A Midwife Is Not A Jr. Doctor

I love Diana, the midwife. Love, love, love her. I love that she comes to Lily's house for everything. She brings her bag and pulls whatever she needs from it, like a blessed Mary Poppins and it all just feels so right. She is so calming. She has four children. She has delivered many babies and has a crazy-low transfer rate. When Lily was going to the Birth Cottage in her pregnancy with Owen before her blood pressure became an issue, Diana was working there and both Jason and Lily felt the most comfortable around her. She was reassuring and Lily's blood pressure was fine when she was the one taking it.
And now, right in time, she is on her own with what she calls her "little home birth practice." And very happy doing so. She said that she delivered four babies last weekend. That doesn't sound too "little" to me.
"Full moon dregs?" I asked her.
"Must have been," she said.

I mostly played with Owen so that Lily and Jason could sit and chat with Diana, go through Lily's history, concentrate. Focus. We played inside, we played outside. I was his personal slave. Okay. I am always his personal slave. But I was able to come in when Diana was looking for the baby's heartbeat. She found it, too, and tears sprang to my eyes, to hear that loud, strong, rhythmic proof of life. Second pregnancies are so different from first ones. It's always been so ironic with me that during the second pregnancy, when you really do need the most help because there is generally already a crazy toddler around, so much less help is offered. It's almost as if everything thinks, "Oh yeah. She knows what she's doing by now."
Which is true, but the body is as tired and the tasks are so much more.
And it is so good to be reminded that there really IS a baby in there which is every bit as magical and amazing and miraculous as it was the first time.
Which it is.
So. I heard my second grandchild's heartbeat today. Or, heartbeep, as we like to call it. Owen said it was "loud." He was a bit overwhelmed by the whole situation but by the time Diana left, he wanted to give her a hug.
"I'll be back soon to see you," Diana said.
"Bag," he said.
"Yes, I'll bring my bag."

I am just so overwhelmingly grateful that Lily may be able to experience what I was able to experience in giving birth. The comfort of getting the sort of personal care which can only happen when the midwife comes to your house. It sets the completely right tone to me- the midwife is an honored trusted guest in your home, not a semi-stranger in a white coat or scrubs to whom you are required to go see. No signing in, no "may we have your insurance card?" every damn time. No sitting on a paper-covered table with weird pictures on the wall while waiting that interminable wait for the care-giver to come in. There is a million times less anxiety which the body will thank you for by being able to give birth more easily. As Ina May points out, we don't like to poop in front of strangers in strange places. Why would we want to give birth in that situation?
No, it's not the same but there is no getting around the fact that there is no medication or drug in the entire western medical arsenal which can relax a birthing woman as much as being in her own home, surrounded by only the people she chooses to be there.
It gives the mother a sense of control which she cannot possibly have anywhere else. And it empowers her in a way that nothing else can. To know that she can trust her body to do what women's bodies have done for so long. That the midwife in her practice is proof of that fact. Yes, she has her bag but mostly what she has is faith in the mother and the process. And her hands. Her strong, midwife hands.

I feel so at peace with this situation and I think that Lily does too. And Jason, as well, and that is as important as anything- that support from the partner. I saw the way they worked together getting Owen born and I know it will be that way again. But hopefully, this time, in their own home, by their own time frame.

I heard my new grandchild's heartbeat today and of course, my heart leaped in response. This is the way of it. A new one coming.

And then we took Owen to lunch at the Mockingbird and saw our darling May-May and Owen cried out to her for the entire lunch, "May-May! May-May!" and every time she came to the table his eyes shown and he showed off for her and he loves her desperately as she loves him and two years ago, he wasn't even here and then he was and the world shoved over and made room and our hearts opened up and made room and now we get to do it all again.

Thank-you, Lily and Jason for bringing all this love into the world. And thank-you, New One Coming, for letting us hear your heartbeep. We are so looking forward to meeting you. You can't even imagine. But we are.
And thank-you, Diana, for walking the hard path of the midwife. It's one I thought I wanted to walk, but realized I did not have the strength for. But I tell you this- if there is one thing that I know, it's that if there are goddesses on this earth, they are the midwives.

L Is For Loser

I can't do it. I can't even begin to feel positive about myself for more than oh, two or three seconds at a time.
Yesterday was such a fine day. And Mr. Moon and I ended up by having snuggly chat in bed and we laughed and we talked about things and after he fell asleep I thought about doing a post on breasts and how much we all love breasts and how complex our relationship with breasts is, whether we have them or not and then I spent a good long time giving myself positive messages about myself (I am a loving person, I am a tending person, I have talents, etc.) and then I fell asleep.
I woke up this morning stressed as hell from dreaming over and over that I had missed my flight to Paris AGAIN and even if I did get to the airport on time I had forgotten my purse, my phone, my ticket.
I tried on clothes to wear on the plane. Everything I tried on looked like shit or else was pinned up the back with safety pins and you can't wear a safety-pinned dress to Paris unless you are a Punk Grrrl which I am not.
And then I would miss my flight again.

WTF with the missing-the-flight dreams? I never fly anywhere and I've never missed a flight in my life. Okay, that's a lie, but it was because of missed connections and not my fault.

So like I said, I woke up feeling stressed and anxious and filled with self-doubt and a bit of panic and where, where, WHERE did all my good thoughts from yesterday and last night go?

I wish I had a bottle of Atavan. Or is it Ativan? I do not know.

See? I am anxious because I do not know how to spell the name of an anti-anxiety drug. Okay, I goggled it. It's Ativan.

Anyway, good morning. My butt is big.
No, really, I don't even have a butt.

I'm going to town this morning to Lily's house. Her midwife is coming to do a check-up and I'm going to go be there and take care of Owen if necessary. It will probably be necessary. I'll be glad to see that crazy boy. Also to meet the midwife. It's so funny with Lily how when she was a kid she just disbelieved anything I ever told her, acted like she could not wait to get out of the house (it wasn't an act) and basically and literally from the age of two told me that I was not cool and that was that.
And now here she is, the perfect mother who wants a home birth just like her mama had and who works so hard and is so responsible and seems to love and need me so much and boy, do I wish I could go back and reassure myself ten years ago that everything was going to be all right because it did not look like it was going to be for quite awhile there.

I talked last night to my friend Mary Lane whose birthday it was. Mary Lane and I have been friends since the seventh grade, okay, maybe sixth grade. And here we are, both fifty-seven years old and grandmothers. WHOA! Child. How did THAT happen?
It was good to talk to her. It was so good. But it sure did underscore that life is speeding away, mine at least, because I still remember making campfire stew with Mary Lane in the Girl Scouts and that was yesterday.

And here's today and I am not doing a post on breasts because it would have to be a four-parter, at least, and I need to get ready to go town to meet the midwife, to take care of Owen, to deal with my vastly imperfect self.
My goal for the day is to clean out my hen house. Mr. Moon brought me a whole new bale of straw for that purpose today and I shall do it.

I am not going to Paris, no planes are taking off without me that I need to be on, I am a nurturer, a tender, I have talents.
My butt is not big.

Still. I am vastly imperfect.

And I have no idea what to make for supper. Last night's soup was good but I have frozen the rest of it in small containers for Mr. Moon when I am gone to the beach.

My butt is not big and I am a good cook.

This ain't working.

Love...Ms. Moon

Awww.....

One of the new hens, the one, in fact, whom I saw Elvis doing some serious feather-ruffling with the other day, has laid me an egg.
It's brown, and compared to Miss Mabel's egg, quite small. I remember that- how when they first started laying, my older hens' eggs were tiny.

Oh, bless her little heart, this hen.

I have said it before, and I will say it again- chickens are the best pets I've ever had. I can't even imagine life without them now. I just feel so damn lucky that I get to have them. To be able to live out here in this relatively rural area where we can keep them. To have them greet me when I go outside. To watch them scratching through the flower beds, napping in the sand. To see the way Elvis watches over them and calls them to come when he finds something good to eat. To watch the two different flocks become one. To hear their lovely voices chatting away as they go about their daily rounds, almost as soothing as water in a creek, running over rocks.

Yesterday Owen and I took crackers out to feed them and Elvis walked right up to Owen who stuck his hand out and said, "Hey! Hey! Hey!" and kept repeating it as if expecting Elvis to say something back. Maybe like, "How ya' doin', dude? Got a cracker for me?"
Honestly, I wouldn't be that surprised if Elvis did. It just makes me laugh to see the boy and the rooster, almost at eye-level, observing each other. Roosters and boys are both curious creatures and I do prize curiosity as a virtue.

It is a beautiful day here in Lloyd and I can look up and see a cardinal fluttering in the distance like a piece of red cloth which has somehow caught flight. The heat is back but it is less humid, and therefore more tolerable. The air is clear and sunlight catches on the broad green backs of leaves in changing silver pools and although we need rain, most of what grows in this yard is heat-and-drought tolerant and may look a bit wilty, but remains vigorous.
The ashe magnolia has also given me a gift which I only found today.


That is its cone with beautiful hard, glossy, red berries in it. I expect the hurricane lilies to come popping up any day now and the firespike will begin to bloom soon. These are also red. Spring is more about the pastels- the pinks and lavenders, the creams and the yellows. Late summer brings the crimson, almost as if the heat of summer has erupted finally into flame.

A good day. A day in which I did truly try to constrain my thoughts to positive ones about myself. I am not ready to take the pledge yet, but I am THINKING about it. A day where a friend came by and we had a perfectly entertaining chat, talking about everything from geothermal energy to Tate's Hell to road maintenance. A day in which I cleaned a little bit, thought about my upcoming trip to the beach, and cooked beans which are slowly, by degrees, being turned into soup. A day in which I found the first-laid egg of a hen and the first cone of a magnolia tree I planted five years ago. A day in which I took a sane walk which served not to punish or make me suffer, which let's face it- is how I usually view my walk- but as a way to exercise, to be out in the woods and in the fields and to actually enjoy that.

The most simple of days doing the most simple things and that is the sort of day which bring me the most pleasure. Hell, it's too hot to eat soup but making soup is one of the joys of my life and so I have done it anyway. Although I do not by any means enjoy cleaning, if I set my goal at one or two rooms instead of trying to do the entire house, I find that it is a matter of an hour and so what? I can concentrate on this house which is such a fine house and which I have been given the very real honor of living in for however long I live here and I can find actual satisfaction in tending it.

No. I did not get to my office. But tomorrow I think I will. And that will be another sort of pleasure and I am far more apt to do it, to accept that pleasure, if I don't spend the first part of the day telling myself that there is no point in me trying to write, I will never get a book published, etc., etc., but just to do it for the joy. If it brings us joy, it must be something we should do.
That's what I think.

And so, that has been my day here in Lloyd. A day of very, very simple tasks done with no resentment and no hidden agendas, just a sense of purpose and contentment.

I would not ask for more than that. And why in the world would I?

Doctor's Orders

First off, go and read this.

I am not kidding you. Just go do it.

Now. Perhaps what follows will make sense.

I slept so late this morning and I am glad.
I am making a wise choice in staying home today and taking care of things right around me. It is not lazy to do that, it is smart. When my house is a mess and I walk across the floor and dirt sticks to my feet, my mind cannot even begin to have a chance at tranquility. I deserve whatever tranquility and peace of mind I can achieve and honestly, if I am a mess in the mind, I am no good to anyone else at all.

Wow. That was hard.

Could I do it? Could I go for two weeks without beating myself up? Without telling myself over and over that I am a fucking waste case who doesn't deserve air and water?

Can I even go for the space of one blog post without doing so?

Do I even realize how deeply ingrained in me it is to think of myself in negative terms? Is that self-hating, to say that?

I don't know. The very fabric of my life is not made up of cotton, as it were, but instead, of fibers and fibers of guilt and shame. Can that be unwoven? I can't even imagine and what would I reweave it all with? What? Where would anything else come from?

Our dear Sister Manning in her post spoke playfully of how we don't need to beat ourselves up because others out there, far more professional, will do it for us. Now that part of the message doesn't resound with me because I AM A PROFESSIONAL AT BEATING MYSELF UP and have been practicing my entire life. Also, I don't really care what others may say or think about me. That, as my darling daughter May says, is not my business.
Besides, no one knows me as well as I know myself, thus allowing me access to places no one else would ever think to go to criticize me.

Here's another thought- the people I let into my life, into my heart, are the people who truly know me and my foibles and who love me despite/for them. Could I not do the same?

Oh Lord. This is all a bit much. In my Mercury-retrograde-state-of-mind, I find that my brain is not working quite right. No, this is not beating myself up. This is just true. See, if I wanted to beat myself up, I'd say, "I'm just an old woman whose brain doesn't work any more. Also, I'm not very smart and a terrible writer to boot."
There's a difference.
Right?

And here's another thing to think about- if I did not spend my every waking and dreaming hour beating myself up, would I then have to do something positive? If I think positively, must action follow?

Well, baby steps. I am going to think about this a lot today as I go for my walk, as I sweep and mop some floors, as I GO INTO MY OFFICE TO WRITE. Also, when I begin to have a thought which is less than kind about myself, I am going to stop, examine it, and then try to let it go. Sort of a living, thinking meditation.

Look, if you can do Power Yoga, you can do a living, thinking meditation.

I was listening to a book on tape last week and it described how, during the Jewish New Year, observant Jews go to a body of water and throw bread into it as a symbolic way of getting rid of the sins of the previous year. I thought about this a lot and how one thing the Catholic religion sort of gets right is the way you can go and confess and have your sins forgiven right there on the spot. If you say your rosaries or whatever the priest tells you to do.

Is it possible to do that without ritual? To self-forgive? To believe that the universe forgives? To not concentrate solely on what is wrong within oneself but to put more emphasis on what is right? To maybe not even see ourselves in the context of sin?

Hoo boy. I just don't know. This is making my head explode.

Tell me what you think! Let's figure this shit out, oh my sisters and brothers! Let us, dare I say it? Open our hearts and minds to...ourselves?

Kisses!

Love...Ms. Moon

The Mystery Of Elephants And Their Speech Among Other Things

The heat finally broke last night and when we got up this morning, I was almost chilly. It is 91 on my kitchen porch right now but only 81 in my hallway. It's supposed to get down to 65 tonight. And then, well, the rest of the week looks like it's all back to normal, upper-nineties during the day, mid-seventies at night.
It is such relief, and yet, not, at the same time.

My darling friend Kati says that it's all explained with astrology. She wrote this in a comment today:
"Mercury is smack in the middle of retrograde and won't go direct until Aug. 26. Everyone I know is suffering extreme frustration, angst, blind rage, extreme ennui, abysmal depression or some other emotional affliction."

I don't know how I feel about astrology but I do know that it seems to me that everyone I know too is going through something and if it can be explained by the position of Mercury, well, what a fucking relief.

What if one day they figured this shit out and we could take special astrologically indicated medications for just such situations? Or at least we'd know for sure and that would be so helpful.

Even Owen, the most easy-going child I've ever met has been getting pret-ty darn fussy lately. Yes, I know. He's about to turn two and that could explain it but my Lord! "No!" he says. "Mine!" he says. Hugs and kisses are not as freely given as they used to be. I have to practically bribe the child to hug me. He wants what he wants and he does NOT want what he doesn't want and good luck trying to change his diaper.

I met up with him and his mama and Uncle Hank for lunch today and he'd just gotten a new baby elephant (see above) at the Dollar Store. He kept telling the elephant to talk. "Talk!" he would demand. The poor dumb plastic animal just couldn't talk. We had a very busy lunch, taking turns following the boy around the restaurant and then Lily and Owen and I went to the grocery store. I was out of everything. I bought one of each. Except for the things I bought four or five of. Then Lily had to clock in for work and I brought the boy home. He was melting down. I carried in a hundred and eighty something dollars of groceries in two trips and on one of those trips, I had him on my hip. He kept demanding to see the chicks, the goats, the tractor. I got the refrigerated stuff put away, made him a bottle and said, "Do you want to go lay down and read books?"
"Big bear," he said.
"Yes, with big bear."
"NO!" he said.
But then he thought about it and decided it would be a good idea. "Night-night," although he kept interrupting the Mr. Peep story to tell me "done." And would try to scramble off the bed.
I would not let him and we took a long nap. Oh my god. Thank god he still naps.

Thank god I have him to anchor me.

The air changes, the temperature changes, the planet continues to turn and thrust itself through the infinite ocean of space and as I said the other day, there are wonders and mysteries we cannot even begin to count.

I am doing all that I can to remember that. I am holding on to the dirt and the boy and the children and the man and that all adds up to the love. I am going to go to the beach next week with Kathleen and Judy and a few other women. My husband fixed my sink. I can brush my teeth in my own bathroom and wash my face there as well.
Such small, small, infinitely small dots of life in this enormous bag, bowl, basket of mystery and wonder and that comforts me. I do not want a personal relationship with a god. I want the comfort of knowing that all of my worries and crazies and fears and panics and yes, even joys, are too small to even bother a god.

Here is a picture that Hank put on Facebook of me and Lis when we were in Asheville. It comforts me too.


I am not going to fly off the planet any moment. I am here. I am anchored with so much love.

Elephants do talk but we can't understand their language. They talk with the vibrations of their footsteps, the bellowing of their mouths and lungs, the tip and tilt of their heads, the flap of their ears. Just because I don't understand it doesn't make it not true.

I hope to be able to tell Owen this. I hope to make him understand.

I would wish to understand it myself.

Let's hang on, y'all. Mercury can't be in fucking retrograde forever.

Love you truly...Ms. Moon

It Has Taken Me Approximately Three Hours To Write This

I am as flat and uninteresting today as a corn tortilla, pressed and ready for the grill.

I got nothing.

I remember the catatonics at the Florida State Hospital For The Mentally Ill when I did my clinicals there.

I wonder if they felt this way before they quit doing anything but breathing. I wonder if they were relieved when they finally quit moving, eating, wanting, doing.

I really don't care to find out personally, though.

I really don't.

Sun-Fever

It is supposed to get down (get down, y'all!) to 67 degrees tonight.
I told you that fall was approaching.

This heat.

I am blaming everything on it.
This...whatever I have.
A bug. My gallbladder. One or more of four or five major organs or body-systems having cancer.
You know.
Or, it's none of that. It's the fucking heat. Which has made me vulnerable to whatever it is that is fucking me up.

I think it could be an inflamed gall bladder. Seriously. I have been eating like shit.

So tonight I made (and it is proof that I feel better in that I cooked anything) brown and wild rice and chicken with vegetables, and salad and oat bran muffins.

It's almost done and Mr. Moon is still in my bathroom which is in a state of chaos you cannot believe, working on the plumbing.

According to the Facebook, a film that I was in is going to be shown at Graumen's Chinese Theater. This is so far away from my definition of reality that I can't even begin to process that fact.

Maybe I have an ulcer.

Maybe it's the heat.

Oh summer, thou hast taken its toll.

I'll go shut up the chickens and then it will be time for supper.

God. I can't wait to go to bed. I wonder if I'll dream of Brad Pitt again tonight, staying with me and my family to hide out from the media.

I hope not. It was so stressful, trying to keep people from knowing he was in my house. Poor man.
But I would never tell. I am THAT sort of friend.

Yours truly...Ms. Moon

A Day With Owen

The weather has changed today. It is no cooler but there is a crystalline quality to the air which says unmistakably that fall will be coming.
I wish I had spent more time outside but frankly, have not felt like it. I took Owen out some- he had to do more tractor driving and then there was the nut-gathering and the chicken-watching. As I said, I believe the new hens are maturing and the acceptance on all parts of both flocks seems to have gone very smoothly. Elvis is, as I have said so many times before, a good husband to the sister-wives, an accepting and all-inclusive sort of guy.



So Owen has gone home now with his daddy after we had to forcibly pull him off of the tractor. I seriously doubt that anything in this world could make that boy happier than a blue tractor to sit on and pretend to drive.


Yesterday or the day before, I got a halfway decent picture of a blue-tailed skink. If you click on it, you can at least see what they look like.

Very snake-like, but with legs.

The world is filled with wonders and mysteries, isn't it? Far more than can be numbered.

And now it's time for me to go and try to tidy up this house which Owen played in so thoroughly. There are books and blocks, pans and pots. There are trucks and farms and trains and ducks.

It was so good to have him here in this place where there are so many things for him to do and see. If I could time-travel, I think I would like to travel to twenty years in the future to see what he remembers about being at Mer-Mer and Bop's house. The chickens? The mule? The goats? The skinks? The closets to hide in? The outdoors to run in? The bamboo?

I feel certain he will remember the tractor.

Yes. I think he will.

Bugs and Eggs And A Happy Boy

I wish I had great news to report. I wish I didn't feel like shit. But that fact is, that I do. I am now wondering if I didn't pick up some bug somewhere.
Mr. Moon is home, helping with Owen and thank god for that although work keeps calling and I keep swearing to him that I can take care of the boy myself. He is in heaven, that boy, with the tractor. He has already "driven" it several times and is as dirty as you can imagine. He has a dirt mustache. He and Bop are now on the boat in the garage. What more could a little boy ask?
Not much.

Okay. This is too boring for words. I am going to go lay down while I have the chance.

Oh! Big news: I saw Elvis top one of the new hens.

I am ready to start getting more eggs as Elvis is getting more fucking.

I am not sure how the hens feel about this.

When Will I Learn?

Oh my. I believe I have done myself damage. Why, why, WHY did I think it would be a good idea to go work in the garden from eleven until one? Why?

I gotta go to bed. Not that I didn't already sleep for a long time this afternoon. Our neighbors had us over for supper and I thought I'd die maybe, sitting right there at the table. I'm sure I was just as scintillating as a doped-up monkey. Every joint in my body hurts and all the muscles, too. Also, I feel somewhat queasy.

Owen's coming at six in the morning. This old woman needs Ibuprofen, more water, and bed.

I am DONE.

Also, I am pissed off because Mr. M0on did the same thing and feels just fine. He's still over at the neighbors', drinking gin and tonic and having a fine time.

Errrgggghhhh.

Question For The Day

Sunday morning and I am not making pancakes or even so much as an egg sandwich and Mr. Moon is determined to get out into the garden NOW before the heat gets to be 10,110 degrees. (See Ms. Moon's heat index for explanation.)
Ah, the guilt, the guilt!
I need to get out there too and I should have made that man an egg sandwich. It's so easy for me but sometimes my rebellious spirit says why doesn't he make me an egg sandwich but the thought literally does not occur to him.

I was thinking about what I said about the Catholic wedding in that post last night and I did go to a Catholic wedding once when I was a teenager and I sat next to my across-the-street neighbor, a boy two years younger than I was and the kneeling and the Latin and the bells and the incense and the wine and the wafer got us to giggling and it was one of those horrible situations where if one tiny thing happens you are going to bust out in the biggest laughter of your life, laugh so hard that tears pour down your eyes, even as you are thinking to yourself oh god, oh god, this is horrible, this is the worst thing I have ever done and we couldn't look at each other and we were afraid, quite literally to breathe because if we had done more than take tiny sips of air that horrible, inappropriate laughter would have come out of us like an explosion and everyone, from the bride and the groom to the PRIEST IN HIS ROBES would have looked at us with horror and we would have had to roll ourselves down the aisle, too weakened with laughing to use our legs.

We managed, somehow, to contain ourselves. I wonder if he remembers that.

All right. I'm going to go make an egg sandwich and then go weed.

I ain't got no sermon today whatsoever and according to the (no) rules of the Church of the Batshit Crazy, that is just fine. Sermons may arise on a Tuesday night just as often as on a Sunday morning.

But let me ask you- did you ever do that? Have to literally shut down in order not to laugh at the most inappropriate time? Do you still remember the pain, the way your entire body wanted to let it out? Do you? Did you? Tell me.

Race? Culture? LOVE!

Well, the wedding was simply lovely.
But there were no hats.
I am singularly disappointed.
And realize that even when I think I know something for certain, I could, in fact, be wrong.
This is devastating.

Oh well. I'll get over it.

So I took pictures but I think it is just RUDE to post pictures here without asking some sort of permission (and possibly highly illegal) and so I shall not. My favorite is one of the groom's face right after the kiss. He was happy. Oh my, he was happy.
My favorite part of the ceremony was when the pastor was giving the couple that sort of pep-talk counsel that pastors do sometimes. You know- how sometimes it's hard to keep on loving that other person, things get tough, etc. And then he told the groom, "And she won't always look like she looks today."
I roared.
So did a lot of people.
The bride was gorgeous. She wore white with a beautiful teal sash and the flower girl and ring bearer were to-die-for cute.
It was just a damn fine wedding.

The reception was held in the church hall and that was mighty fine too. We first nibbled at fruits and vegetables which were displayed in a glorious presentation and whoever grew those tomatoes- well, I'd like to kiss his or her face.
And then after the bride and groom were presented as well as all the attendants, plates were served at big long tables. There was the best potato salad I've eaten since I was a child and mac and cheese and green beans and chicken wings and ham. And a roll.
I ate all of mine.
I could not help it.
Okay. I did not eat the entire roll. All around me, people were not finishing their dinners but I hogged mine down.
We left before the cake was cut and I will always regret that. A local woman had made it and I know it was good. But Lily had gotten up at 4:30 a.m. to be at work and she missed her boy and the other woman we were with has to get up at 2:30 a.m. because she stocks and has to be at the store before dawn.

And then we came back here and I made the mistake of taking off my finery and that was that. I couldn't bring myself to dress back up and go to town. I just couldn't do it. I was full and comfy and I still am and I know I'll regret that too, but sometimes you just can't do it.
I believe that it may be that I am not capable of more than one social outing per day.

One of the best parts of the whole day for me is that the woman who got a ride with Lily is someone whom I've only ever known from Publix but she is someone that I have always felt I could be friends with. And we got to talk some today and she saw my house and she was highly amused when she found out that I curse and it was just good.
She asked me at the reception if I felt weird, being one of the only white people in a group of black people. Look- this is the deep, rural south here, folks. She said that it's usually the other way around- that being black, she is often the only black person in a sea of white folks.
"No," I told her. "I do not."
And I don't.
There are several reasons for this and the first I listed was that I have lived in black communities before and I have always gone to black clubs to hear music and also, that no matter what color the people are in a given group situation, I never truly feel as if I am surrounded by "my people." I have no idea who "my people" are.
I also told her that at my age, I just don't care. I am who I am and I don't expect anyone else to really care.
What I didn't say, but thought, is that every time I've ever been in a situation where I was one of the few white faces, no one has ever been anything but gracious to me. I have spent many hours pondering this, and feeling quite certain that if the opposite had occurred- that if I had been a black person in a place where there were mostly white folks, I am not sure that everyone would be so gracious. And of course that leads to all sorts of questions- are people being nice to me because that is the culture? Don't piss off the white person? I do not know.

Now music is a common denominator and being in a juke joint is a different matter. I have been told that I can dance like a black woman (okay, that was a while back) and when the music is playing and the blues are unfolding and the people are dancing and drinking, no one sees color. Or if they do, it just does not matter.

Oh hell. I don't even know what I'm saying here.

I guess I'm saying that I'm happy that this woman could ask me this. And I'm also saying that I felt perfectly comfortable today. I would probably have felt FAR more out of place at a Catholic wedding where most of the people were white. I would not know the rhythms and rituals there. But today I saw grandmothers with children clinging to them and I saw people who obviously cared deeply about the bride and groom and when the mother of the bride came down the aisle, a tear came to my eye and love is love and people are people and fuck this shit about skin color. Okay, there ARE cultural differences here in the south. Anyone who denies that is just plain wrong. But for me, the difference is less in an AME church than it would be in a Catholic church or a Synagogue. Let's not even discuss a Muslim church. I grew up in the south, I live in the south, and this is all part of my culture too.

That's the way it is.

Although I sure did get that hat-thing wrong.

Well, let me end by saying that I sure do wish the bride and groom all the happiness in the world. They are moving to Daytona and I am going to miss Lanita. Who will tell me I am spoiling Owen? Who will I force to hug me when I am feeling down? Who will open a lane just for me?
But. She has a new life and I cannot selfishly wish to keep her here.

Ah me. Life tumbles on. Things change. Times change.

And good potato salad is good potato salad and for that, I am grateful.

And I got to be better friends today with a woman I've always thought I'd like to know.

A good day.

Happy Full Moon.

Love...Ms. Moon

P.S. Perhaps it is odd and weird for me to even discuss race. I am sorry if it disturbs anyone that I did but I did and I probably will and I do because no matter what changes occur, we very often find ourselves in this country living mostly segregated lives. I wish that were not true, but it's the way things are. Now Mr. Moon really wants me to come and Wii bowl with him and because I love him, I will and that's all I have to say about that. The full moon will shine on us all and mostly, I hope that Lanita and her man are happy tonight and that's my wish. That and that race didn't mean shit.
And gratefulness that I am comfortable in my skin and grateful that others appear to be comfortable with that, too.

Free Range Stuff (Packed Full Of Information YOU Need!)

Ah, fooling around with the dosage of bioidenticals within the given range of prescription can lead to fooling around.
Better living through chemicals, that's what I say.
Or not.

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

I'm going to a wedding today, way out on the other side of Monticello. The bride is a woman who works with Lily at the Publix and she is a funny woman. She calls me "Miss Mary," and she constantly tells me I am spoiling Owen. She has very large breasts. I shouldn't say that. Well, she does. Also, a beautiful smile. She is getting married this afternoon and I have never met the groom. I hope he's a good man to receive the bounty of this woman as a bride. The wedding is being held at an AME church. African Methodist Episcopal. Lord, I hope the church does not burst into flames when I walk in. I asked Lily what I should wear. She said that she did not know although the bride had told her that there would be no hats.
I told Lily that there WOULD be hats and that's that. I don't know everything, but I do know this.
There will be Aunties wearing hats.

I just talked to my Lizzie Love and told her about the wedding. The first thing she said was, "Are you going to wear a hat?"

See?

**********

Speaking of Lizzie Love, she and Lon are playing tonight at the Mockingbird Cafe. I am thinking that since I'll already be wearing finery (i.e. a bra) we should go.

TWO OUTINGS IN ONE DAY!

Say a prayer for me.

***********

I just found a small, unidentifiable (by me) piece of poop in the mud room. It was not dog poop. It was not rat or 'coon poop. This is mildly disturbing. What does snake poop look like? Do you know?

DO NOT GOOGLE-IMAGE SNAKE POOP!
And boy, do I wish I hadn't.

It might have been snake poop.

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

Mr. Moon is already gone. He had to go...what? Do what? He is either buying parts for my sink or a tractor or going out to his food plot at the hunting camp or...
I don't know.

He told me. I think maybe he is doing all three of those things. I'm pretty sure I won't see him again until this evening, what with me going to the wedding and all. Who knows? I never do. But I do know this- he always comes home. Girls, that is a good thing. I had a husband who always came home but it was usually in the wee, wee hours after I had already planned out his funeral.

This is why I do not complain about Mr. Moon and tractors and hunting and fishing and laundry that has the smells and stains of work. Well, one of the many reasons.
Mr. Moon had a wife before me. She did not own a broom. Her mother had taught her that women were not put on this earth to clean the house. I agree with that but someone has to clean the house. Occasionally.
I wonder how many brooms I've worn out in the almost-twenty-seven years we've been married.

A first marriage can really make you appreciate a second one.

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

Instead of weeding today, I might just do something crazy like my nails. Toe and finger. Whoa!


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

Snake poop? Really?

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

I am not counting these asterisks.

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

Here is the Ms. Moon Heat Index Calculator:

1. If you are sitting still in the shade under a fan, you will feel like it is the temperature reported.
2. If you are working outside, you will feel like it is ten thousand degrees hotter than the temperature reported.

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

Have you discovered Sunbutter? Oh my god!

It is the best, best, BEST!
Bonus:
Mr. Moon doesn't like it so I get the entire jar! I don't know why he doesn't like it. He eats sunflower seeds all the time. He is a mystery to me, that man.
Well, not really.
Sort of.

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

Look. If you are a lawmaker who votes for a gay marriage ban, DO NOT USE YOUR PHONE TO ARRANGE DATES WITH A SAME-SEX PERSON AND REALLY, REALLY, DO NOT USE THE PHRASE "GOOD TIME" AND DO NOT MAKE MENTION OF THE MONEY YOU WILL GIVE THIS PERSON FOR SAID "GOOD TIME".

Just saying.

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

I could do this all day. I guess I won't. I'm hungry, to tell you the truth. Plus, I drank all the coffee.

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

SNAKE POOP? IN MY HOUSE?

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

Love...Ms. Moon

This

If it had rained today, it would have been the perfect day.
But you know, it could still rain tonight.

What is a perfect day? I'll tell you. A perfect day is one in which the person considering this proposition is completely content with the way the day goes.
Even with dog poop.
Even without rain.

It's all in the eyes of the beholder. Not just beauty. Everything.

After the last few days of such despair that I could have been in Paris, eating the finest food, wearing the finest clothes, walking the historic streets and visiting museums and cathedrals and my despair would have only been greater because I was despairing in Paris, today with all of its heat and dog poop has been like a rebirth.

I mostly worked in the garden, pulling weeds. There is, for me, such pleasure in that. The satisfying feeling as the roots give way, the shaking off of the dirt and then the tossing of the weed into the waiting receptacle, the slow clearing of ground to be replanted- ah. Nothing like it for me, even as the sweat drips into my eyes, even as my wrists warn me that tonight I may not rest easy, even as my knees ache. It's just so...good.

An old friend came by to get his tractor. He had been working outside too, obviously, and there we both were with our overalls on and the bandannas around our heads to catch sweat and prevent it from falling in our eyes, both dirty and looking like hell. "Hey, darlin'," he said. "Welcome to Florida! How's it workin' out for you here?"
"We're nuts, aren't we?" I asked.
"Yep," he agreed. "We are."

I think he's been here all his life, I've only been here for fifty-one of my fifty-six years. We know we're insane. We accept that.

As I worked the thunder began and the clouds came over and the air cooled. It was amazing. It was wonderful. I pulled and pulled and pulled and I saw a spider, frantically clutching her egg sac (or whatever the technical name is) in her arms and scooting to save it. I saw worms and I covered them back up. I pulled and I twisted and I blessed my gloves which protect me so well and yet allow me such dexterity that I can change the tape in my player with them on. I wiped my face over and over again. I pulled some more.
The chickens all came in to work with me and that was the best. All nine of them and they had a field day in the places I'd cleared, scratching in the newly bare dirt, and in the weeds ahead of me where they ate the seeds I'd vowed this year not to let develop. They cooed and clucked and cackled softly as they worked around me and I found myself mimicking them. Elvis strode around, keeping his eyes on everything, every one, his beady eyes constantly scanning the area for dangers as his hens ate.

God damn! Chickens and dirt and weeds! Cooler air! The hint of possible rain! And me, able to enjoy it with all of my dirt-and-chicken-loving heart.

Kathleen came by and she looked at me and I said, "Well, obviously I am back to normal." She laughed and we leaned in and she kissed me on the cheek. She looks so radiant these days and filled with good health. I think of where she was a year ago- just beginning the wrong sort of chemo with no real hope in her heart and now, here she is, with the right doctor, the right treatment, an entire new part of her life open to her.
She brought me treats, the way she does. Handmade pimento cheese from really good local cheese and chicken salad and crackers and vermouth olives. Okay. Those are for Mr. Moon. But the point is- she is doing so well, she is so beautiful and when she drove away in her convertible with the top down, I rejoiced in that.

I went back to the garden. I worked for hours and finally, I made the conscious decision to stop. To come in, to shower, to sit and think about all of this- the blessings of a day in which my heart is filled up with the goodness of all of it, unpolluted by the deep toxic tide which had flooded me and forced me down with no option but to submit.

So. This is that. The thinking out loud. The gratefulness, the profound contentment with it all as it is. The heat, the sweat, the dirt, the weeds, the chickens, the men working out front laying cable, the people who came by, the brown rice I have simmering on the stove in the pot I've simmered brown rice in thousands of times before. The man just home from work, the prospect of an evening with him. The prospect of more garden time tomorrow.
Nothing more than that.
Just this.

Enough. And more. More than I could ever hope for, like wishing that the tides will continue, the sun will rise, the trees will reach up to embrace the sky.

From Dogs To The Devil (Short Trip)

The true dog days of summer and yes, I got up this morning to find dog shit and pee in the house. Last night at some ungodly hour in which I could not sleep due to the stupid doody-head body twitches I get that wake me up over and over and over again but hey, I'm not complaining, what the hell? just a part of getting older, I guess, I read an article in the New Yorker about dogs and how they may have evolved from the wolves and I am no more enlightened today than I was before I read it.
Yes. Dogs evolved from wolves and we don't really know how but it would seem, according to this author, that something major occurred in which dogs gave up their wolfness in exchange for being kept by humans and forget that shit about them being our noble companions. Dogs are here not only to be pets but for us to literally pet and they are more like infants than companions and all those cute and wonderful things they do are merely nature's way of ensuring that we'll keep feeding them their damn kibble. It must be working. Not only are my dogs still alive and being fed, but I saw an advertisement on the TV yesterday which referred not to "pet owners" but to "pet parents."

Then I read an article about the mission in which Bin Laden was killed and a dog was part of the team. I am not sure what the dog's function was but perhaps to attack. Yeah. Probably.
Maybe it wasn't a dog at all. Maybe it was a wolf.
Whatever.

As you can probably tell, I have been restored unto myself by some alchemy or another.

I spent about one and one half hours on the couch yesterday watching what is NOT the best of reality TV and then I girded my loins and went to town and took care of Owen. Since his parents weren't getting off until late at night, it made more sense for me to watch him there so that he could go to sleep in his own bed, which he did.
I mostly was a poor excuse for a grandmother although I did build towers of blocks for him which resulted in the very satisfying exclamations of "Wow! Wow! Wow!" and took him outside for swinging and sliding and see-saw riding (Owen, this is not really good for Grandmother's knees)
and I let him watch way too much Barney. We ate frozen pizza for dinner which we both enjoyed tremendously.

The best part was when he was bathed and sleepy and we'd read our books and I'd told him his Peep nap story, cleverly altered to be the Peep Night-Night story and he still didn't really want to get in his bed so I rocked him for awhile and he put his head on my old bosom and we talked about fishes and boats and all sorts of good things and he stroked my old woman arm and he said, "Nice," and then he got into his bed and went to sleep, just like that, his bug light making stars on the ceiling and walls and and the fish tank making comforting burbling noises.

I could have pretty much died right then and it would all have been worth it.

So, like I said, here I am today and that ratbastard depression slipped out of an open window or a crack in between the floor and walls, I do not know and I do not care, may he rot in hell and not torment anyone else but of course, we know that will never happen, plus he'll be back for me but maybe not any time soon.

Suddenly, my home and my yard charm me again to the very gills of goodness. I do not think I am bipolar because I am not what you might call manic or ecstatic and I sure don't want to go buy new shoes or actually, I do not want to go anywhere to buy anything although I sure do need a bag of onions.

There is a very handsome man in my front yard this morning who speaks very good English with a completely charming Mexican accent who is laying, with his companions, extremely orange and extremely large cable. This cable is as big around as my leg.

I just asked him what sort of cable it is and he told me that it is fiber optic cable for "very fast speed" of the internet and phone. Wowzer! In Lloyd!? Next thing you know, we'll be able to get cable and pizza delivery.
Although I am not holding my breath on the pizza delivery.

The chickens are all well and good. I have a lot of watermelon which has passed its human-consumption prime and and I am looking forward to handing it out to the lovelies. We still don't know which of the new ones may be roosters and which may be hens. They are neither laying nor crowing yet. They may actually all be hens, which would be amazing.
They already recognize me as a prime food source and come running towards me whenever they see me.

That's every one of the chickens except for Miss Bob who is on the nest. She is such a dependable layer. Bless her heart.

Mr. Moon and I are probably just going to stick around here this weekend. He has many projects to work on.
My bathroom sink still looks like this:

You don't realize how important your bathroom sink is until you don't have it any more.

Another project Mr. Moon has on the docket is tractor repair.

Yep. That's my yard.

I believe that to a man like my husband, that engine right there will provide more entertainment than a week-long pass to Disney World.
Can you imagine what my laundry is going to look like?

Hoo boy.

He is also planning on going out and buying new tomato plants and bean seeds for a final summer planting. You know what this means- I need to get my overalls on and go out there and prepare the planting areas. You might as well just shoot me now and get straight and quickly to the obvious result of such labor in this heat. There are only two things worth keeping in the garden right now and here they are:

The zinnias and sunflowers in a tiny corner and Bethany's gourds.

Yay, gourds, zinnias and sunflowers!

We can't eat them with our mouths but we can surely enjoy them with our eyes.

And so it goes in Lloyd today. The rest of the world is doing what it does and I am letting it. There are great injustices happening and I can't do one damn thing about any of them. I keep thinking of the poem by Jack Gilbert our dear Elizabeth posted the other day. If you have a moment, if you need solace, if you, like me, have some fucking misfortune to worry that only in our suffering can we find meaning, please go HERE and read the poem. It is worth it and if you do, you will probably go back and read it again and again. I have.

Here is my favorite line:

To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.

Now. Tuck that under your belt and keep it at hand as you go through your day. I am.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Love...(The Almost Back To Normal) Ms. Moon

What I Am Doing Today

Nothing. Not a thing until it is time to go and take care of Owen.
Okay. I made a breakfast, I ate it, I washed the dishes.
I do not want to sweat today. I do not want to beat myself up today. I do not want to add one tiny shred of guilt or bother or worry to my soul and I do not want to make my body do anything it does not want to do.
My soul and my body both need rest. I don't care what anyone says. I have tried to work this shit out with work and with teeth-gnashing and I'm done with that for now.

Time to just be loving to myself. Time to treat myself the way I would treat someone else.

Here is what my brother wrote to me last night:

Take 48 hours of doing nothing but feeling you have absolutely no obligations to this world And if a smile and laugh approaches....thank the universe. thats the natural way

I love him for that. I am going to listen to him.

How To Fix Things

Dryer Guy is here to repair the dryer which has nothing to do with the picture you see above which was taken last night after Mr. Moon tore my bathroom apart to fix the dripping faucet. It has been dripping for years, quite literally, and whenever I would tell Mr. Moon about it he would say, "I don't know how to fix that. I'm not sure where the cut-off valve is for it."
And that would be that.
Finally, a few nights ago, I took him into my bathroom to give him a clear visual of how much water we were losing out of the faucet.
"Oh," he said.

He knew I was not doing well last night and because he is one of the sweetest husbands in the world, he brought me flowers. He is always mystified by my depressions and anxiety. He cannot for the life of him actually understand. If he has ever had depression and anxiety he has denied it and then forgotten it when it passed and that is the Way Of The Man and so it is and so it shall ever be.
So. Bring the woman some flowers and then to prove to her that you do care and do love her, go tear her bathroom apart. He actually called the guy we bought the house from seven years ago to ask him about the shut-off valve. The access to it involved many, many tools. Buckets and bins of tools. This, too, is the Way Of The Man.

He long ago gave up trying to fix me but I am grateful that he can fix things. I am never sure as to what his criteria is for what he can and cannot fix. Faucets and radiators and tires and oh, all that stuff in car engines he can fix. Dryers? Call the repairman.
As we speak right now, he is on his way to go get a tractor which is he going to bring back here to fix. I can tell he is very excited about this. Thrilled, in fact.

And maybe in his fixing, he does actually help me. Just knowing that someone around here has his feet on the ground and a bucket of tools at the ready is comforting.

I feel some better today, I think. I watched Roseanne last night and she made me laugh and there is nothing in this world that helps chase depression away like laughter. And nothing harder in this world than to make a depressed person laugh and so I love Roseanne even more. Sandra Bernhard came to visit her in Hawaii with Phyllis Diller in tow and yes, Phyllis is still alive and wearing that horrible wig and laughing that horrible laugh and she can drink five men under the table at the age of ninety-something and Phyllis and Sandra and Roseanne went out and had dinner and drinks and KAVA! and then went dancing to the band Roseanne's man plays in and it was once again an oh god, that is me moment and it made me laugh, the very sound of it coming from my throat startling and odd.

Well, Dryer Guy is done and paid and gone but I have to say I have surely enjoyed hanging clothes on the line the past week. There is really no excuse not to and I should save the dryer for when I really need it and that way it may last forever, or at least for a very long time.

Nothing lasts forever, does it?

Not the good things, not the bad.

Can I tell you how much I love all of you? You did not try to "fix" me last night with your words. You just made me feel understood and held and in so doing, you gave me just what I needed. I am not exactly out of the woods but I think I am on the path. I will see Owen tonight and in knowing that, I am cheered and determined.

Thank-you. All of you and Mr. Moon and Lily and Jason who trust me with their boy and Roseanne, too. She may be nuts but I am too and I take great comfort in her crazy life and I can just imagine her with a bathroom in chaos, a tractor being repaired, girlfriends to dance and drink with, a bowl of Kava in front of her, kids and grandkids around, knowing that there is no way she can go off the deep end so far she cannot swim her way back because food must be prepared, children must be taken care of, chaos must be restored to order.
That laughter is a lifeline back to sanity through rough the rough seas of darkness.

One of them, at least.

And that love, which can take many forms, is the sturdiest and most sure of all.

Perhaps Prozac Could Hire Me As A Spokeswoman. And A Lifeboat Company, Too

When I feel this way, it is as physical as it is mental. My body hurts, each and every part of it aches with what I can only define as the dregs of some sort of poison which has flooded through me.

Yes. I think that may be what this feels like- a dark poison set spreading all through me, mind, body, heart, soul.

There is no logic to it, there is no fighting it. There is only the understanding that like a toxic killing red tide, it will eventually pass. It depends on many things- prevailing winds, distant storms, the temperature of air and water, the time of year. Who knows? Perhaps even the prayers of the fishes who swim in deep, far-away cold waters may affect it all. The dancing of the giant squid, the leaping and rotation of the great whales, the songs they sing which sound as if they emanate from hearts as big as houses, red like liver, like placentas, like the hearts they are. Or perhaps something as seemingly insignificant as the smallest ripples set in motion by the tiniest silver fish, swimming purposefully in schools as big as prairies in water shot with the same sort of light which pours down into my tree-filled yard, glittering the fish, their eyes always focused ahead, even as they are set sideways on those flat, thin bodies.

Whatever.

It is so hard to explain- this deep ache. It is as if, when it arrives, there is a part of me which recognizes it so profoundly that I cannot help but allow it entry like a relative who brings nothing but sorrow and pain and confusion but who cannot be turned away because...he is brother, he is father, he is blood.

Barring the door would do no good. He has the keys to every door in the house. He knows the entry code. He slides the windows up as they were greased and slips in with night time's shadows.

And yet, I know it will pass. The unwanted, unbidden visitor will slip away like the red tide always does. I will be Grandmother again, wife, lover, mother, woman. This is the gift of age and experience. This true knowledge.

I am giving it today and tonight. I am saying, "Here is the table, eat. Here is the bed, lay down and rest. Please do not be here when I wake up tomorrow. There is no room for you in this house."

The fishes' prayers will change as will the dances of the giant squid, the great whales will sing different songs and leap in different ways, the tiny fish will find new seas to roil with their swimming.

The door swings this way and that. The windows allow entrance and exit. The body will clear of poison. The mind will still be there, like the sea or the sky after a storm. Like a body after a fever has been cooled.

Please don't feel you have to respond to this. I know all will be well. And like I said, logic has nothing to do with any of it. It is just part of who I am, these waves that catch me and carry me under. They always let me go and I wash up on shore again, safe in this harbor I am so blessed to inhabit, this shelter, this soft beach, this familiar curve of land.

Only That Which Must Be Done, And Slowly

I took a walk and did not die. I saw wild grapes, spilled onto the paths everywhere. I stopped three times. Once to change my cassette tape, once to pee, once to tell a dog who was charging me to "go home." There were puddles in the dirt roads and the tracks of 'coons, like the prints of tiny children, walking on their hands.
I saw a man sitting in the long grass by the truck stop, holding a sign. I did not read what it said.

I came home and hung out clothes. I ate leftovers for my lunch. I read more Annie Proulx. She is talking about Indians now. Reading about what white people did to Indians is not apt to cheer one up at all. I need to go to town to the library. Things are due and overdue. A good citizen returns library items in a timely manner. I try to be a good citizen although I have not picked up trash in awhile.

Mr. Moon has said that he would take me away this weekend. I cannot even think of where I would want to go for a weekend. It is so hot everywhere near here. Maybe any hotel room would do, just a bed and an air-conditioner. Maybe. Any place where I do not have the option of working around here, feeling guilty when I do not. I am flat. I am feeling washed out and everything I do is done slowly. Reach for the wet clothes in the basket, shake them with a pop to unwrinkle them, pin them to the line. Walk slowly back to the house.
Wait for the next load to be done. Carry it slowly to the line. Repeat.
This is how I hang the clothes:
All the towels together in one place, all the napkins in another, the dish towels and dish cloths in another, Mr. Moon's clothes on their own line, my clothes on mine. The shirts and dresses which go on hangers in the closet are hung on the line on hangers. This way, when I take the clothes in, I can fold into the basket and everything is together to be put away in their own places. This is how I learned to do it. This is how I still do it. This is something an old woman would take pride in. I rebel, though, by not keeping my clothespins in a bag that ties around the waist that I can keep in the house so they will not rot in the wet and in the sun. I just leave them on the line and yes, they do rot.

I need to buy new clothespins.

I have rethought the library. Why drive to town and all the way across it to return items? I renewed online. I am still a good citizen.

I think I will go take a nap. I will probably dream, as I constantly seem to do now, of babies that I need to protect. I am getting very good at that in my dreams. I do not leave them and forget them the way I used to do in dreams. I keep them close, I watch over them well. The world is full of threats for babies, or so it would seem in my dreams.

A skink just ran across the porch. I wish I could get a good picture of one but they are quick and not as apt to pose as our anoles. They run and hide before the mind even registers what it saw, scampering across the floor. Some skinks have bright crimson all around their mouths and they look as if they have been drinking blood. It is a fierce sight and if I were a predator, I would beware.

Light Pours Down

I can't write this morning.
Here are some pictures I took in my yard.

I guess I better go take a walk.