Cath, etc.

Blue Time

  

Blue time, my favorite time, I bid thee farewell.

On winter mornings, you beckon me, urging me to breathe deeply at first light,

for it is in your beguiling beauty that I find the courage to face the frigid day.

In the evenings, you swallow me, wrapping me in your intensity.

And as always, you summon me to the window.

I follow, hypnotized, your magic glow bending me at the knees.

I shout, "Blue time!" to anyone who will listen

And we all look, no matter where we are in the house,

grateful for the pause that links us to our intrinsic realm,

appreciative of the gift you are to our lives.

And yet, as much as I love you, and my love for you is deep,

I am ready to leave you behind.

I am eager to exchange you

for the hope that lies in a springtime sky,

the promise that's held in a whisper of green,

the potential that lives in a shock of blossoms,

and the assurance that thrives in a  magpie's nest.

Until next winter, when you will be strong again--rest well, my friend.

 

And so will I.

 

Finding Sanctuary in Solitude

Seeking sanctuary, I went to the desertland Oh great comfort, Solitude, I wish you to cleanse me with your silence.

Saturated with exhaustion, I endeavored to alleviate a flat, numb, dull ache that has persisted since early this year I greet you with hope clutching cynicism, yet.

The economy spiraling downward with the intensity at work I am yearning for a cadence that seems familiar.

Fighting a tiredness beyond that in recent memory where is my Muse? she can't be far from home.

I hiked and hiked, each step a prayer towards wholeness I give myself to you my solitary friend.

Amidst a chilling wind and striking hail singing how I give myself to you my solitary friend.

I breathed in deeply, a fair exchange of fresh with stagnant Air you feed my blood my heart my life

And hiked another mile beyond my brink I need to bury this malaise before I leave

While  a new fatigue washed through me as I succombed I give myself to you my patient friend.

And a quiet posture glanced at me at last Oh Rest I bid you come before the dawn.

As the sage bloomed bluer than a twilight sky you are the very harbinger of joy.

And cradled me in silence while I cried I am your long lost child please help me home.

If Prayers Were Butterflies

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If prayers were butterflies I'd build you a menagerie with my own two hands

With mitered corners, solid soldering, leaded glass, its framing painted as white as the snow

As each prayer is uttered, this garden of nectar would fill with monarchs and swallowtails and painted ladies and Karner blues

Who would flit from one dewy blossom to another, drinking in the nourishment that sustains them

Each one shimmering with the grace and beauty contained within the heartfelt entreaty that was its creation.

On cloudy days (such as this one), you could enter the conservatory, sit upon the sturdy bench I crafted especially for  you

Lean against its embroidered cushions, sip the glass of red I placed nearby, while noticing the handkerchief with a fine crocheted edge

With your name stitched in cursive in the corner.

It is there for all  the tears you have not yet shed

While the butterflies approach, one by one, each leaving its kiss on your cheek

A soft, hopeful whisper,

An appeal for wholeness,

The nourishment you need to sustain you--

A prayer bestowed by a butterfly.

Deliverance

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I start growing mold sometime right around February.

By now I'm starting to disperse spores.

Winter's blanket, tight, wet, and heavy, envelops me in a sheath of rankish darkness as I squint in what light there is before 7 am, my breath a lonely ghost, humidified.

In spite of the dank stillness, my fingernails crack and split. I wonder will they ever be the same?

The mold settles in gradually, as it is wont to do, attaching itself to the folds in my neck, beneath my cuticles, behind my ears. It grows slowly as the days lengthen by the smallest of fractions, the sun a stranger in its frigid horizon. And through the sun's abandonment, the mold creeps ever closer, crawling inside, inching towards my brain--its pervasive grip, smothering.

It does not smell, this moldy crust, and I am grateful for that. But don't let that fool you. Its powers lie elsewhere.

As it feeds, it secretes anxiety and an unknown chemical that causes colors to dim. It initiates a general malaise that is followed by entropy which in turn causes more of the vitriolic fungi to multiply and strengthen its grip.

In it, a vicious, turbulent, downward cycle full of vinegar and venom.

Until today.

When I felt the endorphin rush of a good, energetic workout, the release in a good conversation with a close friend, and the implied warmth of a bright, dependable sun shining brilliantly in a robin's egg sky.

8 more days of February. 8 more days until the promise of spring and the hope that is sunlight.

8 more days until deliverance.

Delight in Being Aware

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I have lived on the same spot of land for 13 ½ years now. Mark and I moved into the little yellow house with a wrap-around porch a week after we got married. I had spent 4 ½ years in an apartment as a single mom of two little girls, Mark in a condo. We wanted a place with a yard, where the girls, then 9 and 6, could run and play and dig--and where we could establish ourselves as a family.

We reclaimed gardens, we put in a fence. We moved shrubs, we planted an aspen grove, we built a firepit. We raked the leaves, mowed the lawn, built arbors and garden structures, and installed bird feeders. We tore down inadequate decks and rebuilt them to suit our insatiable need for the outdoors.

When we are lucky, we still see an occasional pheasant in the front shrubs, or a fox steal across the road, or a deer in a nearby pasture. And we delight in the flocks of geese that fly overhead at dawn and dusk from August to November—and know that it will be a sad day indeed when they no longer come.

In the summertime, we live on the porch, moving from space to space as the sunlight shifts with the passing hours. In the winter, we live in the hot tub—the only place to comfortably watch the sunset turn from gold to pink to periwinkle in the shrinking twilight, the silhouettes of the giant cottonwood and the silo behind, sentinels to the coming of night.

Today I noticed that the mourning doves are back, wondering if they are yet preparing for another brood. The magpies squawk throughout winter and I will admit I hope they choose not to nest in our trees again this spring—the six babies we hosted two springs ago were raucous enough, though we will take our turn if the front pines prove suitable once again.

Soon, we will rejoice in the return of the robins, their hesitant babies nestled in a snug nest, tight in the crook of the blue spruce; and later we’ll see Fred and Betty the hummingbirds, flitting from the honeysuckle to the Rose of Sharon to the trumpet vine—our yard and garden being home to much more than a family, but to an entire system, knowing that the delight is in the awareness; being conscious that it is ever there.

Good-bye, Sister Simple

I'm not quite sure what to write except the Simple truth.

Simple Scrapbooks is closing its doors. Some of its content and its message will be absorbed by Creating Keepsakes, Paper Crafts' sister publication.

Paper Crafts has always been the little sister of Simple Scrapbooks and Creating Keepsakes. We were born 5 years ago, the youngest of the three titles.

Sister publications. I've been using that term for 3 1/2 years now. What does it mean, exactly, to have a sister publication?

Does it mean, like sisters, we fight with each other, in spite of each other, yet always for one other?

Does it mean that we have common parentage with a similar genetic structure and family history?

And yet, does each sister have its own personality, its own set of friends, but nights when it's OK to tag along at the movies?

Does birth order come into the way we play our roles?

Does it mean you can question how much is nature, how much nurture?

If you are sister publications does it mean that sometimes you have to share a bedroom?

When our parents ail, do we band together to take care of them, and will the eldest sister take a leadership role?

Does it mean that sometimes you get to paint each others' nails, roll one anothers' hair, and stay up all night talking about your boyfriends?

When one of us is in trouble, do we wrap our arms around her and find a way to make her whole?

And if that fails, will we grieve and mourn together, creating a stronger bond?

I am missing my sister.

An untimely death. The loss of so much potential. The loss of so many talented people and their livelihoods. The loss of such a creative, engaging product that is so loved.

I am still in shock. Denial is next. Then bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance.

It's hard to imagine that any of us will ever get to that last one. But I suppose, with time, like it or not, it'll come.

Rest well, sister Simple. Everything about you will be so missed.

In a Nutshell

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Home sick with the flu today, my feverish body oscillating wildly between chilling cold and sweating hot, the headache swelling in my head like a sponge soaking up a spill, and my throat feeling like it had been opened by hot knives, I found myself on Facebook. I uploaded photos and tagged others, the only activity that my brain could tackle as my body combatted the virus that had infiltrated my system.

And in it, a discovery. I found my way to an old high school friend, and the reminiscing commenced. Not so much in the conversation that we had with one another, but in my torrid mind. You reacquaint yourself with someone you haven't seen or talked with in such a long time and it's amazing how quickly your life flashes in front of your very eyes. Suddenly I'm 17 and remembering the crush I had on him and the way he could play the tenor sax melting your heart like butter and the time I drove 80 miles per hour to Salt Lake to get us to an All State rehearsal on time because I had overslept and the time I saw him again in the hallway of Kingsbury Hall when we were going to different colleges and then I'm remembering it all--when Mary died, participating in all those election campaigns, and AP this and AP that, and Shelley and Jill and Antje and Karlene and Debbie and Meta and Carol and Peter and Clark and John and Mr. Peterson and William Clark Bartley and Miss DeHart and that girl I was all the way back then. I hardly recognize her but she's such an important part of who I am today.

What have you been up to in the last 25 years, he asks?

Well, my goodness. There goes my life before my very eyes again.

Well, I say, the short version is this:

Got married to husband #1 in 1983. Graduated from the U in 1986 and had Nicole a couple of weeks later. Had Beccah in 1988. Got divorced in 1991. Single-mommed-it until 1995 when I got very happily married. Taught middle school English and creative writing in SLC for a total of 10 years, quit teaching due to burn-out, started my own business in 2003, became an editor of a magazine in 2005--a job I love. I played my clarinet all through college and taught private lessons while I was a single mom, but haven't done much with it since. I've lived in Draper for 13 years and have been very happy raising my family here. Nicole graduated from the U last May with a degree in environmental studies and Beccah is pursuing a degree in photography. That's my life since 1981 in a nutshell, I say.

In a nutshell.

If you put your life in a nutshell, it's not only compact, it's divided. In a peanut, for example, there is the shell, the two compartments, the skin, and then the nuts, and even those nuts can split into two pieces. Because I haven't really talked to him since high school, I only told him the things that made up the shell. I didn't divide the compartments, reveal the skin, and I certainly didn't reveal the fruit. For what makes a life? There is the nutshell and then there is all the stuff underneath.

In other words, what are we OK with revealing, to whom, why, and under what circumstances?

To whit:  how is a friend on Facebook different from someone reading this blog? I would not tell my friend all the things there are to tell about my life if he finds me on Facebook, but if he were to happen upon my blog he would know it all.

It's interesting, this Facebook. Without it, I had been going along in my life quite happily not ever having the occasion to sum up my life in a nutshell. And yet, I find Facebook most valuable when it offers me an opportunity to get in touch with someone I probably wouldn't have otherwise-- someone who connects me to my distant past and makes it come alive again. And more often than not, that all has to begin with the nutshell.

And yet, he's given me his life in a nutshell as well. And in it, I found we had more in common than I originally could have known. So maybe getting in touch again with old classmates helps us all to realize that though our lives are completely different, they're more the same than we ever knew, and probably have been all along.

That's it. In a nutshell.

Especially

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Frazzled from your hour-and-forty-minute commute home,

70 minutes longer than normal,

An unwelcome stressor, worse than the first day back after a two-week vacation

The drive-buzz in your veins lingering past

Our dinner of hot turkey sandwiches with squishy white bread, smashed potatoes, and fake gravy

And eager hellos from your glad dog-pal who has been waiting , patiently,

Since you left early this morning.

I waited for you, too, my own blissfully short commute not so troublesome.

I baked banana bread, its goodness rising in the oven

Wrapping you in home with the swing-open of the door as you are hit

With the the smell of it, the very knowledge of it, the anticipation of it.

I take you in my arms

Grateful for your safety,

And for our togetherness again at the end of a long day

Happy for these walls that contain this love we share

Especially with the snow,

The wind,

The cold.

Especially.

Changes

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...are shifting the balance in my life.

Again.

Nicole has found herself a cute little studio apartment in Sugarhouse, a hip suburb in our fair city. Tonight will likely be her last night as a resident in our home.

It's the way of things.

She needs her space. We need ours. I never realized how accustomed Mark and I had gotten to our empty nest. After never having had time alone as a couple before we got married, we've fallen into an easy, comfortable, and quite wonderful groove.

She is a little hesitant, not knowing if she's going to enjoy living alone. I am a little jealous, never having had that kind of time to myself before I became a wife the first time around. But so happy for her--my sweet career girl with her now bike-to-able job and her little walk-to-able community and her quaint little apartment with an extra room surrounded by windows and a patio off the front where she'll grow her herbs and tomatoes.

We will miss her.

Beccah has moved in with her boyfriend of two years. They're living in the basement of his sister's house 45 minutes away. She's learning all kinds of things about life and relationships, love and compromise. And so am I, because she is teaching me--my sweet creative daughter so full of life and love and happiness in her basement roost with a plush couch and his and hers sides of the living room--one side for art, the other for guitars.

We miss her.

Our other child of thirteen years--Scout, the dog--is showing some stark, tell-tale signs of age, just in the last couple of weeks. His ability to hear has diminished as he doesn't respond to his name when you talk to him just a few feet away and he no longer comes scurrying when he hears a morsel of food drop to the floor. He's losing control of his bladder and his back legs. He doesn't want to catch the frisbee anymore. We discovered today that the blood tests the vet ran last week show signs of renal insufficiency. We discuss the ramifications with her tomorrow.

We will miss him when it's time.

For in this process of paths unfolding, we lose our children for a time. They become unfamiliar to us perhaps because they are unfamiliar to themselves. Until, as directions are chosen, followed to a dead-end or a shining opportunity, paths correct themselves and a balance is achieved in which, like Goldilocks, everyone recognizes intuitively that the desitination feels harmoniously ideal.

And so, soon we'll find that Nicole is happy living alone or not. We'll find that Beccah is happy living with her boyfriend or not. And we'll find what's in store for Scout, the most magnificent family dog.

Change is inevitable. It is the one thing we can count on in this life.

And through it all, Mark and I cling to each other, knowing that we are the one thing we can count on as the world swirls around us and changes take place that are beyond our control.

I am lucky to have him. We are lucky to have each other, ever knowing full well that even that could change on a dime.

The Meaning of Christmas

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A week ago tonight, the ice storm hit. Bringing rain, freezing rain, sleet, and snow, it spanned all of New England and upstate New York leaving over a million people without power for days on end.

Including my brother, his wife, and their three children.

When you are without power in this part of the world, you also are not just without lights, but you are also without water and heat. Your water comes from a well that is run by electricity. Your furnace is fueled by oil that is turned on by electricity. Without a generator, it's a triple threat.

Having been through severe storms there before, my sister-in-law, Maria, had the foresight to fill both tubs full of water before it hit. This is so that they could flush their toilets. This water ran out after Day 3. Fortunately, the fire station in town had water available. She and the kids would grab every container available and fill them up. At least it was warm in the car.

Later she learned she could drain the water in her water heater and use that.

Taking advantage of the wood burning fireplace in the living room, they would hang a sheet in between there and the kitchen to keep as much heat in as possible. Even still, one morning it got down to 42 degrees. The day it hit 55 and melted all the ice, they opened the windows. It was warmer outside than it was in the house.

They heated water over the fire and ate Cup o' Noodles.

They heated water over the fire and put it in the cage with Twizzler, the pet bird, to help him stay warm.

They ate a lot of Pop Tarts.

When the food in the freezer thawed, they grilled what they could on the propane barbecue.

The first day included a lot of organizing and gearing up. The second and third days were adventuresome for the sheer novelty of it. The fourth day it was starting to get old and Eric took Olivia, the twelve-year-old, to work with him where they had not lost power.

By the fifth day, it was getting more than old. The perishables were going bad, no one had showered, and they were tired of being so cold all the time.

During the days, the kids, home from a school that was without power as well, would make up games and play with Twizzler. They didn't miss TV. They did miss the computer.

At night, Maria would read to the kids by candlelight. Each night she read a different chapter from a Laura Ingalls Wilder book, and always the chapter that took place at Christmastime. It was amazing how easy it was to connect to their simple yet difficult lifestyle.

On Day 6, Maria was starting to get quite concerned about Christmas and all that was not getting done. Her mom was flying in in two days, and she was worried about her comfort if this continued. The official word was that it could go on until the upcoming weekend.

The neighbors had left on Day 2 for a hotel in Boston.

This was never an option for my brother's family. Maria put it this way, "We all really pulled together and it was a good thing for the family.  And now approaching Christmas, we are so grateful and appreciative of the things we have and of beautiful Christmas lights and warmth.  I think it will make for an especially memorable holiday."

And though her mom didn't have to bring a store of D batteries and her own toilet-flushing water, Maria sensed that she was a tad disappointed to be missing out on the Great Adventure.

I believe that my brother's family will be asking Santa for a generator this year, but the true spirit of Christmas is alive and well in their home in this blessed season of love, gratitude, and peace.

May the true spirit of Christmas be ours to share with those we love this holiday season.

And may we not have to learn this by being without power for 7 days beforehand.