Holding a baby bird eating out of my open hand would be perfect!

Our youngest daughter is taking her annual motorcycle trip with Moto Safari. This month she is motorcycling the Himalayas. Quoting the leader’s agenda for day two:

“September 17, Day 02 – If your hangover and jetlag isn’t enough, we face a 6 am start to reach Shimla by afternoon. We head north from Delhi to Chandigarh by coach for 170 miles of “oh shit ” moments on India’s remote roads. After countless butt pucker encounters on the mountain passes, we reach Pinjore Gardens where you meet the rest of Moto Safari Crew, and your trusty rig for the very first time. We ride an easy 55 highway miles until we reach Shimla. This is the first and last time your Royal Enfield is clean and unharmed. The same goes for you.”

I shouldn’t be anxious, Sarah, after all, is an adult, an experienced nomad and travelling with a tried-and-true crew, but… do mothers (who aren’t birds) ever stop tying to protect their baby birds? No matter their age, I open my arms and urge my birds to come close enough for me to feel their warmth.

If I had a recipe calling for worms, I would make it. And they would come.

Anyway prior to Sarah’s leaving, I guess I sounded uneasy. Hoping to allay my fears, she sent me a couple of posts to cheer me up. One post featured Jane Goodall – everyone’s favorite primatologist. When most people retire and call it a-day, Jane Goodall is still knee-deep in bringing environmental, conservation, and humanitarian issues to the public’s attention.

The post my daughter sent referenced Goodall’s 90^th birthday in on BBC’s Channel 4 in which Goodall said,

“My next great adventure age 90 is going to be dying.”

Goodall continued, “It’s nothing or something. If it’s nothing, that’s it. If there’s something, I can’t think of a greater adventure than finding out what it is. I happen to think there is something because of experiences I’ve had and because of experiences other people have had… very powerful ones… “

I had never thought of Death as “an adventure.” But days after watching the interview (I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve watched) I’m thinking about death in a new context. Watch the interview yourself. Watch Goodall’s face – you can feel her enthusiasm for her next adventure.

What do you think? https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=jane+goodall++my+next+adventure+at+90

I took this photo in Jerome, AZ – Apparently, these folks are quite happy in the afterlife.

When I was a child, I loved Fall – a precursor of sledding, ice skating, and the possibility of missing school because of snow days. Oh boy! 

But as the nights lengthen and the temperature drops to 40 degrees at dawn, I’m brought up short. How many more cycling springs and re-births will I celebrate? At 81 years, I acknowledge that fall and I are on a parallel trajectory. I too am fading and slowing down.

Breyer’s chocolate (a pick-me-up of sorts) has me in its grip. Is eating a second helping of ice cream a lack of willpower, or… perhaps, has my physiology (knowing that it is time to fatten up for hibernation) trumped my willpower? I’ll ask the squirrels.

Pivoting from summer to Fall on Labor Day and mindfully ignoring all national and international news, I threw myself into local weekend festivities: a car show, an art show, an excellent quilt show, and a fiber arts display.

My handcrafted Needle Arts days are over; however, I returned home remembering a heritage, crocheted bedspread inherited from my husband’s family. I hadn’t used the spread in years because it needed a wash.

Did I dare send the treasure to a trusted dry cleaner, or should I try to wash the spread myself? Those at the quilt show advised hand washing.

So, filling the bathtub with warm soapy water, I gently kneaded the seriously heavy, lumpy, bumpy, cotton coverlet. The water turned gray: the quilt was dirtier than I had realized. I drained the water and started a second wash, followed by three rinses, and then the hard part -drying.

To that end, I stretched the spread on top of a double-sized hammock. As the day passed, I dragged the hammock along the sun’s trajectory. Once the spread was dry, there was the issue of the seven-inch tassels – each comprised of 16 tangled threads!

I’m thinking that if I devote an hour every day, I may untangle the tasseled rat’s nest by Thanksgiving. Today, sitting in the sun (one fraction of the quilt in my lap) I thought of all the labor that went into crafting this beautiful heirloom.

I imagined the relatives and maybe a friend or two, crochet hooks in hand, wearing housedresses and sipping tea as they sat round a table crafting and confiding. Time-travelling back, feeling the camaraderie and slower pace, the 21^st century dissolved.

 In honor of his aunts’ efforts, I urged my husband to unravel six tassels (just six) at which point he would be free to go.  Doing so, he would better appreciate his aunts’ efforts and rise above the male toxicity making the news.

Unraveling a total of 16 tassels, my husband passed! I wish I had thought to take a photo.

No one ever said that we must wait for Thanksgiving to give thanks.

Road signs distract me. One sign urges me to “Adopt a Highway Sign.” This is followed by “Adopt a Better Attitude.” The next sign prompts me to “Adopt a more inclusive, cheerful countenance.”

And finally, on this stretch of backwoods advice- not a suggestion but a demand: “Ye must be born again.”

I am probably not the first person to wish I could capitalize on everything I’ve learned over the years. Thinking in terms of generational intelligence, as the wheel cycles, we might profit from what our parents taught us and, what we, in turn, have taught our children.

Or not. Perhaps the mistakes we make are more influenced by the culture, values, and politics of the time. Whatever the factors influencing the cycle, we cycle.

Oops! I meandered. I’m back – marveling at the mountains which are high up close, but higher in the distance. Gauzy Snow-White clouds inchworm their way across a sky that is losing its blue hue.

Now, darkening and gathering strength, the clouds begin to bulk up and show some muscle. Darker at their base, they remind me of a baby’s soggy, wet diaper. Finally, the rain begins – just isolated drops gently pitter-pattering down – a drop here and another there.

Now, the rain has picked up speed, and it is falling in hard, loud splats. It sounds like corn popping in a kettle… or bullets, but I don’t want to go there. The rain is an angry torrent – a regular Reign of Terror.

Now, drivers have slowed to a crawl and turned on their headlights. The road is awash in standing water. On-coming cars drown.us in a power-shower of splash. Our windshield wipers are marching – goose-stepping at high speed: 1-2 1-2 1-2 1-2.

Suddenly, as though a higher power has flipped a switch, the rain stops as dramatically as it began. The sun breaks through. The cycle is complete.

Remember this cycle. Today you may be depressed but take heart: the sun will come out tomorrow.

As a postscript, a couple of years have passed since I posted regularly, and the site’s format has changed. Obviously, I want to add pictures. Not today, but hopefully next time.

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Tripping between one thought and the next is a meander. My mind flits like a firefly. I’m here, there, everywhere – I’m just a marble in a pinball machine.

This morning I was sitting on a wooden loveseat in a cubbyhole attached to our house. It’s a three-sided shelter open to the East and the rising sun. In addition to the loveseat, it shelters yard tools, outdoor cushions, and me.

It is early August, and I’m dismayed to see a yellowed Aspen leaf here and there forecasting fall. It rained last night. Dew sparkles in the sequined grass.

The camp song that always followed reveille comes to mind: God has created a new day / silver and green and gold / pray that tomorrow will find us / worthy his gifts to behold.

Feel free to hum or sing along if you know the song.

Coffee cup in hand, I am one with the rising sun. Before me, a silken spider web stretches maybe four feet between two shrubs.

The web is iridescent. Swaying gently in a light breeze, the web undulates, weaving in and out of the sunbeams. It appears and disappears. Magical.

Wow! How does a spider do that! And into the house I go… where I (just a marble in a pinball machine) impulsively researching spider webs on the Internet, read “The Spider’s Thread,” a moral fable about good, evil, and redemption, written in 1918 by Japanese writer Akutagawa.

Briefly, the children’s story has Buddha looking into a lotus-filled pond. But Buddha, being Buddha, sees through the water and into Hell where he recognized Kandata, a cold-hearted criminal.

Buddha remembers seeing Kandata walking through a forest and how Kandata went out of his way to avoid stepping on a spider. Because of Kandata’s compassion for the spider, Buddha decides to save Kandata.

Taking a spider’s thread, Buddha drops the thread into Hell. Kandata grabs the thread and starts climbing back to Paradise. But other sinners grab the thread as well. Kandata kicks them and shouts, “This is my thread. Mine alone!”

At which point, the thread breaks, and Kandata and all the other sinners fall back into the Pool of Blood. Wow! And that was a children’s story! Pretty grim. More grim than the fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm.

But I wasn’t through. The marble veered off in another direction, and quite accidentally I came across “Indian Summer” painted in 1875 by Jozef Chelomonski. Next time you are in the National Museum of Warsaw, check it out.

In case you never get to Warsaw…

A woman lies on nearly barren ground. She wears a long, white shirt and peasant blouse. A mustard yellow headwrap partially exposes her blonde hair. An amber necklace is at her neck; a cross nestles between her breasts. She is extending her right arm, and when she does her right hip rises too.

In her right hand, she holds a gossamer thread – a spider web. It’s a beautiful painting threading through today’s journey.

And there we have it. One brief, unplanned meander.

Autumn creeps in on bended knees. Bending down / harvest knees. Or if you have an orchard, autumn calls for on reaching up to the peach just beyond your reach.

Harvesting peaches in Pueblo has led to my gaining weight. Should I worry? Perhaps like a hibernating bear, I am on the hunt – storing up calories to see me through the winter. I stopped canning fruit some years ago, so the glut of freshly picked peaches has led to baking. The peaches are heritage vintage – small. The flesh clings to the pit for dear life. The trick is to chunk the flesh off the pit without peeling the fruit. Do not waste time peeling the fruit. Once baked, you don’t notice the peels at all.

One of Westcliffe’s most charming harvests calls for the entire community (to include Democrats, Republicans, and Independents) to gather together at the same table. I don’t think anyone advised us to avoid talking politics, but everyone seems to embrace ‘drinking from the same cup.’ The political divide that keeps us chewing the enamel off our teeth evaporates. Finding our table, we dine potluck, hug neighbors we haven’t touched since Covid, and feel the warmth of commonality – we are one – celebrating our desire to live without dissention.

“Turn Turn Turn” Roger McGuinn

To every thing, turn, turn, turn / There is a season, turn, turn, turn / And a time to every purpose under heaven / A time to be born, a time to die / A time to plant, a time to reap / A time to kill, a time to heal / A time to laugh, a time to weep.

After a Covid slump, I’m hoping to be back to blogging. Enough of this hunkering down and looking inward. It is time to look out – for hummingbirds, turning Aspen, and mutually supportive friends. Covid (to say nothing of partisan politics) has brought us low but fight we must.

I just returned from Seattle where Bar Scott and I saw the Van Gogh immersive exhibit. What an eye-opener! It was Bar’s second viewing – something that I questioned before seeing the exhibit myself. But, YES! I would most definitely see the show a second time. I was familiar with Vincent’s life (1853-1890) but seeing his work side by side with quotes from letters he had written to his younger brother Theo, the flesh and blood man came alive with a pulsing heart.

Seeing his brighter paintings with hopeful quotes juxtaposed next to darker paintings and depressed quotes brought the man off the wall and into my being. I felt as though I were experiencing time travel and Vincent had stopped by the house to see if l wanted to join him in a shot of Absinthe.

Aside from his younger brother Theo, Vincent had no friends and lacking friends, he suffered low self-esteem. Adding insult to injury, Van Gogh lived with severe depression no doubt heightened by selling only one oil painting during his lifetime. To Theo, he wrote, “A great fire burns with me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.”

A more positive quote shows Van Gogh trying to rise above his pain: “If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.” Despite being institutionalized for depression and psychotic episodes, Vincent desperately tried to rise above his despair by immersing himself in his craft. His paintings (totaling 860 oils) highlight both his depression and his dreams.

The quotations were taken from the 844 letters that Van Gogh sent to his younger brother Theo. 844 letters! What a treasure trove! (Ah… for the good old days before texts and tweets!) I think that I still have it in my heart someday to paint a bookshop with the front yellow and pink in the evening… like a light in the midst of darkness. Quotes from his letters tell the story of his efforts to overcome his despair. 

Looking at “Starry Night” at the top of the text… the night sky is alight with a bright expanding universe of whirling, pulsing stars that suck you into the cosmos. But below, the village is dark. Just a couple of windows dimly glow. The contrast between the brilliant night sky and the subdued village underscores Van Gogh’s inner conflict. “Seek only light… do not immense yourself too deeply in worldly mire.”  The painting plus the text asks the viewer, Are you looking up or are you bowed down in angst?’

Despite Vincent’s efforts to rise above despair, he was institutionalized prior to committing suicide at age 37. 

During Van Gogh’s last two years he painted numerous sunflowers. Many of his sunflowers were in vases, but the sunflower painting that caught my attention was a horizontal picture of four sunflowers. The blooms are bold, but in the lower third of the painting, we see that the stems are cut. Obviously, these blooms are going to die. Dark.

My sunflowers lift me up.

If you are following my blog, I assume that you are a Margaret Atwood fan and very possibly, you are a writer yourself.

It is always fun to laugh at yourself, and today, reading an essay by Margaret Atwood on Lithub, I had a good laugh. Believe it or not, Margaret Atwood and I are kindred spirits. Yes, she is famous, but beyond all her awards and status, we are co-joined at the hip. Atwood’s essay addresses a common writers’ problem, and her answer is, “You can have a life or you can do some writing, but not both at once.”

To illustrate her premise, she writes about her demanding, unfocused week which left little time for writing. I loved her essay. She made me laugh at our common problem of finding (make that ‘making’) time to write. (If you are a disciplined writer yourself, you won’t be laughing… I recommend this essay only to those writers like myself, who are less disciplined.)

I return to my blog out of my depth and dismayed. Keeping up with changes in web design, the site has been reconfigured, and the classic format that I used for over ten years is a thing of the past. They obviously do not know me. Using phones as an example, I would be ever so happy to have two tin cans connected by a string. (This says all that needs to be said.) I’m always cheered when an author claims to write in longhand. I’m always happy to learn that a person only has a landline. I’m always happy to see a reporter on camera and in the background an old typewriter. Ah… my soul mates!

And so… I’m learning – my first few blogs (if I don’t give up) will look odd. This first attempt looks odd. But I’ll give-it-a-go. Finished for today. The snow is melting, but the clouds are building. Life at 8,000 ft in Westcliffe, CO is full of surprises.

It’s that time of year again. Yes, we are practicing social distancing and some folks are out of work and desperate for an income, but meanwhile, Children’s Hospital Denver is still serving our region.

If you have a sick child, Children’s Hospital is at-the-ready and your best last resort. I’ve never had to call on Children’s Hospital, but it is so reassuring to know that it is there.

This year The Courage Classic Bike Race, the hospital’s annual fundraiser, has gone virtual. Participants will continue to fundraise, but they will choose their own route and the number of miles to be completed each day.

My husband Mark is a Founder, a title attached to those riders who have annually ridden and raised funds for thirty consecutive years. In the past, the cyclists have ridden approximately 80 miles a day with daily elevation gains of 6,000 feet. Last year Mark trained by riding 1,500 miles and climbing 50,000 feet.

The Founders – still standing tall in 2019. Mark is the tallest on the top step.

This year Mark is less prepared. Kidney stones and a number of demands on his time have worked against him.  To date, he has ridden only 20 miles and climbed 200 feet. Needless to say, his goal to ride 40 miles each day of the virtual tour will be a challenge.

Despite the coronavirus, the fundraising goes on.

Who can say ‘No!’ to a sick boy with a therapy dog?

Seeing a sick child whose life may be cut short is a heart-breaker. Sooner or later, we all die, but to die without having lived life, is cruel and unusual punishment.

Sheila Jordan, my favorite road marshall

Volunteering as a road marshal, I see the doctors, hospital employees, and the serious cyclists speeding along. That’s nice, but the killer is seeing parents, grandparents, and loving neighbors who have or had a child in treatment. They are not cyclists. Typically they ride their bikes to the grocery and call-it-a-day. They are not prepared to cycle 80 miles, and yet they are supporting Children’s Hospital with every ounce of energy that they have.

Each wheel’s rotation is a prayer

Children’s Hospital Prom Night – Life is just around the corner.

If you have the means to contribute, Children’s Hospital and all those who depend of the hospital’s services would be most appreciative.

2020 Courage Classic: Mr. Mark A. Dembosky – Children’s Hospital Colorado Foundation

Thank you.

No! I had not asked for an emergency loan. A good number of friends wrote to say that aside from the request itself, the writer’s voice did not sound like mine. (The request came from Nigeria.) That was flattering: it is always nice to have readers recognize your voice.

I do love my computer, but some days, I just want to disconnect my life from all technology and relive my childhood when two tin cans and a string were the height of long-distance communication. In contrast to experiencing extreme frustration and hours spent reassuring/thanking friends for sounding the alarm, I fantasize about pulling two tin cans out of recycling and looking for some string.

I want to get on a train. Now!

The lines, “The world is too much with us,” comes to mind. Not remembering the writer or the context, I forgave my computer and Googled the answer. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was lamenting the First Industrial Revolution and folks absorption with materialism.  Wordsworth continued, “late and soon. Getting and spending, We waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!” How current!

I’m always delighted by serendipitous moments. Walking out of the West Custer County Library yesterday, I passed the discard shelf of free (donations welcome) books, and the one title that grabbed my attention was Lisel Mueller‘s book, ALIVE TOGETHER which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1997. I have the book at home, but seeing the title took me to social distancing dictated by coronavirus and is currently in danger of fraying at the edges. First Georgia, and then… and then… and then someone will write a book titled DEAD TOGETHER.

The first few lines of Mueller’s “Alive Together” poem read: Speaking of marvels, I am alive / together with you, when I might have been / alive with anyone under the sun, / when I might have been Abelard’s woman / or the whore of a Renaissance pope / or a peasant wife without enough food / and not enough love, with my children / dead of the plague.”

“Cape Cod Morning” A woman practices social distancing.

Thinking of our sequester (not such a big deal if you live in a village of 600), I found myself wanting to look at paintings of Edward Hopper. I wished to find a picture of a painting that reflected our at-home isolation. I chose to copy “Cape Cod Morning,” but I also discovered an April 27th Washington Post article by Menachem Wecker. The title of Wecker’s piece is “Those who say Edward Hopper is the artist of social distancing may be wrong.” In brief, Wecker writes that Hopper’s focus changed according to the medium in which he painted. His isolation paintings were mostly oils, but his watercolors, drawings and etchings are more varied. It is a good read. If you are an artist or a Hopper fan, check out the article.

The word ‘Soon’ on the Jones Theater marquee makes me smile. ‘Soon’: so much leaway! Maybe this week; maybe next month; maybe in September. When my eldest daughter was trying to toilet train my grandson, he was resistant. Exasperated, Dana would ask, “When are you going to use the potty?” And a master of comic timing, Gus would hesitate and then wink. (Well, he didn’t really wink, but you could most certainly imagine his winking.) And after a pregnant pause, he would smile and say, “Soon.” Too sweet.

Be well. Be safe.

Be thankful that we don’t live on Georgia where social distancing is a thing of the past.

The compilation of lines submitted by listeners is stunning. If you didn’t hear the poem this morning (in bed, sun on the rise, coffee-at-hand) click on the site and take a listen.

https://www.npr.org/2020/04/30/845910766/if-the-trees-can-keep-dancing-so-can-i-a-community-poem-to-cope-in-crisis.

The poem itself is wonderful, but the evocative lines sent in by everyday listeners is the icing on the cake. If there is an up-side to coronavirus, it would be the creative response from the community at-large. Our government may be in intensive care, but the ARTS are alive and well. HOPE – more than a ‘thing with feathers.’

Shavano Poets are on a roll. Just received two most excellent poems: one from Jane Provorse and another from Margery Dorfmeister.  Writing-wise we live in exciting times.

This up-beat news is in contrast to news coming out of Colorado Springs yesterday. Car thefts are up. The homeless are desperate for temporary housing. It is easy for those of us who are retired and secure to forget that the impoverished, newly unemployed, and even the middle class are living in dire straits. Thirty million have filed for unemployment to date!

And because I’m on the topic, here’s one of the poems that I wrote in response to coronavirus:

“To Have and to Have Not”

Standing at the kitchen counter / peeling a thick-skinned Butternut squash, / I remember / standing at an assured safe distance / behind / a woman in line at the grocery. / Two children clung to her side.

Despite stay-at-home / coronavirus warnings, / I wanted fresh ginger / for my squash soup. / I had a sad, not-so-fresh / knob of shriveled ginger, / but I had-to-have / fresh ginger. 

I had onions, / garlic, / cilantro, / raw coconut flakes, / and a can of coconut cream, / but I had-to-have a knob of fresh ginger,. / I found no ginger at our local grocery.

But, given that I had already / risked contagion by shopping for ginger, / I picked up a few discretionary, / you-never-know, / just-in-case items: / celery, onions, oranges, pears, / and butter.

Keeping my social distance / from the women with the kids, / I glanced at her cart, and / my heart seized. Her cart held only / five loaves of white bread!

Comparing the contents of my cart and hers / comparing her have-to-haves to mine – / the term “social distancing” / expanded to include the disparity / between the haves and the have-nots.

I’m writing in the east airlock – the sun is brilliant and the in-ground birdbath is splash-happy with bathing birds. The yellow-headed blackbirds seem to have moved on. A delight to have them for three days, but they had a north-bound bus to catch. Their breast as well as their heads are egg yolk yellow, and their call sounds like a throat clearing phlegm. Not musical in the least.

Today, I’ll soak the milkweed seeds that I collected last fall, wrap them in a wet paper towel, and put them in a plastic bag where they will experience winter for a week in the refrigerator. And then I’ll pat them down on the topsoil and sprinkle soil over them. And JUST MAYBE I’ll be hatching monarch butterflies come fall.   Yes, I will water the seeds.

I’m not sure, on an environmental scale,  that saving the monarchs (down 90% in the last decade due to pesticides and roadside mowing) is equal to my wasting water, but no one ever said that I was holier than thou.

I love being outside. This ‘social distancing’ seems to suit me.