From Grandchildren To Football And Beyond

That's a picture from yesterday when we were playing vacation in my old room. Owen packed a suitcase with plenty of toys and he and Gibson and I made the long journey through the house to the old bedroom. "Let's pretend this Dog Island," he told me when we arrived. "We can live here forever."
"Okay," I said. "But where we will get our food?"
"I packed plenty of vegetables," he said, as if that was that. Enough vegetables for forever in a red Samsonite suitcase I got as a graduation present from high school. Along with various stuffed animals and two wooden reindeer that are put together from pieces which for some reason have taken up permanent residence in the Glen Den.
He put the reindeer up in different corners of the room and he hung a magnetic puzzle thing up on a closet door handle and he tucked a spider monkey in the Pack-n-Play with my old Zippy.

"They are friends," he said. 

Gibson and I sat on the bed and observed all of this. Buster joined us for a few moments, which you can see above. Somehow, sometimes, he can still jump up onto the bed. Not that I encourage such foolishness but it made for a sweet picture. We pretended to all go to sleep for seconds at a time. Owen would go around and turn off all the lights and make sure I took my glasses off and that we were all covered up. 

Within the blink of an eye after we'd settled, he'd pop up and say, "Good morning!" and turn on the lights and come and put my glasses back on me.

"I being very careful," he would say. And he was.

We played that for a good long time and we also played cards. I am learning how to adapt different games to keep him interested. For some reason, the child wins every game and I am not kidding. No cheating, just luck. The boy has good luck. While we play games, Gibson tries on hats from the antique suitcase I have in the dining room. More antique even than my old graduation one. He tries on the hats and he tries to snatch the cards and he plugs in the twinkle lights and it's a fancy dance, keeping one happy and the other engaged. 

So that was some of what I did yesterday and today it is cold. I mean, I hate to really call it cold but I assure you that for us, it is bitter. The heater is not keeping up with it very well and it's only fifty-nine degrees in the house but I won't die. 

There was a football game last night which I am glad was finally played and is over. It was FSU vs Auburn in some bowl game or something (seriously, I do not know) and it was played in Pasadena and that's all anyone has been talking about in town for months now. The Tallahassee Democrat, our local paper, has literally been garnet and gold for so long that I can't begin to understand what more they could find to write about a game that hadn't even been played yet. Not that I read any of it. 

Still, one can't help but be aware of such goings-on. Mr. Moon, who went to Auburn and who has lived in Tallahassee for almost as long as I have, which is forty years now, was so torn. He decided he wasn't going to "be" for anyone. He watched the game down in Orlando and when I went to bed, FSU was losing but when I got the paper this morning, the headlines (of course) said something about FSU being the champs so I guess they pulled it out. 

At least that's over. 

I told you all of that so that I can feel timely and shit. 

Not really. 

I told you that because I'm rambling and it's so cold outside. I just went out to let the chickens out and they are all alive and acting as if nothing whatsoever is amiss, crooning and pecking happily at the corn I scattered for them. Chickens are hardy creatures. I'm not sure what I'm doing today. I am again at one of those places where I want to get rid of crap, I want to make my living space a bit more serene but I don't even know where to begin. Yesterday Owen told me that I had too much stuff and that I should throw some of it away.

"I know," I sighed. "What do you think I should throw away?"

He thought about it. "I don't know," he said. A lot of my crap is pretty interesting to look at, truthfully. 

"How about I throw away some of these toys around here?" I asked him. There are toys all over my house and paints and crayons and paper and coloring books and tricycles and dolls and stuffed animals as well as kid books stacked everywhere, not that Owen will let me read to him. And games of course. My house looks like a daycare center. A cluttered daycare center with an insane director. 

"No," he said, as if I had wounded him with my getting-rid-of-toys suggestion. And then he gave me a look. 

He asked me later on in the day if I would play Candy Land with him and I refused. "Why don't you take Candy Land home and your daddy can play it with you?" I said. 

"Can I have it forever?"

"You bet!" I said. 

So there is that. I got rid of Candy Land. 

Phew.

A few days ago a commenter (Regine Franck) sent me to a link about the editor of the Atlantic Magazine, Scott Stossel, who has written a book on anxiety. The title of his book is My Age of Anxiety: Fear, Hope, Dread, and the Search for Peace of Mind. The link sent me to an article about the author and the book and then last night I heard an interview with him on Fresh Air. This morning I've done a little more searching and found another excellent article in the Atlantic here. 

Reading the articles, listening to the interview, I am struck by the similarities in my own (admittedly self-diagnosed) anxiety disorder to Mr. Stossel's although he suffers and has suffered far more than I ever will. So many of the same landmarks. And he discusses the disorder in a historical and scientific sense as well as within the own framework of his own life which has been an incredibly high-functioning life. He has taken every pharmaceutical remedy known to science, he has been in every sort of therapy for the disorder. None of it has worked very well and that is disheartening. But, he has learned to live with it, has learned to operate within the parameters of what could be a paralyzing situation. And now he has written a book on the subject. 

But here's what really freaks me out- the comments on the article I linked. So many of them are in the vein of "Oh yeah, I had anxiety. I gave up gluten and caffeine and now I'm fine." There are also numerous suggestions that he just needs to get over himself. "Man up," is how one commenter put it. 

"Man up."

Other suggestions include specific amino acids, yoga, Al-Anon, numerous sorts of therapies and of course, Jesus. 

I am appalled for Mr. Stossel. Absolutely appalled. The man barely made it through the seventh grade without being institutionalized. And here he is now, a husband, a father, an author, the editor of a very highly-regarded magazine, doing book tours which require him to face and overcome many of his deepest phobias and fears, an obviously incredibly intelligent man who has researched the subject of anxiety to an exhaustive degree, who would probably do anything to rid himself of this life-long horror, being told to "man up"? To give up caffeine and gluten? 

Well, the brain is far more complex than we understand and what works for one sufferer of a disorder, a disease, may do nothing at all for another. And if there is one thing I myself have learned in my own taste of this suffering, it is to be compassionate towards others who may suffer what I do or something entirely different and perhaps even incomprehensible to me (fear of cheese? really? it's a thing). To not disrespect their feelings, their problems, their trials and their tribulations. 

My journey is not your journey although they may be similar. 

And some days my journey is across the house with supplies packed in a red suitcase and some days my journey is simply to survive the minutes of a day with acceptance and hope that the next day will be better. Or the one after that. 

I'm sorry this has been so rambly. This is just the way my mind is working today in this quiet house with the cold barely staying at bay, the anxiety somewhat the same. 

The boys and I played and played and snuggled and giggled and I got a make-over with one eye done carefully by Owen so that I resembled nothing more than Pete the Pup on Our Gang.

He studied my face carefully and said, "You look beautiful. For Boppy."

It's been a decent day. I have felt more normal than I have felt in a long, long time. I have actually been hungry today and I can't tell you the last time that happened. Some days lately I haven't wanted to finish an entire Mento. I'm not kidding you either. And that is definitely not me. The anxiety is still there, pawing around the edges of my soul and occasionally getting a good lick or two in but it hasn't been on my back, at least since I left the dentist's office. 

I've done everything I can outside to prepare for the cold. Turned all the faucets and garden sprinklers to drip, leaned some metal panels up on the side of the hen house to block some wind that can get in. Retucked the porch plants. I may lose them all. It's going to plummet tonight and the wind is blowing like crazy. I picked some camellias and brought them in. It was the least I could do.

Oh well. Inside it's warm and cozy and I am so thankful for this house, this life in which I get to live in a house with central heat and air. Every window and door leaks cold but the heater is a good one and I have plenty of covers. 

I'm exhausted and will probably be in bed by nine. 

Everyone stay warm and safe tonight. I'm just too damn tired to say another word.

I Survived

And now the boys are here and we're staying cozy in the house. The temperature is dropping outside and it's gray and windy. 

We've got antique records and we have all four Beatle dolls now because Vergil found the missing George on eBay to give to Owen for Christmas. 

Owen didn't want to be in the picture. 

So here we are and I'm so glad to be and tonight I'll turn on all the faucets to drip and oh! How I hope my chickens make it through the cold. 

Let's all take care. 

Love...Ms. Moon

What I Did On My Winter Vacation

Last night after our dinner, Mr. Moon and I decided to take a refresher course in why it's A VERY BAD IDEA TO GO TO CERTAIN BEACH BARS! One in particular.
Okay. It was fun and we passed the class with flying colors which means we lived and that we won't be doing that again anytime soon.
But honestly, it was a lot of fun. Everyone there knew everyone there (St. George Island is a very small place) and Mr. Moon even knew a table of people, all of whom drive cars he sold them. It was merry and cozy inside and two guys were playing guitars and singing and they were dressed to the nines in T-shirts and cargo shorts and ball caps and beards and I told them that they needed to bring the guitars down and bring the vocals up and they did and it sounded much better (why did they believe me?) and they played so many songs from the olden days and everyone there knew all the words and sang along and some people (maybe us) even danced.

Anyway, we got out of there before closing and before any fights started and before anyone did anything crazy and so yes, we survived. But I think I may be taking a nap here soon.

It's still gray and drizzling off and on and it's supposed to get into the low twenties if not lower tomorrow night and I am dreading that already. Hell, I'm dreading everything. The appointment at the periodontal surgeon's that I have tomorrow morning so that they can go over the "treatment plan" and tell me how much this is all going to cost me. No drugs will be involved in this appointment so there is absolutely nothing to look forward to. Yeah. I'm dreading that.

Meanwhile, we're back home, obviously, and the beach was so beautiful this morning, gray but with the light shining silver way off on the horizon. We had our breakfast at the Mexican restaurant and then drove home, took it slow and easy. I'm drinking a cup of valerian tea and have laundry running and I'm looking forward to my nap. I am not dreading that.

I am glad we went away and for a little while I was not anxious. The moon last night was a shining silver grin in the sky and I can still hear the swelling and falling of the waves in my head. The cardinals and chickadees are rushing the feeder, perhaps filling up for the energy they'll need for tomorrow's cold. I hope they all make it. I should go pick all the camellias and bring them in because they will be mush in two days if I don't. Maybe the boys and I will do that tomorrow. They'll be here after I go to the dentist. I just have to get through this next week. One day at a time or to be more exact, one moment at a time when it gets really tough.

The valerian tea is having its way with me.
Nap time in Lloyd.

Love...Ms. Moon

A Good Place In Which To Be Batshit Crazy

Mr. Moon and I are on St. George Island with a room at the world-famous Buccaneer Inn whose motto should be "Location, Location, Location! And Not Much Else!"

Well, there's a bed. And running water. And this view:

So I'm not complaining. There's actually a tub in the bathroom which seems to have Jacuzzi type jets in it. I'm laying odds of maybe 50% that they work. 

Mr. Moon asked the desk clerk if there was an internet password. The lady said, "We don't have internet." Well there you go. No need for no pesky password. We don't need no stinkin' internet. Etc. 

It's gray, as you can see but not bitter cold. I took a walk on the beach. 

Two pictures. I got my socks wet. I only brought the one pair. 

Oh well. I talked to a lady fishing. She knew what she was doing. The whiting are running. 

As I walked I thought about all my loves here who may be on an ocean today.  Angella down in the islands. Elizabeth and Denise and Beth Coyote and Rebecca on the Pacific. I thought about all of us, linked by words, by heart, by water. I think of all of us, linked by sky. 

See that little strip of pink? That's the sun going down. 

Trust me. 

I'm pretty proud of myself for leaving Lloyd even if it was just to come to an island where I spent three summers to stay in a beat down beach motel where if the walls could talk you'd beg that they wouldn't. I love my husband for bringing me. I know that when he called our neighbor to ask if he'd tend the animals he probably said,"I gotta take my batshit wife to the beach."

Okay. He probably did not really say that but I'm sure he was thinking it which is okay because it's true.  

I'm looking at the ocean. It is flat with only a few small breakers that hit the sand with the sighing breath of the planet. I am glad to be here. Even in deep sadness I know I am one of the lucky ones. 

I know. 

Again- trust me. 

Love...Ms. Moon, St. George Island, Florida

Projects

Such a beautiful day and I think we're going to drive down to the coast just for the hell of it, maybe get to see my old friends, Karen and David.
I have such a desire to do some sort of hand-work. Needlework. I have about given up because of my wonky, wonky wrist that I broke so long ago and which did not set right and which bothers me a great deal and even more so when I am knitting or stitching and I am not really any good at those things but there is such a soothing, calming quality to it all- having the hands busy- that I yearn to do it. I have so many unfinished projects about, some from years ago but I think I'll grab a skein of wool and some needles to take with me for the drive, simply to have another place to channel my energy.

It's so odd to me how anxiety takes away my ability to write. I think it is a focus thing. I am not sure. I do know that it affects the brain profoundly. I must have made three rounds of the grocery store at least yesterday and walked out completely unsure that I had what I needed and to tell you the truth- my refrigerator is stuffed with food, good food, vegetables mostly, that I have bought because they looked beautiful or seemed healthy or were on sale and how much can two people eat? Not that much, quite frankly, and the anxiety also takes away the desire to eat until suddenly I realize I am ravenous and I grab whatever is available and easy and quick and it's not good. My intentions are good but my brain doesn't seem to be able to preplan or if I do, to carry things out, whether dietarily or needleworkily. (Yes, I will now begin to make up words because the real ones seem to have fallen out of this sieve of a brain and there you go. Doing the simple crossword is a laughable exercise in the proof of that point.)

But. It is not so bad today, the anxiety. It is a jingling thing, not a paralyzing thing. I am incredibly grateful for that. I want to get out of the house with perhaps no particular goal in mind, no destination which must be reached.

There. That.

Here. Now.

How are you? Thank you for putting up with my clumsy, clunky words. My sentences seem like jewelry made by little children, great hunks of raw macaroni, plastic beads, all strung together with no obvious pattern or design.

I am the child sitting with tongue caught between teeth in concentration, trying to gather it all together to make something, anything, with what he has at hand. These words are my raw macaroni, my luridly colored plastic beads. For right now they're what I have and I work with them as best I can.

Love...Ms. Moon

Not So Bad A Day

This camellia is blooming now. I think it is exquisite.
I felt good enough today to go out and pick it. This is major.

I spent quite a bit of time on the phone today with Norma Jean, the receptionist for the periodontal surgeon. The antibiotic I've been on hasn't really done shit so I had to steel myself (and you have no idea how much internal fortitude this took) to call in and report that fact and she and the Dr. conferred and the bottom line is- I'm going in next Friday to get the tooth out of there and there will be bone grafts.

Fuck me.

But Norma Jean (whom I am in deep love with at the moment) told me that she too had had an extraction and bone graft and it wasn't that bad. She also started listing all the drugs they would be giving me for the procedure and I was like, "Shut up. Okay. I'm there."

They think I'm a complete flake at the periodontal surgeons.

My. How completely right they are. I think they believe I'm afraid of pain although I told them it wasn't the pain at all. That I'd had four kids without anesthesia, three at home, one weighing over ten pounds. I don't LIKE pain but that's not what I'm afraid of.
I don't actually know what I'm afraid of but it's not pain.

Anyway, la-di-dah. Let's get this show on the road. Yank that motherfucker and give me the gold from the crown and let me get it melted down into something I can wear around my neck.

God it's cold. And getting colder. Mr. Moon and I have been playing cards and listening to records and now I'm about to cook some snow crab legs and I've gotten some sweet news that I'm not really ready to talk about because anxiety is like being in a glass cage where everything that happens on the outside isn't really real but I think it is and fuck me if the Augmentin isn't starting to work and maybe I'll live.

Ain't that camellia beautiful?

I picked it. Myself. From a bush I planted nine years ago.

Still alive.

Love...Ms. Moon

It's not raining but damn, it is cold. Not as cold as where YOU are, most likely, but cold for us.

Oh hell. Why don't I just change the name of this blog to "Weather Conditions In Lloyd"?

Sometimes talking about the weather is as much as I am capable of doing. Today would be one of those times.

Did I mention it's cold?

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...Ms. Moon

Mr. Moon's Christmas present for me just got here today.
A record player.

It's been a really hard day. I went to town and did things with my grandsons and their mama. We went by the bank where Boppy has an office for Lily to do a little business and then we went to lunch at a Chinese restaurant so that Owen could get noodles. That's all he wants to eat in a restaurant these days. Noodles. And the soup. He loves the brothy soups.
And then we went to the grocery store and I was so far away all day long and every time I tried to bring myself back, to try and act normal, I felt like an alien trying to fake being a human.
"So. Do you think the Giants will win the pennant this year?"
Etc.
But I tried.

And then I came home and laid down because sleep is my only real escape. For a few minutes I can let go all the worry, the panic, the sick feeling in the stomach. The constant dread. I am so grateful I can sleep. Pure escape and I'll fucking take it.

But then Mr. Moon came home with my record player and we opened up the box and unpacked it and read the instructions and I noted with great satisfaction that it has DIALS not stupid-dumb-damn buttons to change the volume and the stations on the radio (it's an AM-FM radio and a CD player and will also play your iPod or phone, as well, of course, but still- dials!) and we set it up and I went into the library and searched the dark corner where all of my antique record albums are stashed and I got out a Beatle's album and put it on and raised up the tone arm with that delicate motion the hand does not forget and set the needle (the needle!) down and it played.

They say you want a Revolution and Paul screams his throat out and when the album started there was a tiny hiss, pop, scratch. This is the medium the music I love was recorded to play on. Before eight-tracks, before cassettes, before CD's with their false promise of immortality, before the MP3.

I am drinking a beer, I am writing this. I am listening to the Beatles. Maybe next, this:

Think that record will have a few scratches? That may be the original album I got from my friend David on my seventeenth (or was it my eighteenth?) birthday.

I have Bob and Bruce. I have the Band and I have Joan Baez. I have Cream and Joni Mitchell and I have Clapton. I have John and Yoko.

I have so much crazy but I have all of that.

Here's a little video I made to send to Owen.

Christ you know it ain't easy. 
You know how hard it can be.

I have music in the form of black discs which came encased in beautiful cardboard artwork.

Let It Be. Let It Be. Let It Be.

All Things Must Pass.

Thank-you, husband. I love you.

Ms. Moon

It rained all night and it's raining now and going to get cold tonight, clear up, get colder tomorrow.

Tip of the day: Valerian tea will make you stoned. You don't even have to drink that much of it. They sell it at the damn grocery store.

Who knew?

Love...Ms. Moon

Two Kinds Of Memorable

2014 has been sweet so far. I love sleeping with Owen. He had his dinosaurs between us and his Hulk and his Spiderman on the table beside him, watching over us all. He had his pillow and he had his name blanket too. He woke up one time and said, "I don't have any covers!" and so I covered him up and said, "Are you cozy?" and he said he was and he went back to sleep.
Boppy slept in the room next to Gibson in the Pack-n-Play and from what I hear, that boy slept through the night after his grandfather sang him into slumber. As long as he knew his grandfather was beside him, he was fine. I have never seen a child worship a grandparent the way he does. He'll barely let me take him off to change his diaper although he does accept my offers of food and he does still let me get his gugga. He is just in love. And not with me.

This morning has been fine. The boys ate one continual breakfast or, alternately, many, many snacks. Either way- same-same.

And now their mama has come and taken them home along with the bags of toys and pillows and dinosaurs and Hulks and Ogres and Dragons and blankets. I have the black-eyed peas simmering on the stove and Mr. Moon is out picking greens in the rain. I will wash them and wash them and chop them up and get them simmering too. The chickens have already feasted on the sweet potato fries that did not get eaten last night.

I am functioning. I have spoken to May and to Hank and of course to Lily and have left a message for Jessie. I am doing laundry. I may take a bath and read. I am drinking Valerian tea. My brain isn't worth shit. It never is when I'm in this fear-place.

Red cardinal against gray sky; last night my husband and I talked about our first New Year's Eve together. We were in New Orleans, it was freezing cold, we barely knew each other. We laughed some about it, we looked at our grandchildren, it seemed too much of a wonder to connect that time with now, those two people throwing themselves with complete reckless abandon into something they had no idea would lead to a New Year's supper with two grandboys thirty years later.
Or maybe we did, even then.

I suspect we did.

But we were too busy falling in love to be occupied with such thoughts.

That wild adventure. Now this.

Eat your beans and greens.

Love...Ms. Moon

Dentist visit led to Periodontal Surgeon visit. Not good. Abscess in the bone. I'm on antibiotics and will be for ten days and then we'll see if it's worth trying to save the tooth.

I can't talk about it.

I tried to explain to the surgeon how anxious I become in doctors' offices. He tried to be sympathetic but I could tell he had no idea of the extent of what I was feeling. I felt strongly that he wanted me to just cowgirl up, cupcake. This ain't the end of the world.
Etc.

I can't believe I'm back in this crazy place. And it has nothing to do with my tooth although that situation certainly doesn't make it any better.

Well, Happy New Year.

The boys are here and I have to, actually, in fact and seriously, cowgirl up, cupcake.
Boppy's here so all will be well.

Despite everything, I am not too crazy to know what a big part of my life you have all been this year, and some of you for many years.

Thank you.
And I desperately want everything to be well for us all.
Actually, in fact, and seriously.

Peace.

I am so glad I've got that appointment with the dentist this morning. The swelling is increasing. Not so much pain for which I'm grateful. I have had so few dental problems in my life that I'm baffled, I'm worried, I'm ridiculous.

Yesterday was so bad that I spent part of it in bed. It was so bad that I considered the possibility of going back on medication. It was so bad that I wondered how and when and where I fell back into the abyss. One bad moment leading to one bad day leading to one bad week...
Well.

Fucking brain chemistry.

And here it is, New Year's Eve day. Are you going to put on your finery and sip champagne from a crystal flute? Are you going to dance and laugh and stay up until the New Year is firmly in place?

We're not. The very thought makes me shudder.

I think the boys are going to come and spend the night so that Lily and Jason can have a night alone. If all goes as planned. They've had a little bug or something and haven't been feeling that well but hopefully, they'll be better today. Maybe we'll build a fire and Boppy can cook hamburgers on the grill. I don't know.

I really don't know much. I do know that I wish I had words from a calm heart to give to you, to myself. I wish I could say something succinct and wise, something warm and loving about what a New Year means, this one in particular, about plans for opening the heart, the soul, the mind, improving the odds for joy. But I seem not to. The sky is slate gray again, it is chilly. I am holding myself in tightly against...it all?

We shall see, won't we? What this year brings.

Meanwhile, it is the last day of one of the strangest years of my life and we go on and the camellias are absurdly bright against the gray and I wish that I believed that a number on a calendar had the magic to make everything new with the tick of the hand on the clock.

Stay safe, y'all.

Peace.

Love...Ms. Moon

Why The FUCK Didn't I Think Of This First?

Damn you, Thug! 

I can cook and god knows I can fucking swear. 

I'm going to be kicking myself for the rest of my life for not getting there first. It's an honest fact that I could never do what the Pioneer Woman does- she's way too wholesome (although her food surely isn't),  but I sure as hell could have done what this Thug person (or persons, more likely) have done. 

Shit. Cocksucker.

Aw well, it does look like a fine recipe, as may of his do. I'll be cooking black-eyed peas myself. But I won't be sauteing any goddamn kale. I'll be simmering my collards and mustards (and okay, maybe a few kale leaves too) in vegetable broth for a long time with onions and tomatoes. That's the way I do it. And I probably won't presoak my beans either. Black-eyed peas cook quick and the longer I can cook them with the spices, the better they'll taste. 

In my opinion, anyway. 

Oh well. 

I didn't think of it first and that's the way it goes. Day late and a dollar short. Story of my damn life. 

The sun is out again and it could hardly be more beautiful, lighting the golden and ruby leaves into jewels, the birds are calling and happy and fussing all at the same time and how poor my life would be without their voices, their flitting bodies as they come to the feeder every day.

I'm maxed out on anxiety this morning. There. That is as much truth as the sun, as the birds. For me, at least. I have got to go take a walk, see if I can shake some of it off because this is just too much.

I've called the dentist and will go in tomorrow morning. That was easy.

I need to go let the chickens out. The wilder ones from next door are already scratching around my yard, getting the tasty bugs that rightfully belong to my flock. I doubt there is a shortage. When the dogs die, I'll be able to let the chickens into the part of the back yard which is now fenced off and they will help keep my camellia bed weeded the way they now do the little area by the kitchen where roses and banana plants grow. The dogs do not weed, they merely poop and I sort of doubt they'd run away if I did leave the gates open but one never knows. Poor old blind things. As much as they make my life more difficult, I know I could hardly bear it if one wandered into the road and got hit.

Life is so strange.

Sow Some Seeds Or...Something

The sun decided to quit with the coy act and it came out and shone all day and I, refusing to ignore such a blessing, spent most of the day outside.

I went out to water the porch plants and realized that about half a tree had fallen in the front yard or to be more specific and accurate, a good-sized branch, and so I picked all that mess up and took it to the burn pile and then I got in my poor old garden which is so sadly neglected and sparsely planted and it was a joy. As always, I am listening to a book as I work and the one I'm listening to now is a fine one and the narrator is perfect. I've never heard of the author (I think; I could easily have forgotten) but her name is Lauren Groff and the book I'm listening to is "The Monsters of Templeton."
Nicole Roberts is the reader.
I'm about a fourth of the way into it and I am charmed and completely engrossed.

I weeded my pathetic rows of collards and mustards and salad greens and arugula, the few kale plants, the nicely-growing cilantro. I am quite shocked at the success of the cilantro. I have never planted it before but saw the seed packet at the store a few months ago and thought "what the hell?" and it seems to like the dirt of Lloyd and if I ever make pico de gallo again, I'm all set. I do know that cilantro is either a love-it or hate-it sort of taste but I love it and so does Mr. Moon.

I planted another row of mixed salad greens and another row of collards and we shall see if either of them do a damn thing.

I cleaned out the poopy hay in the hen house and gave them fresh to lay their sweet, fuzzy butts in at night where they roost. 

And that's been my day. 

While I did what I did, my husband worked on a project which is quite a large one but which is going to be a wonderful thing. Our across-the-street neighbor built a little play set for his daughter when she was young and now she's a senior in high school so he offered it to us for our grandboys. Two little tower-forts to climb up into, a swing, a slide. Mr. Moon is digging up the whole thing and bringing it all over here in parts for Owen and Gibson. I can't wait for it to all be set up, for them to see it and play on it. I will be able to say, "Go outside and play in your fort!" and I will be able to watch them from the porch. Well, that's the theory.

I love our neighbors. They are so generous of spirit. Another blessing in my life. 

I have to call the dentist tomorrow. I have been feeling pain and pressure when I bite down around my crown, my golden mouth-jeweled crown, and I've been telling myself that I'm just grinding my teeth and that may be so but it feels weird and when I finally girded my loins and looked at it in the mirror, I saw that there is redness and swelling around it. Is 2014 going to start with me needing a root canal? 

Oh Lord. 

Well, it's not screamy pain. It's just...there. 

And this is life as a human being. Dig in the dirt, deal with teeth that were probably not meant to last longer than thirty years, do stuff to make your grandkids happy. Enjoy the way the sun feels on you as you kneel and weed. Listen to someone read a book into your ear. We are a species which loves stories, the telling of them and the listening to them. Part the earth with your fingers and sow tiny seeds into it, cover it up as you would a baby. 

Live until you don't. Or something. I really don't know. 

I do not know shit. 

But I've not given up on trying to learn.

Mostly.

Love...Ms. Moon

Sigh...

Dear god I can see blue sky and it rained all night and thunder and lightening woke me up and this weather is just so strange. Warm on top of everything. Bizarre winter but the birds are at the feeder in hoards and the camellias are budding and blooming and the Bradford Pears still haven't lost all of their leaves and I feel buzzy and strange this morning and I should go for a walk although it's been so long I'll most likely get lost in the woods, having forgotten my way, my path, my purpose.

Sundays can fuck off.

Although I do appreciate, more than I can say, seeing the sun.

And even as I write that, it slips behind a cloud again.

Rambling Continued

My phone went out this morning. It was a neighborhood event. For some reason we still had internet so I was fine. But Lily and I had to carry on our morning communications via text. She was going stir-crazy in her house with the two boys and I said, "Y'all are welcome to come out here," and she said she would like that and could she take a bath?
"Of course!" I wrote her back.
But then Owen threw a wrench in the works. He did not want to leave all his new toys today. He cried and said he did NOT want to go to Mer's but we all compromised and I went into town and we went to a late lunch which was fun. On the way back to their house Owen said, "Now I really want to go to Mer's."
"Well, it's too late now, Buddy Boy," I said. "You should have figured that out earlier.
"What was I THINKING?" he wailed.
He cracks me up.
He also told a woman in the grocery store that he got "a hundred" presents for Christmas. She was impressed.
He just about did.

Anyway, it was a nice afternoon although I ate an entire "individual" pizza and I'm still so full that I'm fairly certain I'll never eat again. My neighbor brought over a pretty tin with a card and I said, "I sure hope there's some carbs in there because I really do need some more."
Which of course is a flat-out lie and though it's filled with homemade beautiful dark chocolate toffee cookies even the idea of one bite is enough to make me want to weep a little.

Well, the hunter is returned safely and I am glad of that. The washing machine is already going with camo clothes. There's a crockpot filled with venison chili in case I ever decide I can eat again and the sky is almost gone from gray to black. The chickens are already tucked up and the cat is fed and here we are. My anxiety has been better today although I skipped my late afternoon shot of espresso. I mean- come on- that's just asking for trouble. I can feel myself scootching a little too close to the edge of the crazy and I'm aware that caffeine might just toss me over the fence.

It's starting to rain a little, just a misty sort of falling from the sky, and the air is still. It is Saturday night in Lloyd which is not much different than Tuesday night in Lloyd unless the church next door is meeting and they are not. I haven't seen them much in the last two weeks and I'm a little concerned. Maybe the pastor went out of town. I do not know. The house is cozy and warm, I got to see my grands today, I picked fresh camellias and some sprigs of tea olive to put in vases.

My husband is home. We'll have a martini. Garrison Keillor will be on the radio. The telephone is working again.

All right.

All right.

Night-night, sweeties. Night-night.

Rambly Post

Almost every morning little Miss Honey who is not part of my flock and who officially lives next door comes running up as I go out to feed the cats and open the sliding panel for my chickens so they can move into their coop.
I usually give her some sort of treat. This morning it was the rest of the grits I cooked the other night. She is no longer laying in the garage but she gave us so many eggs over the summer that I do not begrudge giving her breakfast most mornings. She's independent, that one, aligning herself with no rooster at all, and she must be wary and wily to stay safe on her own.

It's so funny how I've come to love these feathered little creatures who live in my world. They have such distinct personalities.

Here's a first-world problem: my damn coffee maker, which is not that old, is not keeping my coffee hot. Am I going to have to start pouring it into a thermos when it's made? What a pain in the ass.

It's still gray. Gray as the old gray mare. Gray as Richard Gere's hair. Gray, gray, gray.

I think Mr. Moon is coming home today. He called me last night while I was eating my soup and watching "You've Got Mail!" Good Lord. I didn't even like that movie very much when it came out. Hey! What's happened to Meg Ryan? She started dating old what's-his-face, John Mellencamp, took to wearing leather jackets and I haven't seen her since. Anyway, poor Mr. Moon. He asked how I was doing and I just sobbed. Boo-hoo-hoo. I apologized about fifty times in five minutes for being such a nut case.
I feel better now.

I guess I'll take down the Nativity today, put Buddha back on the flat rock he lives on in the library. Baby Jesus needs to rest and recharge after his annual appearance in the manger. I'm just so glad I don't have a damn Christmas tree to take down. I mean, SERIOUSLY glad. With-all-my-heart glad. I just went to let the chickens out of the coop and saw this.

A Bradford Pear leaf has floated down to rest on the little Norfolk Island Pine I was going to use as my Christmas tree this year but never did. 

Festive, right? I think so.

Well, obviously, I don't have a thing to say today. So I'll shut up now. 

Peace, y'all.

I Thought It Would Be Lighthearted

I pulled myself up and got out of the house and went to see a movie. This, for me, was approximately the equivalent of  being the first person to crawl to the top of Mt. Everest. I checked out the movie schedules and decided to go see "Saving Mr. Banks" because who doesn't love Mary Poppins? Who doesn't love Emma Thompson? Who doesn't love Tom Hanks? Who doesn't love Walt Dis....
Okay. Well. He was a big old friendly TV uncle when I was a kid who came on every Sunday night on his show, "The Wonderful World Of Disney," plus there was the beloved Mickey Mouse Club and also THE MOST MAGICAL PLACE ON EARTH- DISNEY LAND! which I knew I'd never ever get to go visit because it was in California and I was in Florida but then oh my god! He bought up half of Central Florida and built DISNEY WORLD and oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! until I realized that maybe Disney World wasn't such a bonus for Florida, not with sucking up wetlands and paving over swamps and orange groves, etc.
But I did have some good times there, at old Disney World, which was probably the second happiest place on earth. If you didn't go there in summer and if you had a lot of money to buy space burgers and Mickey Mouse ears and so forth.
Anyway, I decided to go see that movie and I was running late and damn if I didn't get stopped at a train crossing and also got behind a very slow moving vehicle and by the time I got to the theater and parked, it was like twenty minutes after showtime and I still had to buy my ticket AND my popcorn and Diet Coke because what's a movie without popcorn and a Diet Coke and when I got into Theater #7, the movie was still a few seconds from starting so that was awesome.

And you know, it was fine. Until I realized that mostly this movie was not just about an extremely snotty and possessive-about-her-story British broad and a kindly old Uncle Walt who'd promised his daughters that he would make a movie about their beloved Mary Poppins. Nah, that was just the icing on the cake and the cake was all about P.L. Travers' father who...wait for it!...had been an alcoholic who got fired from one bank job after another and whose mother was so beat-down and depressed that she was actually suicidal.

Uh. Yeah.

I kept thinking, "Hmmmm...child seeing drunken father drink and cry. Check! Child seeing mother try to cope with drunken father. Check! Child watching her world spin out of control. Check! Child believing drunken father's promises. Check!"

At least there was no sexual abuse although there was one scene with the little girl and her father on a horse...No. No. I'm just projecting, right?

So that was fun.

As I told a friend, it was so stupid that I barely cried.

It had its moments. Emma Thompson was terrific, of course and I can't help but love Tom Hanks. If that's wrong, sue me. I'd heard one reviewer complain slightly about the flashback format but that worked fine for me. I mean, in technical theory.

And since it was, in fact, a Disney movie, all was well that ended well and it ended well enough. My favorite part, truthfully, was during the running of the credits when they used a few moments of actual tape recordings of the actual P.L. Travers talking to her co-writers as they worked on the screen play. How "Mary Poppins" ever got made is beyond me.
I also liked the prop-placement of a map of Florida in Walt's office.
Clever.

So anyway, I did that and then I went to the grocery store and now I'm home and the sun did not show its face all day long. I washed two rugs. I walked to the post office. I went to a movie and the grocery store. Sure doesn't seem like much, does it?

Elizabeth is doing a gratefulness thing right now and I feel ashamed because if she can do it, why shouldn't I be able to?
Okay.
I'm sitting here trying to dredge up some gratefulness.

I'm grateful I have a fine car that can take me places. I'm grateful I have enough money to buy what I want within reason at the grocery store. I'm grateful that I finally remembered to buy soy sauce. I'm grateful that I got to see my beautiful daughter Lily at the store and that she walked me out to the car with my groceries and so I got to spend a few extra seconds with her. I'm grateful that I get to live in a house that I love surrounded by matriarch oaks. I'm grateful that the dead rodent smell is gone. I'm grateful that I have the most comfortable bed in the world and that I get to sleep in it every night. I'm grateful that I have the most wonderful family anyone could ever want and that each and every one of my kids is unique and funny and that we all get along splendidly and care for each other in very real and tangible ways. I'm grateful for my grandsons- their health, their intelligence, their beautiful sturdy bodies, their expressive and shining faces. I'm grateful for my husband who had no idea when he married me that I was even crazier than he thought I was and who continued and continues to love me and support me in every way possible and that I love him too and that we are growing old together and that our grandson tells me, "He is your sweetheart."
I am grateful for coffee and for dirt to grow things in and for my sweet funny sister-wife hens and their handsome husband Elvis who has never once been aggressive towards a human.
I am grateful for this planet I live on with its dirt and its oceans and rivers and lakes and trees and beasts, both great and small, its view of the stars and our very own moon, our very own sun.
I am grateful for music which our human bodies can dance to and which our human souls can be sustained by.

I am grateful for friends. Ones that I know in the meat world, as Rebecca says, and ones whom I know through this ether-world. They, you, sustain me.

I am grateful for my need to write it all out and for this place in which to do it. And for my son Hank because he made me start this blog.

All of that and more.

And yet, it's still hard sometimes. I listened to an interview with Pat Conroy today who is sixty-eight years old and who is still unable to escape the effects of the abuse he suffered as a child but who, like P.L. Travers did, has managed to make art of it.

It ain't easy being a human being but no one ever said it was.

We make of it what we will and what we can and now I'm going to go make some soup.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

Damn, Weather. Could You Work With Me?

This is the sky of the pewter belly of the Lead Fish.

Or something.

And according to the weather predictions, it's not going to get clear until next Tuesday.

Wake me up when the sun comes out, okay?

Happy Friday.
(Hysterical shriek-laughter)

Love...Ms. Moon

Uh-Huh. Oh Yeah. (That's Enough For My Mom)

Jessie dancing in the new wool-blend workout clothes I sent her.
Watch this and try not to smile.


That girl.

My kids. They make me happy.

I'm alive. I'm here. I didn't do one crazy thing all day. I stayed in and did some laundry, watched some mindless TV, tried not to feel guilty for wasting a day of my life. I comforted myself with the fact that the weather is drear and not fit to enjoy outside anyway. I told myself I was too agitato and unfocused to drive anywhere. That was not a lie. I don't drive drunk and I don't drive crazy.
Still.
Well.

I ate some fruitcake. Is it just me or is the Costco fruitcake not as good this year? Shit. I should be making my own. I heated up some of last night's supper. First, grouper which I ate with hot sauce, then some stone ground grits that I heated up in the same bowl as stewed tomatoes. Comfort food. When I was a child, one of my favorite things to eat was rice with stewed tomatoes and bacon. Or so my mother told me. I don't really remember it. I remember that eternal metal container by the stove that held bacon grease. The same position is now held beside my stove by my jug of olive oil. I wonder how in the world I'll manage to live longer than my grandparents who used their bacon grease, ate great fatty roasts and white rice and white bread and white potatoes and white lettuce and lived into their eighties and nineties. I remember how my mother, in the last decade of her life, eschewed unhealthy fats or even fats at all and ate frozen fat-free yogurt instead of ice cream, drank her little diet Cokes, clung to her skim milk, her fat free cottage cheese with tomatoes for lunch, rarely ate meat, certainly never took a drink, watched Dr. Oz religiously and worried obsessively about bed bugs.

I talked to my brother out in Washington today. He and I are working on repairing our relationship and that makes me happy. We don't discuss "repairing our relationship." We talk about childhood memories and people we remember from the past. He told me today that the father of a friend of mine whose brother was a friend of his used to take him fishing and what a sweet, peach of a man he'd been. I don't remember that at all although I remember the man, of course, and I always thought he was very nice, a peaceful smiling soul, and I'm glad he played a part in my brother's life. A good father and my brother says that he was something of a father-figure to him. My brother has always been good at seeking out father-figures and I think that comes from an internal wisdom and I like that about him.
I, of course, sought out people like John Lennon and B.B. King and most recently, Keith Richards, to be my pretend daddies, possibly because a real and present man might be too scary. Who knows? Not me. But at least this brother has never had to confuse sexual behavior and fathers.

I sigh and exhale deeply. There is so much I need to let go. I remember my friend Sue who, before she died was at a birth with me because the mother was a good friend of hers. She lay on the couch in the birth center after the baby had been born and she was crying.
"We carry so much fucking garbage around with us," she said. "And most of it isn't even ours to carry."
Before she died, Sue let all of her garbage go, I think, and she had a most incredibly beautiful and peaceful death. She taught me so much.

Ah, well. It's one of those days when I have been still and quiet and let the feelings come and go and come again as they will. I haven't fought anything, I haven't had the energy to fight. Or to flee, for that matter. Which leaves one with nothing to do but feel.

And I just talked to Jessie who got in from work and opened her box of Christmas presents from us while we were on the phone together and so that was a sweet and funny celebration.

I am hoping that tomorrow I'm going to wake up and feel some good energy. A spark, a quark, a tiny flicker in the dark, at least. Enough to go out into the world a little although the thought makes me quiver a bit. The laundry is done, the chickens are tucked up and Miss Ozzie gave me another egg today which, on a day like today, was a totem of true and real goodness that I could hold in my hand.

We all have days of pain. We get through them. Our brains take in what they must and if all works as it should, smooths things over enough for us to go on. And if we are lucky, we can throw off some of the garbage which is not ours to carry in the first place.
God. Sue was so smart. I miss her so much.

Let's all rest and restore.

Love...Ms. Moon

Tripping

One year when I was married to my first husband, his mother (and I think this is how the story goes) got a picture of me as a child from my mother and had it and a picture of her son as a child blown up, framed them and gave them to us for Christmas. That was the picture of me. A cowgirl cradling her new baby doll and for the life of me, I can't remember that doll although it would appear that even at such a tender age I knew exactly how to hold a baby safely and close. 

I think the hat was red. 

Anyway, Hank has those two pictures and he fixed some scratches in the one of me and printed out a copy for me for my gift. The picture of his father is pretty awesome too. He was probably about nine or so, all decked out in nice clothes and hugging a microphone on a stage like he was born an Elvis. 

And here I am, still holding babies and there's my ex, still singing and playing music onstage. 

Guess there's no fighting fate is there?

Oh my god. Wait. I DO remember that doll. She was a bride doll- a very, very popular toy for little girls in the late fifties, early sixties, when it was a well-known fact that every female's dream from birth was to grow up and become a bride. Obviously. It's all coming back to me. She wasn't a baby doll at all. And I know I wanted a bride doll with all of my heart and soul and that was my Christmas present. I am certain that I also recall my mother sewing her other outfits. 

I have no idea what happened to that doll. I think I got it the Christmas that my mother had to flee our home in Chattanooga in the dead of night  on one of the last days of December because my father had gotten a gun and his drinking had accelerated to the point where she feared for our lives. That doll may have been left behind with all of the other Christmas presents. She did go back to my father a few months later but he'd destroyed the house in a drunken fit, slashing furniture and god knows what else. I don't remember a lot of it. I was five. 

But that picture- that's proof that my mother was trying to make things as normal and good for me and my brother as was possible under such horrible circumstances. 

The news I just got last night of my stepfather's death has stirred a lot up in me. As I wrote a friend this morning, it's as if it has ripped some of the scab/scar from the wound. I look at that picture and I could cry for that little girl whose life was about to be so torn up, cry for her brother, her mother too. And not just for all of the immediate trauma but for the years following. The resettling in a tiny village in Florida, my mother finding work as a school teacher (for which she was not at all well-suited), her continuing her education during the summers, meeting a man who looked completely perfect on paper, falling in love with him, marrying him and then...well, that's when the real tragedies began, in a way.

*******************

I feel itchy and weird and completely unsettled today. It's gray and cold and Mr. Moon is already on the road to Georgia to hunt, leaving me here in what should be perfect peace and yet my soul is far from peaceful. I looked up the online obituary for my stepfather (I hate even typing that word- "stepfather") and it was brief and not one person left a comment on the guest book. Not one. Only one of his sons, my half-brothers, was listed as a survivor. My other half-brother, the one I spoke to yesterday, has long-since actually legally changed his last name- one of the ways in which he has tried to break free from the connection with his father. I think he was brave to do so and I'm proud of him for doing it but I know that nothing can ever take away what happened to him as a child any more than the death of the perpetrator of evil can remove it. Not from him, not from my other brothers, not from me.

And the evil couldn't be taken away from my mother either, even though she was long divorced from the man. A few days before her death last January when she was doing that horrible sundowning thing she proclaimed that she wished she'd never met that man. She thought about that, what she'd just said, for a few seconds and then she said, "Well, if I hadn't, I would never have had Chuck and Russell."

A few more seconds passed and then she said, "That would have been alright." 

She was out of her mind but in insanity, just as in wine, there is often truth.

This is the thing that has me squirming like a maggoty hunk of rotting meat (sorry but that's how I feel at this moment)- his death has nothing to do with making me feel safer or better or more whole. The damage was done. It cannot ever be undone. Even after years of therapy and what amounts to most of a lifetime of so much goodness and love and just a damn incredible life, I know that at best there are parts of me which are far less than adequately stitched together and most of the time I feel as if it could all come undone completely. Most definitely right now. 

Well. I won't fall apart. I never have and I won't now. I will do laundry, I will sweep, I will make the bed, I might go to the store. I will carry on. This is just another step in the process of my life and I am not the first person to go through it nor will I be the last. 

I am almost tempted to try and get my hands on some psilocybin mushrooms and take them. Some studies are showing that low doses of psilocybin can be used quite successfully in the treatment of both depression and PTSD. I know that when I was in my late teens we "discovered" psilocybin mushrooms (they grew everywhere there were cows in Florida) and I did quite a few of them and I honestly and truly believe that whatever sanity I had in those days may have been aided by my ingestion of that drug. I never did do them recreationally, but always knew that in some way, there was a spiritual component involved and that I should treat the taking of them with respect. 

But I am so much older now and somehow, it would take so much more courage. 

I know I could get some. Probably within the hour if I really was serious. I know people...

But. But. But. 

Probably better to clean the toilets, right? 

I don't know. I'm feeling pulled in a million directions. And quite frankly, I do not feel in the least cheerful that Charles Stum is dead. That fact is almost of complete unimportance to me. The fact that he lived and that his life intersected mine is the crucial one. I do not celebrate his death. I mourn his life. 

All right. I need to stop talking about it for this moment. I almost feel as if I am tripping now but not in a good way.

Here's what it looks like here today. 

Sort of sums it all up in some bizarre, almost psychedelic way. 

I'll check back later, y'all. Meanwhile, I'll continue to cowgirl up, cupcake, and hold my babies close.

But man, it's been a strange fucking year.

You Can't Make This Shit Up

This has been a remarkable Christmas. I woke up this morning feeling for sure that the knife-cut, thoughts-of-death crazy had fled. I mean, this is subtle, y'all, but real and true. I have no more idea why and how it left than I have a clue as to why it came.
I guess that's why they call it crazy. There's regular crazy and there's I-can't-go-on-like-this crazy. The former is my home, the latter? Well, the name says it all.

Anyway, I haven't wept or had thoughts of suicide all day long. For me- this is a fucking Christmas Miracle.

We had a great time at Lily's this morning. Owen was crazed and Gibson was dazed. That's the difference between age four and age not-yet-two. Owen was like, "WHAT???? NO MORE PRESENTS?" and Gibson was like, "What? Another present? But I already have this one."

May and Hank were there, of course. Hank was wearing his Santa hat that May made for him. Personalized, you know.

May showed up wearing the same hair-do as me. We're like, uh, mother and daughter.

The family portrait:

Owen refusing to show his face. Man, he had a GREAT Christmas. Seriously, he did. 

And after the delicious egg and hashbrown casserole and presents, Mr. Moon and I came home and I talked to two of my three brothers and that was so sweet. And then we took off for a drive down country lanes. 

We drove down to Reeve's Fish Camp on Lake Miccosukee and walked the levee at the dam. The sky was gorgeous.

There was a lot going on at the fish camp. Yellin' and ducks taking off and dogs barking and cats meowing but there was a preternatural peace to it all too.

Spanish Moss.

And now we're home and I'm going to cook some grouper. 

Oh- here's another thing- I found out today that my stepfather died six weeks after Mother died. 

Rather incredibly profound. The Asshole Monster is dead and has been for almost eleven months. And I had no idea.

Well, it's been a year. And I feel certain that I'll be doing some processing over that fact. 

But it's been a damn fine Christmas. 

May it have been for you as well. 

Love...Ms. Moon

For Your Listening Pleasure

Have I posted this before? Oh well. Bears repeating. This'll get your blood sugar level readjusted nicely.





Merry Christmas from the family!

To My Baby

We'll be heading over to Lily and Jason's again here in a moment and I feel a huge burden of guilt. We dropped off a train table toy last night and it took Jason three hours to put it together after we left.
Sigh...
Well, that's why he's the daddy.
I remember those late Christmas Eve nights.

Everyone is posting beautiful pictures on blogs and Facebook, for one second at least, everyone looks so merry and bright. So happy and right.
Well.

I myself have mascara from last night rimming my lower eye lids and my hair is pulled back in a stringy ponytail and I'm wearing a hoody and quite frankly, you would not want to see what I look like right now but I'm thinking that the boys' eyes will be shining and that will be enough to make us all glow a little, at least, the tired parents, the aunt and the uncle, the grumpy old Boppy and MerMer.

I am thinking of Jessie and Vergil. I am missing them so much. Jessie called us last night. They had their Christmas at Vergil's sister's house and it sounded lovely but she misses us too. She is working today and maybe they'll get a few nice Christmas babies for her to help get started in this crazy world they're being born into and quite frankly, to have Jessie Moon as one of the people you first lay eyes on, first get to be held by (after Mama and Daddy, of course) is not a bad thing at all and in fact, a blessing and may all the babies born today be blessed with the purest light of being loved and wanted and welcomed with gentle hands and smiling eyes.

We miss you girl. And your precious husband too. 

To all of the people whom we love and cannot be with today- your light shines in our hearts and we are not so far apart, not really. 

Merry Christmas. 

Holding you in my heart. 

Eternally loving you. 

Mama

The family of superheroes was getting ready to nestle all snug in their beds when we left.
Or at least they were getting ready to try and get the kids down so they can put together their presents and clean up from the party.

It was a good one.

Sleep warm, y'all.

Stay cozy.

Love...Ms. Moon

Struggling.
And it's not from being overwhelmed by a to-do list as long as my arm. The gatherings are not here this year but will be at Lily's both tonight and tomorrow morning. So I don't have to clean or make pretty. I don't have to remember the infinite number of details like ice and drinks and paper plates and clean-up that porch! I don't have to cut flowers and put them in vases or string lights or make sure there are enough places for people to sit and tonight I won't have to put together toys after a party or fill stockings either.
I have wrapped everything I need to wrap. I simply have to make chicken salad and bake a ham and get over to Lily's tonight with those and the presents and the fruitcake.
That's all.
And yet, I woke up this morning wondering how long I'll be living, what horrors await me in whatever time that may be, despairing of ever enjoying anything again in my life.
And this cannot be normal. I have no reason to think I'm dying, I have a beautiful family who will come together tonight and a grandson who is vibrating with the excitement of it all and another who can't get or give enough kisses just because he's alive and he loves and it should all be so sweet and so good and I'm on the verge of tears and there is no other explanation except that I hate Christmas and somewhere, somehow, it was ruined for me or I ruined it somehow and there you go.

Get through it. I have to get through it all and pay attention because there will be remarkably beautiful moments and it would be a sin to miss them, to not acknowledge them.

It rained all day yesterday and today is clear and it is cold and getting colder. It will be in the twenties tonight. We had the boys all day yesterday and Mr. Moon did the brunt of the childcare. Gibson won't let his grandfather get farther than arm's reach. He adores and worships him. There was painting, there was coloring, there was couch and bed-fishing. There was a movie and Sponge Bob. There was block-building and there was fancy dancing. There was supper and Owen set the table for me, spreading each napkin out at each place with the knife and fork set nicely upon. He carried water glasses and plates and salad bowls and pepper and hot sauce to the table. I read an article in the New Yorker by Michael Pollan which absolutely blew my mind entitled "The Intelligence of Plants."

See? I am paying attention. I am being grateful and I am capable of wonder. I am surrounded by trees so old and dignified that I have no doubt they have an intelligence of their own and one that surpasses mine in ways I cannot imagine. Entire eco-systems live within them and around them and I am just a small part of it all.
Sometimes that is all enough.

Sometimes it's just a fact.

It is Christmas Eve. Babies are being born everywhere in the world in hospitals and homes and maybe even in a stable. Each one of them is as Holy as any other and the stars shine cold above, even if we cannot see them.

That is my Christmas Eve statement.

And I would wish us all peace.

What A Florida Christmas Looks Like

Now. This.

If there is a more beautiful flower than the camellia, I have yet to meet it.

How can I not be cheerful with all of these riches in my hallway?

Two Christmas Traditions Right Here Just For You!

Because this is the one Christmas song that I do truly love.

And go HERE for one of my most favorite Christmas stories. Heartwarming, nostalgic, profane. A true holiday Must-Read. Perhaps you could listen to the music while you read the story.

Best wishes from Lloyd where it's rainy and damp, gray and warm.

May you be merry and bright. Or, you know- something appropriate.

Love...Ms. Moon

Low-Brow Old Cow

That's what I feel like today and I'm enjoying the hell out of it. I'm listening to a book on CD that my husband got out of the library and it's one of those James Patterson books which James Patterson did not write and it's extremely tacky but I sort of love it and the narrator is very good. I think it's called "Guilty Wives" and it's about four women who were falsely accused of murdering the French president while having a hedonistic, orgiastic weekend in Monte Carlo.
I mean- how can you go wrong? PRISON SEX!
Okay, there's not really any prison sex but there almost was.

And while listening to that piece of audible bon-bon, I've wrapped all the presents and planted the pansies and watered the plants and just basically wandered around the house wearing an old comfortable dress except for when I went to the store where I wandered around wearing a not-quite-as-old comfortable dress. I went to get tape and cat food and milk and I got those things plus about a hundred other things and I forgot the chicken for the chicken salad until I was in line and had to go back and get it but I got it and three people called me "Mama" when I came into the store and only one of them was Lily and that always makes me happy- to be called Mama by folks I didn't actually give birth to. I don't know why but it does.

So it's been like that today, the persistent gloom not fazing me in the least, not feeling overwhelmed or panicky about Christmas, happy to have such nice strong wrapping paper and that brand new roll of tape and now, speaking of low-brow, Mr. Moon and I are watching "Meet The Fockers" and go ahead- give me shit. I don't care. I love that movie. Dustin Hoffman and Barbra Streisand are so joyful and full of juice in it and the house they live in is beautiful and I want it for my own. So, sure, yeah, the plot gets a bit insane and some of it is simply inane but the scene where Barbra Streisand stimulates Blythe Danner's ears cracks me up every time and it's two days before Christmas and I am not freaking out, not one bit, and there you go.

Whatever it takes.

I'm just a low-brow old cow and happy to be.