Blog-O-Meter

Another beautiful morning here in North Florida and we got some rain in the past few days so you know things are green.
The guinea hens from next door are rattling their rusty gossip talk as they pass through my yard and I'd pay them a dollar to eat up all the squash vine borers but they have no pockets to put money in so they're of no use to me. Neither will be the squash, dammit.
The baby child is back home from college where she had a stellar freshman year, whipping the ass of chemistry and biology and making it look easy. She's thinking about looking for a job and about to have a birthday.
I should be happy, I should be enjoying this cool morning in late April but truthfully, I'm in something of midlife crisis #197 or early-elderly crisis #42; I've lost track.
Same-old, same-old: go out and get a job you lazy old Ms. Moon. Make some money and help out with the bills but it's got to be a good job to make the drive into a place of employment worthwhile, not to mention the fact that you'll have to buy a new wardrobe since most places don't let you come to work in a pair of overalls.
Here's what I did yesterday:
Went to yoga, did a thousand loads of laundry (okay, maybe only seven), swept some floors, took the trash and five types of recycle to the place where you do that, filled in a ditch where an irrigation line had been laid, did a little garden tidying, cleaned a bunch of spinach and shallots, cooked some small red beans for dinner and made fresh corn tortillas, mended a pair of jeans for my husband.
And...I also filled out an online application for some sort of position with hospice.
Not easy.
Work experience?
Weight Watchers and the Birth Center.
Describe your position:
Tried to help people loose weight, encouraged women in labor and then cleaned out the jacuzzi.
Basically, that's it.
I'm sure hospice will personally drive to my house and award me with a high-paying job any second now.
I've said it before and I'll say it again- the only work I'm qualified to do is the sort of work we used to call "women's work" (and which mainly and realistically, still is) and the sort of work that people (women) do for free.
The kind of work you can do in overalls.
How much DO they pay ditch-filler-inners?
Today's Blog-o-meter says: Feelings of worthlessness, despair, anxiety and fast-approaching old age.
Better go eat my prunes and fiber-flakes and take a walk. I definitely want to live to the ripe old age of 65 so I can collect that $90 a month that Social Security projects I'll be getting.
I can't seem to come up with a snappy ending line here to tie all this self-pity and wallowing together so I'll just apologize and we can all get on with our day.
Really. Sorry.
Go have fun.

No Jivin', Just Hivin'

The scene above is what I see from the porch at Dog Island, the two sentinel pine trees looking out onto the bay. I usually spend a great deal of my time on the island on the back porch at a wooden picnic table facing the bay, reading or writing or playing cards with just that scene in front of me.
This weekend, our partner in the house was also on the island and he was refinishing the table, making it unusable, so that discombobulated me a bit.
It was a discombobulated sort of weekend, truthfully.
On the way over I realized that I was in such an absurdly good mood that I barely recognized myself. And I even told my husband that I was so excited to be going to the island that I was eager for any adventure we might have.
Haha! says the universe.
All was well until Saturday morning, early, early, around four-thirty when my husband woke me up, apologizing but saying, "I really need some help here."
And indeed he did as he was in the process of breaking out in hives of such ferocious redness and itchiness that he thought he might go insane. Obviously he was suffering from some sort of allergic reaction although we have no idea what might have caused it.
Me, being the nurse, immediately went to find some Benadryl but could only find some that was two years past its sell-by date. I gave him two anyway but an hour later, the rash had gotten only redder, more ferocious looking, and itchier.
Not only was it the middle of the night (and these things always happen in the middle of the night, don't they?) we were on Dog Island, which means you can't just hop in the car and drive to the all-night drug store OR the emergency room. I gave him an ice bag to rub on the rash instead of using his fingernails on it and I also found another type of antihistamine and gave him two more of those.
By seven a.m. he had finally fallen asleep, sitting up in a chair, and I crawled in bed and went to sleep myself but I kept getting up to check on him.
He slept pretty soundly for quite awhile, as well he should have, having ingested enough antihistamine to bring down a horse, but did get up long enough to crawl into the bed where he slept some more. The rash abated, faded, and was no longer itchy, so all was well.
But Saturday was pretty much shot for fishing or walking or anything that required consciousness.
So it was a fairly different sort of trip to the island and brought home the point that going to a barrier island with no bridge may bring its own sense of freedom but it also brings its own sense of despair if an emergency arises.
I never panicked and never felt that he was in danger of suffering from anaphylactic shock, but it was extremely worrisome and almost agonizing to watch him in such agony. I felt helpless.
You can be sure that Benadryl has been added to the list of things we need to take to the island on our next visit and by God, I wish I could get my hands on some morphine because if we'd had some, I would gladly have given him some.
There's nothing in the world so frustrating as seeing someone you love in pain and not being able to do anything about it. Thankfully, this was not a life-threatening event but it makes me pause and think about the fact that we're getting older and "things" are invariably going to happen.
I guess we just have to carry on though, as if we believe that we're invincible and will live forever. I mean, what are the options? Sit home all the time? Go ahead and move into an assisted living facility?
Nah.
Life, no matter what your age, is apt to throw you a curve ball now and then, and discombobulation is just part of it.
But I will take Benadryl to the island and I will make sure it's fresh.
Now. Does anyone know how I can get ahold of some morphine?

Gone Fishing. Be Back Soon.

Well, we're off to the island this morning if I'll get off my butt and pack. We'll only be gone for two days and Lord knows I need a little rehab time. Get this World Wide Web monkey off my back, drink a little rum, take a little walk, check out a few sunsets, make some biscuits, eat some bacon, read a book.

Hey! I might even write a poem or two.

Don't worry. I won't be posting them here.

Heart-Friends

I just spent a good part of the day with my friend, Billy, which is always a delight and a pleasure. Today we went to Monticello and had lunch at the Mexican restaurant and then went to the place on Highway 319 that has tons of cool Mexican stuff including a tiny merry-go-round that I desperately want for my yard but will never get because it costs $1500. We did buy a ristra of red, yellow, and green peppers for Billy's Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw because their house in Kentucky burned down and they lost everything in it, including Maw-Maw's ristras, and this one is for the new home they are about to begin building.
Billy and I always have a great time, no matter what the circumstances, as long we're together.
We're friends. Real friends.
But here's the funny thing- if you put me and Billy and fifty other people in a room together and asked someone to pick out the two people least likely to be friends, they'd probably pick me and Billy.
For starters, he's younger than my son, whose best friend he is. He's also tattooed and pierced, which I am definitely not unless you count my earring piercings. Billy loves country music, which leaves me cold, and he pretty much hates Bruce Springsteen whom I adore and I think he even hates John Lennon but he loves me too much to admit that out loud. I eat mostly vegetables and Billy would live on bacon if it were humanly possible while most vegetables make him sort of want to throw up.
And yet, and yet....
This person is someone I adore.
Now why is that?
There are so many people I meet with whom logically I should be friends. People with whom I have so much in common. And yet, I just don't feel the love. I'd rather go to the dentist with Billy (which I have done before) than go to Paris with a lot of people I know and logically should be friends with, but I think this friendship stuff has everything to do with the heart and nothing whatsoever to do with logic.
Because appearances and age and all that other stuff don't mean shit to the heart. You meet someone and your heart sighs a little and says, "Good one, here," and you just know that this is a person with whom you can trust your real and honest self with and your heart throws open the door, flips on the porch light, and slings the welcome mat down and next thing you know- you've got a friend you love.
If you're lucky.
And if you know Billy, you are. Because not only is he one of those people, so is his wife, so you sort of get two for the price of one.
There are all sorts of lotteries in life.
If you're Billy's friend, you've won a big one.
Which I have, and I'd like to thank my son's wise heart for buying the ticket that brought not only Billy into our life but his mama and his wife and his sister and his grandparents, too.
They're all the sort of friends that are more like family.
Family of the heart. Friends of the heart.
The wise and happy heart that defies logic and knows joy when it sees it.

Update On The Jennifer Lopez Ass

Well, sadly, it's gone. I no longer resemble Jennifer Lopez in any way whatsoever unless in the way that we're both female bipedal human beings with eyes on the front of our heads.
She's a famous Latina singer and actress who recently gave birth to twins and who is married to a talented but unfortunately not very handsome man, while I am a completely unknown writer and mother who had her children one at a time and who is married to a talented and very handsome man.
It all works out.
While I do still have quite the discolored lump back there, it doesn't in any way, shape, or form look like the eighth wonder of the world that Jennifer so proudly (and justifiably so!) displays.
Sigh.
It's healing. It itches. And it's a sort of hurt-itch. Not the end of the world, but the tiniest bit annoying.
And I am reminded that I am incredibly fortunate that when I landed I fell exactly where I did because otherwise, I'd be on crutches.
Or in a wheelchair.
Phew.
Just thought you might be wondering.
Plus, I just like saying Jennifer Lopez's ass.

Earth Day Awards

I'd like to thank all the people who throw trash out of their cars as they pass down Main Street in Lloyd because picking it up for you gives me something to do with my vast amount of spare time.
I'd especially like to thank the incredibly thoughtful person who always seems to discard enough plastic bags for me to use to collect the trash in.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
We all do what we can.

Learning To Stretch

I go to yoga classes at my teacher’s house which is right down the road from where I live. I love my yoga teacher for many reasons, not the least of which is that she was the one who got me started in this practice which seems to be exactly what I need to stay flexible, to stay balanced, to try and stay centered but I have to say that she and I could hardly be more different if we'd been raised on two separate planets.
When I first met her, I was somewhat astonished that she was, indeed the teacher. This was a flash-first impression and frankly, after a year, I’m still sort of shocked. She fits none of the yoga-teacher stereotypes I’ve ever heard. She’s not a former or present hippie, she doesn’t talk about colonics or chi, she doesn’t wear her hair in a long braid, she doesn’t wear batik or filmy gauze things and she’s not a vegetarian.
What she is though, is the mother of three very successful grown children, the wife of the man she’s been with forever, a practicing Catholic, an award-winning quilter, and a Republican.
And of course I’m a past and present hippie, for all intents and purposes an atheist, and if there were a party more liberal than Democratic that had a chance at election, I’d be in it.
I hang everything on my walls from aprons and hula girls to hats and cool shirts while she hardly even has pictures hung on hers and the ones she does are mostly of her children.
She’s a member of the Garden Club and the Woman’s Club and I don’t know what all kinds of clubs while I refuse to consider being in any organization having the word “club” in it’s title.
I’m a die-hard Mac user and her husband actually WORKS for IBM. I think. I’m pretty sure that Bill Gates is his ultimate boss.
She and her husband are avid Gator fans and I couldn’t care less about any team anywhere in the world and although I went to FSU and have a degree from there, I would only be slightly more apt to put a Seminole sticker on my car than I would be to put one of George Bush on it, which is to say- none whatsoever.
So yes, we’re two completely different people and lately I’ve been feeling out of sorts in yoga. Why, I find myself wondering, am I coming to this class where this woman and I have absolutely nothing in common? Her class is long on talk of our “cores” and short on “oms.” Frankly, I could do with a little more oming. Once she said, “And now we’re going to chant,” which I got sort of excited about, but then I realized she was joking.
This is not spiritual yoga except that we do sort of transcend ourselves sometimes and we do say Namaste at the end of class.
So yesterday, when I found myself feeling a little pissy about things, I realized that I need to check my damn ego and remember that this woman is doing and has done quite a bit for me. She cares about me and she cares about my yoga practice and for crying out loud, if I can’t appreciate that and get over myself then how can I expect peace in the middle east?
Well, I don’t really EXPECT peace in the middle east, but some secret part of me retains the slightest hope that all mankind will beat their swords into plowshares and come together to chant, if not Kum Bah Yah, than at least a tiny Om here and there.
But as a cynical and realistic person, I know this is not going to happen in my lifetime and I know that my yoga teacher and I are not alike in very many ways but darn it- we can come together in her living room where the sun spills through her windows and we can balance on one foot and we can stretch our hamstrings and yes, we can use our core muscles. And we can do this together and we can agree on the pleasure and the need for all of that.
And I can respect her for what and who she is and what she believes, even if it’s mostly diametrically opposed to what I believe.
And we do have common ground that goes beyond yoga. We’re both mothers. We both love our children and our husbands and we both hold our families to be of the utmost importance and neither one of us wears gauzy clothes.
And I could Om on my own if I really wanted to.
I don’t think she reads this blog but if she does, I want to say this:
Thank-you. Thank you for all you’ve given me and all you do give me. Thank you for telling me to straighten my back, to bring my shoulders down and for offering me recipes. Thank you for allowing me to come to your home and do yoga.
The Divine Spark in me goes out to the Divine Spark in you and I know that to be true.
Namaste, Yoga Teacher. Namaste.

What's Our Hurry?

I was in Target today, which was relatively uncrowded, buying a yoga block and some batteries and I noticed that the cashier started ringing up my order before the woman in front of me had gathered her bags and put her wallet back in her purse.
Then she did the same thing to me and I don't think she was trying to be rude, just efficient, but you can't help but feel a little bit foolish when you're trying to get yourself together to leave the area and you're obviously slow and the next transaction is taking place before you've really felt closure in your own.
And I've noticed this happening a lot more recently. Not just at Target but in a lot of stores.
And it makes me wonder- what's our hurry?
I just, well, I keep thinking about how, as computers were becoming prevalent in every aspect of life, that we were promised that they would speed things up. We could get more things done faster and thus have more leisure time.
What a lie that's turned out to be. Does using a debit card really make a purchase go faster than writing a check? Not much, if any. Pick your language. Spanish or English. Swipe your card. Put in your pen number. Press enter. Do you want cash back? Wait for the total. Is that amount correct? Yes or no. Waiting for Authorization.
And so forth.
How many times have I sat there with a stupid look on my face, waiting for my receipt, not realizing that there was yet one more question I needed to answer before the transaction was complete?
A bunch.
And all of the debit card machines are different and why is this?
I don't know. And I don't know why we're all so intolerant of the idea of having to spend more than six seconds waiting for the person in front of us to finish up paying for their groceries or their Pampers and then finding their keys and glasses and moving on.
I frequently offer the person behind me in a line the option to go ahead of me if they only have a few items and I have a lot. I rarely get turned down. And I do this because I hate feeling rushed by someone behind me.
So I get somewhere two minutes later. Big deal.
And so what if a person standing in line gets checked out twenty seconds faster than she would have if the cashier had waited until the person she'd just finished checking out managed to get herself together to leave the store before she started with the next person?
Is this going to make or break someone's day?
If so, we're obviously not managing our time very well.
It all seems a part of this crazy attitude we now have that OUR time, OUR day is the utmost, important thing in the entire world and that we all must rush, rush, RUSH to get to the next place.
It's weird.
And it makes me fear for the day (coming soon!) when I'm old and perhaps feeble and not as spry as I once was and people might have to wait for me an extra sixty seconds while I figure out just what sort of retina-reading device THIS grocery store has which is hooked up directly to my bank account and I'll hear all sorts of sighing and see all sorts of eye-rolling in the people behind me in line as I struggle.
Can't we be a little more patient? Can't we be civil in our one-on-one transactions?
We all seem to be hurrying through our days to get home and sit in front of the TV so we can relax and unwind from all the pressure.
I don't know.
Maybe I'm just old and cranky.
Or maybe I'm just wishing for a little more graciousness in this ever-increasing depersonalized life of ours.
So if you see me in line and I have a basket full of groceries and you're trying to get out quickly with your sandwich and drink, and the express line is full- just ask. I'll let you go ahead of me.
It's got to start somewhere.
Might as well start with me.

Red Hat Society Member in Training

The Good Damp Earth and The Things We Grow In It

I'm just back from the Goodwood plant sale on a drizzly Saturday morning and I just feel so good.

I didn't buy much. A native azalea, a begonia, an old rose.

I hadn't been to the sale in years and probably wouldn't have gone this year, either, but my friend K. invited me to go with her and so I did. I think the rain kept a lot of people away this year because it wasn't very crowded and no one was knocking anyone over to get to the camellias. But the people who were there very cheerful, despite the drizzle; a typical Tallahassee mix of black folks and white, men and women, old and young, dressed in everything from pearls and ponchos to overalls and rubber boots with no common bond except for that of being passionate about plants.

This has gotten me wondering why exactly it is that humans just love to plant things. It's probably firmly encoded into our DNA by now to cultivate the plants and trees that we eat the fruit of. That I can understand. But where does the impulse come from to grow plants that offer us nothing but flowers? Why do we plant trees that offer us nothing but the delight we get from the way the wind sounds in their leaves?

I don't know, but I'm one of the people who definitely have the impulse.

I can be seduced by the spring offering of gaudy annuals from Lowe's and Home Depot and Target and I adore my pots of ornamentals on my porch, but what I really love, what makes me almost giddy with delight are the plants I find at places like Native Nurseries and Goodwood. And nothing in the world makes me happier than finding ferns in the woods and digging them up and bringing them home. I love the plants that are native to the area. Ones that I don't so much cultivate as just bring home and allow to flourish. The ashe magnolia, the oak leaf hydrangea, the palms, the ferns, the wild violets, the Buckeye.

I'm also a fool for camellias, which strangely, this yard was severely lacking in when I moved here. There was one lone bush, grown almost to a tree, but I have planted a dozen more and this year's relatively rainy weather has given them all new growth, and me great hope that one day they, too, will be big, strong, adult camellias, offering their color to winter's drab gray. I get as much pleasure from seeing new growth on something I've planted as a mother does, seeing her child go from baby to toddler to child, learning to walk, to talk, to read.

When I was a young gardener, I ordered a rose from Burbee that I planted next to my garden fence and over the years it took off, climbing the fence and giving me deep red, almost magenta roses that were full and as fragrant as any rose you can imagine. I used to pick the blossoms and put them in a bowl and their scent would fill the house. I have spent the ensuing thirty years since I left that house trying to figure out just what in hell that rose was. I've never been able to find it again but yesterday I drove past a yard where an old house has recently been torn down and there, growing on a fence, was a rose that I do believe may be the same kind. I instructed my husband to go by with his knife on the way home and cut me a few pieces and I am trying to root them right now. The delight I am getting from those four pieces of rose plant stuck in a pot with rooting hormone is beyond what I can quite describe. There is no pleasure greater for me than taking pieces of plants or seeds I've collected and nurturing them into something that will grow in my yard.

It probably has something to do with my maternal instinct and I'm not ashamed of that.
I can think of no scenerio for my future that makes me any happier than to be an old, gnarled woman in a big hat with a trowel, clippers, and a shovel and garden cart, moving stiffly from one area of my yard to another, trimming, weeding, transplanting, planting.

Perhaps it is this impulse to plant green things that really differentiate us from the animals. It's certainly not tool-making, we're discovering. I don't feel any need to separate myself from our great ape brethren but I think it's interesting that we plant stuff and as far as we know, they don't, although some chimps seem to treat illness or injury by hunting out specific plants and eating their leaves, which indicates a knowledge of plants that transcends what's good to eat and what's not.

All things to ponder as I enjoy this quiet morning, a perfect morning to plant my new (old) rose, my azalea, and my begonia which sit in their pots waiting to be introduced to their new homes.

The mother in me, the human ape in me, the old Southern lady gardener in me- all of these parts of my soul are completely content to putter around in the wet, black earth, getting dirt under my fingernails and planting things that hopefully will bring joy to future generations as I receive joy from the things that have been planted in this yard by people unknown to me, many of them long, long gone.

I planted a tiny live oak tree in the yard of the last house I lived in and sometimes I drive past that house, just to see how big it's getting. It'll be two hundred years before it's anywhere near as big as the oaks in this yard and I'll be long dead by then, but instead of depressing me, that thought just brings me joy.

Nothing lasts forever, not a good meal I've cooked or words I've written or a clean kitchen floor but a live oak- plant one of those and it'll last, if not forever, long enough.

And of course a rose won't last that long and certainly not a begonia, but the babies of the rose, the offshoots of the azalea might.

And even if they don't, just the momentary pleasure I'll get from putting them in the ground and tucking the soil firmly around their roots and then watching them flourish is plenty.

More than plenty.

It will be a joy.

It will make me feel good.

The Wedding in the Words of the Officiant

http://tallyhassle.blogspot.com/2008/04/hitched-up-tight.html

One Picture

Not to be too multiple-personality here today but I just watched a slideshow of the photos from the wedding and I'm feeling all mushy and joyful again and since I spent SO much time talking about all things wedding for so long, I thought I'd at least share this one picture of the cake, which was such a thing of beauty and which Lis spent three days working on, along with the groom's cake AND the truffles.
Isn't it gorgeous?
And it tasted even better.

Shut Up

Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

I watched some of the debate last night between the two Democratic candidates and that is my response to what I saw.

What tore it for me was when they ran the video question from a snarky woman voter in Pennsylvania who asked Senator Obama why he doesn't wear a flag pin on his lapel.

She REALLY needs to shut up.

As if wearing a fucking flag pin on your lapel would qualify you for being president. Or as if not wearing one indicated your lack of love for the Greatest Country Ever In The History Of The Entire Universe With God On Its Side.

The questions posed to the candidates have gone below what they scrape from the bottom of the barrel. They're ridiculous, meaningless and reflect exactly why we have the president we have now. We obviously want a president who is no smarter than we are and with whom we would not feel uncomfortable if given the opportunity to hang out and slam a few shots and beers.
Because that's going to happen, right?
Forget all that bullshit about actually knowing something about foreign policy, the economy, the environment or health care.
Nah. That stuff is too BIG for us to understand and anyway, we have GOD on our side and His Mighty Magic Wand will be taking care of all that so let's elect a president we feel comfortable with and certainly not one who's elitist. Heaven fucking forbid.

Yeah! Let's go bowling! Let's go hunting! Let's go to church!

Oh. But not Reverend Wright's church. And by the way, Senator, do you think that Reverend Wright loves his country as much as you do?

What???!!!!

Here's what I think- I think that Senator Clinton and Senator Obama know at this point that one of them will be the presidential nominee and the other will be the vice-presidential nominee. Has to be. And that this silly, sniping crap coming out of their mouths about each other is not going to serve them well when they're running as a team.
And they know it. You can see it in their faces and hear it in their responses.
But what can they do? Tell the media to fuck off?

Because the media is fanning these tiny fires of bullshit like frantic Survivor contestants trying
to get a fire going to cook their tasty rats on.

I've said it before and I'll say it again- why would anyone want to go through this process? Here these two obviously well-qualified and intelligent candidates are having to answer questions about their elitism-levels while McCain gets a free ride despite the fact that every time he opens his mouth about something important he gaffes another big one.

I don't know what the answer is to ending this farce of a process but perhaps spending less time on it would be a start. Looking into the faces of Clinton and Obama last night revealed two people who obviously need a month's worth of sleep.

And maybe, if everyone would just shut up, they could get it and we'd all be better off.
They could wake up, have a cup of coffee, face the results of the final primaries, join as a team and get this job done.

Because if another Republican gets in the White House, the only people who are going to come out as winners are the people who make flag pins.

Which we'll all probably be required by law to wear in our lapels.

And I'll be in Mexico, wearing a huipil, which has no lapels, sitting outside watching the sun set right off the balcony of my house. Where I'll be living. Because I can't stand this bullshit any more.

What's Yours?

The last post's title got me to thinking about "Southernisms," which I would define as usage of the English language found in the (mostly) rural south.

You know, things like "I'm fixing to go to the store."

Or even the way certain people pronounce things. Like, the way old African-American folks call their children "chirren" and their grandchildren are "grands."

I love that.

I just love my chirren and I hope someday they give me some grands.
Maybe some great-grands if I live long enough.

Here's one that I'm not sure is Southern but a real Southern man said it to me- "My give-a-damn-meter's just about at zero."
And he was quoting his daddy, so I'm pretty sure that's a genuine Southernism.

What are yours? What phrases or words make your heart happy? They don't have to be southern. They could be Mexican. Quien sabe?

Discuss.

Borrowin' Trouble

I have no idea where I first heard that expression, but it's a good one, isn't it? As in, don't borrow trouble.

Good advice if you're the sort of person who can heed it. Me? Nah. I'm a world-class fretter and obsessive worrier. I have the lines on my face to prove it. If I don't have a real thing to worry about, I'll create one. I'm not just one of your wake-up-at-two-a.m.-worriers. No, I worry all day long. I come up with imaginary scenarios that take me from point A (innocuous event) to point Z (horrible, dreadful, painful, death), stopping at every point of the alphabet on the way to visit yet another horrendous part of the story that COULD happen.

And all of this is at least part of the reason that planning Lily's wedding was so stressful for me. Do you have any idea how many things can go wrong with a wedding? None of them fatal- well, mostly none- but there are so many that if you add them up, it's almost unbearable. Toss in a new pain that had me convinced that I was indeed dying of a dread disease and you'll know why I was not fit to live with for the past few weeks.

But if the people around me think it's hard to live WITH me, they should try living AS me.
It's not easy. It sucks. All this worry is so toxic and I know it and I also know it does NO good whatsoever. It's not like I actually go see a doctor about any of the pains.

Oh hell no.

But today I had a real lesson in why worrying is just fruitless. Back in February, we realized we had a leaky propane gas tank and we were advised we might have to dig the whole thing up and replace it and all the lines, too. But first, we had to completely run out of gas so the tank would be empty. So I worried for months about just that. Running out of gas. I even wrote about it here. On top of the thought of having to do without the stove and the heater and the hot water, was the idea of having to spend at least a thousand dollars to fix the situation AND having to dig up a flower bed and take out part of a fence to do it.

But, we got through the cold and we even got through the wedding cake baking and that was seriously worrisome. Truly a possible catastrophe. But it didn't happen, even though we cut it really close because last night, not thirty-six hours after the last cake came out of the oven, the gas went out. Done.

I was so relieved that we'd gotten the cakes baked though, that I wasn't too upset. It's chilly here, but I just put on an extra jacket and my husband called the guy to come and get this project started. He was going to hook up a temp tank so I knew it would okay but it was still worrisome to think of spending all the money and having to dig up half the back yard.

Well, it ended up that the very, very nice man who came to fix things actually got the leaking gas gauge off without stripping the corroded bolts and this, THIS would fix the problem. He replaced the gauge, we got more gas in the tank and I am quite literally cookin' with gas again.
No problem.
He didn't even charge us.
And guess what? We don't even have a gas hot water heater. We have an electric one.

Ha!

You can't imagine the amount of psychic energy I've spent the last few months worrying about all of this. And for what?
For nothing.

I heard another expression lately which is a good one. It goes like this: don't put up your umbrella until it starts to rain.

I love that one too.
And I need to remember not to walk around all the time with my umbrella clutched in my trembling hands, up and ready for the inevitable downpour I am certain is about to occur.

It's never the things we worry about that jump out and get us. It's always something else. Or even if it's not, it has done no good whatsoever to fret and moan and make myself ill beforehand because there is little chance that all this catastrophising will change the outcome of anything anyway.

I fear however, that I was born to borrow trouble the way others are born to act or to rumble or to be wild. This doesn't mean that I can't make a conscious effort to calm my fears before they become full blown. That I can't at least try to talk myself out of pointless anxiety.

Because really, there's enough trouble in everyone's life to prevent the need for borrowing any.

Wait. I think I'm doing it again.

Step away from the umbrella, Ms. Moon. Just step away and no one will be hurt. It's a beautiful day and you don't need it.

Go take a hot bath. There's plenty of electricity.











.

Winding Down

Wow. It's so quiet.

Every one's gone, including Mr. Moon, off on business. And it's like sixty degrees and windy and supposed to be in the thirties (thirties!) tonight. Patchy frost possible.

Is that really possible?

I guess. We'll see.

I've spent all day slowly doing one small task after another. I've taken the trash and recycle down to the local place you do that, I've done laundry, I've straightened up the kitchen and gotten rid of small bowls of frosting. My real dog, Pearl the boxer, had a very hard time controlling herself when she saw me throw out the chocolate frosting. She stood there and drooled and I could feel her beaming me with thought rays that went like this: "Stupid human! Why are you putting the chocolate frosting in the big silver thing I can't get into? That stuff is still good! Very good! Give it to me! I will eat it. I will lick the bowl for days."

Have you heard that chocolate can kill dogs?

Yeah, me too. Guess what?

If only.

Anyway, I took the man's tux back and when I checked it in, I saw a small pink rose bud by the cash register. "Did you find that in a tux that came back today?" I asked.

"Yep. And I found three other ones, too," he said.

"Yeah. I recognize that rose bud," I told him.

Pink roses. I've got 'em all over this house. I've got four bouquets of them, hanging upside down on the porch, tacked to the wall. Reminders of the wedding are still everywhere. The bride's veil, the guest book, crystal bowls that this time yesterday had candles floating in them.

Pink and white impatiens in tiny little pots that no one wanted.

I want them. I'll plant them in my yard and they'll be Lily's little wedding garden.

It's so quiet. I went out to the garden and picked a few leaves of kale, mustard, collard and spinach and three fat onions. I haven't cooked in days but tonight I'm making soup. Later I'll take a hot bath and catch up on a little magazine reading.

Glorious peace. Glorious quiet. Glorious domesticity. Glorious normalcy. As Lily is rushing headlong into the newness and joy of being a wife (I'm a wife!), of having a husband (a husband!), I am almost giddy with the joy of returning to my boring and very satisfying daily existence.

Last night my husband said, "Maybe now I can get my wife back."

"I think I see her," I said. "She's trudging down the hill. She'll be here soon."

Not to be selfish or self-centered or anything (who, ME?) but...welcome back, me. Welcome back.

And So It Happened

It's eight-thirty in the morning, the day after the wedding. I am bleary-eyed and have blisters on my toes from the shoes I wore and I feel better than I've felt in months.
The husband is off to work and to return chairs, the cake-baker/sanity maker is still in bed. The sun is shining, the birds are twittering, my house is in chaos.
And my daughter is married.
Married, I tell you!
I have all of six pictures so far and I am feeling a bit apprehensive about posting one since none of the parties involved have okayed their use in a public forum but...oh what the hell?
It was so beautiful. The day was perfect- sunny and cool. The only hitch in the whole damn thing was that my mother thought the wedding was supposed to be at four instead of three so she showed up a little bit late but no big deal. We waited.
The ring bearer and flower girl stole the show, as I knew they would. They're my niece and nephew and the flower girl's lace gloves got in the way of petal tossing. I had to run down and take them off her because the petals just kept getting caught in the lace and she was mystified as to what to do. But it worked out.
It all worked out.
The cakes were works of art and tasted like manna. Or at least what I assume manna would taste like. The room was decorated with magnolia leaves and ivy cut from our yard as well as pink roses and gladiolas and the tiny pots of pink and white impatiens.
There was dancing and toasting.
And the highpoint of the whole thing for me (and what Lynn would have loved the most) was when the groom, who is normally a very shy and reserved young man hit the dance floor and did the dance from Michael Jackson's Billy Jean video, moon-walking and crotch-grabbing and smooth-dancing the whole way, giving me an entirely new and vast respect for him.
It was a thing of beauty.
As was the bride and her smile and the way they looked at each other while they said their vows.
My son married them, my other daughters were in the wedding party. My best friends decorated and made the cakes. There were babies and ex-husbands and old, old friends and grannies on the dance floor.
It was everything a wedding should be.

And Ms. Moon is tired. And so very happy.
Recovery will be blissful.

Still Life With Wedding Preparation

Dancing While Dizzy

I'm thinking about balance this on this glorious spring morning.
I've felt dangerously out-of-balance lately and have been spending way too much time in town, running from one end of it to another in frantic search for things for the wedding.
I don't think we're going to have to go to town today. Of course, one never knows. We could be missing some essential ingredient for one of the cake layers or piece of wedding-cake-making equipment and have to make a dash into town to get whatever it is we need.
But hopefully we'll be right here in Lloyd, perfuming the air with the sweet smells of lemon and sugar and butter and apricots and toasted almonds.
I haven't been to yoga in a week and I can feel it in my joints. I've continued to walk through this wedding-prep-madness, but the yoga has slipped through the cracks, which is one of the reasons I'm thinking about balance, which is what yoga is all about- a balance of breath and body that I certainly need to work on religiously.
I haven't been in my office in weeks- I call it an office, but really it's just a beautiful room (the original detached kitchen of this house) where I am in heaven, sitting and writing with the dogs at my feet while the squirrels and birds play outside the windows. I did spend several days weeding the yard of the office, which I love, but it's not the same as being in it, getting lost in other worlds made of words.
My whole world has definitely gone a-tilt, and necessarily so as the wedding has demanded my time and spring has demanded my attention at least a little bit, in the yard.
My routine has been altered, interrupted, diverted and that's good. Routine can become rut if allowed to. But routine can be good, too, especially if it is set up so that a balance is struck, which is what I think we all strive for, although my balance is certainly not yours.
I accompanied my mother this week on a visit to a balance clinic. For the past several months she's suffered from extreme dizziness which has certainly interrupted and diverted her life. It turns out that one of her inner ears is not functioning as well as the other, sending mixed signals to the brain which causes the dizziness and the accompanying nausea. They gave her a set of exercises to do and reassured her that the brain would indeed get adjusted and the nausea will eventually leave, which is incredibly reassuring.
It's hard not to think of her situation as a metaphor for what I'm feeling right now.
I'm getting mixed signals from the spring (get out and GARDEN!), from the fact of my daughter's imminent wedding (get busy and wrap those almonds!), from my mind which wants me to write, from my body which says please- do some yoga, and from my heart which says that all of this is important and please, just try to shuffle it all around and find some sort of balance in it, mix the worry and anxiety with the love and the fun of it all.
I'm sure that eventually, after the wedding and after things have settled down, I'll lose this feeling of constantly being off-balance, of constantly teetering on some perilous cliff.
It's just a matter of time. Life can't be balanced perfectly at all times, and the brain doesn't always have time to adjust.
Sometimes one falls on one's ass.
And if you're lucky, the fall doesn't mortally injure you, you take note of why you fell, you get up and remember to balance yourself when you reach over to pick something up.
Or reach out to do something new.
To spread your arms and embrace spring, change, new unions, more love, less sleep, less yoga.
You try to find your balance within each set of circumstances, remembering all the while that eventually the dizziness will pass, the slight, subtle signals to the brain will even out, and out of the dizziness, new thoughts will emerge, new life will come to be, and a new definition of balance can be made.

Cake Baker/Sanity Maker

Lis is here. The groom cake is in the oven. All is right with the world.