process of interviewing and transcription. (2) The instructors teach (in both english and spanish) short classes on interviewing and transcription to individuals, small groups, or families chosen for the work by the bishop and myself. (3) The interviewers contact the persons who have been invited to share their life stories, and the interviews and any necessary follow-up interviews are conducted. (4) The tapes are brought to me for duplication, and I stash one copy safely away in the perma-files. (5) The tapes are delivered to the transcriptionists who prepare a written record of the interviews. (6) The written records come back to me for inclusion in the annual ward history (and possibly other places as well). This cycle will repeat quarterly, and near the end of the year, the idea is to have a fireside or banquet honoring those people whose life stories we gathered, and to encourage everyone to get involved in personal and family history. I think as the process gets going, I will submit appropriate excerpts from these oral histories to the monthly ward newsletter, so people can feel more excitement about the project all through the year.

I've got a whole lot of work to get done by year's end. Never mind getting ready for Christmas.

I'm determined, though, to enjoy the Christmas spirit this year, and not give in to the seasonal schlock and pressure and commercialism. I'm going to keep it a simple affair and spend my energy on the parts that matter: loving and feeling thankful. I refuse to be distressed by the herds of electric reindeer that have already started invading our valley.

Monday before last, I went thrift shopping with Gram and found a five dollar Christmas tree. It's not bad! Okay, it's bad in the sense that it's not a real tree, but our money is even tighter this year than it was last year, thanks in large part of to the onslaught of surgery bills, and last year we decorated our sickly Norfolk Island pine tree a la Charlie Brown. As resourceful and charming as that was, I'd like to be prepared with a somewhat more attractive option this year. I guess whether or not my five dollar thrift store tree is more attractive is debatable, but anyway, it made me feel better to bring it home. Now Gram will move in after Thanksgiving, and after we get her properly snugged in we'll be all set to go on our first home project together: gussying up for Christmas 2004. That ought to pre-empt toob consumption for a while. I can hope.

On that same shopping trip, I found a pair of knee-high lace-up boots, brown, Eddie Bauer, for another five bucks. They reminded me of some boots I saw in the latest issue of Vogue Knitting; they were worn by a poncho model wearing a fabulous handmade recycled jeans skirt, and carrying a guitar like it was an accessory. I'm not convinced yet that the boots I found look better than, say, wrestling boots on my particularly curvy calves, but they're great boots anyhow. I guess if I eventually give up on them, or on my calves' compatibility with them, they'd be good candidates for selling on eBay. Hmph.

I'm supposed to be taking part in a talent show/dinner for the women in my ward this Tuesday. A nice girl named Angela called me today to ask what I would be performing so she could list it in the program. Me? Perform? I had a good laugh over that one. Angela was content with a commitment from me to produce some kind of display table that the rest of the group could enjoy before and after the meal and show. So, what'll it be? What should I put out there for general ogling? Knitting. Marbling. Photography. Sewing. Maybe if I get brave, a writing sample. What else do I know how to do that's worth displaying? I'm taking some food too to add to the pot luck meal, and I'm planning to swim upstream on that one and make something spicy and vegetarian, maybe an indian curry. That's my subversive talent on display, I suppose; I feel compelled to kick against public meat-and-potatoes sometimes.

I've been blogging a while now. I think it's time for a nap.

Dreaming of Daffodil

This dream was first shared by Becca on a family email list back in February of this year, about six months before she gave birth to her 3rd child, and her first brunette.

speaking of dreams, i also had my first baby dream this week: a dark-haired, dark-eyed, wondering, diapered little thing whose sex remains a mystery. i have also (i think!) begun to feel the baby move.

Today she says of her dream: "I think it is kind of interesting now that I can see this baby. At the time I remember thinking, 'how funny, couldn't be this baby.' Now, excepting the eye-color thing which may still be determined, it is a pretty good description. I kind of like thinking that maybe I got a little glimpse of her!"

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2 Imported Comments:

DogMan said...
I liked your pages... You seem like a thoughtful and insightful person. Have a great day!

19/4/05 2:09 PM


Jamie said...
Georgia, every night since I miscarried I have dreamt about losing the girls. The first night, Rich dreamed that, too. Every night it's a different scenario, but every night it's the same horrifying plot--we have lost one of the girls or one is stolen, left behind, or dying. Usually there is a happy ending (we are all reunited safe and unharmed), or else I wake up before the resolution because I am so stressed out by the dream. In the daytime I feel perfectly fine, but somewhere my mind must be working things out. Your thoughts?

9/11/05 10:50 PM

False alarm

Never mind what I said yesterday about emailing me to become a so-called "team member" of this blog. (By now, that message is gone, so if you didn't see it the first time around, just ignore the rest of this post.) I discovered that in my aargh-ing about spammers I missed noticing one very lovely feature of Blogger, and that is the itty bitty trash can icon that shows up next to comments left here. I can give spammers the boot when they leave junk messages. So, I've changed the settings back to open commenting, to make it simple for you should you ever wish to respond to anything you read here. Hurray!

Mixing business and pleasure

"Mankind was my business."
—Jacob Marley

Today was another great proof to me that service to others can really be fun. I went with a friend of mine to an elementary school in a small town some twenty miles south of my city, and helped her perform a shadow puppet theater of Where the Wild Things Are. We met at her house at 11:30 this morning and worked until we got our timing and staging down, at which point my throat was really sore, after repeated and energetic roaring, teeth-gnashing, and eye-rolling solos on behalf of the Wild Things. (I wonder if I was typecast?) We shared a quick but pleasant curry and wild rice lunch, then braved the cold rain and loaded up our mysterious travelling show. We drove with the heater blasting at our feet while a chill came in at freeway speed through the rear window, which was rolled down to accomodate the too-big-for-Emily's-car framed theater screen.

The only landmark we were given to help us know where to turn once we exited the main road and reached this town was a VOTE HUNTSMAN/HERBERT lawn sign.

We were greeted in the parking lot by a woman wearing an electric purple downy feather crown; she was Emily's sister, Amy, the schoolteacher who'd invited us. We rushed inside with our precious cargo and rearranged the room so the floor could fit 40 wide-eyed first graders who would soon arrive and need space to "sit on their pockets" (for some reason it's no longer okay to say "rear end" or "bum" or "bottom" or whatever you like to call that part of the anatomy that gives shape to back pockets). We invented a stage stand using a low bookshelf and a green flannel sheet, and rested our white screen atop it. We hung our shop light from a ceiling vent, with a single paper clip. We fluffed and plumped and nestled and arranged and rearranged, and we practiced. Finally, it was time for the show.

The children from two classes poured in, all curiousity and ssshhhhhhhh and peeking, as Emily and I waited behind the screen for our introduction. The "friends", as their teacher called them, allowed themselves to be subdued and instructed: "Whenever you see the Wild Things, do whatever they do. When they roar, you roar! When they gnash their teeth, you gnash your teeth! When they roll their eyes, you roll your eyes!" All were in agreement and so we went forth with our interactive production with great energy and style. I must mention here that the main part of our soundtrack was an old Dead Can Dance song. Really, it was quite perfect!

The performance was a good one, and all of us Wild Things had sore throats by the end of it. We served popcorn, then another helper arrived with her guitar and led the children in singing a simple Halloween song and added lots of verses about witches, bats, ghosts, creatures, spiders, and candy. The children were given a choice: Which ghoulish thing that we just sang about would you like to turn into your own shadow puppet? The excited groups set to work, wielding crayons and scissors, and they made magic with their black construction paper. I floated, helped, adored. When everyone was finished creating, we had a puppet parade. The teacher had set up a long screen of butcher paper which was backlit by three overhead projectors. The children sat before the screen as one by one the groups slipped behind it and performed a true wild rumpus while the whole group sang again the Halloween song. Then, they cleaned up, asked us questions and told us the names of their favorite books, sang us a witch song and closed the afternoon's sharing with a pretty prompted thank you. With a lot of encouragement they did their getting-ready-to-go-home rituals. Six-year-old by six-year-old, they--and the bright superheroes they nearly all carried on their backs--were excused.

It's something amazing to experience, a first-grade classroom. I think it would break my heart, delight me, and drive me crazy to lead such a tender, struggling little group five days a week, every week. Wow. I admire them all, children and teachers alike.

Emily and I will perform this puppet play again on the 29th for a neighborhood children's party. I'd better pamper my vocal chords for the next week, because I know many of the children who will be there and I can vouch that they are expert Wild Things already. The rumpus will be legendary.

Here's something funnny. One of the little boys at the elementary school was a dead ringer for George W. Bush. Now, that was spooky!

From where I stand

This next bit isn't likely to make me excessively popular, but as this is obviously a time of great political wrestlings, and talk about priorities hangs thickly in the air, I think it's good for me to define my own position, as it is now less than two weeks before our national election. I am and will remain in listening mode up till the time I go to cast my votes, but I'm listening carefully for specific points, and for me, that's immeasurably helpful. It's not my intention to squash or offend anyone.

I had a strange dream a couple nights ago, one that's impressed me with the importance of sharing what little bit I can with confidence say I know, in spite of my lack of impressive intellectual power and my often frail example of living deliberately and well.

There are so many worthy issues to consider, to lose sleep over, and to work hard for. It's tough to know how best to put them in order of importance and complete the puzzle that is responsible and faithful citizenry. I'm convinced that it's impossible to without error comprehend all of the motivations and levels of integrity possessed by present and potential government leadership. It's worth exhaustive efforts to try and keep trying to get that information, but who can ultimately say what is 100% true? The contenders for power begin to look much the same in this often unsavory race. Like so many others, I am more than sorry that there will be no one on this year's ballot who adequately represents me and who will fight for all of my concerns.

I find I am forced to have to choose one issue from among the many which are important to me, so I will have a sound foundation upon which I can gather materials and build effective discernment. I have to reconcile inside myself which point of agreement I absolutely must be able to count on, first and foremost, for further discussion to continue, and for my allegiance to still be willingly offered.

As I've looked for any available secrets to understanding, one analogy has kept coming back and back to my mind. I think of our nation (and on a smaller scale, my own local community) simply as a household, a family. I compare political issues with the equivalent problems a family has to continually face and resolve. To me, there's such great correlation. How do we handle our money? How do we treat our family members? How are basic decisions made, and who makes them? How do we treat our neighbors? How do we provide for our own needs? How do we go about assisting others, or intervening in their problems? What are our standards for keeping our home clean and in order? Who pays the bills? How and what do we contribute to the beauty and safety of our neighborhood? How do we handle disputes? How do we take care of our own physical and mental health? What do we do with our aging grandparents or other disabled family members? What kind of education do we seek, and where, and when? What's the balance of responsibility in our home? Who's allowed to live here, and under what conditions? What is our attitude toward charity? disaster? success? punishment? communication? There are so many more questions that need asking and answering. A thinking person, a responsible family member, eventually gets around to worrying about them all. Which issue lies closest to the heart?

For some, it is the environment. For others, it is health care. For others still, it is foreign relations, personal rights, education, employment, domestic affairs, gender issues, or social programs. For me, it is the preservation of the family itself. I suppose this is that uncomfortable point where some of my friends and family members and I will, with mixed emotions, separate to journey down our different paths, but with respect to their views and without apology for my own, I feel to say that by "family" I only mean the traditional family, the one that grows from the legal and divinely-designed bond of marriage between a man and a woman.

I return to the nation as household in a global neighborhood analogy. What could persuade me the fastest to break with my own household, to sever fundamental relationship ties? If I was married to a man brimful of faults, which of those, if any, would I find 100% intolerable from the first moment I recognized it? On which point would I be willing to yield no compromise? What would inspire me fastest to pack up the children and get out? I have discovered that for me there is indeed an issue upon which all else hinges. That husband, that commander-in-chief, or that local leader, will not receive my loyalty or deference who does not above all other concerns protect the family itself, through clearly defining and committedly defending its integrity. There are so many other points to consider, but not until this one is settled.

That's how it is with me. All else falls in line after this primary consideration. The configuration and safety of the family is the first point of accountability that a candidate needs to own and address when I'm the one asking the questions, and just as all the rest of you are so anxiously doing, I am definitely asking questions at this critical time in our history.

Byte-ing my toenail

I was talking to Rob this evening and something he said brought back a funny vignette from last night's dream-fare.

I was studying one of my toes and realized with surprise that I had let its nail grow so long that it had prettily and carefully curled over the top of that toe, following its contour smoothly and exactly, as if it had been seeking camouflage and self-preservation. The nail had grown almost to the point of beginning a downward turn toward the underside of my toe. I felt some panic as I touched (and admired) the nail and realized it was going to be really difficult to cut with clippers now.

Low-brow miscellanea

I learned something tonight. The Welsh word for fart is bram, as in Bram Stoker. Really, it's true! Check my documentation: Dylan Thomas: A New Life by Andrew Lycett, p. 37. What a revelation, and how serendipitous, seeing as how I'm currently listening to the unabridged book-on-tape version of Dracula by Bram Stoker--now known by me as Fart Stoker, which I find absolutely hilarious. Call me crass. I don't care!

I meant to make a note last week of my latest fancy drink invention. It started when my next-door neighbor, who sometimes likes to try "witch doctoring" me with aromatherapy oils and related therapies, gave me a big spendy bottle of a magical fruit juice blend, and rehearsed to me some other people's testimonials about how it cured their cancer and depression. For a few days, I remembered to take a shot before each meal, and while I didn't notice any sort of physical or emotional transformation, I did appreciate that the dark nectar had a pleasant enough flavor. At least it didn't offend me with that musty bellybutton taste that is the key note in Tahitian Noni Juice. Gack! Well, our groceries were low enough one day that I had to get really creative with the few remaining ingredients in the fridge. I like making fruit smoothies, and I had some yogurt and rice milk on hand, so I poured them into the blender with a generous shot of my happy juice, and voila! An exotic drink! I didn't realize until a bit later that what I had created was actually brilliant enough to consider contacting the Patent Office. Get this: Berry Young Juice + plain yogurt + rice milk = a Berry Young Lassi! I nearly laughed myself sick over that one. Then, when the phrase "You are what you eat" got stuck in my head, I yukked it up even harder. Isn't it nice to enjoy an unintentionally clever moment? Those just don't come around often enough.

I still need to reveal the winners of my two psychology tests from back in September. I did write about the results in a longer post I meant to include in the blog earlier this month, but before I could get that entry saved, I guess I pushed when I should have shoved and I lost it, along with the gumption to re-write. Anyway, I awarded to Jamie a full sample pack of non-greasy (as promised) Swiss Arbonne skin care products, because she correctly guessed how many times I . . . I mean Zuzu . . . washed her hair with Ajax Dishwashing Liquid before turning to Suave for help. To J'oga I gave a bar of the soap she didn't believe existed, the fragrant and never-intended-to-be-shampoo Happy Hippy Bath Bar, in spite of the fact that she did not guess correctly how Zuzu would handle her hair's hygiene on an unlucky Sunday. J'oga's answer was so comically and dizzyingly analytical, and to top it off she so knowingly pulled in those personal and knitting references; how could I not give her the prize? Thanks to those players for humoring me and trying to get into Zuzu's head (hair). It was fun.

I attended a Relief Society gathering at my church tonight, called Enrichment Meeting. I got there late, but in time for a mini-class on faux paint finishes and another on essential car maintenance. The food spread there inspired me to come up with another lyric to one of my favorite Talking Heads songs (I usually sing my other equally silly invented verse about other people's children):

Other people's crock pots
They overwhelm my mind
They say Velveeta is a virtue
But it's not one of mine

Home fire's burning

Rob called me up on the intercom and said he was about to light the first fire of the year in the studio stove and wondered if I'd come out to share the moment . . . and bring matches. It's turned cold and rainy the past couple days. I could see my breath yesterday afternoon when I was out running errands. Just two days ago it was sunny and hot. Utah weather is strange this time of year; it's all mood swings and uncertainty. Maybe that's why I like it so much; I can relate.

I started another blog today, a dream journal, sort of: Adventures in Slumberland. No actual dreams are detailed there yet, but the framework is in place.

I've been Freecycling this morning, getting rid of stuff as I plough my way through the basement in preparation for our new housemate who's coming at the end of November. I had a great disappointment just now, thanks to a cyber glitch. I was supposed to be picking up a CLAWFOOT TUB from a woman in the next valley up. I just made contact with her and she told me she'd given the tub to someone else. Why? Because she sent me an email which I never received, saying she wanted it picked up over the weekend rather than this week, as we'd originally agreed. Is my heart broken? My heart is more than broken; it's smashed. I liked thinking this was some kind of good karma coming around, for the clawfoot tub I gave my father-in-law a couple years ago, and to help us put together a decent downstairs bathroom. I actually feel sick at my stomach. I think I'll go rain a little out by that warm studio stove.

An invitation

[NOTE: This was the inaugural post of a former blog of mine. I have merged that blog with this one, in an attempt to streamline my life a bit. To read other dream posts, click the label "Adventures in Slumberland." And as before, feel free to share your own dreams.]

I've always been an intense dreamer. I lie down and the show begins. Doesn't matter if I'm only taking a catnap; when I close my eyes, within moments of my passing into measured-breath sleep, my mind shows me moving pictures, in Technicolor and Surround Sound.

When I was a child, I used to analyze my mother's dreams; she would regularly rehearse them to me and I would give her my best interpretations. I still recall some of my mother's dreams, almost as clearly as if I'd they'd been my own. During my primary years, I had some strange, impossible dreams that I was convinced had truly occurred; it took me years to yield that they could never have happened, and yet, those dreams are more vivid memories even now than many of the "real" events of my littlehood.

I love dreams. Several years ago, I tried recording my dreams each morning when I awakened, but I found that, even when I penned the lines at sloppy top speed, I was spending half my morning and lots of pages just writing and writing and writing. Finally, I realized I had to stop the practice and get on with my daily tasks. I'm the queen of stress dreams, and also I'm well-versed in what my husband and I call "pizza dreams", but also I frequently have dreams that seem decidedly instructive and helpful, maybe comforting or analytical. Now and then I have a "Capital D Dream" which has deep significance of some sort, often spiritual. I feel really blessed to have dreams of all sorts, and to have a mind that can sometimes comprehend and nearly always appreciate symbolism. Not all dreams are worth the time and effort it takes to pick them apart, but they can be wonderful tools when they've got something genuinely worthwhile to communicate.

I enjoy sharing other's dreams sometimes as much as I thrive on decoding my own. I thought this blog could be a place to tell a few dream stories, mine and yours. If you'd like to submit a dream for possible posting here, email it to me, and I'll look it over. Do enlighten me as to your desired level of anonymity. Please be considerate in your choices; there are some dreams that are not appropriate to be shared because of content, whether it's of an "adult" nature, or perhaps it's simply too personal. I will use my own discretion, with the standard in mind that I would like all to feel reasonably comfortable visiting this blog.

Dream on!