Straw-dirt floor, dull eyes,
Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;
Crumbling, crooked walls;
No bed to carry that pain,
And then, the child,
Rag-wrapped, laid to cry
In a trough.
Who would have chosen this?
Who would have said: “Yes,
Let the God of all the heavens and earth
be born here, in this place.” ?
Who but the same God
Who stands in the darker, fouler rooms of our hearts
and says, “Yes, let the God
of Heaven and Earth
be born here —-
in this place.”
By Leslie Leyland Fields
I’m in trouble! A mysterious injury is causing me to limp. Has been causing me to step gingerly. My other foot protested at the extra work and is now on strike. It is hard to limp when both feet are involved. And this morning an old shoulder injury has asserted itself with a twang.
If my mother were here, she would have given me some kind and wise advice. Something so simple and practical that I wouldn’t have thought of it myself if I lived to be 100.
If my dad were here he would have said, “growing old is for the birds!”
If my brother were here he would have made me laugh at myself, my foot, and life in general.
And if my sister were here, she would have regaled me with her own woeful tales and then added by way of explanation, “old, old, old!”
I miss those voices but I hear them still.
I’ve just come to the realization that the timer on my dryer is exactly like the timer at a hockey game! The minutes remaining are never really the minutes remaining. There is math and mystery about them both.
Herons are big birds. Their silhouette is somehow gawky and graceful at the same time. They are usually so easy to spot, poised in place like lawn ornaments gone rogue. But sometimes they are completely missing in action. Camouflage holds sway. Is that a graceful neck bending or a dead tree limb? Legs or reeds? Finding a heron can be like a game of Where’s Waldo.
I turned into a parking spot as close to the entry as possible. Hooray! Let joy be undiminished! Fling wide the door! We are at the pool.
And that’s when we noticed the very long school bus swing up as close to the entry as possible and fling wide IT’S door. Children poured out in an unending stream. It made me think of those old skits where people are climbing into a car on one side and clambering out the other or like a magician pulling an endless scarf from his sleeve.
As we entered the pool, so likewise did an astonishing throng. Extra lifeguards were on duty. They even brought in trainees!
The deep end was elbow to elbow. The shallow zone, a giant splash and shriek zone.
Optimistically , three lanes down the center were preserved until like soldiers breaching the castle wall, children gained a lane and another until a lone lane remained. But what a lovely lane it was. One long stretch of empty beckoning water. Chaos to the right and chaos to the left but before and behind was room to glide and turn and float and breathe.
“Why do you think butterflies fly like that?” I ask my granddaughter as a white butterfly zigzags overhead. “I don’t know,” she says, pondering. “It makes them more noticeable.” It does! And I love that about butterflies. They ride the breeze, delicate as breath, strong as a heartbeat, silent as light.
They may be silent but they say quite clearly, “ I’m here! No, here! Hey! Up here! Good-bye!”
We noticed the first photographer because his car, emblazoned with his photography business name was an amazing metallic rose. A second photographer was parked nearby. They were clearly waiting. A wedding we figured. It can be hard to pin down exact times where groups of people are involved. In time, two more photographers arrived. Gadzooks! How big would a wedding be to need four photographers?
On cue, two large busses wheeled into the parking lot and an amazing flood of fabulously dressed party goers poured out.
The women were so wondrously dressed we weren’t sure we would spot the bride but there she was all gold and glitter and grace.
Family members grouped for pictures and regrouped, their joking and laughter a celebration in itself.
As we stood at the pond’s edge, bird song swirled in and out of focus. Was that a Cedar Waxwing? My husband’s phone knew. He has the Merlin app and a roll call began to blink on and off. Chickadee, Robin, Redwinged Blackbird, Cedar Waxwing, Swainson’s Thrush. It was like an orchestra warming up.
A Mallard mother skimmed along the surface of the pond as though pulled by a string. She looked straight ahead. Nary a feather ruffled. She was followed by nine little ducklings. They swam in every direction at once and yet somehow ended up at the same destination as their mother. She seemed to do a head count before leading them into a narrow channel and out of sight.
We followed a swallowtail back to the parking lot.
Do you ever find letting your mind choose a path of thought is like choosing what’s behind door one or door two…or three; not just risky but perilous. Last night I slammed so many doors shut that I tried mindfulness in desperation. That lead inevitably to thankfulness and oh joy, sleep at long last.
Be careful with time travel late at night.
Flickers have such a distinctive flight pattern. In fact, your mind will shout Woodpecker before your eyes have a chance to cry out, flicker!
I’m having a Madame Mim hair day. Yesterday the morning mirror startled me with the likeness of a dandelion gone to seed.
Hair is like a cat. We think it is tame but it does whatever it wants to do.
Have you ever noticed how edible the slang referring to money sounds? Kale, lettuce and cabbage have all referred to green bills. Clams, cake, cheese, cream and even honey can all mean money. People save their dough, spend their bread, get their cheddar, are worth their salt and bring home the bacon.
I had expected time to trickle slowly by so arrived armed with a crochet hook and a ball of yarn. I took a seat and when I had exhausted the reading material on the walls and my inner conversation ground to a halt, I plucked my yarn and hook out of my bag and began to crochet. There was a steady hum of activity all around as the door opened and closed and people came and went, came and went and I crocheted on. An elderly woman entered the room and sat beside me. She watched my fingers moving and my hook flashing. She reached out and squeezed the ball of yarn. I held up my project and said, “it’s a granny square. “. And then added, “and I’M a granny!” I don’t know if she understood my words but her eyes seemed to suddenly sparkle with something….courage perhaps, because she reached over and took the crocheting from my hands, yarn, hook and all and began to feverishly crochet. It seemed as though the waiting room inhaled in unison. “One, one?” She asked. “Yes,” I said nodding and holding up one finger. “One stitch between, two here. Two at the corner.”
“Good, good?”she asked holding the crocheting up for my approval. “Oh yes, very good,” I agreed.
She handed back the granny square and I showed her pictures on my phone of a baby quilt I had recently finished. And some crocheted purses. And my husband carving. She pointed to her foot and cradled an imaginary baby. Baby booties! “No,” I admitted. No baby booties yet.
Aren’t kindred spirits a wonder?
Do you think Santa is out of sorts in January? You know, overtired, discouraged by commercialism, strained back….
I’m only asking because I think I saw him shopping with Mrs Claus today at Freshco and he was pretty grouchy. He kind of cheered me up (just as you would expect Santa to) Here was someone shopping who was feeling grouchier than me. Poor guy. It made me want to go home and bake him a cake.
Because my husband and I weren’t born yet when What's My Line was a weekly game show, we have been cranking back the hands of time and increasing our knowledge of the 50’s at the same time by watching reruns on YouTube. Isn’t YouTube a boon to mankind?
The host and panel members of What’s My Line dressed in marvellous specimens of fashions of the decade. Glamorous gowns and beehive hairstyles. Evening suits with bow ties. Even the odd tux. It’s worth watching just to see the fabulous dresses and hair piled high!
The host was a paragon; articulate and droll, funny and gallant. His name was John Daly (He had four sons all named John! Sort of like Dr Seuss and his Thing One and Thing Two. It’s good they had middle names to fall back on)
I think while watching, we are learning things we never knew. A variation of educational entertainment and history on rewind.
I nearly joined Mary Poppins today. As I climbed out of my car, wind instantly inflated my unzipped jacket. I grabbed the top of the door and hung on. Up, up and away.
“It’s not HOT hot,” my husband says, handing me a mug of tea. “It’s just hot,” he adds by way of clarifying.
I like to plump up three pillows and settle in amongst my quilts like a chicken in a nest box. A ball or two of yarn, a crochet hook and time is my friend. There always comes that jolt back into reality though, whence I bundle up yarn and scissors and stow them away for later. Later is usually the next day, and twice now, as I’ve shaken out my quilt while making the bed in the morning, a crochet hook has appeared before my unbelieving eyes. Whaaaaaaaa??!!
Today, instead of a crochet hook, the light reflected off of a rather large darning needle giving a fresh take on the old adage, “like finding a needle in a haystack.”
It was hard on my hands to work with that bulk but it created such a wonderfully thick and cushy feeling underfoot.
But alas, when I placed my first quarter done on the floor I found the door would not open over it. Drat? Too thick!
I pulled from two balls this time and started in again. But this time, the pattern was my undoing. Basket weave is inherently bulky. And thick. Too thick. Drat again!
I tried again, with two strands and single crochet. But by now my door was wary. It caught the rug here and there. It fretted and fussed. "Three strikes, you're out," I declared to my yarn stash.
I made tote bags instead.
My granddaughter showed me a picture of a pink sweater she liked. Isn't it a gift when someone shares with you their likes and dislikes?
This sweater was a charmer, with clusters of crocheted cherries scattered over it. Isn't a child's wish a siren call to spring into action?
It took a few months to find a pink sweater that was the right color. Isn't pink a happy color?
And it took a little longer to crochet cherries and leaves. Isn't it exhilarating to learn something new?
And a little longer to stitch them on in just the right spots? Isn't it strange that it takes planning to make things look randomly placed?
