All Right

I did it. I pulled up that story with a main character and a plot and I finished it.
It's called "Into The Light" and I started it...what? Two years ago?
A short story. And I remembered what it was like to let a character take me into her life and let me write down what was happening to her as it happened.

If there is any sort of magic it has to do with the act of creation. And no matter what else is happening in this world of mine, there has been magic today.

For this I am eternally grateful. For this, I feel soulfully soothed.

For this, I am reminded of what is possible.

For this, I am scared the fuck out of my wits.

And right now I hear a Chuck Widow's Will, far off into the distance and I sit here, amazed, delighted, and completely humbled once again.

More Wisteria, Bees, Lizards, A Missing Chicken, And The Sacred Image Of The Female

What a weekend and it is over. There are boiled eggs in my refrigerator, dyed and painted, testimony to the fact that yes, it did all happen, along with K's boots which he left in the guestroom, facing the door as if they were on their way out on their own when the door got shut impeding their progress, and a mirror in the bathroom B left. And oh- a hambone with barely a scrap of meat on it. We did eat that ham. Yes we did. Those of us who eat ham.

I am missing a chicken. Miss Shalayla, to be exact. I have no idea where she is. I suppose something could have gotten her when they were out yesterday, scratching happily in the yard but I heard no ruckus, and we were outside most of the day. Makes me sad but if you're going to let your chickens roam, I suppose this can be the result. She may have just run away. I guess that's possible too. She has been the favorite of Elvis her entire adult life and his grip-of-copulation has left her back bare of feathers. Could she have just decided that enough is enough? I went over and checked the flock next door belonging to our neighbors and I do not see her over there. A conscious decision? A hawk? A coyote? A fox? An owl?
Sigh.
Well, unless I find a pile of red feathers, I am going to imagine her hiking down the railroad track, her hobo-bag over her shoulder.
I hope she did not have to cross any roads.

It is truly getting warm here. The thermometer on the kitchen porch read ninety-six degrees yesterday afternoon. It was not really that hot, but I believe that spring has chased winter's chill away during the daytime at least. Truthfully, I am not looking forward to the heat this year. I can stand it and I do but can I be honest? I am so sick of the hotflashes and if it is already ninety-something degrees and I am already hot, the heat that overtakes me so many times a day and night make me feel as if I have been suddenly thrust onto the surface of the sun. It's not funny anymore. It is NOT funny anymore. At all. I can't even begin to make a joke of it.

But it is what it is. And the heat brings us many things, including the beautiful flowers I cannot stop taking pictures of. The bees are in a frenzy and even if the wisteria is twenty feet up in the air,




you can hear them buzzing as they nuzzle in and out of each tiny flowerette on the hanging clusters.

Do you know how hard it was for me to take the picture? The patience? Bees are harder to photograph than babies and chickens because they move so fast. I am proud of it.

The lizards are out in force, too, and I caught this one as he was puffing out his manly throat. I didn't get him in full-display, but you can get a sense of the color.

I think he was flirting with this girl who was a few feet away:


I have taken down the picture of Billy I put up last night. I cannot take any controversy today. I just can't. I am having a day of anxiety and I am second-guessing my decision to get off the antidepressant. This is the first time I have felt this feeling in a long time and I do not like it. I am going to not panic and I am going to see how this day goes and then what tomorrow brings. If it brings more anxiety, I will reverse-wean myself. I know what my limits are.

And I suppose that's it. My mind is a bit foggy and strange. I do not quite feel like myself. I am going to town to the library and to buy some more damn Rescue Remedy. I am going to use it liberally. And this afternoon, I am going to work on a short story I started a long time ago and I am going to try and lose myself in it. I heard an interview with Lee Smith on NPR last night as I finished cleaning up and watering my plants and I heard something in her voice that made me think that yes, a southern woman can tell stories and that they can be published and that there is joy in that which I am denying myself out of fear, out of something.
This blog alone has brought me more joy than I ever could have imagined. It has opened up my own tiny world to my own heart and eyes. It has done me more good than fifty-years of Lexapro. I went to the post office this morning and found a package from Ireland there for me.

Jo. Oh Jo.

I opened it right there in the post office. Ms. Joanne, our postmistress, was curious too, to see what had come to me from Ireland. Jo sent a wonderful stuffed anteater, all made of natural and organic materials for Owen and when he takes possession I will get pictures. I know he will stick that anteater's snout in his own mouth and it's going to be so funny and he won't even know how that creature got to him, via some sort of magic based on words sent through 1's and 0's across the world and which resulted in the return of such a darling physical manifestation of care. And she also sent me a pair of gorgeous stripey tights in purples and blacks and grays which I will wear with such joy when it gets cool again.

I don't know. I don't know how or why these things happen anymore than I understand the workings of my own brain or the concept of dark matter in the universe or how it is that the flower of the wisteria blossom looks like the sacred image of the female.

I am just here, riding this wave of my life, and writing it down and as Lee Smith said that someone else said (and I would remember but I can't)- if you are a writer, you get to live everything twice.
Perhaps if you are a writer you MUST live everything twice.

I don't know.

But I do know that joy which brings more joy cannot be ignored and I am more than grateful for it all.

The Day Unfolded

The wisteria looks so different from early morning's light to late afternoon's. Lit this way, then that. It glows in the sun's setting rays.

Pop-Pop and his boy.

Food. And plenty of it. Do you see Kathleen's beautiful salad with violets? And salmon? And shrimp? And mushrooms and asparagus?
The deviled eggs with their golden yolks? The ham? Oh god. I do love the pig.

We made Owen suck on a lime to get this expression. He wanted more after he untwisted his face.

Jessie's hummingbird cake. Pretty name for a pretty cake. And my, my. It was good.

Speaking of pretty. Beautiful Kathleen.

Eggs in colors.

Me and my babies.

The egg dyers. My mother, Kathleen, Mark, Lily, May, Hank, Jessie.

Jessie.
Hank.
Lily.

Harley singing a song.

May and her nephew.

My mother, Owen, Jessie, Lily. And that damn cashmere chicken which Owen could not care less about. Oh well.

It was a beautiful day. Everything went easy and well. It was warm and sunny and filled with bird call and laughter. No one can make me laugh as much as these children of mine. If you ever get the chance, ask Lily to tell you story of when Baby Jessie ate a cockroach.

I felt wrapped in love, I felt love pour into me and out of me. Everywhere I looked there were the faces of the people I love. Not all of the people I love, but a lot of them.

We all gathered in the hallway to watch Owen scoot on his belly. He was so proud every time we cheered. He had no idea what we were doing or why but he liked it. And he blessed us with his smiles.

We ate our food, we broke our bread together. We got up for seconds and then ate cake. There were so many kisses. The chickens ran behind Lily and Jason as they pushed Owen in the stroller like an Easter parade.

We did not say grace. It would have been, to say the least, redundant. Every word was grace, every bite, every smile, every belly laugh, every note of every bird, every blossom, every ray of light. I thought of all the people I love who were not here and I loved them in my heart.

Do you feel it?

Amen.

Easter

I came home from Kathleen's last night and wrote and wrote and wrote. It was all scattered and one of those writing-times where you have all these bits and pieces you are trying to weave together into something coherent, something lovely.
It got late.
I went to bed.
What I was saying (I think) was that here we are, on this tiny mote of planet in this tiny solar system in this tiny galaxy in this huge universe where the things we can see or understand are so small as to be unimaginable and somehow instead of making me feel useless or unimportant or as if I need to have a credo or a religion or a savior or a belief in an after-life, it makes me feel as if my life is truly my own and if, when I die, none of it matters, well then- so be it!
I can't save the world and I doubt I can fuck it up, either.

And that while I am here, I can do what I want. It is my life. It is not my tribe's life, nor my savior's life. It is not your life or even my children's life. It is my own.

And that on Easter, which is a made-up holiday (as they all are except for the ones which represent the actual turning of seasons) I can celebrate as I want. I celebrate the beginnings of new life springing from older life, not the weird resurrection of a crucified life. Poor Jesus, nailed to that cross and asked to suffer again year after year, then forced to come back again and again to roll away the stone, to unwind that shroud. I sort of want to say, "Hey, let the man rest in peace."

Ah no. Give me birds and give me babies.



Give me love and give me flowers. Give me this planet right now with its gravity and grace. Give me this life I have. I need no other not today or tomorrow and especially not after I die. Give me the ability to love this life, to love the people my heart has found to love. Give me the heart to notice the glory in the here and now and the humbleness to accept it as it is given. Give me the ability to give it back.

Love and light, we tumble through the darkness of space, given our own lamp of sun, our own spirits of struggle and strife and acceptance. Our own faces, hands, smiles, work, pleasure, dreams, rest, and getting-up-again. It is all nothing, it is all everything.

I know so little, I have been given so much.

Happy Easter.


It is yours to do with as you will, just as it is mine.

Yes. We Had Fun.

The last twenty-four hours have been a whirlwind and I can't believe it's still morning and everything is peaceful and quiet again. But it is.

Owen came to visit me yesterday afternoon and we had a delightful time, that boy and I. He has changed so profoundly in the last two weeks that I can barely understand it. He is not a baby any more. He's just not. I'm not sure what to call him. A pre-toddler? He is trying to toddle. He rolls over, he scoots, he is pulling up, he can walk around things holding on. He has a slightly annoying new habit of, when not getting what he wants (usually to be held), he makes this fake-cry-whining noise and it's hard to take seriously. "Oh, Owen," I say to him in my grandmother voice. "Is that really necessary?"
He seems to think it is and by golly, it works because I pick him up, of course, or do whatever it is that he wants me to do which is sometimes to put him down on the floor. He is delighted to be able to sit on the floor like a big guy and to view the world from that vantage point.

He and I did several turns around the yard in the stroller and he's still fascinated by the chickens. Here is is, posing with a chicken planter.

I took yesterday's warmth as an opportunity to put him in nothing but a t-shirt and a cloth diaper. He seemed very happy about that and we enjoyed the every-twenty-minute changing experience. "Now you're a hippie baby," I told him. He laughed.

Here he is taking a nap on the back porch with Zeke.

I'm afraid to leave him on a bed so I put him in his car seat and buckled him in loosely. He's comfy there.

I boiled eggs for tomorrow's egg dying event. I can't believe that it was at last year's event that Kathleen brought over the peeps which have grown up to be my lovely sister-wife hens and their husband, Elvis. What changes a year can make. Owen was still in his mama's belly, and I had no idea what to do with chickens.
Well. We have all figured it out quite nicely. Or at least well enough.

Thirty-six eggs of already-blue, green and brown. Riches!

When K&B got here I was indeed holding Owen on my hip. I had not changed my clothes or taken a shower. I had been peed on. My hair was in the grandmother braids they'd been in all day. What could I do but say, "Well, this is what it is?" and it didn't matter. K grabbed Owen who sat on his hip without protest for quite a long while and B hugged him up and made grandmama noises at him. Here we are, I thought, and I remember when she was pregnant with her first baby, the one who has grown up and made her a grandmother. Damn!

Lily came and got her son and he was ready for a long, good nap, because the one he'd taken on my porch had only lasted for about twenty minutes and I know she appreciated that because she'd been up since way before dawn. She made her polite greetings, she grabbed up her boy and he snuggled down on her shoulder and then she buckled him up and took him home. He'll be back today AND tomorrow so I let her take him.
Sigh.

And then showers were taken and martinis were mixed and we did the porch-sit, the yard-walk. The chickens were admired, the salad greens picked. Everyone pitched in and after approximately eight hours, a shrimp salad and a loaf of bread were produced. I have to say that hilarity did ensue during the dinner preparations AND we talked with another old friend from high school who lives out in California (hey Sally!) and hearing her voice was like a shot back into time.

Alright, I should be embarrassed to post this picture but what the hell? Not like I'm naked, dancing on the counter. That came later.
Just kidding!

And here's another with Ms. B and the boys:

There was another picture of those same three people which I shall NOT be posting. Ever. Let us just say that none of us will ever be running for office.

And then dinner and then, not long after, bed. We are, after all, old. Not as old as Pearl (see her there with her head under the tablecloth?) but old enough.

We ate our breakfast this morning outside- impossibly golden yellow scrambled eggs with grits and deer sausage and biscuits.

The bees buzzed in the wisteria and the birds came to the feeder and then I saw this:

A bluebird. He was checking out the nesting box Mr. Moon put up last year and yes, these birds are so beautiful and so blue and there is a reason they call them the bluebirds of happiness. I have said it before and I will say it again- it is as if the entire blue of the sky were compounded and compressed into one tiny patch of bird-shape. I do so hope they bless us with their presence this year.

And now K&B have left to head up to Albany to spend the rest of the weekend with B's mama and Mr. Moon is working on a sign-making project and here I am, happy and content.

I want to thank everyone so much who wrote about the Lexapro weaning situation. It was good to know that the "zings" as Aunt Becky so aptly called them, are normal. They are almost gone today. And I feel good. I feel as content and stable as I've felt in a long, long time. My life-situation has changed tremendously since those dark days when I got on the drug and I think I may be okay now without it. If I find myself creeping back to that place, I will get back on the medication or discuss it with my doctor to try a new one. I promise.

In the meanwhile, there is spring, there is wisteria, there is new growth everywhere and there is Owen. There are chickens and there is this family of mine. There is the possibility of a bluebird family. There are my friends.

And because I know what crazy feels like and because I know how it was when I went insane, I am all the more grateful for this time of feeling not-insane. For being able to look around and just...be...here.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go wash diapers. And eat some of the incredibly luscious cheese cake B brought which she had made and which is lying in wait in the bottom of my refrigerator. Why should one only eat breakfast dessert when one is in New Orleans?

I'll leave you with that question which you may answer however you choose. If I were you, though, I'd go out and find a cheesecake.

Happy Saturday, y'all.

Love....Ms. Moon

Purple Prose (Pink Thrown In For Free)

Have any of y'all ever DC'ed from Lexapro? If so, please shoot me an e-mail or comment here. I am four days off of it now and feeling a bit...weird. I tapered very slowly and all was well until about day two of being off entirely. Body rushes. Not good ones. Fatigue (maybe it wasn't just spring drunkenness?). Is it the Lex or I am dying? Well, slowly dying, perhaps.
I don't know but I do not have time for this shit!
So if any of you have any experience in this matter, please let me know.

Now. On to our regularly scheduled program. It is Friday. It is April 2nd. I think that was my grandfather's birthday. He was born in 1888 so if he was still alive (haha!) he'd be one hundred and twelve years old today. He was well into his nineties when he died so that was pretty good. I wonder what Granddaddy would think of the computer, the internet. He was very intelligent and a curious man so perhaps he wouldn't have hated it. Who knows? He'd hate all this blah, blah, blah. I know that. He once gave me a printed-out quote that said something like, "Intelligent people speak of ideas, not-so intelligent people speak of things, and unintelligent people speak of other people and themselves."
Well. There you have it. At least one quarter of my neurosis in a nutshell.
Happy birthday, Granddaddy!

My friends are coming today. I am excited. I figured out that I have known the man-part of this couple for about 38 years. Not kidding. Since high school. Am I that old? And I've known his wife for about, oh, 34 years. Good god! K and I were boyfriend/girlfriend for about fifteen minutes in high school but obviously, we have some sort of deep affection for each other as we have been writing regularly and seeing each other now and then all those years since. K&B are world-travelers, fancy-dancers, yoga-doers, good-deed-doers, and high-livers. I believe that Mr. Moon and I may be the only people they personally know with chickens but I could be making that up. Oh well. Tonight we will be sitting on the front porch with martinis and it will be fabulous!


They offered to take us out for supper but really- with all that beautiful lettuce and spinach and chard in the garden? And a twenty-mile drive to town?
Nah. Let's just eat here.

It is well and truly spring. We know that happens here when the pecans begin to leaf. They are timid trees and they are the last to leaf in the spring and the first to drop their leaves in the fall which makes them a lovely tree to shade our homes. Here's a picture of a small black-purplish bird (can you see it?) up in the pecan behind our house.


And we say pe-cahn. Not PE-can. I don't know why. But I thought I'd just go ahead and tell you now.

Wisteria is an invasive. One of the loveliest invasives you can imagine, but still. Here's some growing on the roof.

And the pansies are still blooming so I am not pulling them out and replacing them yet. Talk about your purple. Deep purple. Deep, deep velvet purple.


The azaleas are flashing us with all their lady parts. They are more pink than purple but they are in the same family. Here they are, ready for their close-up:


And perhaps the most lovely of all, the wild violets.


The guy is coming to mow today (in theory) and so the violets shall all be slain but I picked these to put in a vase. It's a sin to cut them down, I know, but the other stuff growing around them (which is not grass) is some sort of weed that is nettley and sticks to you as you walk through it and it needs to go.
They'll be back next year. The violets, that is. So will the nettley stuff, believe me.

All right. I must run. I have things to do and places to go. (The dump.)
The chickens are bawking and announcing the arrival of many eggs.
There is shrimp to boil.
Owen is coming at one.

Wishing you great purple dreams and schemes and a very happy Friday. I just realized it is Good Friday, or, as I call it, The Anniversary Of The Day They Crucified Our Lord Friday. But you know me.

Love....Ms. Moon

Indulge Me

I know, I know. This blog has had some serious Owen picture drought going on. Have you been suffering? You know I have. So, in order to rectify the situation, I offer you these.

Lily, Owen and I met Uncle Hank for lunch at Moe's. Do you have a Moe's where you live? I can't hate the place. They have really spicy salsa. And when you walk in, they say, "Welcome to Moe's!" They being all the line cooks. Yeah. It's corny. And it cracks me up.

Little man stands and crows. He's been hanging with the roosters too much, obviously.

I have no idea what was so curious, but please- that face? Stop me before I eat it.


Uncle Hank, may I please have your nose ring?


My boys. My precious boys.

After lunch it was on to the mall where we got pictures with the Easter Bunny. We met up with our friends Billy and Shayla and their son Waylon and Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw AND Billy's sister Kelli and her children Adda and Eli. It was an Easter Bunny Picture Taking Fest!

Lord. They look like poster children for the Aryan Nation. We are some white white people. Please do not judge us for that. We were born this way.


Hey man! I love you!
Hey man! I love you, too!


Hey pretty girl. I must touch your soft cheek.

It was only yesterday that I took that girl to get her picture made with the Easter Bunny. I am not kidding you.
Wow.
Don't look away, folks. Kids grow up faster than you can believe.
And then they fulfill their purpose on this earth and GIVE YOU GRANDCHILDREN!

It's a good thing and makes it all so worthwhile you have to catch your breath, you have to wipe your eyes, you can't believe your fortune.

It's so fucking corny and it's so incredibly true.

If I Prayed

And if I prayed or believed in that sort of thing
(It's always struck me as begging- oh dear, high, mighty god of all and vast power, blah, blah, blah-praise the deity- studies show that works best to get your message heard)
I would say
Don't let me forget
That moments of despair are just that
(moments)
That times of anxiety are just that
(times)
That just because something looks dead or dying it doesn't mean it is

(I have seen the roots and tiny green shoots before sticking this in the dirt)
That just because this mind of mine does not work like everyone else's
(Whose does, really?)
That just because I am completely content with a day spent with nothing more
(Nothing more?)
Than just this house, this dirt, this green
This tiny life of small movement
That I am not insane
That I have a place here too
That there is meaning, yes
That there is hopefulness, yes
That what I have been given
And what it is I hone
Is something of worth
(And even if it is not
That it is of no matter.)
That this planet, this one where we live now
Is all about the growing of things
(How can it not be given all this water, all this light, all this black and holy dirt?)
And I have done that.

And remind me that
I will not drown
The water has shown itself to be buoyant
And even warm
And today I will hold the sweet weight of babies in my arms
I will kiss cheeks of plumpness and of age
I will have a moment
(a moment, at least!)
Of remembering all of that

Remind me,
I might say
If I prayed.
If I believed in all of that.
Please
(Deity of choice)
Remind me
All the way down to these deep aching bones
(These bones made of dirt and water)
Remind me.