bring help

My sisters visit me every fall. The heat of summer has mellowed by then into brisk morning air and golden afternoons. Golden, lazy afternoons when the whole world breaths more slowly.
As they sat, drowsily surveying the kingdom, they noticed a squirrel hasten out of the tangle of garden and head straight for the pumpkins.
Squirrels are everywhere in the fall, gathering things and burying things.
Not pumpkins though.
Right?

Not unless they think it is really a giant nut.
A giant golden nut.
The mother lode of all mother lodes.
Sure enough, the squirrel put both paws on the pumpkin.
Nope.
Couldn't roll it.
It put both front paws and then both feet on the pumpkin, spread out like a furry little starfish.
Nope.
Couldn't lift it.
That pumpkin wouldn't budge.
Not even a smidge.
Why in the world would a squirrel think it could lift a pumpkin, the size of a beach ball?
It gave it a try though.
Maybe next time it'll bring help.

cool eh?

You'll NEVER guess what I saw in town yesterday!.
Right on the sidewalk as though it had just been to the pharmacy.
I'll give you some clues to see if you can guess.
It was an animal all brown and wild and famous for its teeth, or maybe its tail.
Think Canadian nickel.
Timberrrrrrrrrrrr!
Yep.
It was a beaver.
A genuine Canadian beaver.

Even in the middle of town, it really wasn't far to the tangled bottom of a creek bed.
Just a few shuffles and it could slip off the sidewalk and into a maze of fallen trees and branches.
Back to water and back to work.
Pretty cool eh?

routinely

A part of me craves routine and a part of me rebels at the mere thought of it.
The routine I crave is really the small rituals of daily life that add meaning.
I remember my in-laws when I think of this.
They always set the table a certain way.
A slow, methodically wondrous way.
They were seniors by the time I knew them.
Perhaps the slow and steady wisdom of age was partly responsible.
I loved it though.
The woven basket with slices of brown bread AND fruit bread.
The pale blue, milk glass sugar bowl, its rim worn thin by the passage of time and spoon handles.
I imagine my life is made up of similarly small ritual and routine but I just don't notice it because I'm part of the story.
It makes me think of something I read once.
A girl was complaining, "We don't have any Christmas traditions. We just do everything the same way every year."
While there is a certain comfort and even wisdom in routine and ritual, there is an equal joy and even benefit to flying by the seat of your pants, to spontaneity.
It's the balance of the two that is so individual.
Have you ever noticed that you only truly feel at home.....at home?
It doesn't mean that home couldn't be more serenely ordered, or more joyously filled with creative comforts because there is always room for change.
Change is good.
Routine is wonderful but change is good.

solid ground

Our car stalled in traffic, our truck wouldn't start and our dishwasher spewed water onto the kitchen floor.
Oh, and our throats are scratchy too.
Trouble tends to run in packs doesn't it?

My sister is my Crisis Line.
A conversation with her brings me back from the brink.
Puts my feet on solid ground.
Sends me back into the game.

watching

Sunrise is a limited time offer.
Watching the light climb the grand staircase of clouds is exhilarating.
A blush of apricot.
A silvered jet stream.
Trees, darkly etched against the morning sky.

Cars pull out of driveways.
A seagull sails by on arched brow wings.
And in the distance, crows fill the sky like paper blowing in the wind.

A wavering line of geese, and another.
Somewhere, the world lies frozen in winter and somewhere else, the hot hand of summer touches all.
But here in January we try to cling to all the seasons.
At the same time.
We revel in the sunlight and boast of sweater days.
We dream of snow and fly our kites above the grassy fields.

sky aflame

Sunrise in the winter is at such a respectable time of day.
I sat before the window this morning and reveled in the changing sky. It was better than fireworks.
Distant mountains, denim blue.
Lavender clouds, edged in molten orange.
And then a great swath of orange.
Orange all above.
All around.
A sky on fire.
And on the morning breeze, a crow, and another, wheeling against the sky aflame.

want to

My last post was originally much longer.
But it didn't really say what I was feeling.
So I saved just a fragment.
It has been accusing me ever since.
It's still not right.
Not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I'm not so sure about focus.
Sometimes my life feels like a book, and I'm at the part readers skim over.
There ARE magical things to try and I love that.
I'm grateful for that and inspired by that.
It's just that I have this feeling...

Life rushes along.
It dips and turns and bends.
Sometimes I am just hanging on for dear life.
Did I miss my corner somewhere along the journey?
Was there a signpost I didn't see?
When I was young, I always felt that something great was just within my grasp.
That my vision would clear and I would know just what I should be doing with my life.
And as I got older the feeling changed.
It felt more like compressed energy.
Like being at the starting line, waiting with every muscle tensed.....
Its not that I crave success in the traditional sense of the word.
But I want to live a life of passion.
And effort.
And focus.