Haze

Leaving work today, late afternoon, I could have sworn that the light in the north, at lake level, had a sound — muffled, muted. A trick of synesthesia, perhaps.

Once home, I could hear my house, at ground level and below, groaning and cracking. Another trick.

(The latches on doors fail to catch, and any breeze sends an open greeting to spirits.)

My friend Tom set his level on the deck and measured the depth of the sinking: an inch, more in some places. And suddenly it was all visible to me, all cockeyed angles, atilt and teetering. Inside and out.

Tom walked out the back gate and around the overgrown grape vines to the other side of the house to check the foundation there. Something caused me to hesitate — I was following and then I abruptly stopped — and for a moment my dead husband (Mark) was present, watching, summing up, silent. Ripped t-shirt, jeans, an all-over scuffled appearance. A narrowing of the eyes. 

Just as quickly he was gone again. I realized that I had frozen in my steps, dazed and jangled by the sighting. Didn't mention it to Tom when he momentarily returned.

Nine years ago Mark made his abrupt exit, leaving a rutted trail of unfinished business and a house in great need of mending. With my single needle and spool of rapidly unwinding thread, I've persevered, and managed to stitch things together. Along the way I've tripped and stumbled, banged my head up against the wall of failure. Dropped my head to the table, ready to hand these house keys over to the devils of defeat.

And now more pressure on the underpinnings, a fault line of no fault I claim.


The earth’s crust shifts and trembles,

entire civilizations slide away in an instant.

Sun, wind, the ravages of rain and thunder —

we build, we pound and cement

our lives onto rectangular plots of land.

And without knowing, suddenly we lose

a step. And for a moment there is nothing

concrete. For a moment there is only

the wind rattling the dishes in the sink —

And then sometimes, for a moment, there is a husband returned and a light that hums softly, despite it all.

Sometimes, I say, that's how we do.

Just that.

Yes.

Okay, Cupid

These days working with just one other person calls for dramatic stories to perk up the table time. Apparently, it's one of my primary job descriptions. And by god, I do my best.

Which brings us, again, to that pesky online dating.

Things had gotten a little stale recently, not a lot of hits, no "action" to speak of.

So I switched out my profile pic to one, um, slightly more provocative.

Well.

Let's just say things have started to percolate mightily. (But, puh-leeze, spare me from the twenty-something boys who are entertaining their MILF fantasies.)

Humor abounds, though, as always, and to keep "my" men straight (perhaps straight isn't the best word choice but I'll leave it just for nuance), I quickly create a "user name", so-to-speak, for each of them. Something short and easy to remember.

For example:
1. There was "Music Man", who turned out to be a redneck (not much of a music man at all) (mainly a lot of puffed-up self-aggrandizing) and who talked at length about buying chicken breasts in bulk and individually packaging them in his Food Saver packs. Fascinating. I'm going to rename him "Frozen Chicken Breast Man".

2. "Bad Poetry Man". Advice: NEVER tell someone you're a poet on your first date. Within minutes of my arriving home after said date, a "poem" from Bad Poetry Man appeared in my inbox. Sweet, I suppose, but no. NO.

3. "Cat Scratch Man": I should've taken my own advice re: "Bad Poetry Man".

4. "Tiny Hands Man" — besides possessing the smallest hands I've ever seen on a man, he spoke at length about a book (unpublished) his sister wrote about an 11th century pope. At. Length. (The second glass of wine helped, but not enough.)

5. A man who was so dull he didn't even earn a user name. He never looked at me and he asked me nothing about myself. Bad Hawaiian print shirt, tucked-in, pants hiked up waaaaay too high. Oy.

6. "Architect Man" said, "Redwoods are sentient beings." (Need I say more?)

7. "Screamer". See here.

Waiting in the wings (first face-to-face still to be scheduled) are "Drummer Man" and "Clown Man".

Could life get any more thrilling/fascinating/titillating than this?

God help me, it certainly better.

(And, for the record, none of these men know my full name or have any knowledge whatsoever of this blog.)

Blue, and More Bllue

When I asked my neighbor for a cutting from her hydrangea, I stopped to consider that I already have five vases of that same hydrangea, some dating back to a year ago. Did I really need/want more? Yes, I did.

Each possesses a different blue shade, and I covet all of them.

One is the same faded blue of the suit my mother wore when she married my father in Atlanta during WWII. The suit is impossibly small — my mom weighed ninety-something pounds then. I have it folded away safely.

When I was a child, she kept it in a trunk in the basement, and sometimes I'd make myself invisible and go downstairs, quietly open the trunk and take it out, unfold it, hold it. Cornflower-blue crepe, short sleeves, covered buttons. Lace on the collar and sleeves. Not sure why I was so furtive in my viewing, but something about going into that trunk felt like a violation, felt forbidden.

I lucked upon it after her death. Funny, but all my adult years I've searched out as many blue flowers as possible to plant in my garden.

Wired

These are the softest of days, honey-aired, with a sweetness that I want to take in and in and in....

On this night of the full moon, the roses
are even more lovely in their ebbing —

Hello, House

Two sons:

One sleeps with a baseball bat beside him.

The other arms himself, goes target shooting, hunts.

Both are liberal, loving, incredibly decent and tender men, their "arming" a reaction to the home-invasion robbery that occurred three years ago. My front door sports a metal panel around the dead-bolt. I pay for an alarm system.

And yet, despite this history, it's home.

Imperfect, worn, unfinished: home.

Vulnerable, drafty, creaky: home.

And I love it.

I gave up the notion of a "proper home" some time ago. Accepted that I have cats instead of a new sofa, "old-world charm" instead of doors that close properly. I've lived here long enough to add my DNA to the sheetrock, my nightmares to the attic crawlspace, my own particular gloom to the dank-aired laundry in the basement.

Here lingers the sound of a police officer's voice saying, "Your husband has been involved in an accident."

A wall once held a neighbor's suicide note.

This house has listened in on epilepsy diagnoses and taboo phone conversations. Heard slammed doors and broken dinner plates (slammed against a door). Endured a broken window and the body pushed against the window.

But in equal measures, this house has heard my son at ten learning Beethoven on his flute, Bach (badly!) on an untuned piano, and poetry spoken in a multitude of volumes. Daily it hears my son R.'s bold laughter.

And how many times has "Happy Birthday" been sung here? Nearly a hundred times, but not quite.

Its roof has been raised and its underbelly gutted-out.

It once swelled with the noisy exuberance of teenagers and then shrunk to its now nearly-empty nest.

I've learned to not just accept its many idiosyncrasies but to honor them, because this old house has lived more lifetimes than only my quarter of a century here, and so deserves praise and admiration for simply existing, for putting up with my years of complaints.

I've always believed that I would have a difficult time living in a new house, and I don't for a moment question that sliver of wisdom I can call mine.  

Really, really big rose.

Walking home tonight, dark on a balmy late September night, and there was the hint of marine air on the breeze, but only if I tipped my head up a bit, much like I've seen my cats do when they first go outside. It seemed to float and waver, inconstant, at the edges of all the other scents: the yellow-dried-lawn scent, the dust-of-no-rain scent, the dropped-plums-fermenting-on-the-ground scent.  The urban exhaust. A simmering dinner from an unseen kitchen. A suggestion of roses.

Marine: salmon and mussels and oysters. Kelp, salt, crabs.

Sunday evening my boys and I had an early dinner on the deck before sunset, and a pair of hummingbirds were putting on their best performance of the year so far, swooping and darting and chip-chip-chipping just a few feet from where we sat. Then I heard a sound that I'd not heard before, thought that maybe it was a branch squeaking against the garage, but a little odd, a little too high-pitched, more like a whistle, with too much air in it to be a branch. I heard it again, and so did the boys, and then again, but in the opposite direction from the garage.

It sounded like a piccolo Pete firework, like this, although not so slow. I admit that we were were plain stumped.

Yesterday evening after work I stood out on the deck, and a hummer flew up and hovered 18" in front of my face — completely marvelous greeting! Then it flew straight up about forty feet, quickly turned and shot straight down to the garden, and at the base of its dive, before it turned to arc up again, I heard the sound again, and was completely mystified.

After a lot of dinking around online, I finally discovered that what were hearing was whistling produced by air passing through feathers of the diving male bird. I also found out that if these are Anna's Hummingbirds, they do not take part in the long migration southward, and that I should continue to feed them throughout the winter. It is recommended that in cold weather, I bring the feeder in at night to prevent freezing, or else string Christmas lights around it so the ambient heat will keep the formula fluid! Oh lordy, what have I created here?! (I must admit that the little red bottle feeder with lights strung about will be quite festive.)

I think I'm in it for the long run.

O

Sewn, and then some.

I am trying to make this:

No, not the barn — the skirt. It's an Alabama Chanin design, all hand-sewn, double-layered cotton jersey with reverse applique and embroidery. Crazy, yes. Today I discovered that it's pretty much impossible to buy 100% cotton jersey in Seattle. Strange, when one considers that retail clothing stores selling thousands of items made of cotton jersey.

Natalie Chanin, the designer and author of the Alabama Stitch Book suggests using recycled t-shirts, so after my futile attempt to purchase new fabric off-the-bolt, I headed over to Goodwill. The tricky part is that you need two pairs of identical shirts, without any screen-printed design. I can't believe that I lucked out and found two charcoal-grey and two black tees —the colors that I wanted — both all-cotton, both pattern-free and in nearly-new shape.

Next I had to copy the pattern (it's on loan), so I photo-copied it in 81/2 by 11 pieces and puzzled them together, spread out on my floor. My brain feels rattled & addled.

My total investment, minus gas, is $18. Not bad when the Alabama Chanin website lists new, hand-sewn skirts in the $2000+ range. (And yes, that's for one skirt.)

Now all I have to do is make it.

Listen (and yes, it's worth your time)

Here's my remedy for moping — be sure to watch Chris Thile's expressions of ecstasy (he's the winsome mandolin player):

The Presidential Seal of Approval

Abacus Gallery in Kennebunkport Maine sent an email to Melinda today informing her that Bill Clinton stopped by yesterday and purchased a few of her pieces. Let it be known that my hands were a part of their creation!

This was cause for a considerable amount of excitement at Studio HiJinx. Hard to buckle down to the job when you know that one of the most powerful men on the planet has laid hands on the very work over which you've labored. Not only that, he laid down his hard-earned cash for it.

Thank-you, Mr. President, for helping to support two of the 99%/53%/
slaves/hardworking/tax-paying/privately-insured/unentitled-to-shit/Americans who will never vote for Mitt Romney.

Summer's end, and the nasturtiums finally are showing their colors, and the Heavenly Blue morning glory affords me maybe a single flower per day. Don't want to overdo anything, do you Mother Nature?

In less than a month the year will begin to fold itself beneath the soil, a blaze of death in the garden. And then the first frost, and the rains for which Seattle are famous, our barely-there rains with their omnipresent grey skies, unrelenting.

A good friend stopped by work today and said he's pulled together an exit plan for his house, whose value has slipped beneath the price he paid for it, and his work (as an artist) is spotty. This is a hard-working man, a decent man (I used to work for him), a good man. No need to mention the overpowering despair which took up residence this afternoon. And how far are any of us from this same scenario?  I took last week off because there was a slowdown in orders; happily, this week, new orders have bulked-up the files on through December, and I'm grateful.

And although I generally avoid politics in this forum, the Republican presidential candidate has pushed me to the brink of the cliff, and I'm ready to scream. His current vocal inflammation is beyond the pale. (If you haven't already read about this, click here.)

Shoving anxieties about the future aside, the late-afternoon light on my walk home from work was glorious, and suddenly buildings I look at every day appeared glowing, larger than life. Here's my temporary little love affair with the color yellow:

Not

Evidence of a lingering recession is ubiquitous here on the Oregon Coast: empty storefronts, closed restaurants. And yet a friendliness abides in every encounter with locals, decidedly different from the reserved nature of many Seattleites.

My hopes were high that this visit would supplant my constant desire to return to Ireland — there is so much to love on this rugged coast, and, well, I can drive here, for significantly less $$$. But it hasn't happened.

A fresh trigger fired this morning when a facebook friend I haven't seen for 30 years posted from Westport, Ireland —everything flooded back.

It's our last day here, and we'll go beach walking in a blue mist. I'll love this stretch of Pacific coast for what gifts it does offer — massive wave-tumbled logs, volcanic rock outcroppings, mussel beds, spouting horns — a drama quite its own and strikingly beautiful, but it's not the west coast of Ireland.

Ocean

The Pacific disappeared yesterday evening well before sunset, slipping into a veil of fog just beyond where the foamy edge of waves rolled onto the beach. I stood on the (Heath)cliff edge of the headland held back only by salal and scrubby junipers, the path down to sea level slippery and steep, eroded. No way would I attempt that descent, even with the help of the thick coil of rope strung for a railing. A few hundred yards south, a hobbit path on level ground winds through a tunnel of rhododendrons and blackberry vines, followed by a more civilized concrete stairway. At what point in the past few years have I lost my desire/ability to dare myself down a tricky slope? It happens, I suppose, when one is least paying attention. I recall my mother, about my age, taken to falling, and I get it now.

Sometimes it's okay just to walk beside the river. Sometimes there is no need to cross it.

And in the swirling light I found a hidden garden, where I'm certain the air held droplets of reflected blue —

Loghenges

Longhenge I

Loghenge II

Loghenge II Panorama

Retirement

This was so good that I brought it over from facebook —

Holding the Sun in the Center of an Agate

North of the Redwoods

The Pacific at my feet, a martini at hand, a suffering of sun at my back: it's all good.

I motored six miles to Yachats to collect ingredients for dinner: some tri-tip steaks, mushrooms, a lovely bunch of organic beets with greens (beet greens are the absolute best!), apples for a pie tomorrow. Not much ado in the Yachats, population 688.

Driving back to the See Vue Motel, a trucker bore down on my tail (and he with the heavy load), and when it came time to turn into the driveway of the motel, he jammed his brakes and screeched, undoubtedly cursing the driver (me) of the car with the Washington plates. Damn foreigners.

There are few things better than a wide stretch of beach and few humans....

Sedimentary

Avenue of the Giants, Northern California

In a Redwood grove, among the oldest living things on the planet, we found — after only a few turn-arounds — the resting place of two very dear friends, their ashes scattered at the base of this twin tree:




The late afternoon sun barely broke through the dense growth, and all sound was absorbed in the thick underfooting of dry needles. My friend T. launched ahead with his dog, and I found myself slowing and lagging, as a deep hum began inside me, a vibration, and there was no option but to stop and attend to it as my friend disappeared up the path. But what was it? I was in the presence of sacred beings who possessed an unwritten language in basso profundo, and I was caught up in the resonance.

I sat down last night and tried to write about this, but all that I could manage were a few sentences which I quickly deleted. These trees defy language. The oldest documented Redwood was logged in 1933, and a count of rings at the stump-end of the severed trunk revealed 2,200 years. I gasp and shake my head at this number.

We met a 28-year-old Cajun man who was 2/3 of the way into a 40 day writing retreat in the Redwoods, camping on closed-off trails, his short-term "home" set up in the burned-out stumps of several trees: kitchen, sitting room, bedroom.

He took us on a short walk to see a rare albino Redwood, one of only 25 known specimens. He said that, between 2:15 and 2:45pm, sunlight illuminates the needles, and the tree appears to be electrically lit. He also said that at night in this forest, everything changes. Said he's never known such absolute darkness, and never known the kind of fear that night after night in this forest has engendered in him.

My head is still a bit wobbled from yesterday's events, even as I sit and type at a cliff-edge six miles south of Yachats, on the Oregon coast, the sun teetering on the horizon, a glass of Piersporter Michelsburg at hand. Battling the muse, who appears in fits and starts, mostly not present, despite these bucket-loads of seemingly perfect inspiration.

Night Sky, Vines

Mold

Glow

Watch the eyes....

Diaphanous

Found this gem while mindlessly watching wimp.com videos —

Population: 3

A shift in the rhythm of life: I have a new roommate.

She's 28, with a lovely calm energy. Has taken up residence in the front bedroom, along with her grey cat. Wanted to know tonight if I ever wanted to do communal dinners — YES!!

I've dragged my feet on getting a roommate for over a year, but reality has sunk in (finally) and I pulled the trigger when this young woman was sent to me by a friend. Having grown up in a large family, I've always loved having lots of people around, and while one additional person (after my son and me) don't exactly equal "lots", it's 50% more "people" than just the two of us were.

So move over blender, coffee pot, cuisinart. Make some room sofa, table, pillow. Carve out a little space in your boundaries, self; and open up your heart/home to another soul.

(Advice to self: taken.)

Happy is the Hour

I thought we'd enjoy Tuesday Happy Hour together.

May I offer you a wee glass of my fermented concoction of cheap white swill, vodka and a vanilla bean with a float of fresh blackberries? (The fermentation has lasted two years, and it hasn't killed me yet. Fingers crossed.)

Good, yes?

I thought you'd enjoy that.

How about some music?
Ah...one of my faves — My Romance....



Damn but I love this tune. My father-in-law played this for me on his trombone at my 50th birthday party. He suffered a number of strokes last summer, and hasn't returned yet to his horn. Sixty+ years of playing.

I suppose I should offer you a snack or two.

A bite of gorgonzola?
Apple slice?
Crust of bread & such?
(You can help yourself....)

Maybe I'll pop some corn.

Shall I refresh that drink?

Now laugh:

A priest, a rabbi, and a vicar walk into a pub.

The barman says, ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

 

Gotta run — see you tomorrow!

Tuesday Poem

To Thank You For Blackberries 
                                           --for C.M.

Folded into the slurry
of my daily steel-cut oats,
each mouthful
is a burst of summer,
an August afternoon
sun-sweetened
with violet juices—
plucked and gathered
by the handful,
risking thorn-slash
and sticky webs,
the last of the season
staining my lips.

© T. Clear 2012

(To be honest, I was standing on the sidewalk
struggling to reach the berries growing
from the top of my neighbor's hedge.
I heard her call out "thief!" as she came
around the corner, laughing.
Then she offered me the use of her step-ladder,
thus facilitating all future theft [by me]
of her luscious berries.)

August, Ending

It's happened — that ever-so-subtle shift of afternoon light that foretells the oncoming change of season. And although it's still a month or so until the official summer-to-fall transition, it was today when I began to feel summer begin to slip from me. The beginning of a sadness, with the scent of apples in the air — and inexplicably, because I live in the city. But the memory of the ripening apples of my childhood — the four apple trees in the back half-acre — is so deeply embedded in all recollections of my earliest years, that once this lengthening of shadows occurs late August, there is that faint apple-air,  always just beyond reach.

We're nearing the end of the growing season when it seems to have only just begun. A desire to prolong things — the blossoms on the tomato plants, the warm nights with every window flung wide, ice cream at midnight on the balcony. And yet I can't imagine living Equatorially, minus these rhythms, these fluctuations from heat to ice. And equal dread and desire for the stripped-down trees of winter, and the interminable January nights. (Beginning to crave hot tea with milk.)

Every year at this time I think the same thing: I've always wanted to fall helplessly, hopelessly in love in the fall.

There's still time, is there not?

Beloved

The last thing I wanted to do today after work was go to Safeway. It was a draggy Monday, and I suffered from a dearth of energy (owing to my non-stop [alas] weekend). I slogged through every minute of every detail of August 20th from 9:20am-5:05pm.

But essentials were in demand, and I wrenched the steering wheel northward instead of my usual easterly single-mile trek home, and pulled into the manic, rush-hour parking lot of a mega-grocery in the heart of Rainier Valley.

Inside, there were no small baskets in sight, and I hunted among the check-outs until I found a tidy stack. Forced a tunnel vision to avoid "Strawberries! $1.99/lb." and whatever else the local comestible marketing geniuses had dreamed up to distract me from my mission to get a)deodorant, b)peanut-butter and c)yogurt. Wait! Cat food! And evaporated milk! And Aleve!

Knowing I was forgetting something (in this case it was dishwashing liquid), I chose the shortest line, and began to unload my few items onto the conveyor belt. An elderly woman was in front of me, struggling to get her items from her rolling cart and onto the counter. I offered to help her, and the minute she turned to me and said, slowly and deliberately, "Well, yes....", I knew that it was Mamie.

She confirmed that she was indeed Mamie, and I nearly cried for joy.

When my youngest, Nelson (who just turned 24), was an infant, I had no choice but to go back to work 8 weeks after his birth. A nearby daycare center seemed a reasonable choice, and Mamie was in charge of the infant room. She was warm, capable, gracious and possessed a loving and generous sensibility. And although I felt as if I was abandoning my baby to the care of strangers, Mamie quickly put my fears at ease. Once I got to know Mamie, I realized that the bundle of gold my husband dropped off each morning at the daycare was going to be cherished all day long, every last minute.

Mamie truly loved "her babies". And Nelson settled into the arms of a pro — Mamie had raised six children of her own.

While chatting with Mamie this afternoon, the purpose of my mission to Safeway fell to the wayside, and I suddenly realized that we were holding up a growing line. I apologized and explained to the woman behind me, who spontaneously shared with me her story:

Many years ago, she was in the hospital battling a rare illness, on a respirator with a questionable prognosis. One day, a woman (who never identified herself) visited, and shared that she too had this illness, but had recovered and was now leading an active life. The woman in the hospital bed burst into tears, and was unable to speak — tears of gratitude for the gift of hope this stranger had given her. The stranger, thinking she had upset the patient, abruptly departed, not allowing the patient the chance to explain that her sobbing was for gratefulness.

Twenty years later, both women ended up sitting side-by-side in an art class. There was immediate recognition, and a long-overdue expression of gratitude from one healthy woman to another.

(More people were now lined up behind us.)

I thanked her for her story — wanted to hug her, really. She twinkled her eyes, a moment of grace.

Then I eased Mamie and her groceries out of the store and into my car (she was planning to call a cab), and drove her home.

I asked about her family, and she said, "I raised three sons and three daughters, and my three sons have all passed away."

How could I possibly respond to that when everything I wanted to say seemed inadequate? Here was the woman who'd cared for my infant son as if he'd been her own, and yet her own three sons had already left this life. I was sitting beside a woman whose existence contained exponentially more sorrow than one should expect to endure in a lifetime. And yet there she was — cheerful, smiling, ever-gracious.

I wouldn't dare ask Mamie her age — that seems to be a closely guarded secret among many woman of her generation, and I have nothing but respect for Mamie.

I pulled into her driveway — she lives alone in the same house where my late husband used to pick her up and drive her to the daycare along with our two sons — and helped her out of the car. She moved slowly and with what is obviously tremendous pain. I took right hand and she maneuvered her cane with the other as we traversed the uneven terrain of her lawn, inches at a time.  She told me she could manage the steps on her own. And although I carried all 5 bags of groceries to her porch, she insisted that she bring them in herself. I did not want to leave her alone with those bags, but respect won out in the end. She insisted.

It's been many years since I've seen Mamie, perhaps twenty. When I saw her in line in front of me, my first thought was, that can't possibly be Mamie. But it was.

There was a reason I went to Safeway this afternoon, and it wasn't — apparently — only for peanut butter.

Again with the Hummingbirds

This all began a year ago last May with an extraordinary dream, which I recounted here.

Most evenings from 6-8pm I'm on my deck, and I've been practicing my hummingbird calls. Usually one or two visit, maybe hover close, but tonight I was outside with Nelson after dinner and told him to watch. He was talking up his usual storm, sitting at the table, and I stood at the railing and began calling. After about two minutes, one showed up, hovered around the feeder, then perched on a branch. We did a call and response, but Nelson didn't seem to notice. I told him to stand next to me, and when he did, the bird flew to about three feet directly before our eyes and hovered & did its tiny chirp.

"Did you see that?!" The bird got Nelson's attention.

We continued to stand there, and two more came, one after the other, and performed for us the best show they've done all summer. My son was astounded. He spent a good part of third grade sketching hummingbirds, and I have a paper mâche´one on my windowsill that he made at age 8.

A little later, after Nelson had gone home, I was sitting on my balcony eating the last of the blackberry pie (yum), and had another visitation, on the potted geranium, just a few feet from me.
Delight!

It was hot.

I picked blackberries.

I made pie.

And ate it.

The end.

Late

It's late, and my son is outside two stories below my open window aerating the massive pile of wood chips that were deposited — free of charge! — by the tree maintenance company yesterday. I arrived home from work today to a ripe farmy odor emanating from my yard and couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was, and then it dawned on me. Must've been the alfalfa-like scent of it, old memory from the Renton feed store where I bought rabbit feed (not robot, which my fingers seemed to want to type) for my pets, many moons passed.

But three yards of shredded honey-locust in my driveway is impressive, spontaneous combustion aside.

And then there were the hummingbirds, all evening buzzing and chirring out back, perched on apple tree branches, on maple twigs.

And the James Fenimore Cooper book on the railing, hardback, mildew drying up in the summer sun. Part of a set that was a precious possession of my late husband, inadvertently left on the basement floor last winter, and grew spotted with grey mold. Come June I set one volume in the sun to see if the rays would zap that fungus, and it's sat there ever since. Rain, thunder, lightning, fog. This morning a baby squirrel ran to and fro, back and forth over it in a scurry to avoid the sight of me through the glass door. The cats have traversed its engravings.

The most curious thing is that not a soul has asked me anything about it — neither of my sons have so much as mentioned it. As I see it, it makes not a whit of difference whether it's ferreted away safely in a box dark in the basement or exposed and flapping every page to the frivolities and whims of nature on the back deck.

In the end, I suppose we all face the same fate as that pile of simmering mulch whose fragrance now pervades every bit of my olfactory senses.

The hummingbirds are quiet, and so am I.

Revisiting Ireland

I was scrolling through my iPhoto last night, deleting non-important pics, and came across more than a few (important) photos from my Ireland days.

Ah.

I spent a lot of time there, over a seven year period, with my ex-husband, in his "holiday home" in County Mayo. In a house overlooking a saltwater cove, in view of St. Patrick's holy mountain, and sheep-filled pastures. And islands. And horses.

My forays there abruptly ended, another casualty of divorce. And while I'm extraordinarily fortunate to have had the opportunity to spend so many glorious days in a landscape that was to become for me a great source of inspiration — counting my blessings! — I'm still in a state of shock and withdrawal knowing the likelihood of returning is slim. I've not yet written to my friends in the cove; every attempt at a letter ends in my holding down the delete button until the screen is white.

Sitting in front of those photos, I imagined walking into the Ireland house: the tricky lock on the front door (lift the handle and turn the key to the left), the "whoosh" of the door opening, wiping my feet on the mat. The sharp, piney-smell inside.

Dropping my luggage in the bedroom, the sound of my shoes clicking on the wood floor.

Emptying the bags of groceries. (Inhaling the scents in the produce department at the grocery. Weighing the apples, affixing the weight sticker. Finding some Carrowholly nettle cheese. Pushing the odd cart.) Slipping the apples from their plastic bag into a basket, holding one to my nose and inhaling an orchard. Hearing the sound of the wrapper on the soda bread, a soft crinkle. Putting a fresh box of tea in the cupboard. Assessing the pantry for the unexpected leftovers from previous guests: brown beans, a bag of lentils. Instant mashed potatoes.

Wanting to take it all in at once: the view of Clew Bay and the 365 islands. Opening the sliding glass door (which always sticks), standing on the patio facing west. Inhaling, the Atlantic stretching out for 2800 miles in the distance. The constant wind.

Sitting on the worn leather sofa, the way the leather sticks to the skin. Feeling the itch of the two wool throws on the sofa. Taking out the teapot collection, remembering where each was purchased, from which artist in which village.

Walking up the stairs to the three upper bedrooms, laying in succession in each bed, taking possession. Opening every closet. Looking out each window.

Opening a drawer in the hutch, taking out the collection of ordnance maps, begin planning a back-roads search for holy wells and druid cooking sites, standing stones.

An overwhelming flood of sensations, wave upon wave. 

And not realizing the absolute perfection of each of those moments until now. 

On my last trip there, I took a walk one afternoon along the far side of the cove. The tide was out and I could meander across mudflats and under barbed wire that was usually inaccessible when the bay pushed its sparkling waters high up onto the bank. I found an alley-way of sorts, between unmown fields of hay, blackberry and fuschia hedgerows on either side. I picked my way up the hillside and somewhere along that way, lost an earring. I doubled back to try to find it, stepping slowly and with fierce intent, but to no avail.

A half-mile-or-so-away, a farmer, in tilling a field, had once upon a time unearthed a 5000-year-old gold bracelet. In comparison, my vanished earring was unremarkable: a pearl, a blue glass bead, silver wire. I returned the next day and retraced my steps, checked low-slung branches of stickery gorse, checked weeds and tipping meadowsweet blossoms. Nothing.

But that afternoon of the lost earring, up that passageway and farther, cresting the hill between two coves, in a rare burst of sunlight and cows lumbering to the fence-edge to investigate the unexpected wanderer — that was an interval of complete and utter contentment, of conscious momentary perfection.

I don't want to relive it, nor do I want to relive my time there. Doubtful that I could revisit those county Mayo back-roads without a truck-load of buried sadness unburdening itself on my shoulders.

Those memories, I think, will exist in their own category of appreciation where I was the recipient of innumerable generosities. Necessary to sift out the good from the cruelties of failure.

Ireland, old love, my muse.
I'm not ready to seek out your replacement.

Celebrating National Night Out in South Seattle

Holy crap....I'm on the local news:


Celebrating National Night Out in south Seattle

Block Party

Apple Custard Tarte

pink-house/green-house

Chrissie/Candy

Fireman/Axe/Superman

I won't even say the word....

There was a general consensus at work today that the real reason a boy/man-friend is desired is to have someone to get rid of [unmentionables]. All those other reasons — companionship, intimacy, handy-man skills, back scratcher, technology consultant, garbage-taker-outer — pale in comparison. Or, at least this time of year, when the Giant House [Unmentionables] emerge from their crevices in search of a mate.

I understand and respect the role of [unmentionables] in the ecosystem. But I will state outright that the dwellings we humans occupy are mostly unsuited for the ecosystem, being so distant in design from their cave origins and unlikely to absorbed by the forces of nature were we to suddenly become absent. Therefore, our modern homes are wholly inappropriate for the arachnid life form.

Furthermore, I have not invited any of these furtive crawlers into my home. They are intruders. They are home invasion robbers here to steal my sense of well-being, ratchet up the jitter index and heighten the anxiety factor.

One night last week I caught one in a frantic scurry up the stairs to my bedroom. Whack! Get OUT! Bam. Done away with.

Last night there was another, perilously close to my head on the wall above my bed. Whack! Whack! Scream! Thunk! Finished off.

Once in bed with the light off, it was all I could do to imagine legions of [unmentionables] on the march, up the stairs, across the carpet, destination: my bed.

And, for the record, I've chosen not to enhance this post with a photo.

But the question remains: how in hell am I going to get to sleep after spending 40 minutes writing about my fear of [unmentionables]?

Against Preciousness

Here's hoping I didn't scare anyone off with my previous post.

Chances are good that I've succumbed to preciousness myself at some time, but I do abhor it. A lot. I need to remind myself of this occasionally.

Precious menu items especially rankle me. I recall eating dinner in a Manhattan restaurant a few years back and I accidentally ordered a "microgreens" salad: I needed a magnifying glass to find the arugula on my plate.

Don't be precious.

And I don't care from whose dew-kissed meadow you harvested your purslane.

(Pretensions)

6253 miles from the southern coast of France, Gabrielle took out her oil paints and contemplated her choice of colors: would it be Alizarin crimson? Prussian blue? Cadmium lemon?

The balmy July afternoon sun warmed her palette, and she waltzed across the vintage pine floor of her cottage with a dreamy confidence: it didn't matter what she painted, because she knew that for every patron desiring one of her astonishingly original canvases, there were thirty or forty more patrons lined up around every corner, willing to plunk down any dollar amount for even a simple pencil sketch.

After a homespun lunch of heirloom tomatoes and hand-harvested wild rice drizzled with Irish butter and minced Italian parsley and free-range smoked chicken breasts and organic grilled nectarines with a chiffonade of (local) basil and 25-year-old balsamic vinegar reduction, she was sated and ready to explore every impulse her artist's soul craved.

But not before she savored a scoop of her very-own-recipe wild native blackberry ice cream, picked just that morning before the dawn's dew had evaporated, picked while she sipped her shade-grown songbird-friendly, free-trade coffee from a mug hand-thrown by her ceramicist soul-mate less than a half-mile from her front door. (The custard thickened with her very own eggs.)

And while she was contemplating the vagaries of her innermost heart and anticipating the wondrous colors laid out before her naked eyes, she hummed an old Gypsy tune about poverty and homelessness and despair.....

And then got back to what was important: the river stones set into the wall behind her wood-burning stove, the 600-count Egyptian cotton sheets on her feather bed, the 25-year-old Tamnavulin Scotch whiskey in her cupboard, the leaded crystal snifters in her antique Belgian oak sideboard (shipped across the Atlantic by freighter, circa 1889).

And, exhausted, fell promptly asleep.

Night Laundry

Welcome

Chaos ~ Order

Inside the grape vines even the light is green.

I went at the grape vines this morning, all of the garden suffering from several weeks of neglect. Amazing what vigorous growth they are able to make when I open the door of opportunity just a sliver, letting in the faintest of lights.

So much the same for all the rest of human life, eh? And of course many more species —  I think of ants or bees in their ever-tending of colonies.

And to think as a child I sometimes would dig a long stick into a pile of ants, to see them scurry to rebuild, to carry eggs back to safety. (A period of remorse would follow, and outright horror when my brother set an ant pile on fire.) What kingdoms did I dislodge today in my yanking-out, in my need to establish some control?

And then, always necessary to keep some wild place in the garden where I don't make every decision regarding growth.

What I end up with is a rather cluttered collection of blossoms and squashes, grapes and leeks that would appear to most visitors, I think, as verging on total chaos, but is for me a delicate balance between letting creativity/growth flourish with its own intent, on one hand, and then a strict attention to dead-heading spent blossoms and nurturing new growth on the other hand.

Mine will never be a closely-clipped garden. I savor my annual love affair with the volunteer foxglove, the California poppy. And this blue marvel — freed from a strangle of bindweed — has made its presence known once again: the nicandra, or shoofly plant. It's a native of Peru. How the heck did it get way up here?!

I've just spent three days in Facelift Land, and while I don't begrudge anyone a nip here or a tuck there, I saw some women today who had gone severely overboard in their, uh, remodeling. The worst was a woman with the body of a seventy-something-(or older)-year-old and the face of a fifteen-year-old. It was startling and disturbing; I stared. I couldn't help it. The face was very "cute", perky, whimsical almost, with a disturbing inquisitive expression.

But then, maybe I'm mistaken here. Maybe she didn't succumb to repeated facelifts. Maybe she just had a face transplant. There's no end to what the almighty dollar can buy.

Anyway, I'm smiled-out and really glad I don't work in retail. I did that in a prior life and it about killed me.

Work

After the U-Haul truck was unloaded, and the tent erected (a person on each pole, raise and raise and raise and then SNAP! in place), and the flooring puzzled together, and the shelving units assembled (x4), and the lights clamped to each shelf, and the glass unpacked, and dusted & polished & arranged, I announced that my back was finished and that it was time to quit, and there was no protest from Miss M.

And although the temp was a benign 77 degrees it felt like 99 (in the middle of a hot flash) and M. maneuvered the massive rig onto the interstate and stopped-and-went in rush hour traffic until finally we rumbled up to the 'hood and finally the day was finished.

Rarely do I stop and wonder at the state of balance and grace in which one must exist in order to move ones body around so much that is fragile — and not just the likes of us fragile artists and poets but the borne-of-fire vessels that pass through our hands every day, each piece subject to keen examination. When I pass a diamond sanding pad over a chipped edge (for smoothing), or level a tippy vase on the grinder, or use the dremel to correct and repair odd blips of paint, I rarely give the task more thought than the twenty-or-thirty second fraction of a minute that it takes to make things right. Rarely ponder what alignments of planets occurred to land me in this unsuspected landscape of light and color, where, even after too many hours in too few days of intense production, we unpack piece after piece and swoon and exclaim over their magic and beauty. Ask ourselves: did we really do this? Really?!

Showtime!

Martinis in the garden tonight after crazy long hours tending to glass surfaces. Applying dots to glass— by the thousands, one at a time. Fine-tuning glass, a microscopic eye to details. Pricing glass. Boxing glass. Loading glass in the rental truck (careful not to trip on bindweed). (Careful to avoid the climbing rose's lashing stem.)

I'd put off painting this very large piece until the very end, loathe to begin. But my hyper-focus actually was to my benefit, and I methodically painted inch by inch, the piece wedged between towels on the table in front  of me, black, then green, then a progression of mixed colors, layers, reds and golds and many variations, until it was done. Relief!

First thing tomorrow we build the booth: outer structure, floor, shelving, glass.

First thing Friday: $$$.

And to think: this job was one of the reasons for a divorce.

Go figure.

I love my job.

Stuck in a sustained spell of disinterest.

Summer Saturday

While I sipped my version of nectar (a glass of Sauvignon blanc), this little guy kept me company sipping his own sugar-water brew. He likes to hover a few feet from my face, and today he hovered just out of reach of my cat Flip, taunting him. (The cat got very still.)

I am undone by the ephemeral presence of these birds, how they seem to exist between the insect and the bird world — not fully avian. Their wings flap anywhere from 12 to 80 beats per second, and they are the only bird specie that can fly backwards. My favorite hummingbird feat is when one rises vertically, from a hover at eye level, to well above treetops.

Dear Loyal Readers and Citizens of the Universe:

In need of sugar.

Too much work and absolutely zero play.

I accept all deliveries.

xo

god

An announcement — of sorts — amongst my family this week when word got out that apparently I'm an Atheist. Not certain that I've actually ever declared this to be a truth, and was more than slightly taken aback at this revelation. The sibling who announced this to another sibling (there are many of us) was, according to the story, quite upset.

Oh....shite.

I've been labeled, categorized, pigeon-holed and carted off to hell, even if in whose existence I do not believe. And will there be conversation, a rebuttal, an explanation, an understanding, in the the end? The sad answer to that question is most likely a resounding "NO." The door to that conversation was slammed shut many years ago, and I'll take responsibility for digging my heels in on the liberal, non-theistic side.

Having endured a Catholic upbringing, and having made a gallant effort to toss aside all lingering vestiges of said guilt, I do admit a distrust in anything labeled religion. How many wars have been fought in the name of the righteous? How many civilizations slaughtered? How long has hate prospered while proclaiming the Word of God?

As usual, when a Big Subject like this one arrives on my doorstep, it becomes the Conversation of the Week at my job. As a poet, my beliefs tend to center more on Mysticism and Animism than anything veering close to the Christian arena. At work today we spoke at length today on the subject of deities, or, a deity. I'll use the word "god" only with a lower case "g". It's a common noun, not any version of some bearded guy wielding electricity from a cloudbank. If there's a supreme being, then it's this infinitely massive universe (and beyond) that we inhabit, and therefore, as organisms in its midst, makes us all integrally our own separate piece of it: god in everyone/thing.



My best guess on the origins of my atheist label comes from a conversation I had with a Christian Fundamentalist nephew last fall, when the subject of religion came up, and I think I said that I'm probably more Atheist than anything else. But it was only — at that time — a rumination, a fragment plucked from a much larger conversation. Context is so important!

And as themes have a habit of swirling up and becoming a greater part of any picture, this one took an incredibly moving turn today, when J., a co-worker, asked for feedback on an email. The back story: he'd made an offer to donate something (having to do with the arts) on Craigslist,  and one of his responses came from Seattle's Union Gospel Mission, an organization which provides food, beds and other support to the homeless and mentally ill.

J., also raised Catholic, is an avowed Pagan, and, not being one to mince words, wrote this to the UGM representative:

While your program seems very worthy, I am having trouble justifying giving to Union Gospel Mission — would you be so kind as to explain how Pagans, Atheists,, other non-christians [lower case "c" intentional], as well as gay, lesbian, and trans individuals fit into your goal to "Create an environment where homeless men and women can safely create, access, and explore their narrative understanding of God, self and other"?

The response from UGM :

"That's a great question. I can see that your experience with people who call themselves Christians has been really hurtful and why you would be hesitant to donate to a mission who uses similar language. I don't know if I can do your question justice without understanding exactly what you're speaking to because I am as saddened at these realities as you are, which is one of the reasons why I started this [Arts] program.I don't know if I can necessarily make sense of some of the longstanding injustice, but I can tell you what we are about at this mission.....

I believe the true heart of why many Christians hold stances of hatred and oppression is because they have never looked what they judge in the face and heard their stories and seen their beauty. It is easy to judge from afar and much harder to judge a face. My job and the heart of this program is to advocate for men and women who have been dismissed because of their differences to those who would rather stand far off and make judgements. So here is my challenge: don't be what you hate, J., If you must judge, judge a face not a generalization. I think you may be surprised by what you see."

Having heard J.'s part of the story prior to the email, I did not expect this balanced and loving reply. How could I have heard a better lesson than this? There I was, fuming and ranting all week at my slap-dash Atheist label, when my negative reaction was no better than the act which precipitated it.

So whether or not I'm an Atheist really isn't important, from a larger stance. Whether or not my nephew and sibling are Christian Fundamentalists really shouldn't be important either. The challenge is to create a world/universe where gay, lesbian, trans, Atheist, Christian, Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist, Mormon etc. individuals "can safely create, access and explore their narrative understanding of God, self and other."

Shouldn't that be enough?

Is it enough to remind me to step down from my soapbox long enough to hear what my sibling has to say? To really listen, and not judge?

One thing is certain: life's lessons continue to enrich and expand my daily living. May I always be so fortunate to be reminded of the power of love when I'm least likely to be on the hunt for it.

A deep silence has overtaken me, most words typed onto this space appear to be precious or ridiculously self-indulgent.

Mid-summer melancholy.

Could just be the heads-down-get-the-job-done pace at work, where our only retail show of the year starts in two weeks. (Egads. Did I really just write that?) We're squeezing-in a few lingering June orders, while all of July has been filed away until August. Trying not to let these glorious July mornings, evenings go unnoticed. The scented air intoxicates — this morning a balmy breeze wafted through my upstairs windows and it smelled green & yellow. Do scents have colors?

My kiwi and grape vines  — an unlikely pairing — are doing their annual twining-duet, and I've suggested to them (with the help of cording and some twisted wire) that they extend across my patio from their trellis to the falling-down garage, and they argue mightily against my urgings. One kiwi tendril actually turned back after being twisted to the cord: outright refusal to follow the desires of the gardener!

We've had quiet words, and although there is obviously a reluctance afoot (a-vine?), finally they've begun their airborne trek, their loops and twirls around the two cords strung from east to west.

And once again, from my balcony, my front (and only) row seat of Big Sky Sunset.

Pass the popcorn.

An absence, a lingering silence.

Lear in Rain

All day the clouds stayed too high for rain.
All day we pretended summer, July, Northern Hemisphere.
64 degrees.

Sweater weather.

On the way to the park for King Lear at the amphitheater (picnic, blanket, wine) I mentioned oh-so-daringly that I thought the rain would hold off for the evening. And apparently my words worked a hex on the weather, for the moment we stepped foot from the car, the first benign summer drops descended.

At the foot of the hill, below the concrete benches, actors guided human-sized puppets in pre-show ventriloquism. One held a banana on a plate: unclaimed offering. Live music — though I couldn't quite see the handful of musicians behind a stage set. Umbrellas in plaids and polka-dots, in reds and stripes provided slim shelter to the assembled audience.

We layed out our blanket beneath a hemlock tree, poured thimble-sized glasses of Pinot Grigio, heaped throw-away plates with chicken and salad. I donned my fleece jacket. Settled.

And couldn't hear a thing.

Fifteen minutes later the rain eased, so we packed it all up and migrated closer to the action. Again unfolded the blanket, again set out the plates and our dinner. And the rain kicked up: again! Hoods pulled over heads, ready to endure the best that Seattle can offer on July 2nd. And besides, skin is waterproof.

At that moment an uncostumed man walked out from back of the stage, interrupted, asked for everyone's attention, and said with regret that he had to end tonight's performance because the floor of their makeshift stage (a giant blue plastic tarp) wasn't safe for his cast.

Well. Damn.

So again we packed it all up and set up camp #3, this time in view of the eagle's nest, under a sheltering pine, and finished our picnic.

Lying face-up I could watch raindrops fall at right angles to my eyes — and not too many raindrops, thanks to the criss-cross of branches above. Have I said that I find rain falling from the sky to be exquisitely beautiful?

So while much of the country swelters in 100-degree+ temperatures, we discovered unplanned pleasure in fleece and a picnic in the rain.

Welcome summer!

Tuesday Poem: Sharing the Apple

Sharing the Apple

You know the story: Eve

and all her charms, that sweet allure

beyond resistance. Even so, Adam lived —

ripely — to the age of 930.

But who could deny that sizzle?  — You

certainly do not refuse

when I extend my hand, apple-full,

my contribution to decadence

savored since Eden.

And biting in, the flavor

a shiver of surprise. You offer

the apple back, and I accept.

Bite for bite we pass

the ephemeral fruit from hand

to hand, conscious of the hunger

created by this simple act:

your mouth, mine.

And later, all our sugars dissolved,

the trailing of core and seed

scattered, I'll recall

how you met me full-lipped

and greedy for that first surrender,

first taste of temptation.

© T. Clear 1999
originally appeared in Heliotrope

Live from match.com

You know you're in trouble when, at the first in-the-flesh glance, you start planning your exit.

This morning's breakfast-date lasted 48 minutes too long. I felt like I was in high school and someone's mom had fixed me up with one of "the quiet boys". Not that there's anything wrong with quiet boys! But looking at online profiles of prospective suitors and exchanging emails can't even begin to compare to a face-to-face. (This morning I almost did an about-face.)

Today's "match" was twitchy and a little bit feminine, with no apparent sense of humor. Didn't seem to know quite how to wear his clothes. Odd. I'm going to dredge up a word that I rarely hear these days: ineffectual.

All kinds of things go through one's head when one is out on the 21st-century version of a blind date, as you can imagine. All I could think of this morning was the word "NO!" And again, "NO!"

After gulping down my eggs and crepe, two cups of coffee and bacon, I slid my chair out and made the move to the door, thanked him for breakfast, and offered no words of encouragement. Couldn't wait to get in my car and back to my own life.