Christmas Eve Ice Storm

A very merry crunchy Christmas Eve to everyone!

All is calm

This one makes me want to get back on a boat.

All is bright

Photograph by  Mike Price, amazing photographer and documentary film maker,
and all around charming British gent, and husband to the smartest, best woman I know.

 Tired Santa? Sad Santa?

Bad Santa!

Poinsettia by Deb Stone

My favorite card this year is an original work by my amazing friend Deb.

She calls these scanner art.

Her creativity humbles me, and her card made me smile.

My favorite gift, from E, mom, cook, artist and writer and amazing person.

It's an original work, from her blog on the Unbusy Revolution.

A beautiful letter, a handcut bee stamp, pieces of her bridging the intangible of our serendiptious friendship across the miles.

Happy, happy!

Hope the spirit is catching you with bits of lovely too.

Earn this. A small prayer.

Tom Hanks is my favorite actor on the planet, and a favorite human person.  In Saving Private Ryan, one of my favorite WWII movies, Tom's character grabs Ryan by the shirt and says Earn This. Very powerful scene.


Earn This.

In another powerful moment, Ryan, now old, asks his wife if he was a good man, surrounded by his children at the graves of those who gave all. If you haven't watched this movie, you should.

I think of these scenes, those two simple words, as President Obama returns home, Nobel Peace Prize in hand, to preside over a troubled nation at war.

I want to respectfully touch his hand and say Earn This.

Earn This.

I believe in you, and in us. I want - need - to believe.

Earn this.

I think he already knows, but I want to be sure.

Tell our elected officials to quit bickering and help you. Demand it.

Demand that America earn peace. We can argue all day about who or how these wars have started, the ones across the ocean, and the ones within our bitter, partisan and myopic walls, or we can simply stop yelling and start working together, toward peace, jobs, education, health, food and energy and hope for our future generations.

We have this amazing Constitution, Bill of Rights, and ideals of freedom, liberty and justice for all. We are not there. Look around. There is so much work to be done and so much at stake. We need to make peace with ourselves, as a people, and look to the future we shape for our children. I'm not sure how to start, but I know I'm ready.

The Nobel committee has extended this gift of hope to our President, and us, and I hope we earn this.

Sunrise, Sunset

Front Door

Back Door

January weather in December.

1 degree F, -20 windchill. Brrrr.

Wish I could have stayed inside today,

with a cup of tea, a nice fire and a book.

?Que esta en la bolsa?

In my 6th grade Spanish class, we spoke dorky dialogues from the text after  listening to them on cassettes, and I remember only this one:

?Que esta en la bolsa?

asks the girl of the boy holding a paper lunch sack.

Es una culebra,

he answers.

With no further explaination. Or maybe my brain got stuck on sentence two and I can't remember. But, who carries a freaking snake in a lunch bag?

Was it a bad joke? Was he a future serial killer?

Was the textbook company fucking with little minds?

I guess I'll never know.

But for the rest of my life, when I see a bag my brain asks what's in it, in espanol, a little OCD quirk.

But guess what? We can play ?Que esta in Mel's bolsa? 

It won't be a reptile, that's for sure. It's not a chicken either, though I love this close approximation to a Delaware game cock. I was raised a first stater, graduated UD, go fightin' Blue Hens! and I have a wee fascination with all things chicken, since I grew up in the land of chicken farms, had many a chicken pet, including my favorite, bantums with chicks, teeny tiny chickens!, and my sister's chicken Lucky, who fell off the chicken truck, who was, as it turns out, poorly named. Oops, chicken tangent. Anyway.

So...

?Que esta en la bolsa?

Well, it's these. I need them. All in one place.

Handy.

Es mi libros.

? Que esta in los libros?

What's spanish for my life, my stories, my manic journals? Notebooks? Therapy and conversations with myself?

Can you guess which is which?

One's from high school, mid 70's, still in use for logging important data like the list of every book I've read since about middle school, flight logs, kid quotes, safety tips, or deep thoughts. Life stuff.

Ones from 1983, a chronicling of all the events and milestones since college, meeting my husband, starting a family, pets and kids and travels. Kept faithfully for 27 years and current.

One's a really lame fiction story I started, and am now forever stuck.

One's the cancer book. On hold.

One's the daily phone crap, Dr. appt. reminders, miscellany. Full.

One's a journal from 2 years of parenting and thinking. Material.

One's a journal of quotes I copy from books I read. To reread. Again.

One is a nature journal and some sketches from our vacation home in the hills. Kindof lame, especially my sketching.

One is just random notes, things to do, another is lists of fun things to do, places to go, adventures to take with the kids.

I am nothing without facts, data, lists and words. I am my scribe.

But wait there's more, just not in the bag.

I don't keep en mi bolsa my 3 ring binder of all the loose stuff, lists like every movie I've ever watched, books I need to read, and stories I write and memories I catch, or pages of collected family stories.  It's too big and would tear the chicken bag. But I wish it fit, then everything I'd grab in a fire would be in one place.

The binder is just too full. Everything in here is important life stuff. To me.

Mi piquito famlia on the cover, and hundreds of rabbit holes inside. Want to hop down one?

What's inside that letter?

A note I wrote to myself last year to help me remember....

this.

One of the odder coincidences in my life. My sick mom is in the hospital getting chemo, breast cancer, round two, Dad dying. I fly from IL to DEL for the umpteenth time, which drains me, even in good times, and this was not a good time. Mom asked me to make her bed, which is overwhelming because she hoards and everything is so hard to do. I try not to drip tears on her sheets, and decide to chip away at safe footing around the bed and begin to sort through piles of junk mail, newspapers, papers, stuff and I find the evelope with the butterfly and for some reason look inside, and there is this little piece of me I gave to her, this letter I wrote about making her bed because I love her and Dad, and a drawing of her cluttered bedroom in my childhood home. I even drew piles of clothes then, and I was sad now from crawling over the piles of clothes 30 years in the future, where she surrounds herself with bits from her past, just like I do now. I cried some strange tears and laughed some, too. At least I made the bed, because I didn't get much else done that night.

But think of it. Of all the clutter piles in my mom's house now, where she's pushing level 4 hoarding, I pick up the one paper pile to sort with that letter in it. I can't begin to explain the odds of that happening, and you probably can't imagine the vanloads of paper in every room, or corner, or the mountains of clothes higher than I can reach, because I'm the shortest, by far. Anyway, the odds were astronomical, and I feel like maybe little me wrote that note for big me to find, to comfort me, but it made me sad because i couldn't have imagined this future. It was pretty wabi-sabi.
 
Life is really strange sometimes. I think that note found me.
 

ps I can make a box. I just learned.

I was so proud. I made a few of them just to prove it.

The mom in me was so proud of the young me.

Sometimes I wish I could time travel just so I could go back and comfort that child, steer her clear, spare her some things, make sure she remembered all the good things, because I really wish I had all those memories now.

I kept the letter. I never told mom I found it or that I took it, and I don't think she knew it was there anymore. So now it's part of my piles of papers.

How can I not keep the reminders (remainders?) of my odd life? Aren't they treasure somehow? Or proof? I'm trying not to worry about the hoarding aspect of this, I figure I'm maybe a level two right now, and realization is the first step to recovery, right? And everything is neatly, compulsively stashed in cute little notebooks and bags. It soothes me to put things in things, away.

Maybe we'll play more ?Que esta in something else full of pieces of me.

I got stuff stashed Everywhere.

Oooh, remind me sometime to tell you about the letter my grandma emily wrote that my daughter emily made me find. More Wabi-Sabi serendipitous weirdness. Until then,

Hasta luego, mi amigas.

Muchas gracias.

Oh - and

?Que esta in tu bolsas?

(Whats in your bags?)

Not My Favorite Way to Wake Up

I hate to wake up, as I'm an exhausted insomniac and I really hate to get up because my bed is ridiculously comfy and it's cold out there.

This morning, inexplicably, my cat Noel, who I found living under my porch  5 years ago, at Christmas, decided to pee a huge puddle on my bed. Soaked through this  duvet cover on the picture and into my new, expensive down comforter, the most luxurious item I own, by far.

Of course cat pee rained down on me, the carpet and everywhere in my blurry eyed attempt to clean it up without crying or killing the cat. WTF. She seems fine, her litter box was available and reasonably clean, in fact I'm pretty sure she crapped in the box and then came upstairs to pee on my bed. While I was in it. At least she had the decency to pee on my husband's side. If she had peed on me, I might not forgive her. I still might not. Right now I'd give away to the first taker. I have my limits.

I'm just not sure what the universe or the cat is trying to tell me. I need something nice or normal or non-sucking to happen to me and soon. But first I gotta try and get the pee smell out of my life.

Just pulled up the weather, in between laundry loads. Are you kidding me? I need to hide in bed. Winter weather advisory. Winter storm warning. Sucky, stuck inside kinda day, because I don't drive in this mess unless its crucial. And it isn't.
Hope you live somewhere else.

Today
Periods snow until late afternoon...then snow... chance of rain and sleet late in the afternoon. Snow and sleet accumulation of 1 to 2 inches. Blustery. Highs in the mid 30s. Light and variable winds becoming east 15 to 25 mph with gusts up to 30 mph at times. Chance of precipitation 100 percent.
Tonight
Windy. Widespread light snow and a chance of sleet in the evening...then widespread snow after midnight. Snow and sleet accumulation of 3 to 5 inches. Temperatures nearly steady in the lower 30s. East winds 20 to 30 mph with gusts up to 35 mph at times in the evening becoming southeast and decreasing to 10 to 20 mph with gusts up to 35 mph at times after midnight. Chance of precipitation 100 percent.
Wednesday
Windy. Widespread light snow until late afternoon... then a chance of light snow showers late in the afternoon. Areas of blowing snow in the afternoon. Snow accumulation of 1 to 2 inches. Total snow accumulation 5 to 9 inches. Turning sharply colder. Highs in the lower 30s. Then temperatures falling into the mid 20s by evening. West winds 20 to 30 mph with gusts up to 40 mph at times. Chance of precipitation 90 percent.

Chance of more bullshit in my life 100 percent. Chance of attitude improvement 50 percent. Partly surreal with patches of irony.

Dear Ms. Moon,

Because I could not monopolize your poignant, perfect post why insanity is insane with this comment:

Ms. Moon, your post made me feel a sunset's colors worth of emotions. I am so happy for you to have had Dog Island, it is such treasure and I hope you can find your way back to it. I am so sad for you to have the fear and panic take over and ruin all that once felt safe, all that should be perfect. It is cruel. I have it all the time too, it's an odd agoraphobic fear of leaving the cave, and you described it achingly, frustratingly well. Tears came.

It is cruel for our minds to ruin what we love, and take away the ability to relax, as I'm always tight as a spring, inside and out. Sometimes I get scared just because of all I have to lose, the certainty that it will all be lost to me sooner than I want, despite my happy future tomorrows with my kids obsession, I know there are no guarantees. And far away from phone, internet, trauma centers, EMT's, medicine, news, all the things that give a speck of comfort or safety. Feeling vulnerable scares me, and I fear the trips, as every trip is fraught with danger. I read safety statistics for every mode of travel and buy big ass cars with airbags and I still wait for a truck part or falling rock to fall on me, just to insure I have plenty to worry about. I can't camp, ski, hike, sail or fly without panic, and can barely sit in a public place without worrying about crazy random acts of violence. I couldn't watch my husband and son body surf waves at the beach without hyperventilating - sharks, undertow, neck injury, my brain just tormented me. I'm petrified something terrible will happen to people I love, because it happens all the time and I can't accept it. Don't. Won't.

Just some of the things that scare me, maybe mostly that we're all so alone at the core in life, no matter how much or how many we love. Or maybe no matter where I go, there I am, and I don't know where there is anymore.

I wonder, Ms. Moon, what is the root of your fear, is it jumbled, like mine? I wonder why we can't make the panic go away. I feel that much of it is chemical, like drugs in my veins, changing my body and my mind too often for me to keep up. And I want a pill to fix that, because it should not happen. We have Catch 22 in the church of batshit crazy, we people who are so aware and so smart or discerning or burdened with hope that we should be crazy. But we are still sane enough to recognize the insanity and are doubly burdened.

Sorry to ramble, but I'm going to think of your sunsets and you unable to have them besides in your past, while I photograph my sunsets, fretting their passing and not their being and trying not to freak out, and remembering to breathe. I wish we could figure it out. I'd start with hugs.

And ghosts. My, my. I bet your family has some stories, as mine does. One of the perks of hyperawareness or whatever it is we have, or living in places or homes that hold energy, that helps makes us crazy, and thank goodness funny. I'm missing funny and safe, and sorry you are too.

Keep telling us about it, though, It is soothing in its sharing. Thanks.

See how this would just be the most narcissistic comment ever? I'm going back to read your post again and look at the pictures and try to be happy and not sad. And hopeful for you and me and the rest of the congregation.

By the way...

The more muscle relaxers I take for my sore shoulder which I reinjured by falling down the stairs exactly 10 months after I tore the tendon falling down the stairs, the longer my comments get on my fellow bloggers pages. Blame the skelaxin for making me relaxin. If only the freaking pain and muscle twitches would stop. Oh well. Today I am planning mostly on not falling down the stairs. Remembering about gravity. Dreaming BIG.

Also.... Is anyone else having to sign on to Blogger all day long? Everytime I click on anyone else's page or click to comment, I have to sign in again. Shit is starting to piss me off.

Happy Saturday, that's all the complaining for now!

First Snow and Happy December

My Back Yard in Winter, 2008

December came on as quickly as the flu, little warning, then Bam! Winter, cold, wind and a dusting of perfect snowflakes. I have a midwesterner's love/hate relationship with snow. It is lovely, it protects my plants, but after a few months, it just gets depressing and annoying to negotiate. Muddy pawprints, muddy boots prints, yukky slush glomping off the car making salt puddles in the garage. Illinois winters are not the winters of my childhood. I grew up in Brigadoon, on a spit of land buffeted from both time and temperature by the waters of the Chesapeake and Delaware bays, marshy, sandy land filled with sassafras, cypress trees, mountain laurel and holly berries. I am a foreigner here, these winters and wind chills still shock me, though I came in the summer of 1984, when Mary Lou Retton scored her perfect 10's and won Olympic gold. My first 40 below wind chill was a rude awakening, and I've been complaining and commenting ever since. I am an old dog. And complaining is one of my best tricks.

But not today. It's 20 degrees blowing cold north air, flurries sparkle in the clear moonlight night, and winter is just getting started. It's going to slap us around a time or two, show us the meaning of snowfall, windchill and blizzard. Those who can't handle it are welcome to move south and those who stay, and seek diversion, need look no farther than the amazing snowflake. One of my favorite creations, outside of giant moths and lovely chickens and smiling babies. And flowers. And ice cream. But I digress.

Snowflakes. Up close, thanks to the scanning electron microscope and a few crazed scientists, especially Kenneth Libbrecht, from Caltech. Amazing doesn't begin to describe what the eye can see. Look:

This is not my first geeky post on the amazing snowflake. I could write for hours about Snowflake Bentley, the man who first trudged a camera into the cold to photograph snowflakes. He died from pneumonia after walking home in a winter storm, and never made a cent from his amazing photographs:

If you've the time and curiosity, I have a more in depth blog about this on my nerd page, my sanity saving 35 degree below Zero Diversions. If you have the time or the curiosity, enjoy the many links and videos, including vintage Suzy Snowflake! Happy December. Let the games begin!

I'm not going to lie....

I read a lot of blogs, way too many, because there a lot of good ones, and I have the time. I imagine responses to them as if we're actually having a conversation. I actually comment more than I would have thought, since I'm more comfy lurking than interacting - too exposed jumping into the fray, being borderline agorophobic in my menopausal haze. Member the Chris Farley SNL character who always blurted out stuff, then cringed because everything he said was stupid? But he can't stop himself? That's me lately. The words clunk out or fail sometimes. But.

When I bridge the gap, speak up, mangle a response, try to say something nice, connect, compliment or just me too, well, maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I can't remember. Some sites have delayed comment approval, some take a while to show up, some disappear into the ether, some I can't remember if I wrote it in my imagination and just thought I sent it. I can get pretty tangled backtracking my comments, and webhopping, and if I ever look like I'm stalking your page, honestly, I'm not. I'm just wondering did I babble something out there? Did anyone babble back? Are there more nifty comments? More cool people to read? I get lost a lot. My daily internet history is ridiculous. Can I really be this disorganized, even in my most rudimentary of social interactions? Perhaps. Maybe. And so it goes.

If I commented and it was a lame babble, sorry. If I said nothing and meant everything, sorrier still. I'm reading you, whenever I can, you're all mostly fascinating, and I find new, interesting tangents and get more tangled everyday.

So I'm just saying, it was nice sortof maybe almost or actually chatting with you! So glad you're out there.