Still Life '77

A regular morning here

But there cows heaved,

bacon sizzled.

A Zane Gray western splayed the floor.

The Today Show thump-tinkled the air.

The backdoor slammed; the barnboots thumped.

Heavy steps circled the skillet -- time to get up.

Small woman, big man, uncertain girls and boy

Rounding the silent table, nameless shames, sounds.

We grabbed homework, trumpet cases, track shoes,

Jumped off the porch, intercepted Bus number 3

Horse-stumbling-hard up the blacktop hill.

A driver, silent farm kids, bus-pus smells.

We were driven off to dump in town,

struggle with science, be tormented

By loves, learn how differently others live,

Expand our views, or contract the flu.

Behind we left the small woman, big man,

Lots of dogs, bones in the yard, cow moos, house

creaking, bacon sizzling, sounds of shoes 

leaving and still-living 1977.

TWW

Into the depths courtesy of Earl Scruggs

A banjo rolling; the sounds of crickets; the women chattering; the children screaming and laughing; the banjo rolling; the guitar G runs; the mandolin chortling; the fiddle tying it up; the tenor reaching the full moon; the banjo rolling.

My dad played Earl Scruggs style; he would sit and play over and over the above album; he would listen to the licks; he would work them and work them. Then during the afore-described music parties, he'd roll his banjo like Earl. We kids would be in someone's yard playing Red Rover or Chicken or lay-in-the-ditch-and-jump-up-when-a-car-comes-by-and-wave-and-scream. The women would be talking about us in the living room, our problems and stages. The men would be beating their tapping feet on the kitchen, instruments and ears poised, smiling, smiling, singing, singing, diving into the root depths, plunging, swimming, swimming.

It would get late. The moon would be high. We kids would have eaten all the cookies allowed; we would have played all the games imaginable; we would have started drifting indoors, hoping our fathers would notice, hanging on the edges of their circle. But, they would remained sitting with fingers flying and smiles smiling, and Earl Scruggs licks zipping. Finally, a guitar player would slow it down and begin to wail, "You spurned the love, I gave you darlin'. A love you once was proud to own . . . ." A midnight desire made public, crying confession; our feet would sink into a chair or a carpet space; our eyes would fight and suffer as our Dad would not notice us. He was overboard now in slowed down songs, the sadness of lost love, stabbed love, love of blue eyes now with someone new.

Finally, once we were fully slumped, the sound of chairs scraping, instrument cases being clicked shut, heavy footsteps caused us to break sleep's beginning stage, and we would sleepily go to him with all the men teasing us without our shy care: "Can we go home now, Dad?"

Time for the long hilly, curvy ride home.

But, on the way, in our ears, in our lives forever more, the banjo rolled in sound grooves, in the ancestral depths of plaintive and frolicking standards, in our blood, in associations, in love.

Good night, Earl Scruggs. Play one for us in the kitchen of the Angel Band. Thanks for the full moon and the bluegrass memories.

Barbed wire and safe pasture

I remember the problem of barbed wire when I was young. To get to the other side, you could crawl under, but your shirt might be snagged and you would be caught face down in the dirt. Or, you could find a post and climb ladder-like on the wire; however, at times, your inner thigh or the shorts could be punctured. Ouch. Or, you could separate two strands of wire by holding the top wire up, while you found room to swing your legs over and through. In such a precarious position, you could get the barbs either on the top or the bottom. Double ouch. Such a pain, the barbed wire fence.

My siblings and I usually used a different method of crossing; while they were long and lean, they tended to use the ladder pole method. Since I was short and small, I would typically crawl under. However, every so often we would try the different methods, sometimes surving and sometimes not. 

At the NILD conference, I had to cross a barbed wire fence. Small groups of people from the same school, or those who had gone through a training level together, clustered together. A common understanding permeated the ranks that all children deserve a Christian education and that Christian education was the one that needed to adjust to accomodate all types of learners. I was an outsider from a foreign land.  I had to shake off old shyness and join their ranks in order to learn.

At times, it worked. Two Pennsylvania ladies sat in the same spot, and one was pleasant enough to answer my basic questions. Other times, the ladies I sat by were turned toward one another, and I would smile as they glanced my way and away. Sometimes, just walking through the hallway where the break was happening, made me feel like I wanted to hurdle the fence and run, back to the solitude in a proverbial covered woods.

During one lunch, I asked God to direct my table selection in order to provide someone to help give me more guidance. I sat down, and the woman next to me happened to work for a college; she didn't have training either; we really couldn't provide much to one another except social support.  However, the woman on the other side started talking to me, and I slid under unscathed to the other side. She was trained, older, went later to become a School Psychologist (one of the options I'm thinking about), and has a son with Asperger's. As she talked, I smiled. God is good.

God allowed us some more time throughout the conference; she was even on my very early shuttle van to the airport. We were able to eat breakfast together and chat more. I have her e-mail and contact information; she acted as a willing mentor to me and is willing to do so in the future.

At times, when you cross under a fence, you are escaping either a mad bull, or a frightening neighbor owner, or a sense of being lost after having wandered too far. By going through the barbed wire during these meetings, I felt God reiterating this message to me again:  Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:3-4. I pray that we can all dwell in His safe pasture and cross over, through, or under the barbed wire which wishes to keep us confined. Amen.

Dave Ramsey, one

My husband and I went to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University at our church last night. We couldn't find a heckling place in the rear so we sat on the front row. I watched my husband as he doubted some of the financial information given. I wanted to be an admirable, knowledgeable rebel like him; however, my ignorance kept me silent. We weren't sure why we were there since my husband is trained in sound financial principles and practices them. He said that the information would be so basic for him that it would be like teaching me, an English teacher, how to spell cat. During Ramsey's videotaped presentation, though, we caught each other laughing at his jokes and agreeing to his general principles. When Ramsey said that most families don't talk about money, we looked at each other and snickered -- my husband's family would tell you how much their spit cost if they could put a price tag on it. Then, they would only spit half as much to save a dime or two. Money is a focus and a fixation. It's a hobby. All chat and all deep conversations trickle back to the comforting sounds of cha-ching.

We split up into small groups, and like an addiction meeting, we said our names and why we were there. I said I was an ignorant English major. My husband said he was there to support me and to represent the Evil Industry (banking). That latter admittance commanded respect and people began asking questions of him. Our group leader, a longtime friend, asked him questions too. He even got to use his cute little sense of humor on the group.

Next week, I can't attend since I will be at a conference. But, my husband said that he thinks he will attend without me afterall despite an earlier declaration to stay home.

:)

20 Year Marriage

I know the above photos aren't the typical anniversary shots. But, they are often the typical marriage photos. We are separated looking off into the distance here, wondering how to relate to one another, wondering if we've met each other's expectations, wondering how we're going to spend the next 20 years together. And, these thoughts occurred even in a tropical paradise where we intentionally went for love.

And, we did love, even during the times of the above questions. When a couple drops all their daily duties with kids, work, routine, and they begin to spend down time together; they eat meals together which they don't in the day to day; they listen and attempt to talk to one another; they try to "be" with one another, confusion and despair happens alongside the celebratory, romantic, and friendship moments.

We had both. We had to talk to clear away the confusion and despair. We had to reaffirm our love and commitment to one another. We had to believe individually that we are capable of such love (with God's help). We had to re-establish and laugh. We had to toast each other in complete gratitude for accepting warts and all. We had to walk away hand in hand again ready for the years ahead.

I'm extremely grateful for such a man and friend in my life. And, here, after 20 years together, is the typical anniversary photo -- a couple connected by grace, choice, fight, and commitment.

Blessed aggression

I'm sure there's a Bible verse which applies to doing the opposite of what's shown above. But, I can look at the violence depicted with warmth and gratitude. Thank you, Aggressive Competitor Spirit, who overtook my son last night during an indoor soccer match.

In our family, soccer has a story of its own, beginning with adorable little soccer outfits which had to be discarded. Autism and adhd made a team sport virtually impossible. From the sidelines, we were in pain. On the field, our son was in lalaland or anti-team land or coach-yelling-his-name-a-thousand-times-land or other players looking at him with repulsion and anger land. When he came off the field, he was broken in a thousand pieces; one more piece of ground where he was asked to leave and not be a part of. I can see his contorted face now, remember our contorted hearts, and the persisent thought, "One more thing to give up."

Then there was a period of martial arts, independent work.

However, as my son matured (and with the love of his dad for sports), he sought activity, running, kicking, throwing => adopted the ball fascination boys have. It's one of the dreams his father desired.

Soccer returned for a trial at the private Christian school where I teach and where my son attended for awhile. The first week was a disaster as my son told the coach not to tell him what to do; when the boys tried to help him along by yell-instructing him, my son spoke back; when he got in the van afterwards, we listened, calmed, encouraged incessantly. Some practices were psychologically disastrous; some were alright. We held our breath.

Yet he continued on. The boys accepted him. He had an incredible spurt of speed, and he improved quickly. He was complimented upon his success on the field. I'll never forget a certain smile: rare pride of self; a flash of wholesome happiness. We had all been in a desert for so long in many areas besides sports.

Thus to help him with his skills, I signed him up for a privace recreation center's indoor soccer league. I was afraid, prayerful => how would the boys treat him? Would the coach be a yeller? Would this backfire? Would he get hurt? I called and spoke with the coach for reassurance. Alright, who needs her St. John's Wort now in horse-pill size?

Last year in this league, my son was timid, just as I was fearful. The playing was good, though. The boys were kind like at school. My son was 50/50 on his perceptual playing. We van-counseled in the van, yes, but we enjoyed, and he endured again.

Last night was his first game this year in the same league. The timid boy is gone. He can sprint like lightening, and he can push and shove against the indoor wall. His father and I had smiles on our faces to see such boldness. We all celebrated in the car on the way home as Cody, with wholesome happiness, related how he did it, and to whom, and how it felt so good.

Amen for paths which signify more than one knows.

Snow-locked

Yes, Jack London wouldn't think it's that bad at all. I should remove my flowery robe, dress in thickness, and go outside to tromp. The wind isn't even whistling; wolves from an upper NW pack have not even descended into my state. The one to three mountain lions spotted in rural areas do not like this university town. A malicious deer with a weaponry rack only exists in the imagination of a city-slicker.

It's tame. Each sequestered back yard here might have a cat's trail, or a squirrel's brush, or a dog's plow marking the snowscape. Yesterday, I saw one terrified deer bounding into our yard and over the neighbor's fence, marking wide leaps of horror. Yet no danger exists.

I could go outside and walk off this fancy cabin malaise. When I was younger, I always did just that, dressing in old green coveralls and an old Chiefs hat, some old tennis shoes, some old black work gloves. I would dodge the heat wave from Mom's wood stove. I would dodge the loudness of Dad's television. I would dodge getting involved in the third book of the day. The cold air would hit; the dog would fall in behind; freedom came from striding down the hill, past the pond not quite safe for skating, past the summer's blackberry bushes, past the Mulberry playhouse tree with the old teakettle swinging coldly from a branch. Finally, into the back acreage; finally down the steep hill where the quartz rock could always sparkle to be found. Down to the secret pond, surrounded by cedar, and away from everything.

I never was not greeted graciously in the winter-time outside. Some sort of beauty awaited. Some sort of treat presented itself. Some type of freedom assented inside my spirit.

I would focus on small things, and they would focus back, like two aliens studying each other's habits; two aliens living under each others' noses until one says, "Hello" and the other says, "Finally!"

Prayer and love, or release from loneliness, or spiritual un-chokedness would always happen. In the winter-time, the desperation for such would be extreme. In the winter-time, such outlines inside and outside just occurred. The snow on the branches gave me pause; the greyish ice on the spring-fed pond made me think; the sound of the branches spoke. Wow, I'm a bit crazy like Thoreau and Wordsworth themselves! Yet when a country girl needed a vacation which was never taken otherwise because of money, she could find it on the land -- the Ozarkian land especially. I don't know what the crazed city kids did, and for them, I feel sympathy.

When walking back up the steep, rocky hill towards our small house, I would be ready for it again. Another night of television or books and thick wood heat. Another cancellation of school or basketball practice. Another grapple with closeness, sounds and silence.

I think I must try to walk today outside. I think I will just be one of those neighborhood women who walk to shape up. I think I must go find a creek bed too if possible.

Amen and amen.

Not forgotten

Writing in the blog, non. Living in the life, oui. I was reminded this week of how powerful writing can be to capture the fast-movement of life. I was reminded of my place here, an open square for words to write and capture.

For a writing assignment given to my freshmen students, I wrote about homemade ice cream. I created a sensory map in which I captured all the sensory details of the ice cream family event which we used to have each summer at Grandma Cora's house. The piece has captivated me. I keep reading it over and over again reliving all of those southern Missouri moments of that specific time which represented complete harmony in the universe to me. Grandma's laugh, the smell of the grass, the spicy smell of hydrangea, the feel of the hugging humidity, the sight of aunts, cousins, uncles in the lit circle by the food table, the cicadas, the men hunched over, turning, turning the crank, pouring in the ice, the creamy delectableness of the gift. Grandma's bustle and joy. The wealthy life. God and pleasure.

Therefore, motivated by the writer's desire for preservation, canning, going to the cellar and unscrewing the jar which holds experience.

Grateful for the ever present possibility.

Quitting

It's easier for me to walk away than to stay. I used to go into hiding all too often when young -- down the hill into the wooded back 20, into the hall closet, out and up in the grain bin in the old milk barn. Quiet places for quitting. Thinking, detaching. Human emotions were too strong to deal with. Sounds were too loud in our small house. I was best as a quitter which meant peacefulness and restoration.

I'm reading a book now about quitting called, "Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith" by Barbara Brown Taylor. It helps a quitter to know a quitter, and to realize that quitting isn't a full response; it's a partial punch at something threatening, and it's often a sacrifice of what poses as good to what is better, or necessary.

I've always felt badly about quitting. Even now, after I've quit my first local music group, I've agonized about what I'll be missing even though I know I will not miss the : frustrations : complexities : the dullness : the time : the lack of challenge in a new direction: lack of developed friendships. I will miss the singing : the laughs : the nursing home residents : the songs, their small group histories : members.

All in all, I really despise quitting. I know that I desire something different and new; however, the stepping off and away can be like a lonely girl moving off down the cow path in tears for something she can't control or find.

Perhaps the idea of permanence is one of the best appeals of the Christian faith. A permanence of joy and belonging, a permanence of relationship, a permanence of goodness. Here in this world, quitting can mean ourselves seeking for the best, seeking a way out of impermanence (turmoil) which can be threatening in some way or the other. Striking out for the one-day, perhaps today, hope of a strand of permanence.

May Day

Delayed posting to the point of blogger password amnesia. Life flows on all around me. My daughter surfaces and hugs me and smiles and thanks me now. That is Good. God is Good. We were even hippies at an Earth day celebration together recently. She sighed and said, "Look, Mom! Liberals!!" because in her college town they are all conservative, rich, church women who aren't kind (this was an early morning quote from her one day when my phone rang, and she chugged out her steam of momentary beliefs to which I had to skirt and debunk and smile at and grant her patience for and find out the true story for her angst). But, we did happily walk amongst the liberals one fine Sunday when she was home. The next Sunday, she hung out with me at church and then went to sing at the nursing home with her grandparents. She also went to one of my homeschooling co-op class days where she took up a like-guitar and sat on the like-quilt with me and my three students outside on a delicious day. She knows G, C, and D, so why not? Then she went into my US Constitution class. When I mentioned an example, using the war in Iraq, she guffawed loudly to which the conservative children students' heads swung around in astonishment. She likes to guffaw about politics these days. She's frightening. She's inherited her father's hothead about such things, and I don't mind pointing the finger. Anyway, it was so fun to have her opt to be part of my normal day, instead of 1) sleeping 2) watching a TLC fashion or design show from potato position 3) hanging out with friends with wild hair too. No, there she sweetly was with her sweet mother just like the days of old, laughing, relaxing, relating. God is good!

Other than that, lots of other things have been going on this last month. I became smarter after a huge dumb period. God gets the credit, I must admit. I became more sought after musically by some non musicians who are related to a man in our band. We're playing in overalls and hats at a Cosmo Club dinner on Friday night. We are supposed to be the Soggy Bottom Boys (&girls) from O Brother Where Art Thou. I am trying to waver like Alison on one of my songs but I am not Alison, and she doesn't want to be me, and so I'm stuck pretending. But, I do think the song sounds pretty ... people have oohed and aaahed already! I sing it with my bandmate, and we blend better than ever.

Cody just walked by; he's getting tall and handsome. Hopefully, those two qualities will wipe out his classmates' memories of his band day throw up this morning. Now he's playing his keyboard for the thousandth time today. Radetsky March, who would have known? Thank you, Johann Strauss for invading my household. What possessed you to do so?

I shot baskets tonight for exercise. Must shower. Must tell all that I must shower.

Happy May Day!

The Linger and the March

I feel afflicted with a LowGrade winter Linger (even though today is the first day of Spring). These last couple of days, I've been fatigued and walk around lifelessly. However, an unplanned moment can be medicinal. Today when driving Cody to school, he turned on, as usual, our TLC (Teri, Linda, Cody) c.d. that we're creating and which he's been appreciating musically in increasing measure. He played the track of "Radetsky March," a recent recording in which Cody plays the keyboard, I'm on guitar, and Linda's honks on the accordian. Suddenly, in the van, Cody and I couldn't help ourselves as we wildly began clapping and grinning like Austrians at the new year. I had the energy to punch the air a couple of times in coordination with the accent staccato notes, and Cody imperiously titlted his head back and forth to the march beat. We laughed appreciatively at each other's antics before the song was over and we slipped back into our own lingers. Breakthroughs are simply the best.

"One bunch of grapes," repeated my uncle. Smack went the paddle. "One bunch of grapes," said my uncle. Smack went the paddle. Mrs. Coble meant to win, but my Dad reported cheerfully his little brother held strong and had the final say, after the final futile smack. They ran out the schoolhouse door, making the other kids smile and yearn or tskk: those boys!

We were treated to more stories this weekend at the propped up feet of my reclining, grinning father. He's a natural storyteller, but he says he won't write a western this winter like I want him to. He'd rather have the immediate stage and laugh from all of us. This weekend, he told one story twice, which made me look at my mother and comment upon this fact, which becomes a hereditary trademark at around age 90 and the mind is an endless spin cycle. My grandmother lives in the nursing home in such a tight circle of memories, frets, pleasures, fears. She has the staff call, every once in a while, when they can't calm her down, her son, my dad, and she tells him that her niece, really her daughter, is lost, and she can't find her, and she's at a restaurant called "Autumn Oaks", and her car won't start. Dad reassures her that this niece is spending the night with them, and she is relieved, and her mind turns to the next groove (when she saw decorative crepe paper hanging on the walls of the nursing home, she turned and said to the attendant, "Well, why are my bras hanging out here!"). She's lived here for about four turning years.

But, for now, we enjoy Dad's stories, even twice told, because he always manages to say one new kicker, one funny line that has us grinning and dimpling up at his propped up feet and bright eyes.

Anticipation

I have the cutest kitty companion curled up on the bed beside me this morning. She's using my Norton anthology as a pillow in order to cram for her final, I guess. If my camera was handy, she, literary genius, would be immortalized and presented like Dryden. However, my husband now works from home some and has taken the upstairs office which means things are far away.

Many days, we're all home, stomping around the house, our whole family together while others have commuted, paid lunch out, hunkered in for long hours at a desk. Cody and I zoom away for lessons at various times. My daughter will maybe go out for a four hour shift at her strenuous (ha!) retail job. My husband will shut the door and talk for a four hour conference call, while he rocks furiously upon his chair. But many times, we're here, living our lives communally, watching our cute kitties, eating meals together. I enjoy it. I love my family.

Today my daughter and I are going out, though, for a few days. We're driving down to the farm which makes my whole senses anticipate that turn at the mailbox, onto the narrow rocky lane, through the gate, into my great-grandfather-former fields where we'll roll down the windows and admit the fullblownforce of tree and soil and flower and water and air smells, sensations, sweetness. Ah; it's my favorite part of the journey, heaven-hone, honeysuckle, here-we-be, happiness. We drive into it, park, greet Bo of the bales, and then, on air, meet my mother and father who always seem to be the same, smiling, always there (yet it slices me with sadness to remember their future). We sink into our chairs and begin to chat and laugh and relax. It's wonderful, well-being, worshipful, away from the world. I love them much.

However, my daughter and I will only stay one night (after all that!) because we're touring a school tomorrow in Springfield for her. I think the time together will be lovely. In some ways, the past, painful years of her high school career seem far away. God works to restore senses, relationship. It's good.

Therefore, I must stop writing about my life and live it.

Until later ......... God bless and keep you in your journeys!

Sleds and water balloons, why not? The sleds later became water troughs for the 23 kids who roamed around my yard yesterday, slurping up the cool refreshing liquid into their water guns, wands, later my plastic bowls. It was the beginning (and the end?) of an annual water fight and ice cream party. There were many drenched, dripping smiles and lots of splattery feet. And no whams, bams, thuds, cries, or sirens either, thankfully. Cody's vision of summer fun came true, and even though he made a new girl enemy friend ("She wouldn't stop squirting me, Mom!"), he went to bed sleepy and happy last night. My torn up backyard and raw balloon tying thumb will be just fine (although I do mention them for sympathy). The best thing out of all this is that there will be no more nightly drench-mother-rehearsal-pre-fights. I'm safely dry now and plan to stay that way.

Fifty-seven

As my class was leading "Panther Boy" from the alumni banquet stage this weekend, I saw my tall, strong dad in his striped polo and Levi's, at his '57 table, pointing me out to one of his fifty-years-ago sidekicks. His dimples were flashing as customary, eyes a-glinting. My sweet little mother with her natural brown hair by his side. He was indicating, later I learned "the prettiest one up there" said as a funny, but meant pridefully. And, as I see him now, the past, present, and future meld together, making me realize that I was granted that opportune glimpse.

And perhaps now I'll always see him pointing, waving back at me when I did so to egg him on, to aid him in his offspring identification. When he's no longer here, perhaps we'll still be waving, pridefully, gleefully, to signal our enduring, immortal blessed connection.

I'm counting on it.

Eighty-Two

Walking into the airport VFW Hall ushered me into a confrontation with age: faces appeared from all over to the country to reconvene again as alumni celebrating a 25 year high school class reunion. These faces were lined, fuller, interesting, inquisitive.
We stared searching for evaporated years, inquiring, collapsing the time from our joint starting gate to the present. How many children? What are you doing now? Where are you living?
I stared at my best friends from basketball, student council, band, church. Why didn't we stay in touch? I silently ask. Why did I go through a tough spell quite alone? What happened during those years to me? What have you suffered too? What have you celebrated? When will you disappear again? It was wonderful to hug them and remember, yet it made me somewhat tired and melancholy.
We arise in our different plots, set apart now, once blooming and fading together, now in another perennial bed. Rising, blooming, and falling around other forms. It's as it should be, yet the loss hits me somewhat because those friends were the early safe giggling smart loved ones. We tripped and skipped and laughed together as small town youth. We have many solid memories of equal superficiality and depth.
When I saw their faces this weekend, they were the same, but we had traveled far apart, keeping with us the memories, but inevitably replacing each other. I know that's the way the world works, but I'm sentimental and feel loss.
Yet, I have pictures of us in the year 2007 arm-in-arm. Still holding on. Still moving forward. Still planted together by virtue of the gazebo-ed Square, the long maroon building, the choices of our parents and God to plunk us in that soil, that grouping, that cycle. That infamous class of 1982.
It's the strangest thing to think about: those who are granted to be our side compansions. It never ceases to amaze me regarding its purpose.
May my old friends be blessed and safe until we meet again.

Mulberry and friends

It must have been the recent birthday. Perhaps it's Alzheimer's setting in (today, my daughter had to write a check from her account for both our driver license renewals as I forgot my checkbook. A sign of things to come, I told her, get ready, defend your senseless mamma.) But, old things are coming back to me, like the feelings of the sudden death of my young boyfriend, encountered again per last entry.

And just recently Mom reminded me that I liked to climb things as a girl. Ah yes, trees in particular. But instead of climbing them just to conquer them, it was best to go live up in them, for hours at a time. The ultimate was our mulberry wide-branched tree, with an old teapot hung up in the "kitchen". When the cows walked under, oh that was a mighty giggly treat of twig aimin'. There were flowers and fruit and lots of rooms to scoot or climb to in the mulberry. But, mainly, it was nice to hang out in the tree and just think. There was an elm not too far away. A stately walnut with ladder branches. An oak with enchanting seeds. I still remember them well and sitting in their branches, and no one knew where I was. Then I'd hear the yellow ford truck horn honk three times for lunch or supper or town. The dog waiting below and I'd head on up to the house.

But the wind is lovely up high, and you're like a bird almost, and you make squirrels curious, and the tv wasn't blaring so Dad could hear it. And there were no other annoying sounds like the water faucet continually dripping. But the sounds were pretty and relaxing, and I wished to not be human and to be something more like a fairy.

I semi-forgot all of this; but, when I went to Europe two years ago, I kept exclaiming to people how the climbing of things was one of the best part of the tours. Comes back somehow.

I'm going to climb a tree before too long, and if my bones permit, just sit and think. That would be lovely.

This is a calf who lost his mother quickly. Are you my mother? he asks Cody.

That was last week, prior to the ice and snowfall again here in Missouri. It was an interesting trip. It was miraculous to be on the beach in the warmth. It was intriguing to walk along the Playa del Carmen avenue with the calling vendors and the Canadians and Europeans and South Americans, everyone babbling their languages. It was enlightening and sad to see the poverty in the Mexican countryside. It was interesting to see the ancient ruins and to contemplate the Mayan spiritual expression through temples, writings, sacrifices, attention. The spiritual consciousness being universal. I wondered if a Mayan woman wished that there were no rites, no consciousness to abide by, more freedom for the spirit. Did she think that way? Did she walk on the same path I stood on, wondering similar things? She probably worried for her children. She probably cared about her relations with others. She knew she was getting older.

As we were flying over Louisville, KY, on the return trip, I looked down and the city was beautiful, sparkly; the curvaceous Ohio river outlined the lights, the markers of abundance. We landed in St. Louis and the smell was good; the water could be chugged without severity (as we experienced down South). We took our tan skin into the freezing long term parking lot and reunited with our auto. We drove home, and I wondered if the futile quest for perfection would resume again in our daily lives.
But, for a little while, my 15 year commited husband and I were able to break from it, and to enjoy one another apart from it. That was essential and good.