Speaking of Hope

So I watched that debate last night. I even paid attention.

Well, when I wasn't trying to gnaw my paw off to try and escape.

Guys- I'm tired of this shit. These men have nothing new to say.

Script:
Enter stage L and R. Come together in middle and shake hands. Go to separate corners. Open mouth when called upon and ......
blah, blah, blah, blah.

We have heard it all before.

Rhetoric and bullshit.

Let's face it- neither one of these guys is god. I have decided that we all take one candidate and endow him with whatever it is we want in a candidate.

Me? I want world peace and for every person on earth to have the opportunity to live without hunger, to get an education, and to be able to get the health care they need. I know that's not going to happen. No one is beating their swords into plowshares and no one is advocating that.

But to me, Obama looks like someone who might be more apt to go in that direction, so he's my guy.

You? You might think it's more important for the USA to shine strong and win every war we decide we need to get into for whatever batshit reason du jour.

If so, McCain's your guy.

Whatever.

I will say that every time McCain said, "My friends," I took a big ol' swig of tequila.

Nah, that's not true. If I had done that, I would not be capable of writing this because I'd be drunk for three days and hungover for four.

Every time he uttered that phrase I felt like a creepy old uncle had poked me in the ribs.

Obama, on the other hand, didn't creep me out.

Which is how I know he won the debate.

That and the fact that he's one good-looking man.

Yeah. It's come to this.

Prove me wrong, Obama. Show me you're not crazy because right now, I think anyone who wants to be president of the United States is certifiable. But please. Use those long legs to walk the walk. Use those soulful eyes to see what needs doing and that smart brain to figure out how to do it. How to help us evolve as a nation, as a people, as a species. How to save our planet, how to give our children (and when I say "our" I mean ALL the children of the world) lives they can live with. Use those big ears to listen to wise women and men who might have something to say that's important. Use that strong backbone to stand up and do what you know is right. Use those graceful hands to reach out to the people who need a hand and need some hope.

And I hope you can get past the rhetoric and the bullshit it takes to get elected and I hope you know it's rhetoric and bullshit and that you have some real plans in your back pocket. Do it for your babies. Do it for mine. Do it for all the babies of the world.

Use that youth and energy of yours to do the work that needs to be done. Because if you lead well, the people will follow and no man or woman can do it alone.

Isn't that what we want? A leader we can follow whole-heartedly?

It's what we need.

And I'm hoping we get it.

To Call Us Pigs Would Insult The Animal

Some days I come home from my walk with a bouquet of what is blooming in the woods and fields and a heart grateful for the purples, the yellows, the greens. I put the things in vases and set them where I will see them fifty times a day and smile every time.

Some days I come home with bags of candy wrappers, styrofoam plates and cups, glass bottles and aluminum cans. My hands reek of stale beer on those days and my heart is full of disgust. I wash my hands and think, My God. Aren't things bad enough? Why do we humans have to fuck up everything, leaving our hateful mark on every path we take? Are we so incredibly arrogant that we think we have the right to despoil any piece of woods, any place at all?

Some days I have no hope.
Some days I can not smile.

And This Is What Fall Looks Like

The beauty berries are in full berry and the dogwoods are turning orange and red. The pecans are still hanging on to their leaves, but are dropping their nuts, although we never really get enough pecans to bother gathering. The squirrels take care of that for us. They've been busy for over a month now, picking the nuts and taking one bite of them to determine their ripeness and then throwing them down, usually on a tin roof. You can't believe how loud that is, like a bomb going off. They have tiny arms, but they are strong. The squirrels get in our walls sometimes and I'm not sure what they're doing in there, but whatever it is, it's busy and noisy. Mr. Moon threatens to shoot them but I plead for their lives, crying, "Don't kill them! It would only be a senseless death!"

And I mean that. They amuse me. They chase each other up the roof of my office and through trees and I love the way they sit up on the fence, holding a nut in both hands and gnawing on it with quick, almost human determination.

When Lily lived out here, she sometimes complained that there's "too much nature," which struck me as funny and made me laugh, but then, I love it.

I have a fine, fat green lizard who lives on the screen door to the kitchen. I am deathly afraid I'm going to open the door and smush him in it by accident but so far, he's managed to avoid that. For a few months I had a toad who lived under the steps by the kitchen. He would come out at night and we'd warn people coming in or going out, not to step on him.

A few weeks ago I was over in the side yard, dumping some branches on the burn pile when I noticed over by the neighbor's animal yard that the guinea hens were doing their frantic search beside the fence for their way in. Alongside them a possum trundled, nosing along looking for whatever it is that possums look for. Grubs, I suppose, whatever grubs are. I said to him, "Hey! What you doin'?" but he didn't even look up at me. We expect possums in the night time but we rarely see them in the light of day.

I have seen plenty of snakes in my yard and today I saw a tiny black and white one on the road when I went to take my walk. I have no idea what he was but he had the wide head of the venomous viper and his red tongue flicked back and forth as I leaned over him to get a better look. He was far braver than his size should have dictated and there was no backing down for him as I loomed above him which he rightly perceived as a threat. He made a valiant effort to strike me. I let him be and walked on.

There's a spot in my back yard where there is always a burst of feathers on the ground and I have often seen an owl, just as the sun is setting, swooping down and hitting prey there. I believe they mostly take the pearly doves that roost in the Bradford pear. We have hawks that wheel around the sky over our yard and they, too, swoop in now and then and Saturday morning they woke me up with their sharp, insistent cries. I do not know what they were talking about, but it was a matter of great discussion.

A pair of Mississippi Kites nests across the street and it is always special to see them from my front yard as they float so high above the trees we can barely see them with their split tails and their aerodynamic bodies.

We have spiders on every porch and I did something today which I am loathe to do, which is to take down a web. It was strung between my office and the house and right at my head's level. I do not mind spiders at all, but it was inevitable that I would forget it was there and run into it and the idea of having a large spider dance on my person is not one I like. I took it down with a broom and apologized to the lady, explaining she just could not build her web in that particular place. I feel bad, thinking of all the work she went to to make the web, but still. There is a time and a place for everything and that web was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she needs to go scout out some new real estate.

The passion flower vine has been almost entirely decimated by hundreds of bright orange caterpillars which I am told will become the striking orange Gulf Fritillary butterfly. I have been watching them for days as they make their cocoons on the chain link fence which the vine has grown on and it's a gentle sort of excitement for me to see their progress from worm-like critter to lovely flying things. I do not begrudge them the passion flower vine. I think it will grow back next spring.

Between the birds and the bugs and the mammals and the reptiles which all make their home right here in and around my home, I never feel really alone. Throw in the dogs and it's a constant circus. It's a circus I love and even the plants and trees have their own personalities and throw their grace my way. I look out of the window right now to see the pine cone lilies growing fat and red and the little Japanese maple turning color.

I am more than grateful to have all of this company. I am no Buddhist and have less than a Zen outlook on life, but it is obvious even to me that I am surrounded by sentient beings, large and small. It is a sort of comfort as the world goes crazy and my mind tries to follow down that path. I'm not sure why, but I think it's a constant reminder that what we humans perceive as important and earth-shattering is only so on certain levels, and certainly not on all. Things will go on. The lizards and frogs will eat the mosquitoes and the owls will hunt and the snakes will make their way through the grass and the ants will gather and the squirrels will too and it's all tied in together.

There is a lot of nature here and I suppose my place in it is to observe it all. I think my worst nightmare would be to live in a place where nature is removed from me. Where instead of dirt beneath my feet and trees above my head there would be only concrete and tall buildings. Where instead of falling asleep to the sounds of the crickets and the rustlings under my window of the coons and possums, I would hear the sounds of taxis and garbage trucks and rushing ambulances and police cars with blaring sirens. But I suppose that I would soon learn to tune those things out, just as I have learned not to even wake when the train passes in the middle of the night, so closely it rattles the windows of my house.

I hope I never have to know. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world as I cross the porch and smell the tea olive which is the scent we'll be greeted with in heaven. Or perhaps this is heaven, right here and now, this place I live with the blue-tailed skink and the sweet tea olive and the cardinal flower and the live oaks and the owls.

It is to me. Today it certainly is to me.

Who Does Depression Hurt?

Miss Maybelle and I were laughing the other day about one of those ubiquitous anti-depressant commercials on TV. The tag line is, "Who does depression hurt?" And it showed a depressed man and his dog who was obviously not getting the happy walk he deserved because his human was depressed.

It would appear that depression even hurts DOGS!

Then this morning when my dog, Dolly, was singing her good morning song to me which is a joyful chorus of soprano happiness, I looked at her and said, "Shut-up, Dolly!" I didn't even think about what I was saying. The words just spilled out of my mouth.

She looked me with a hurt expression and did indeed shut up.

Poor Dolly. I have hurt her with my depression.

I have hurt my dog with my depression.

This is ridiculous.

The VP Debate

What she said.

Looking Up

When I was on my way to the doctor's office yesterday morning, I saw a sign in front of a small church that said, "When you need peace, look up."
Well, I did and saw plenty of blue sky and light and I thought that was fine advice no matter what level you choose to take it on. Of course I had to turn my eyes quickly back to the road to drive, but that second of sky and trees and light was calming.
I had forgotten that sign until I I downloaded this picture I took yesterday afternoon. This banana spider has made her web not on the porch, which is where most of them seem to, but way up in the sky between a young magnolia and a post we used to put the pea-climbing fence up for the garden last spring.
This web is high in the air. I mean like maybe oh, fifteen feet up. That spider- she is looking for high-flying, juicy traffic and I'm not sure why I glanced up to see her there when I was outside, turning the sprinkler on the garden but I did and I was amazed. Her web stretches at least ten feet from tree to post and she is poised on it like she was dancing on thick, strong air.


The doctor visit went fine. I saw a different nurse practitioner whom I'd never met and to make a long story short, she actually touched me as one human to another and we both teared up, discussing the empty nest. Her son moved out twelve years ago and she is still missing him and didn't find it ridiculous that the recent changes I've found myself going through would be enough to send me into this mysterious and tentative place I seem to be inhabiting. She encouraged me to find "someone" to talk to and I swear, I will. It's time.
I came home and Miss Maybelle came over and we watched an old movie called Crimes of the Heart with the dogs all over us and we wondered why they don't make movies like that anymore. Movies where people act like people really do, pulling up panty hose and laughing inappropriately and wearing the lime green gardening gloves of a dead person to work in the garden and having really, really bad days.
Both of us are trying to find the light again, Miss Maybelle and I, and it was lovely to be able to laugh together at three sisters, trying to do the same in an old house somewhere in the south.
I sent her home with a plant that I'd rooted and a quart jar of soup and a bunch of old magazines and Lord knows I'd do anything for any of my kids, but that was all I could do today.
She did more for me than she knows.
I know she'll be okay, Miss Maybelle, because she's wise and she's endured more pain than most people I know and can still dance.
I can't tell you how proud I am of my kids and the way they've moved into the world, each of them with more bravery and bravado than I can ever imagine having.
They look up. My kids look up. And whether any of us will ever find peace, I have no idea. I don't know if that's really what's on the agenda for us humans. But it's a good thing to do, looking up.
When there is darkness in the soul, it's good to be reminded that there is light in the sky and that no matter what is going on in our hearts, there are spiders building webs that will probably last longer than they themselves do, stretching from tree to post. Spiders have short lives, and so do we, relatively.
We can pass all of our physical exams with flying colors and die suddenly of something no one could have detected.
Or, we can live long, long lives. There is no way to know.
But continuously looking down is no way to live. That church sign had it right. We need to remember to look up. Not necessarily for a god in the sky, but just for the sky itself. To be aware that although we may not be here forever, there is a sort of eternity and that we are part of it. At the very heart of it all, our being here has some sort of meaning, even if it is only that we are one tiny, minuscule strand in the brilliant web of it all.
That each strand of us has some purpose in all of this.
That's what I try to remember.
That's what I try to believe as I walk through this life, my feet so often literally in the dirt. That it is good to look up and be reminded.

When Comets Don't Hit The Earth

Dammit, dammit, dammit, as Lillian Rose Moon said on her first day of preschool. (I was so proud.)

Anyway, what I'm damning is the fact that although I had entire month between when I thought my doctor's appointment was and when it actually is, no comet hit the earth destroying all life forms, which means that today's the day I have to go.

And despite the 20 mg. of antidepressant coursing through my blood stream, I am as jumpy as a cat in a rocking chair factory.

(Hold on. I have to go eat some Tums.)

All right. I'm back. Fruit flavored Tums for breakfast. Yum!

Why am I so freaked out about going to the doctor? I do not know. But I wish I wasn't.

I suppose I should go get ready. Bathe, dress, etc.

Take an Ativan. Slam some vodka.

Just kidding!

I'll report in later.

What's Your Definition Of Monster?

And today- I am SORE. Well, more like stiff. I went to yoga and I'm certain it helped but I think I'll pop a few Ibuprofen just to prolong the improvement.
I am a wuss.
But I feel relatively fine in the mood department and am about to go to town to meet Billy, which is always a spirit-lifter and a joy. We're going to a book store and Goodwill. Billy needs costumage for his upcoming birthday celebration which will have a monster theme.
I am threatening, if I attend, to go as a Momster, wearing jeans that come up to around my bosoms and sag off the ass.
I was also considering going as Sarah Palin but that's such a cheap, cheap shot.
Plus, I'd have to cut bangs and that will not be happening.

This Is What Happens When You Leave Your House

Jesus Lord God, y'all. I'm tired. It's six o'clock in the evening and I've got a chicken about to go into the oven, one of those nice little Greenwise ones that I'm sure was raised with loving tenderness and only the finest of non-hormonally treated, non-antibiotic infused, organic bugs and grains and that a Zen Buddhist Monk chanted over it as it was humanely put to death.

At least it better be for the price I paid for it.

Anyway, my fatigue has nothing to do with the chicken and the little bit of dressing I made to go into it. Ah no. That was a breeze of a thing to do, chop up some celery and onions and throw in a few pecans and saute them in all in a pan and then add chicken broth and some Pepperidge Farm Stuffing mix.

Yeah. I used Pepperidge Farm. So what? It's Tuesday night, not Thanksgiving.

Anyway, no, it wasn't that which made me tired.

It was the walk I took this morning which wasn't my usual walk. It was straighter and on pavement and it was hot and I just wanted to get it over with so I walked really fast. No stopping for trash today, my friends.

And when I got home I started unloading and spreading the rest of that pine bark and did some weeding of the flower beds and I must have shoveled at least five thousand shovel-fulls of the pine bark which will add up, even if it doesn't weigh anything. And then I swept out the truck so carefully and was so proud of myself and I hopped down from the truck and decided to go pick up an abandoned cement planting pot I'd spied on the side of the road during my walk. I was already filthy, it was only about a quarter mile from the house and so I just jumped in the car wearing my shit-beat flip-flops, a pair of cargo shorts, a black tank top and NO BRA. I was not planning on seeing anyone. This would be a kamikaze planting pot gathering. Drive there, pull off the road, gather up the pot, toss it in the back of the car, and drive home.

Why would I need a bra?

The pot-retrieval went just fine. I got it in the back of the Mini Cooper and then I decided to go check out a "For Sale" sign I'd also seen on my walk and drove down another quarter of a mile to a dirt road that turned into a grass road. And then, before I actually realized what the hell I was doing, I ran over a large piece of pine log in the road which my car did not clear which means my car was stuck ON the pine log and would not go forward and would not go back.

Well shit, I said to myself. Why the hell did I do that?

In my defense, I will say that the size of the pine log was somewhat camouflaged by its position in the middle of some very tall grass. But still, it had been a stupid move and it was time to pay the price. I stepped out of the car and got down on my belly in the dirt to see what was what, and what was what was that the pine log was firmly jammed between the underside of my car and the dirt road. I tried, feebly, to dig the log out with my bare fingernails but after about ten seconds of that, I realized there was nothing to do but lock the car, walk home, and call Mr. Moon.

Which is what I did.

I walked home wearing the shit-beat flip flops, the cargo shorts, the tank top and NO BRA, thinking that surely someone would stop to ask if I wanted to buy any crack but no one did. Two bulldogs did bound out of a fence and bark at me but I think my raspy weird voice trying to yell "Go home!" scared them and they pretended they were interested in an old piece of tire and not me and left me alone and intact, but with a slightly elevated heart-rate.

I made it home, sweaty and pissed off at myself and called Mr. Moon who said he'd be there right away and he was.

He wasn't perturbed, he wasn't upset. He just went out to the garage and got his floor jack and loaded it up and down the road we went and he jacked up the Mini and pulled out the log (which turned out to be a fine piece of fat lighter) and we brought that home with us and it would appear that the underside of the Mini is fine.

Glory be and hallelujah.

But I have learned a few things and one of them is really, whenever I get in the car to go anywhere, I should be wearing a bra, and I should probably have a phone. What if I'd decided to go look at a house for sale that was five miles away? Hell. I'd still be walking home and Mr. Moon would be frantic.

And there would be no nice stuffed chicken to serve my knight in shining armor and I'd probably never go out of the house again and I'm wondering if maybe that wasn't the lesson I should have learned anyway.

But I suppose that all's well that ends well and I am grateful to have a husband who has things lying around the garage like floor jacks and who can use them with skill and proficiency.

And I have a fully-mulched yard and it's no wonder I'm tired and oh yes, I planted three papaya seedlings in the pot I brought home and I hope they're happy there, although as you can see, some of them are already looking a bit wilty.

It may just be one of those days when all my acts go for naught but at least I think the chicken will be tasty and I feel pretty sure that by the time I roll into bed (which will probably be around eight p.m.) I will sleep just fine.

Identity Crisis

Got that in the mail this morning and if still remembered how to laugh, I would have.
But damn- isn't that the question?
What to do about Mary Moon?
If I were the sort of crazy that sees conspiracy theories everywhere, I would be trembling.
If I were the sort of crazy that finds religious portents in every day objects, I would be worrying.
Well, I already am worrying and that's my problem. I can't seem to quit.
Oh, I'm not as anxious as I was. At least I don't feel as anxious but I seem to have lost my voice (quite literally- I can barely speak) which makes me, if at all possible, even less socially available than I was before. I'm sort of okay at home but get me out in the world and I can barely speak above a whisper. And frankly, I don't think there's anything physically wrong with me but that this is sort of a somatic response to my anxiety- another way to keep me home, keep me away from the troubling world and its responsibilities.
If so, it sure is working.
One of my daughters is depressed too. And thank goodness we can talk about our mutual depressedness and end up laughing, although I feel guilty that she's depressed and I can't do anything about it and I'm sure she feels guilty that I'm depressed and she can't do anything about it but we both know that fighting these black battles can really only be done alone.
My husband keeps trying to help and just knowing he's there and wants to help IS a help. Yesterday he sent me off to get a truck load of pine bark mulch, thinking it would get me out of the house and into the world to do something and he was right, although he had no idea how much anxiety it produced, driving down the road in a strange truck, finding the place, negotiating for the fill-up (done at a whisper) and driving home with bark chips flying everywhere.
It didn't end up being too bad at all and then I spent several hours spreading the stuff. That's been my latest big project- spreading pine bark mulch. I have a feeling that if I don't draw a line soon, my entire two acres will be covered with pine bark mulch. It's hard to know where to stop and it's an extremely pleasant task. Shoveling it is like shoveling air and I listen to a book on tape while I'm doing it so it's almost like I'm getting away with something and when I'm finished, you can definitely see the results, which is a huge difference in the sort of thing I usually do which is to clean things that get immediately dirty again or cook things that get eaten.
I suppose it is therapy, in a way and it may not be much but it's something I can control which is more than I can do about the world economy or national politics or even my own mood or voice.
I can spread pine bark.
And hey! It smells good.
So. What to do about Mary Moon because she can not spread pine bark mulch forever.
I do not know, but I suspect the answer lies in remembering that (thank you, Miss Maybelle), all things shall pass and that measuring the time in coffee cups as TS Elliot did or measuring it in wheelbarrow loads of pine bark is a way to get from here to there.
And also trying to remember just who Mary Moon is. I have a vague memory of who she used to be. She was a woman who managed to keep it together with four kids in the house. A woman who helped other women have their babies with patience and words and hands. A woman who was occasionally wild enough to dance up to the edge of the precipice, smile wickedly and dance back to safe sanity. A woman who could sit in front of her computer and create a character who had more sass and backbone and courage than I ever will. A woman fired up with piss and vinegar and estrogen and who had a voice and used it.
I used to be that woman.
I think.
I wish I could find her again because I sure as hell miss her.
Maybe she could tell me what to do about Mary Moon. I think she'd know.

Music Therapy

My son, Down Town Guy, brought his mama a mix CD yesterday when he came out for the Lily birthday celebration.
I consider this CD a rare and fine gift in that he considered my taste in music, my need for musical mental support and the songs that made me happy as a child.

The song list is as follows:

1. Grits Ain't Groceries - Lil Willie (and Mona Lisa was a man!?)
2. Coming Up Close - Valla, Turner, Williamson (my LIZZIE!)
3. Daniel and the Sacred Heart - The Band (Religious AND righteous)
4. Mary Don't Weep - The Boss (no translation needed)
5. Fixing a Hole - The Beatles (ditto)
6. Draft Board - Brennan Leigh (extremely interesting)
7. Diamonds - Carol Channing (not quite sure about that one but damn, I love it)
8. Case of You - Joni Mitchell (just try not to cry when you listen to this one)
9. Train Robbery - Levon Helm (his voice- oh, it breaks me)
10. I Know You Know - Lyle Lovett (thank you for assuming I'm that smart)
11. Cripple Creek - The Band (the stories I could tell...)
12. When I'm 64 - The Beatles (yes, I'll still feed you)
13. Richard - Joni Mitchell (we'll never see her like in this lifetime)
14. Skillet - Milkcrate Hustlers (new to me)
15. Katie Cruel - Oxford American (your mind will be shifted a space to the left of where it is and you may weep and not know why)
16. That Was - Paul Simon (Paul, where are you?)
17. Jolene - Dolly Parton (uh- this is not Dolly but she did write it and it's amazingly passionate)
18. Life's Been Hard (VTW again and it's Lis AND Lon and I love it so)
19. Diamonds - Paul Simon (try not singing along)
20. Day In The Life - The Beatles (best band in the history of the Universe)
21. When The President Talks to god - Bright Eyes (yes. Thank you)

Dreaming A Life

I dreamed last night I was adopting a little girl from Cuba. She was the perfect child who behaved herself like no toddler ever could and who held her arms out to me whenever she saw me and who was tiny enough to fit into a baby sling and I was excited to think I'd have this perfect, loving little child to raise and love and feed and take care of.
Well, that was a dream, and I have no plans to take on so much as a kitten any time soon. I am living for the moment the dogs all die and I can reclaim my library which is where they live now, slowly eating and clawing their way through the chair and the chaise lounge, bringing magnolia cones into the room to destroy on the rug which reeks of dog and is thick with their hair.
Mr. Moon and I were going to go out to eat last night. I showered and got dressed, which took all the energy out of me. I have a closet full of clothes and not one thing made me feel pretty or proud or happy to be seen in. But I managed to find something that would DO and put my hair up and put on make-up and we had a small drink on the porch and he was wearing his white shirt and Levi's and I said, "Honey, let's just stay in."
And he said, "I wanted to take you for a ride in the convertible."
"Okay," I said. "Let's change into our overalls and go for a ride. Then I'll make us some eggs and we can watch the debate."
And that's what we did. We got out of our going-out clothes and put on our old, soft things and fired up the Cutlass and drove around in the misty gloaming as the sun was going down and the trees were heavy with summer's full growth and the air was cool and I waved at folks sitting on their porches and I started talking about things as Mr. Moon drove and we were as close as can be, me spilling my heart and him listening and telling me he loves me.
We came home in the full dark and I cooked up deer sausage and potatoes and eggs with tomatoes and onions and made biscuits and we ate them in front of the TV and the presidential hopefuls debated and it was so boring I couldn't stand it and finally said, "I'm going to bed."
I washed the dishes and set the coffee to go off in the morning and we went to bed where we slept so well with the windows open and I dreamed of that child. I'm writing this now with a dog's head in my lap and I need to get the house straightened up and make Lily a card and make the birthday dinner and get ready for all the babies to come out to eat and celebrate Lily's birthday.
It's like a dream and that little girl in my real dream last night was so clear to me that I almost feel like she's here, sitting quietly while I write, eating her little bowl of Cheerio's, just waiting for me to pick her up and put her in the baby sling and carry her around with me while I wash the table cloths and frost the cake.
It was like a dream last night, floating through the evening air in the Cutlass, my words floating from my heart to my mouth, saying things I needed to say, hearing things I needed to hear, then coming home to eat breakfast for dinner, a good sort of dream and I would believe I made it all up except that there are two biscuits, wrapped in plastic and sitting in the refrigerator, left over from last night's supper, just waiting to be warmed up, spread with butter and then have honey poured all over them, sweetness and light, transformed by bees into something almost too beautiful to eat, but which we do, and should never take for granted.

How A Girl Got Her Name

When my daughter, Lillian Rose Moon, was born, twenty-three years ago tomorrow, we had no name picked out. Since I hadn't had a sonogram and didn't know the sex of the baby, we'd thrown around a bunch of different names but hadn't decided on any one of them.

And then, after my shortest labor (a mere eighteen hours) and a very prolonged pushing stage, she was born. All ten pounds, two ounces of her.

"Mary," the midwife breathed, "that is a huge baby!"

And indeed she was. She was born slightly distressed because there'd been a small issue of shoulder dystocia (meaning that her shoulders were broader than her head- not the usual order of things) and the midwife had to do some fancy maneuverings to get her out and then get her to breathe. While she was working on my baby to get her to take that first important breath, she said to us, "Talk to her. She needs to hear her parents talk to her!"

And I determined right that second that she needed to know she was supposed to be here and that she needed a name to be called to tell her that. And the name Lily Rose came to me and I called her that and reached out and touched her and her daddy talked to her and touched her and the midwife breathed into her and Lily breathed back and started to turn from the dusky dark color she was to the peachy pink color she needed to be and we all cried tears of relief and joy.

And that's how Lily got her name. I sort of thought I was naming her for Jimmy Carter's mother, Miss Lillian, because she was such a strong and cool old woman, joining the Peace Corp at the age of a hundred or something like that and the Rose part just seemed to fit.

Lillian Rose.

Now, in what would seem to be a completely unrelated matter, a few years later I was at the flea market and found a copy of a book that I had been raised with. The book is huge, and it's called World Famous Paintings and it has gorgeous plates of, well, world famous paintings, with brief commentaries on the paintings which range from works by Giovanni Bellini (1429-1516) to Grant Wood who was born in 1892 and who was still alive when the book was published in 1939. There are hundreds of pictures in this book and as a child, even before I could read, I loved going through it, page by page, looking at the pictures and trying to figure out what in the world they could be about. Some of them were disturbing and some of them were slightly titillating and some were charming and some (mainly the landscapes) I found mostly boring.

I grew up and forgot about that book, hadn't even thought of it until I ran into another copy of it. Running my fingers down the beige cover of it, standing there at the flea market, I was instantly transported back to being a little girl, holding the massive weight of it on my lap, going through the pictures and wondering and learning and thinking deep, deep thoughts about images that had been created by people hundreds of years dead.

I bought the copy and brought it home and opened it up and it was like revisiting a childhood friend or perhaps some older relative whose stories had made up a good part of who and what I had become, even though I hadn't thought of her in years.
I got to the last few paintings in the book and there I found a picture which I had completely forgotten by John Singer Sargent. It is the picture you see above, of two young girls in a flower garden, dressed in white and preparing Chinese lanterns to hang.

The title of this painting?

Carnation, Lily, Lily Rose.

Ahem.

Again- another moment of wonder at how something so obvious could have completely escaped me.

Well, whether the roots of Lily's name had been forgotten by me or not, it is a good name, and one which suits the sweet woman she is now. There is no one in the world whose hugs feel as good to me, whose sense of humor makes me laugh harder, whose smile is brighter, whose face is more precious to me.

And I could have named her Mona Lisa or Sun Flower or Madame Sophie or Madonna or Venus Rising or Cupid or Beatrice, which all would have been fine names that were no doubt also lodged deep within the folds of my brain, but I didn't. I named her Lillian Rose and called her Lily and tomorrow is her birthday.

Happy birthday, my sweet flower child.
It has been joyful watching you bloom this year. You are married now and married well, and you are living in your own place with your husband and cats and you are happy.

You may thank John Singer Sargent for your name.

And I thank my lucky stars for you.

Cold Wave

So it's like fifty-five degrees and already- I'm done with winter.
Yeah.
I live in Florida for a reason.
I'm freezing.
Perhaps I should put on some long pants.

Not Quite A Rant, More Like A Theory

I'm pretty sure I've written about cloth diapers before and God knows I've written about childbirth but I'm too lazy to go back to see what I said and if I don't remember, maybe you don't either.
The above picture is one of my favorites and yes, it's a lousy replication. Sorry.
But that's a shot of HoneyLuna when she was a tiny little blond thing waving at her beloved Paw-Paw who was surf fishing. She is wearing, as you can see, a soggy, saggy cloth diaper. It was probably wet from ocean water and I probably just took it off of her and let her run around naked after that picture was taken. I don't remember but that's something I would have done.
When my first child was born, the Pamper had just been invented and it was a nasty thing made of paper and plastic and there was no way I was going to put that sort of uncomfortable thing on my baby. I wouldn't have worn it so why should he?
I used cloth diapers then and I used cloth diapers for all four of my kids, although I will admit to using disposable at night when the kids got older and the products got better. But for the most part, I used the old fashioned cotton diaper, prefolded and fastened with diaper pins.
How barbaric!
And yet, it worked for me.
Of course, this meant I had to rinse out baby poop in the TOILET and I had to wash all those diapers and dry and fold them. For the first two children I had no dryer and depended on line drying and somehow, that worked too.
This was just what you did back then. There were plastic pants that went over the diaper to prevent leakage when the child was wearing something over the diaper (like corduroy overalls- the cutest thing in the world that a child can wear- trust me on this) or if we were going to be somewhere that if a leak occurred, it would be awkward, such as the store.
No big deal.
And no, the cloth diapers didn't prevent leakage the way disposables do.
And yes, I had to change them EVERY TIME THE CHILD PEED OR POOPED which meant that on many days, I probably changed at least a dozen, maybe more, diapers.
Nowadays, the way they make those disposables with that magical stuff in them that takes the pee and turns it into a gel or something, you can get away with probably three changes a day. Maybe a week. I don't know.
But I do know that every diaper change was a chance at a little face-to-face interaction, a hug, a tickle, a kiss, a running-of-the-chubby-little-legs-like-a-bicycle, a giggle, a belly raspberry. In short, what we might call mommy (or daddy)-baby quality time that beats the hell out of a Baby Einstein video. All in the name of a dry bottom.
I wonder if anyone's done a study to determine if the decrease in the number of these interactions are affecting our babies' development.
I doubt it.
The diaper companies certainly wouldn't pay for it.
And that is the main reason I think cloth diapers are superior to disposables. Is that crazy?
I mean, yes, I think cloth is better for the environment and it's got to be a hell of a lot cheaper. Of course it's more work and you have to actually deal with baby poop on a whole different level if you rinse out the diaper in the toilet and flush it, which is how poop should be handled, if you think about it, rather than just folding that little plastic package up and throwing it away.
Which is far yickier if you ask me than flushing. In the long run, at least. Think of all the baby poop in landfills.
Or don't.
But you know, this is how we are these days- we don't deal with things on the level that people used to. We don't raise our own food or butcher our own animals or pluck our own chickens or make our own clothes or chop our own wood. We don't like to get our hands dirty or deal with blood or poop or pee.
Or pain.
And I'm pretty much down with that.
But I wonder how it's affecting us. Technologically, we are so much farther advanced than we are biologically. It's one of the reasons obesity is so prevalent. We're still wired to need just a few more calories than we would expend in obtaining food energy. Think of how hard people used to have to work to get a meal on the table. Between the growing or raising of it, the hauling water, the chopping wood to cook it on, the hauling of the wood, etc., you were damn lucky if you could get enough to eat to offset what it took to get it from the ground to the body. Or from the woods to the body.
And now, we only have to walk from the closest parking space we can find to the door at Publix, into the store and around it to gather what we need to bring home and pop in the microwave and cook it. We can even buy prechopped vegetables, for God's sake! Who doesn't have the time to cut up an onion?
Well. That's another rant for another day.
But all of this is leading me up to childbirth which we now go through painlessly as a matter of course. I don't know who doesn't get an epidural these days.
And I just can't help but think that there's something wrong with being in heavy labor and watching television at the same time.
Not that I think that pain is absolutely a good thing- I do not.
But in the case of childbirth, I have come to believe it has a lot to do with the way a mother feels about her child, which is that as soon as the child is born, the pain is over, and the vast and amazing relief from that pain is associated with the child, making that baby all the more precious on some level that I'm sure our ape-mothers would understand, even if we don't.
Anything that takes THAT much effort to produce is worth watching out for and protecting.
But we don't honor that anymore and in doing so, we lose a lot, I think. We lose the knowledge we gain when we have gone through childbirth unmedicated about how strong and powerful our bodies are.
If there is anything more empowering than delivering a normal-sized infant without drugs, I have yet to experience it.
So. From cloth diapers to natural childbirth.
They are related. And breastfeeding is in there too. Because all three of these things take a hell of a lot more effort but somehow, some way, they all three help foster a connection between a mother and a baby that nothing else can.
We have evolved as mammals in such a way to ensure that babies get born and nurtured and raised to adulthood so that they can have their own babies.
And that's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Things I Know As Well As Things I Don't

I don't know if fall is my favorite time of year but I do know that it's always a joy when the sky turns that washed-denim blue and the trees are still holding on to their green so that the contrast of colors is at its maximum and perhaps, that is what I love the most about it.

On my walks I see lots of blooming wild flowers this time of year, more actually, than in spring, as well as the beauty berries, the polk berries, and the dog fennel which brushes the air with its feathery leaves.

I am more apt to see deer as well, usually mothers and their offspring, frisking across the path in front of me, taking me by surprise so that I am always given a jolt of electricity down my spine. They disappear into the woods before I've quite focused on them and they make me wonder how many other animals I am missing, plodding along. I just learned this weekend at the Jr. Museum that foxes can climb trees. I have seen foxes, trotting along the path, but I never once thought to look up into the surrounding branches to see if one was napping there like the ones we saw on Sunday, comfortably snuggled into the fork of an oak, high above the ground.

There is so much I do not know.

I do not begin to understand this economic melt-down we seem to be experiencing and I don't know where it's going to leave us, from a world-view to a personal one. I do not think it's going to be good but I don't think there's one damn thing I can do about it except to take my garden even more seriously.

I've got the fall garden mostly in and I've planted quite a variety of green stuff. I put in the usual collards and mustards and mesclun greens, as well as the arugula and turnips. I also planted rainbow chard because wouldn't that be beautiful, growing, as well as on the plate? Beets, too, which Mr. Moon hates (they taste like dirt) because I want to pickle them and capture their ruby color in jars. I planted a half row of baby bok choi, too, and I hope they come up and thrive. Yesterday after I finished my planting, my tucking of the seeds into the ground and patting the dirt on top of them, it began to rain and I know I felt blessed.

I don't understand how the polls can be running so close on our presidential election and I don't know that I trust our voting process. I don't know what to think about this country that I am supposed to pledge allegiance to. I'm not even sure that I quite understand borders or why we are so intent on defending them, I don't understand "them" and "us" very well.

But I do know that I love to open my house up to this fall air and filtered light. I love the way they wash my walls. I love the way opening the house up is inviting the outside in with its sweet smells and the noises of the birds and the crickets, the frogs in the swamp, even the trains, shaking the house as they pass.

I know that I am surrounded by riches, no matter what the economy is doing. I know that the air I breathe and the water I drink and the thoughts I think are not constrained to borders or countries or theologies or philosophies or political theories. Nor are the birds or the butterflies which visit my yard to fuel up on seed and nuts and the nectar of the cardinal flowers before they take off to wherever it is they are going, which is another thing I do not know.

But they do, which is what matters.

I don't know what my brain and my heart are doing from one moment to the next.
But I do know that they are here, part of who I am, or perhaps precisely who I am.

I don't know exactly how I got here or where I'm going, but I know I am here. I know I am going to cook soybeans for dinner. I know I love my husband and my children.

I know I will die someday.

I doubt it will be today.

I know I'm glad of that because it's fall and they sky is so blue and the magnolia leaves are so green and the cardinal sitting on the feeder is so red. And because the clothes are hanging on the line and drying in the bright sun and the cool breeze. And because it's supposed to get down into the low sixties tonight which means we'll sleep so peacefully with the window above our heads open to the outside.

I know all of those things. The older I get, the more I realize I don't know, but the more I am sure of the things I do.

And I know it's fall and I know that's good.

And I know I'd like to hear what you know, for certain. If you'd like to tell me, I know I would.

Things That Make You Go...HUH?

The other day HoneyLuna and I were in the grocery story and we found ourselves in the baby food aisle, which is a place that even when I was the mother of weanlings I didn't spend much time on. In fact, here's something amazing:
I raised four children and never once bought a can of formula or a jar of baby food.

Whoa! Ms. Moon! How did you do that?

Uh. I breastfed and when my kids started eating "real" food, I fed them just that- real food.
You want to know the stupidest thing I've ever seen? The most ridiculous, anti-environmental, over-priced piece of hooey in the world?

A jar of baby food bananas.

What kind of simpleton would buy a JAR of mushed bananas?

When were those bananas grown? And what sort of energy was used to process and can them and transport them to your store and after you use them, what do you do with the jar?

It's so easy to take a piece of banana and smush it with a fork that a three-year old can do it.
Sweet potatoes, same thing. White potatoes.

But what about pears and peaches and apples and carrots and rice and beans and all that other stuff that comes in jars labeled as baby food?

Here's what you do: You cook the food. Same food that grown-ups eat, maybe a little less chili powder, okay? You take a small amount, you put it in that sweet little device in the picture there, you turn the tiny crank and out comes.....BABY FOOD!

Amazing.

That's how I fed all my young'un's. I wonder how much money I saved.

And here's another thing- my kids all grew up liking "real" food.

There's no magic they put in those jars of food. It's not like a jar of baby bananas has anything in it that you would want to feed your baby that doesn't come in a regular old banana.
If you've bought into the organic baby food thing- just buy regular organic food, cook it up, smush it up, and feed it to your child.
Let's face it- if it's not something your baby should eat, you shouldn't be eating it either.

Okay. This post is certainly not earth-shaking or philosophical and there's not one metaphor in it.

I guess it's a rant.

And I have ranted. I could go on and rant about breast versus bottle and baby juices. But I won't. And I won't even mention disposable diapers. Uh-oh. I just did. Sorry.

I will have to admit that I did buy those zwieback cookies for my kids to teeth on, and I'm not sure why. By the time the kid had gummed one of those babies to death, they were covered with a zwieback crust that, mixed with baby saliva, could be used to glue cars together.

They may all still have a bit of that stuff behind their ears. I don't know.

But people- please- a little sanity here. I know the world's going crazy- but jarred bananas?

Okay. I'm done.

Love ya.

And The Winner Is.....

Jon!
I wrote down all the names on slips of paper. I folded them up and put them in my Tilly hat and I pulled one out.
Fair and square.
Call me, boy, and I'll have the subscription sent your way. You know my name. Look up the number.
Congratulations!

Untitled

Youngest daughter, HoneyLuna, came home last night and she and her daddy and I trundled off to the Monticello Opera House for a performance of a play called Nice People Dancing To Good Country Music. It was a fine performance and we did the dinner thing before the performance, which is always fun.

It was bittersweet for me. For the last two years I've been part of the performance and I've missed it so much this year. I literally dream of the Opera House, quite frequently. I've wondered if I would have hit such a low spot this year if I'd been involved in the fall production. The people who get involved in these plays are such lovely people and the community that evolves as the show evolves is almost magical. It was great to see some of these folks last night. There is a connection there which is something I can't quite explain. It's based on the many inside jokes that arise as rehearsals take place, the joy that comes when things start to come together, the coming together of grown-up people to play. As much as I love the performances, they make me sad because they signal the end of that coming-together, that joy of creating.

Well.

It was fun getting ready to go with my daughter, too. She ended up wearing a dress of mine that is beloved to me. I've had it for as least as long as she's been alive and she wore a pair of my shoes, too, that made her even taller than her own tall self and watching her as she moved across the floor last night tugged my heart fiercely. She's been in several Opera House productions, too, and the folks there love her. They hug her and kiss her and tell her how beautiful she is and it's always a different kind of joy to hear that sort of thing about your babies.

When we were in my room before we left, finishing up our hair and playing with eye-shadow, she said, "Mommy?"
And I said, "What baby?"
And she said, "Nothing. I just like saying Mommy."
And I thought, how I love hearing it.

It's funny- I am sending this girl out into the world joyfully because the world needs her and our little place here in Lloyd is way too small for her. But when she's back, when she's here at home with us, there is a completeness that I can't explain. The only thing better is when all the kids are here, as they sometimes are the night before Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Mr. Moon and I always go to bed before they do and it feels so fine to know that all of them are under one roof again. I don't think I worry about them when they're not here, but when they ARE, I realize that I do, some small part of my brain is always occupied with doing an eternal roll-call. This one is in that place, that one is in another place, are they all okay? Are they all safe and well?

It's not that I miss having them all at home. I love the way the house feels when Mr. Moon and I have it all to ourselves.

But having them home, whether singly or all together, is a different sort of thing entirely, a special, rare and wonderful event which makes my heart rest easy.

Lately my heart has been sore and my mind has been uneasy and I am working my way through it all. I am having to face truths about myself and the part of life I'm in. It's not easy.
It's not easy taking a script and a stage and a group of people and making a sort of reality out of flat words on pages and it's not easy making a family and then sending them all out into the world, one at a time, to find their places in it.

But it's all work worth doing. It's all work that makes the heart soar, even as the heart is sore, because there are no beginnings without endings. There are no arrivings without leavings.
There are no coming-togethers without splitting-aparts.

And that's what I'm thinking about on this beautiful, cool Saturday morning here in North Florida as the pecans let their leaves flutter to the ground in the breeze and the birds fuss about a hawk they've seen in the vicinity and the rooster crows next door telling me that day is here, day is here, day is here, yet again.

That things are created, families and plays and homes and hearts and they break apart and they come together again if the work is done, if the love is true, if the core is strong, if the time is right.

And that there are tiny miracles and joys if we let ourselves see them, if we accept them, if we don't shut ourselves off entirely, trying blindly to ward off pain.

There are.

Once In A Liftetime Offer

I have noticed that the Really Big Blogs all do giveaways. Frankly, I think this is a cheap way to bump readership.
But the other night as I was reading my favorite magazine, the Oxford American, it struck me that giving a subscription as a giveaway would be a mighty fine way to say thanks to someone who comes by here to read what I write and besides that, it would be one more subscription that I've paid for because I love to give this magazine as a gift and support what they do. They've gone out of business so many times that if they were the Phoenix, their wings would be burned off entirely by now.
But they're still here, singed wings and all and the next issue coming up (and there are only four a year) is the Southern Music edition and it's coming with TWO CD's this year and those CD's are bound to be worth far more than the subscription rate.
There's amazingly tasty writing in this magazine. Amazingly. And they do a Southern movie edition every year that comes with a DVD. And the pictures! Do not get me started on the artwork between the pages of every edition.
So here's what we're going to do: Anyone who is interested in receiving a year's subscription to the magazine needs to post a comment. You can say anything you want. Like, "Yoh! Here I am!" And I'll write out little slips of paper with everyone's names who commented and then I'll make a mint julep and while I'm drinking it, I'll put all the slips of paper in a hat and then I'll draw one out and I'll inform the winner. You'll send me an address and I'll gift you with a subscription of the Oxford American.
So go ahead and comment. If you're one of the many people I've already gifted with this magazine, I'll just extend your subscription.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Believe me. I'm cheap. And deep in my heart I believe blog giveaways are tacky.
And if you do too and are a righteous rocking lover of good literature and mind-blowing music collections, just go ahead and order a subscription for your own fine self.
You deserve it.
Love....Ms. Moon
P.S. I guess I need to make a cut-off time, right? Boy. I have no idea what I'm doing here, obviously. Let's say Sunday morning at six a.m., my time, which is EST. Sunday as in 9/21/08.
And no, I won't be drinking a mint julep at six in the morning.