Relax, It’s Only Birth

So, Donald Trump has been elected. The (slightly less than) half of folks who wanted his brand of America is busily celebrating and in a lot of instances being great examples of how to be sore winners. The (slightly more than) half who voted for Hilary or other candidates are mourning and running around in fear and agitation, wringing their hands and saying, “How could they?” I know this because I’ve done a fair amount of it myself since Tuesday. The November 8 square on all my calendars is now solidly black. It was not a happy day.

But, I continued to sit in meditation. And sometimes, when I sit, I feel my vision pulling back, kind of like being inside Google Earth. I pulled back from my own single body sitting on the floor in my bedroom, to just above my apartment building, to above my neighborhood, where I could see the track where I walk, the college where I swim, the complex where I go to movies. Then I pulled further up and there was my old house several miles away, the Pueblo Reservoir, the mountains to the West, the plains to the East, pulling higher and higher, just like a jet taking off, until I viewed Earth from an orbital perspective, that iconic photo from the space station or an Apollo mission, a sweet blue orb hanging in the depths of space like a fire opal sitting on black velvet. You can’t see all the seething and discontent from there, can you? You also can’t see the sweetness and the joy and the beauty.

I let all my judgment go, just for a few seconds. It was difficult, for sure. I felt like one of those sea anemones that open up and drift in the tides, but pull back into themselves when a hand waves over them. I would open, drop judgment and then it would come swooping back over me and I would close up tight. Being open is difficult. It makes you terribly vulnerable. But in one of my moments of release, I realized something.

Donald Trump represents an opportunity. People have been crying about change for a while. The promise of change was what drove the Obama election. But after he was in office, while somethings changed or moved forward, many things, things that we all hoped for, did not happen and the old boy, business as usual, it’s who you know, not what you know network didn’t change much.  Hilary in office would have represented a different face of the same coin. A prettier, more acceptable face than Trump, to be sure, but still, business as usual. Some small things might have changed, and some small changes already made might not be in the gun sights right now, but overall, not much would be different.

Donald Trump does not hide the ugliness. He celebrates it. He celebrates divisiveness over everything. He celebrates power over and would not know how to behave in a “power with” situation. It would cripple him. So, in a way, if we want anything to change in a meaningful, permanent way, electing Donald Trump was the best thing that could have happened because he will be a catalyst.

We are going into labor, folks. We’ve been in false labor, even Braxton-Hicks, for a while, thinking, yes, it’s going to change, we’re going to move forward, things will get better, we really can clean up this mess, and yet behind us, all we hear is spinning tires and all we feel is that we’re sinking deeper into the muck. But now, the water has broken and birth is going to have to happen soon.

To those of you who have never given birth or attended at a birth, it’s a hugely violent and messy process. You can have soft lights and nice music and a water bath, and chanting and all that, but the bottom line is that a new, living creature is trying to push its way out of another person’s body. Never easy under the best of circumstances. And all drapes and medical terminology aside, birthing is fucking hard work. There’s a reason they call it labor.  And it’s full of sweat and blood and puke and tears and snot and shit and amniotic fluid and lots of screams and an occasional



And sometimes, you have to literally reach into the mother’s body and turn that baby around so that it comes out right. And sometimes you even have to cut it out if there’s a problem.

But we have this opportunity. We are poised in this incredible cusp of power and force and energy, if only we don’t lose it, if only we will recognize it, if only we will see each other and work together.

The old way is never going to give us what we want or need. If we want things to change, we have to change them. We have to birth the new way and if we have to scream and cry and bleed to do it, in the end, if we have a beautiful new baby to love and nurture and raise to maturity, won’t that be worth it?

Are you ready? I am.

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In less than an hour here, it will be Samhain or Halloween, as it is more commonly known. It’s a time of mystery, contemplation and connection with the parts of ourselves that we don’t always think about, not just about jack o’ lanterns and candy.

I’ve been very scattered lately and feeling stuck and blah and completely disconnected from anything meaningful. I go through my routine, do my work, pay my bills, fetch and carry the boy to and from school, get everything done, but there’s no spark, no drive, no real energy there. Just automatic movements.

But just tonight, I felt a push, an urge to maybe reconnect to the person I once was and to open up to the person I might become. I lit a candle and some incense. They’re burning now across from my desk, the candle on the bookcase/altar behind my door, with photos of my parents lit by the soft light, and the incense on my dresser on the other side of the room, next to Buddha and my shamanic mesa (i.e., medicine bundle) which is open on the top, allowing the incense smoke to waft over the contents. My mesa has been dormant for quite some time, just like me. But, again, earlier this month, I felt the need to bring it out. I left it out on the night of the full moon, open to the soft light of that heavenly body.

There are items in there that I accumulated during my shamanic studies, symbols of my journey around the medicine wheel, tokens from places I have been, gifts from friends. I need to sit with it more often, to become familiar again with the energy of each item. They’re my tools and I need to learn them once more.

I started reading Pema Chodron’s “The Places That Scare You” and there is a lot in there I needed to be exposed to and understand. About being in discomfort, about feeling things you don’t particularly want to feel, but allowing yourself to do it anyway. About not running away. I don’t know if I’m running away, but maybe this blah feeling, almost non-feeling, is a form of running away. I don’t know. I’m not sure you can force yourself to feel things, but you can be open. You can be still and allow. This weekend, I started meditating again. There’s no excuse. I wake up, I go pee, for 10 minutes I can sit and meditate. It’s not that long. Right now it feels good. Later it might bring up things, but I hope by then the habit will be stronger and that as above, I can sit and just allow the feelings and simply be with them.

That’s what Samhain is all about. It’s the new year, a new cycle, time for something different. I don’t have to know what it is. I only have to sit with the idea. And allow.

Blessed be.

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Sometimes, my thought convolutions and trails of memory surprise me. This morning, in the wee hours, to get a brief break from work, I read an online essay at Lucky Peach, a great food, cooking and culture magazine. In it, the author talked about keeping a food diary for none of the reasons that people are often urged to do this, i.e., track your food so you’ll know if you eat “too much” and then you can eat less and lose weight. This woman keeps a food diary as an aid to memory. Even writing this takes me down another mind corridor, to a conversation I had years ago with a college friend and her husband in New Orleans about our parents and their various quirks. Her mother invariably remembered events and occasions by what was eaten: “Oh, remember when we went there? We went to X Restaurant and you had that dish, and your father ate that?” while her husband’s father always seemed to remember event by how much things cost: “Oh, remember when we went there? We went to X Restaurant and the bill was X dollars, and you had that steak that cost X!” And so it goes.

Working nights is weird. I get hungry at odd times. I mean, really hungry. I don’t know if it’s the brain power I’m expending at times when my mind would normally be resting or if it’s just my body trying to tell me to sleep, but instead it just gives up and says, “Well, I know you’re not going to sleep, but I’m really tired, so why don’t you eat something instead?”

Either way, tonight/this morning there was a perfect combination of circumstances that threw me down memory lane big time. I decided I wanted some cheese toast. Toast has become a real treat for me lately because over the past few months, I discovered that either wheat or gluten or some combination of the two was the major culprit in all my miserable itching. I did two somewhat controlled experiments where I quit eating bread, baked goods, wheat flour products, etc. for a couple of weeks, then ate the same and wow…the itching had calmed down a lot and after I ate the things (2 donuts the first time, 1 corn muffin from a restaurant the second time) and had immediate and severe skin reactions, I thought, well, I can do without bread, etc. if it means not scratching myself till I bleed.

I did well the first 6 weeks or so. I’m not a really big bread eater, although I like it. Crackers are more my downfall, and I found some gluten free ones that I liked, so all was well. But, every now and then I want a sandwich. Or a piece of toast. So, after nearly 3 months of no bread, wheat flour, etc., I found a loaf of Udi’s gluten-free bread on sale and thought I would try it. I got the millet-chia variety and it is really good. My first piece of toast in 3 months was incredibly delicious…buttered under the broiler, with peanut butter and cherry preserves. Yeah, THAT’S a memory.

Which brings me back to tonight/this morning. I wanted cheese toast with tomatoes. And wanting cheese toast with tomatoes, I thought of Leo.

Leo was my boss at Six Flags Over Georgia in the Crystal Pistol for four years. The first year I worked there, I worked in the general wardrobe, where I took in the dirty uniforms for all the park workers and handed out the clean ones for the next day. I worked with a high school friend and her mom along with the rest of the crew, in a huge warehouse type place full of long racks of brightly colored uniforms for the different rides. There was a guys’ side and a girls’ side because every day after shift, the workers came in, went upstairs to the locker rooms, changed into their street clothes and brought their uniforms to us, got replacements and then went back upstairs to put them in their lockers for the next day. Over time, I learned people by their clothing size. I learned to look at a guy and think, “Oh, 32 x 32” instead of “Cute butt.” I learned to look at a girl and think, “Flume Large” or “Sky carts medium” which had absolutely no bearing on whatever size she might wear in the real world. But that’s a whole other post. The wardrobe was my world for the first year I worked as SFOG. I worked weekends and nights after school when the season overlapped and nights during the summer. It was my first experience with night shifts. SFOG was where I learned to drink coffee.

I liked working there, but even then my introverted self did not want to be out in the park mingling with the tourists. So, the second year when spring time rolled around, I put in an application again and started following up. My mom called, I called, but nothing seemed available. Finally, when I was just about to give up hope, my mom made one last call and the HR person asked, “Can she sew?” Oh, yes, I could, and so I got an interview with Leo at the Crystal Pistol.

On the day of, I went into the office area that I was familiar with and was told I needed to go out to the Pistol for the interview–that was where Leo worked. So, I found my way there, and asked the crew where to find Leo and they directed me backstage, where I found a woman in a tiny cubicle with a two sewing machines facing each other, surrounded by vast yardages of lace, net, tulle, satin, rhinestones and sequins, separated from the rest of the backstage space by a counter and a Dutch door.

As I got a little closer, it appeared that I was looking at her through the neck of the sewing machine…her head was barely over the top of it. I stopped at the Dutch door and told her who I was. She slowly got up and made her way around and through the piles of fabric and to the door and opened it for me, inviting me into her inner sanctum. I stepped in, more than a little nervous, especially when I saw that Leo was probably older than my grandmother and barely taller than my waist. Think Linda Hunt as Hetty in NCIS: LA.

Leo greatly resembled Gertrude Stein and she was, in effect, cubic. She was almost literally as wide as she was tall. She wore long smock tops and loose pants, and she pulled one of those vertical wire shopping carts along behind her coming to work and going home. She had crisp gray hair that she wore pulled back in a severe bun and bright blue eyes in a round face that was soft with wrinkles. She was not a particularly cheerful person, but over time, I could tell when she was amused because her eyes would sparkle even if her expression never changed. She never hurried, but she got everything done on time. She was a brilliant seamstress who had no formal training but she could look at a person for a few minutes and work out a pattern to fit them from thin air. I was immediately intimidated, but she asked me if I had made the top I was wearing, and I said, yes, ma’am, I had, and everything was downhill from there. I was in.

Leo ruled the backstage area. Nobody messed with her. As with the general wardrobe, the performers turned in the part of their costumes that were washed and cleaned every day…tuxedo shirts, or similar, various ties, accessories, even underthings (dance belts–if you don’t know what a dance belt is, Google it), dance hose, leotards. We were responsible for keeping the costumes up, washing the things that could be washed, and maintaining the dressing rooms. But Leo brooked no sloppiness. We kept things cleaned and mopped, but woe to anyone who left a bow tie or a stocking behind and woe to the person who turned in their things bunched up or inside out. There would be fines and no one got their items back until the fines were paid.

In addition to the two sewing machines and piles of fabrics and shiny things, Leo kept a fridge and toaster oven in the tiny space. I’m sure it was some kind of a fire hazard, but no one was going to tell her she couldn’t have them. One of the things she loved to make was cheese toast with tomatoes. She brought big, juicy tomatoes from her yard (her husband, Harold, was a gardener–when he wasn’t watching religious shows on TV, something Leo greatly disapproved of, as Harold was apparently prone to sending money to the televangelists. Leo was nothing if not frugal.) She sliced the tomatoes thick and the cheese thicker, and popped her little open-faced gems into the toaster oven to bubble and ooze into melted perfection.

My mouth watered every time she made this concoction, and I vowed I would try it at home. At work, I brought a cold lunch in and Leo and I ate together while I trained.

The first year, I worked under Leo’s close scrutiny. I learned to fit and alter, to sew yards of rhinestones onto plush velvet without marring the nap, to take regular looking street clothes and turn them into something showy that was also able to be yanked off a moving body in a hurry and replace with an equally showy different garment for quick-change moments. I once even fixed a young man’s zipper while he was still wearing the pants. When I told him sternly, “Don’t MOVE,” and he didn’t, I began to understand where some of Leo’s power came from.

Throughout the season, Leo continued to make her cheese toast with tomatoes. And I started making it at home. It’s such a simple item, but so good…way better than the ubiquitous grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I could never abide tomato soup, even as a child, but the warm tomatoes coated in the melty, bubbly cheddar atop the crispy, buttery toast…that was comfort food at its best.

And so, last night/this morning, as I made my toast, Leo wandered into my head and in just a moment, I relived all those years at the Crystal Pistol, sewing rhinestones and sequins, watching the pretty boys and girls dance brilliantly onstage and cuss like sailors and smoke like chimneys backstage. I felt the swish of the netting around me as I worked in the close confines of Leo’s creative closet. I smelled the funk of costumes that can never really be washed but only “cleaned”…that unique mix of dry cleaning fluid and body odor that never exists anywhere but in the back of a live-performance theater. I thought about the author of the article, writing her food diaries ever day, hoping to preserve her memories of events and people by writing down menus. It’s a powerful technique, if just thinking about cheese toast and tomatoes can carry me back this far to a long-passed period of my life.

I’ve got short ribs in the crock pot tonight. Maybe I should write that down.

Posted in food and eating, memories, progress, routine, self-discovery, | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Slow Saturday

This morning it was 55 degrees when I got off work at 5 a.m. I went for a short walk around the track across the street. I’ve been doing that more often when I finish. It helps me sleep better, and I like walking at that time of the morning and being on the track takes away the worry about cars, dogs, and waking people up as I stroll past their houses. Plus there are wonderful views of the sky both east and west. The other day, at the height of the Perseids, it rained or was cloudy every night when the viewing was supposed to be the best, but I managed to see a couple of meteors on my morning walks, so it wasn’t a total loss. I don’t do much, half a mile, 2 laps around, but it feels good. And this is a transition time; I can feel the seasons changing, the air getting cooler, the breath of fall tinging the morning breezes. It’s a good time to be out.

After that, I came back and read for a little bit. E. was spending the night with a friend, although I didn’t receive his text message until right before I went to turn off my phone. Don’t know why, as my phone was on all night for work, but there it is. Sometimes they don’t go through right away. He’s been ranging pretty far this summer, which is fine with me. He comes home tired, we talk for a while, he sleeps most of the day and does it all over again. He would be a good night worker. School is probably going to be a struggle this year, mainly because of that, but I think he’s kind of excited about being a junior. He works very hard not to show any emotion, so I don’t really know, but I can usually tell one way or the other despite his stoic demeanor.

The journey to downsizing continues. There’s a big pile of stuff in my bedroom that needs to be taken to Goodwill or ARC. I have given a lot of stuff away, sent various art pieces off to new owner, gave a big footlocker that had followed me around for over 25 years away to a guy here who’s going to make it into a toy box for his daughter. That felt good and gave me more space in my bedroom! I’m donating a king-sized comforter (only twin beds for me in the future!), table cloths, place mats, napkins etc. Don’t need them, don’t use them, why keep them? Working on my closet shelves and a few weeks ago, was horrified…HORRIFIED…to realize that I owned 25 pairs of pants. HOW THE HELL DID I END UP WITH TWENTY-FIVE PAIRS OF PANTS???  Of course, some are worn only in the summer (capris) others only mostly in the winter, some were for camping/hiking, etc. I’ve gleaned through those and am down some, but still have more to go. Will be going through shirts/sweaters soon. I need to downsize my filing cabinet to one portable file box, but I’m pretty sure I can do that, and I need to downsize the stuff in my dresser enough to be able to let it go when I need to. I was worried that I needed to find places for everything, but then I realized that E can just take it when I go to outfit whatever place he ends up in. I believe he still thinks I’m not going to move, so he will be in for a rude awakening, but he can’t say he wasn’t warned and encouraged to be prepared. But, I can’t do it for him.

Books continue to flow to the used book store that is run by the library. I may buy a book here or there to continue a series I’m reading and can’t find one or two of them in the library, but then they will go right back to the store afterward. I still love books more than life, but I really have reached a point where owning them is not that important…save for a few treasures that will be around after I croak.

So, now it’s just a few hours before work. E is still wherever, I’m not motivated to cook anything for dinner, and I’m thinking about going back for a nap. I’ve been working on listening to my body–when it says, man, I’m really sleepy, but I have a list of things I want to get done, I’m starting to put the list on the table and go take a nap. On the days that I work, I’ve given myself permission to sleep as long or as often as I need to, eat when I’m hungry and not feel bad about letting everything else go. E hasn’t been motivated to get himself in the kitchen, but if he won’t even heat up leftovers, then he’ll just have to make do with a bag of chips. I really think that cooking for and having to feed other people on some kind of regular schedule is one of the biggest impediments to women breaking out of domestic bondage. We worry that people (family) will be hungry, that they won’t be nourished, etc. I am beginning to learn that if an able bodied person can’t figure out how to feed him/herself in a kitchen full of food, then they ought to go hungry. Chosen helplessness is SO unattractive.

For me, with this schedule, I am often not hungry at all during the day. Then I’ll eat something right around the time I go to work and then I’m really hungry about 2 a.m. Quite a change from the big breakfast eater I was, but I’m learning to roll with it.

So, now I’m going to lie on my heating pad in hopes of easing a stiff neck, and then off for another work shift. Hope you’re all having a good weekend!


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One Minute

Once, long ago:

Laughter, in the car.

Me: “How would you explain me to someone?”

Him: “Very simply. This is the woman I love.”

Years later, I realized I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for this.

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Once upon a time, I put everything I owned in the trunk of my car and left behind a house that I had lived in for a long time, but wasn’t mine. I moved to a different city and lived in a mostly empty two-room apartment, that never really felt like mine, even after I bought a table to sit at and eat breakfast. I was scared to death at first, but eventually enjoyed myself and learned a few things.

Then, after a little while, things there got hard and sad and I retreated back to the other house that felt like home but still wasn’t mine. It was comfortable there, but I had become used to moving and so after a while, I found a job that moved me all over the place until I decided to “settle” in a number of ways, in another tiny apartment that did feel like home for a while, but then it didn’t and I left that and moved again, to a larger house that was nice but isolated and far away. Things got scary there, and one night, I left everything behind and moved out in a hurry, in order to save my life.

I went back to the house that still wasn’t mine and stayed there for a while, but all the things I had taken out of the last house stayed boxed up, as if they were waiting for the time that I would move again. When it came, I left most of that behind, put just a few things in a moving truck and this time went across the country to live in another house that wasn’t mine. I had hope that perhaps one day it would feel like mine, and it was comfortable for a while, but then, once again, things happened that caused it to feel strange and alien, and so, leaving everything but a few of the necessaries that I had schlepped from one state to another, I moved into a different small apartment, that for nearly a year, really did feel like home.

Then another opportunity arose to once again live in a house that wasn’t mine, but most definitely felt like home for a longer time than any of the others. But when things went wrong there, they went wrong in a hurry, and all of a sudden, the home was simply another place to leave and I found myself in another small apartment with almost the exact inventory of things that I had left home with nearly two decades ago.

Now, I am in this home-feeling place, but I know that in a fairly short while I will once again be leaving. I’ll once again move to a house that is not mine and leave behind anything that won’t fit in the trunk of my car. The circle will be unbroken.

We come from a long lineage of leavers. Our forebears left countries and societies that had become impossible for them to tolerate, whether for political, economic or religious reasons. They settled for a while along the Eastern shores of a new country, but then, even then, some of them weren’t satisfied and had to leave again, to forge out into the unknown parts of the vast country they found themselves in. They left behind men, women, children, possessions, security. They didn’t know what they would find, didn’t know if they would live long enough to get back, only knew that for some unknown reason, they couldn’t stay.

Today, we leave jobs, we leave homes, we leave relationships, we leave loved ones and not so loved ones, we leave children, we leave friends, and wonder what went wrong. What if nothing went wrong? What if, by a process of selection, like blond hair or big ears, we have simply evolved a leaving gene? What if all this leaving over the span of hundreds of years, has made us incapable of sustaining marriages, jobs, relationships, for more than a few years at a time. You could argue that it’s society that has changed, becoming more mobile, causing the need for job transfers, etc., and that the age of working for one company for 30 years and then retiring is over, and that is true. But how did that happen? When you drill down, what is the basic source? Perhaps our society has evolved this way to actually support the idea of leaving, that “getting out” is what you do, that staying anywhere long enough to put down real roots has become uncomfortable, like feeling trapped. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I can’t answer that question and all of the above are just rambling thoughts that have been going through my mind for a while. Why does one person manage to find a partner, a job, a life that satisfies them for thirty or forty years with relatively minor changes, and another person rambles through their life the way I have, completely uprooting themselves every so often in ways that their friends often can’t comprehend? I may never know, but at least now I’m comfortable with the idea of being a loner and a nomad, and I can pursue my path without disrupting anyone else’s life. For that, I am thankful.

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Time marches on and life goes with it. April was my first anniversary of being here in this little place. The past year has flown by and now we are deep into summer.

Discovery: I really like summer when there’s a pool right outside my door. I’m in there nearly every day, even when I work. I’ll probably go out for a dip right after I post this because it’s still early and it’s going to be fierce hot today (triple digits). I try to stay in about twenty to thirty minutes (without sunscreen) to get my vitamin D for the day. I haven’t burned and I have some tan lines!

I signed a new lease in June. I initially signed a 14-month one to get $100 off the deposit. This time the incentive was to sign a 15-month lease, get $200 off the next month’s rent and have my carpets cleaned. I knew I was going to stay here until E. graduates, so done. Next year, I’ll sign a regular 12 month lease and be ready for the next step in my overall plan by September 2018.

Discovery: I’m perfectly okay with leaving here and leaving E. without knowing what kind of a plan HE has for the next few years. That’s up to him. I’m giving him lots of fair warning.

Discovery: I love being single. Love. It. Oddly, a couple of guys here in the apartment complex have tried to start up conversations with me. I keep it on a completely superficial level. Couldn’t be less interested in anything more. I have no desire to have any kind of romantic relationship ever again. The relief of this realization is palpable. No more justifying my weird habits or my work schedule or my eating or anything else. No more “mushy” decisions, “If you want to.” or “I don’t care, you choose.” and then being wrong. Fuck that. I have a friend here and we try to get together for lunch on a fairly regular basis and EVERY time, I’ll say, where do you want to go, and he replies, “I don’t care.” There are times when I really HATE that. It sometimes makes me just not even want to go. Then other times he’ll text and say, “Half-price wings at Buffalo Wild Wings on Tuesday!” and I’m like YES, finally make a damn decision.

Discovery: I want very little. I’m on a 2-year mission to downsize. I am going to try to downsize five things every day. So far, I haven’t been very good at it, but that’s the goal. I recently ordered myself 2 new pairs of pants…linen…been looking for something like them for a while. But, when they arrive and if they fit, I will need to let go of at least 2 pairs of pants. I have been culling through my drawers on a regular basis…do I really wear this, do I really like this, does this really fit the way I like and will it ever fit that way? If not, gone! And that’s just clothing. I have more books to release. This morning, I woke up thinking about artwork. I have some genre-specific stuff in a foot locker that I will probably never hang. But they are great pieces for the right person. I started thinking of people who might like them and so far I think I’ve found homes for 2 of them. We’ll see how that develops.

Discovery: I like my little garden in pots. I’m getting lots of cherry tomatoes now, the basil is flowering and fragrant and I have discovered that squash plants do not like to grow vertically. The one plant I kept is growing in a bucket and it’s a beautiful plant but all the squash but one have shriveled and dried up before reaching more than a couple of inches long. I think it’s because the plant has to grow UP out of the bucket first. So, I planted another seed in a shallower planter and it’s coming along. We will see what happens. My cucumber plant succumbed to irregular watering and I think its pot was too small. We’ll try again next year in a different pot. Also next year: Peppers and eggplant.

Discovery: It’s all a grand experiment.

Discovery: If by some sick cosmic joke, Donald Trump gets elected president, I am seriously contemplating moving to Canada. There, I said it. That’s one experiment I don’t want to be in the middle of.

Posted in allowing, Appreciation, discoveries, downstream | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Latest WIP*

Made from things in the stash…

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Posted in creative, Quilting, Uncategorized | Tagged , | 1 Comment

I. Have. Had. It.

To readers here, friends on Facebook, followers on Twitter and elsewhere who continue to counter #BlackLivesMatter with #AllLivesMatter, please listen. You don’t get it. You aren’t getting it. And you really, really, REALLY need to get it. Please muster all the intellectual capacity you possess and start working at getting it. If you can think that it’s okay for WHITE mass murderers (James Holmes–Aurora Theater killer and Robert Deer—Planned Parenthood killer) to be caught and jailed AT THE SCENES OF THEIR CRIMES without being killed, but say nothing when a BLACK man trying to COMPLY with police orders is shot point blank and killed while reaching for his wallet, then you need to examine yourself. You need to wonder why you’re not speaking up, at least to put a #BlackLivesMatter in a Facebook or Twitter post. You need to wonder if maybe you don’t agree that black people just shouldn’t exist. You need to dig down deep and really examine yourself. And you need to remember that old saw: “First they came for the Jews, but I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t Jewish…” and on and on. Well, I can’t do much, but I can speak up. I can say without a doubt that #BlackLivesMatter. I can say that there is a calculated, systemic war on people of color and minorities in this country and all over the world, and that I see it. I can call you out on your #AllLivesMatter and your fucking confederate flags and your praise of Donald Trump as someone who “speaks his mind.” This shit is wrong and it’s wrong on a bone-deep, soul-wrenching, atavistic level. You know it is. You know it’s wrong to bully a child. You know it’s wrong to encourage people to commit mob violence, and you know it wrong to kill someone just because their skin color is black or brown. And if you don’t say something about it, then what does that say about you? And if any of this offends you and you think I’m “overreacting” then I invite you, no, I INSIST that you unfriend, block and unfollow me as soon as possible, because you are obviously not a person I want to know. #PhilandoCastile #AltonSterling #OrlandoPulse #CharlestonChurchShooting #SandraBland #MichaelBrown #TrayvonMartin #AllTheOthersWhoShouldStillBeAlive

Posted in #BlackLivesMatter, Rant, truth | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Open Door Policy

My view from the kitchen earlier this evening…opendoor (600x800)

We’ve been having a lot of afternoon/evening rain/thunderstorms. We may have some later tonight, in which case the door will be closed. 🙂

Posted in listening, no schedule, Photos, Uncategorized | Leave a comment