How to work up a sweat in 11 degree weather

I know, I know, just plain, well, silly. Especially for someone who's trying to get rid of a head cold. But sometimes silly is called for. Well, maybe. And we hadn't cleared away that pile of sticks near the heat pump, hadn't raked the leaves, etc. With the husband at the dentist and the heat pump removers/installers on the way, I knew what had to be done. By someone. So I did it.

To stay warm in 11 degrees, I wore a Polartec hat with ear flaps, my Land's End squall jacket with hood, Polartec vest, turtleneck shirt, long underwear top and bottom, jeans, Polartec socks, my faithful Muck boots, and Polartec gloves. Worked non-stop for 30 minutes, and, yes, worked up a sweat. Maybe it'll clear out the sinuses.

Why? Because you know what happens when even careful men take apart and remove a heat pump, then install a new one. Yes, drop things I don't want to appear in my compost pile, things I don't want to have to sift through leaves and sticks looking for. Next time I put off the Fall chores, though, I may want to remember how I spent the coldest morning this Winter.

Capturing multiple moments

I love the way a Pantoum can capture multiple moments and weave dreamy thoughts in and out like basketweaving or collage. So where did all that stuff come from? The Beech tree moment I'll write about another time. This morning on our walk, Baskin saw and "nosed" two Box turtles, but didn't try to "play" with them--the result of 11 years of training. Has he finally learned, or is he just bored with them now? The workshop I did at the cemetery yesterday brought back one of my favorite lines from a Theodore Roethke poem. Why didn't I remember it yesterday? And finally, when I was a child, I would be gently lulled to sleep at naptime by the sound of the washing machine in the basement. I was doing laundry while writing the pantoum, and everything sort of tumbled around together in my brain.

How's that for over-explaining? Oh well...

If you want the formula for writing a Pantoum, here it is:

1 2 3 4
2 6 4 8
6 10 8 12
10 14 12 16
14 3 16 1

Time to put the wash in the dryer. Wonder what will tumble forth next?

The Beech trees, Box turtles, spirits of the dead...with apologies to Theodore Roethke

The Beech tree sings in a light rain,
the dog has finally learned,
and the dead begin from their dark
to sing in my sleep.

The dog has finally learned
to leave the Box turtles alone
to sing in my sleep,
along with the whirr of the washing machine.

Leaving the Box turtles alone,
I visit the cemetery by day,
along with the whirr of the washing machine
as the lives of the dead begin to stir.

I visit the cemetery by day
listening to new voices
as the lives of the dead begin to stir
and write their stories down.

Listening to new voices,
as the dead begin from their dark
to write their stories down,
the Beech tree sings in a light rain.

Spring, round 1

A beautiful Spring day, with a high of 75 degrees--sunny, windy, a few clouds, and the first blooms on our daffodils. The official first day of Spring is 3 weeks away, so today was just a practice run. Later in the week it'll be cold again. Then warm. Then cold. It'll go on like this for weeks. We'll give the cold spells names like Redbud Winter or Dogwood Winter because the temperature always seems to drop around the time the Redbuds, then the Dogwoods, are blooming. One year this happened so often, we ran out of names. We had used Forsythia Winter, Crab Apple Winter, Autumn Olive Winter, Blackberry Winter, and I don't remember what else, and finally just gave up. Not long after that, the weather stayed normal.

Last year, we had a long spell of unseasonably warm days in February, followed by a deep freeze. All the new leaves on the trees froze and dropped to the ground. It looked like November. We lost two trees. Most trees re-leafed and made it through the Spring, but then we had an unusually hot and dry summer. Days and days of intense heat and no rain. So now we wait and hold our breath, wondering which trees are still alive, and pray that we won't have a repeat of last Spring's late freeze. In the meantime, we enjoy the early blooms of the daffodils and are grateful for their hardiness.

First bloom, first sign of
change from Winter's gray, cold days--
is it really Spring?

What's by my bed?

Well, books, of course! But I didn't realize how many until I took a look today. No wonder I've been having trouble getting in and out of bed! Actually, this happens frequently, and I go through the same ol' routine--look closely and return the ones to my study that I'm obviously not getting around to reading anytime soon. I got ready to do that this morning, but decided to list them on my blog before clearing them out for the next "flood." So, here goes:

Monet to Dali - the catalog for the exhibit that I'm using for my workshop in April
Heart to Heart, by Jan Greenberg (on ekphrastic writing)
the everyday work of art, by eric booth
Just Looking: Essays on Art, by John Updike
Essential Reiki, by Diane Stein
Essential Psychic Healing, by Diane Stein
The Reiki Touch, by William Lee Rand
Crones Don't Whine, by Jean Shinoda Bolen
Goddesses in Older Women, by Bolen
The Narrow Road to the Deep North, by Matsuo Basho
Dreamweaver CS3: The Missing Manual, by David McFarland (I'm teaching myself Dreamweaver so I can create and maintain my own website--slow going)
The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition
Pausing for Beauty, the Heron Dance Daybook and Planner for 2007 (empty, but I may use it for art journaling)
Why Good People Do Bad Things: Understanding Our Darker Selves, by James Hollis
Animal Speak, by Ted Andrews
Soul Mapping, by Nina Frost, et al.
SoulCollage, by Seena Frost
The Sevenfold Journey: Reclaiming Mind, Body & Spirit Through the Chakras, by Anodea Judith
PlanB: Further Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott
The Feminine in Fairy Tales, by Marie-Louise Von Franz
The Book of Runes, by Ralph Blum
The Cloud of Unknowing (anonymous)
The Eye Like a Strange Balloon, Poems by Mary Jo Bang
The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle
Coyote Medicine, by Lewis Mehl-Madrona
Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Wabi Sabi: The Art of Everyday Life, by Diane Durston
Writing the Memoir, by Judith Barrington
Storycatcher, by Christina Baldwin
Making a Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers, by Carolyn See
The Dead Beat: the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries, by Marilyn Johnson (I'm preparing to teach a workshop on writing memoir in a cemetery)
Your Life as Story, by Tristine Rainer
a Spanish-English Dictionary
Birthday calendar book (still blank)
For Keeps: Women Tell the Truth About Their Bodies, Growing Older, and Acceptance, ed. by Victoria Zackheim
one copy each of National Geographic, Reiki News Magazine, The New Yorker (winter fiction issue), Shambhala Sun, and Somerset Studio
Roethke: Collected Poems
Poetry as Healer, by Jack Leedy
Poetic Medicine, by John Fox
Biblio/Poetry Therapy, by Arlene Hynes
Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace, ed. by Maxine Hong Kingston
Breaking the Drought: Visions of Grace, by Stephen Levine
Foolsgold: Making Something from Nothing, by Susan Wooldridge
The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell
Old Age, by Helen Luke
Wabi Sabi for Writers, by Richard Powell
Full Catastrophe Living, by Jon Kabat-Zinn
The Uses of Enchantment, by Bruno Bettelheim
The Portable Jung, ed. by Joseph Campbell
An Intimate Look at the Night Sky, by Chet Raymo
Look at the Sky...and tell the weather, by Eric Sloane
Merton's Palace of Nowhere, by James Finley
The Intimate Merton: His Life from His Journals, ed. by Hart and Montaldo
When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King
The Seasons of a Restless Heart, by Debra Farrington
A Circle of Quiet, by Madeleine L'Engle
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
Holy Bible, New International Version
Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury (a borrowed copy that I need to return, although I read only half of it)
My Utmost for His Highest, by Oswald Chambers
The New Testament in Modern English, trans. by J. B. Phillips
Of Other Worlds: Essays & Stories, by C. S. Lewis
5 crossword puzzle books in various stages of completion
2 sketchbooks and a collection of drawing pencils and felt pens in a canvas bag
5 journals, including my Dream journal with the lighted pen attached
2 fountain pens
various pencils and pens
2 yellow highlighters

Some of these were on the floor, some on the night table. I've thought of putting a bookshelf by my bed, but then I'd have to decide which books got the privilege of living there. Maybe I should just move my bed into my study!

I've now moved about half the collection back to the study, but it probably won't be long until another stack takes over the floor. Sigh!

Winter Compost

The compost pile in winter:
cabbage leaves
banana peels
eggshells
pear cores
cherry pits (from Peru or Chile)
tea bags (organic, of course)
tangerine peels
asparagus stems
eggplant trimmings
onion skins
apple cores
clippings from grooming our Standard Poodle
outer leaves from brussel sprouts (ever had roasted brussel sprouts? delicious!)
and the weeds, of course

Here Grows

My life in compost
piles the recent on the top
underneath the rest

Does Time Really Fly?

Do you ever get to the end of a week and wonder what in the world you did with with all the days and nights? Wonder what you have to show for it? Even accounting for my temporary insanity brought on, of course, by the full moon on Wednesday--and, for Pete's sake, a lunar eclipse!--I feel like I have done nothing. Nothing that I can codify, categorize, or claim credit for finishing, anyway. Maybe if I had done at least one load of laundry--for show, because it really didn't need doing--I would have a sense of accomplishment. No, I doubt that that would have helped. I think that the Critical Parent is sitting on my shoulder with a clipboard, looking for something to tic off. (In that case, I should have done the laundry.)

I say all this, yet I know that I did accomplish some very important things: I helped my friend Ga get her first novel ready for presenting to agents and editors; I facilitated two writing group sessions that were satisfying to all (I think) attending; I took in my first of many viewings of the Monet to Dali exhibit at the Frist. I'd go on, but you'd be bored...

So, okay, I did use some of my time wisely. But then, in the middle of the week, comes this Story of the Day (below) from the Brian Andreas website. Reminding me that what's important is not the laundry and the list on the CP's clipboard, but doing what nourishes my soul. And why do I feel undernourished? Because I haven't spent enough time writing or making art. Bottom line. I'm still hungry. There is exactly enough time for those things, but I've got to do them with my first tier of energy, not my last.

So, how did you spend your time this week?

"Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life."--Brian Andreas

The Real Valentine

Valentine's Day was special today, but not because of the beautiful bouquet R delivered from the florist this morning. Nor because he made a special trip to retrieve it when my plans suddenly changed and the original delivery plans had to be scrapped. It wasn't special because of the wonderful lunch we had at one of our favorite restaurants overlooking the Nashville skyline (Germantown Cafe). Nor because we spent part of the afternoon wandering through aisle after aisle of antiques and garden displays at Cheekwood's Antique and Garden show, at the convention center. No, the thing I will remember about this day, more than the sun and the blue skies and all the above, is how we narrowly missed colliding with a yearling deer who decided to cross Old Hickory Blvd. in Bellevue in front of us. The terrified youngster managed to redirect herself just as a startled R managed to slam on the brakes. For way too many seconds, we were side by side, us praying that she wouldn't cross in front of us, as our car slowed quickly, but was it quick enough? Another car was approaching from behind in the adjacent lane--would it slow down in time? Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the yearling bounded away across the two westbound lanes, which were, thankfully, empty. I wonder: is she telling her story in a circle of cud-chewing companions in the light of tonight's moon, heart still panting?

Different Things

Thomas McKenzie, a local Anglican priest, sent out an email today suggesting that we "stop something" during Lent. Here's what he said:

"A few days ago, I was driving down Lone Oak in Green Hills and came to the stop sign at Castleman. Someone had apparently taken a page out of the bored teenager playbook. Written on the stop sign in bold white shoe polish was the word “something.” As in “Stop Something.”

"To misquote Simon and Garfunkel, “the words of the prophets are written on stop signs.” Whoever wrote that word nailed it. You and I are desperate to Stop Something. Our lives are filled with many things, most of them might be very good. But almost all of us are doing too much. We are too busy, too engaged.

"However, during this season of Lent, you and I have an official “excuse” to Stop Something. We can give up a habit, an idea, a form of busyness. You can just stop it, whatever it is. Tell people you gave it up for Lent. Of course, you may find you don't ever want it back.

"There are things we should probably not give up. Time with family, worship, caring for those in need, doing our jobs. But I suspect there are many things that we could let go of for 40 days, and the world would not end.

"So, the message for today is quite simple. It is Lent. Stop Something."

After meditating on this, I decided that I would stop giving my power away. 'Sbout time...

And now a word from the night:

Late winter's sky
studded with stars
even the horizon's
artificial glow
cannot diminish
its loveliness

ellen
2/8/08

Checking In

Well, I seem to have slipped into that deep, dark hole that swallows up bloggers everywhere. I'm just checking in to say that I'm still here, but technology has defeated me again. I'll spare you the details. What I hate most about it is seeing how dependent I've become on technology. The computer is down and my yesterday was ruined. Really? Really. Now, how stupid is that?! Especially in light of the lethal tornadoes that came through last night. Technology woes are nothing to that. By bedtime I was reassessing my priorities.

Today is blue-skied sunny, with temperatures dropping throughout the day, from about 70 to 30 degrees F. So, though my yard is littered with tree limbs waiting for us to play pick-up-sticks, I am thankful for:

my life
my husband's life
the dog's and cat's lives
a house with a roof on it
electricity
food, clothing
this computer and its Internet connection

and today I'm doing laundry to stay centered.

What Baskin Knows

How to sleep--
with ears covering eyes
to block the light,
but one eye open
to keep track of parents
because it's important
to know where they are
at any given moment.

How to avoid that pesky cat
when he tries to jump on me.

How to sit really still so
I can watch the deer--
I like to watch them watching me.

Where the moles are,
and with seven acres to patrol,
that keeps me pretty busy.

How to slip through the fence
to "mark" my territory
at the neighbor's mailbox.

How to interpret plain English--
my parents can't even get away with spelling things,
especially not "food," "water," "walk,"
and when they whisper "Look,"
I run to the window to see
what they're looking at.
I even know that "W" means "walk."
I didn't come in on no load of 'taters, you know.

But mostly, I know how to love
without regard for any limits,
how to slow my parents down,
how to take care of the four
most important things in life:
eat, sleep, play, love.

Chiming the Wind

No picture tonight. A word picture, maybe a sound byte. The wind is up, the air temperature is warmer than it has been. Which means that storms are coming. I don't need the weather forecasters to tell me that, though. Outside, suspended from the roof overhang, the Pemaquid wind chime foretells the change in weather.
Bong, clang, bong.
Listen and learn.

If this link isn't hot, paste it in your browser's address window and listen to what I'm hearing tonight:
http://sites.securemgr.com/folder13532/Pemaquidbell.wav

January Dusk

January dusk--
Flinging gold across the sky--
I soar on your wings.

Boundaries

Does a fence keep something out, or something in? In the case of my dog, both. For the past 11 years, we've walked the boundary fence twice a day. He knows where his territory begins and ends. Not that that keeps him from slipping out when he wants to explore the other side. What does the fence do for me? A feeling of comfort, security, familiarity. I know where our land begins and ends. I expect that strangers, even neighbors, will respect the boundary and stay out unless they are coming in for a specific reason, like reading the electricity meter, delivering packages, or saying hello. The occasional dog or cat will stop in to visit. For them, fences are simply temporary glitches. The deer use them for exercise. This photo reminds me that I am ambivalent about my boundaries. If I wanted everyone and everything out, I would have chosen a different type of fence, not one with so many gaps. Do I want people in or out? Yes.

Fences
comfort
security
stay out
hello
visit
everyone
out
in

Olio for Friday

I'm jumping in, feet first, because I can't decide where to start. I may do like my friend Mary suggests and delete the first paragraph when I get warm. Or not. It's not that I'm not inspired, just scattered. So my Olio will be full of whatever's in the fridge, or my brain. I'm above the porch fan this afternoon, in the computer room to be exact, and as I read or type, I keep glancing out the window to check on the progress of the remodeling at the neighbor's house. The new neighbors have taken a well-loved house (lived in by the same couple for 25+ years) and re-loved it all over again. It's beautiful, although I liked the old version also. Ripped off the old wood and put up that Hardy board stuff that's faux wood, aka concrete. We're going to have to do the same thing here, but don't get me started on that--for us, it'll be like rebreaking a bone in order to set it correctly. Like I said, don't get me started on that. Back to the neighbor's house: I love to see someone take an existing house and transform it without tearing the whole thing down. Like when we reinvent ourselves. Any kind of major change is like that, and if we're kind to ourselves in the process, we can transform into the next stage without demeaning the stage we were in before. That seems to be way too many words for what I'm trying to say. I should attempt to write a haiku that condenses that thought, but feel too lazy right now.

House Like a Butterfly, Experiences a Metamorphosis

Ha! I surprised myself. That was going to be the title of my haiku, but then I decided to count the syllables. When I found 17, I said, Hey, Lazy Girl, you just wrote the haiku! So, I'm done. Gee, that was easy. Only it isn't really a haiku, because it doesn't have a season word in it. Maybe if I give the title a title, like "In Winter." I know, Kris, that's cheating. (Kris is the expert on haiku and other Japanese forms in my circle of friends.)

I told you this was going to be an Olio...

So, next is a diary entry. Dear Diary, Today I facilitated Wesley McNair's "The Future" for the second day in a row, and as I listened to the discussion and the written responses of the women in my two writing groups, I realized that I am in exactly in the place I need to be. Just like that. Now, I've realized that before, but today (and yesterday) the feeling sat with me longer. For a moment it felt like that little 11 x 11 room WAS heaven, and earth was on the other side of the door. To paraphrase McNair, "In the deep moment of my looking, there is no future, only right now, all, anyway, I will ever need." (If you didn't read the poem on this Wednesday's Writer's Almanac posting, here's the link: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/programs/2008/01/21/#wednesday. And if it's been moved, look for it in the archives. Then take a line or phrase that resonates with you, and write from it. And here's a peek into heaven's door (taken in August of 2006) at some of my fellow angels:

Spinning a Question

What's the significance of a black, hairy, and very dead spider found on an old scrap of t-shirt behind the dog's cage in the laundry room? I've been mulling over this question for days, since I found it there. Perhaps the better question is, Why did I think it worthy of a photo? I don't know yet, but I do think that the three elements in the picture are worth pondering. Why was the spider next to the bit of twig from a weed? And is that the face of an angel in the holes in the t-shirt? I know, really! Well? Actually, what I've been trying to figure out is, where's the poem in this picture? I know it's there somewhere. If I figure it out, I'll revise this post and let you know. In the meantime, what's in the corner of your laundry room?

What Abigail Knows

When we found Abigail in that wonderful little

garden shop in Asheville, NC, the owners were
reluctant to let her go, so we promised we wouldn't
change her name. She has graced several spots in our gardens; this is her new favorite. When I photographed her sitting here, I was amazed at
how well the weeds were doing. Why is it that I insist on growing those time-consuming perennials, when it's the weeds that are thriving? I suppose that anything beautiful takes work. Does that mean that weeds aren't creative? I've been busy doing some psychic weeding, and that's hard work, for sure. Digging out the dross, so the gold can shine through. Perhaps Abby is reminding me to be patient with the process. After all, she can feel what's going on underground.

Who says nothing grows
in winter? Abigail waits
in the weeds for Spring.

Unknown Language

You ever look right at something and wonder what it said? Maybe not since you began to read, years ago. I know there's a message here, in the bark of this tree. But I can't read it. Can you?



Tree talking to me
but I don't know its language--
leaves me wondering.

why i'm not sure why

Is the 4th day the hardest? Or the 5th? the 10th? Why do people start blogs and then disappear off the face of blogdom? How soon the thrill is gone. Hey, at least we start. Just how many pristine journals do you have sitting on your bookshelves or in your closets? I have my share, for sure. Blogs are no different. I subscribe to one writer's blog. She's smarter than most--she posts only once or twice a week, and it's short. And readable. Now that I'm at day 4, I realize how soon boredom can set in. What's so special about an ordinary day? Only today wasn't so ordinary. It was pretty astounding--so astounding that I'm not even sure what the import is. And I'm not ready to talk about it. It's one of those days that I have to process first and talk about much later, if at all. So what went on today in between my email to lucy (where I pondered "why i'm not sure why") and watching 30 white tailed deer jump over my fence in the light of the full moon? I'm not ready to say...

hibernating this winter
in an emotional minefield
i live in a house of mirrors
and clean them everyday
too much going on
too many nodding heads
why i'm not sure why
drop in and read
(you're welcome)
back and forth
welcome, now go away
don't say anything
I'm not sure why
show up and listen
leave
a handful of people
make no promises
why i'm not sure why

Frustration, thy name is technology

The sun is shining, albeit weakly. There's a strip of blue in the pale gray covering my view of the sky. I say "my view" because some of you are seeing the whole cosmos. That mine is obscured is fitting, because I've wasted the better part of the day trying to solve--once again--a printer problem. Now, I'm no techno-newbie--I've been fooling with this stuff since 1992--so I know at least half of what I'm doing. And I hate, hate, hate it when the know-it-alls leave out those little "minor" steps that they ASSume we all know. Why Apple would choose to omit the driver for my $750 laser printer (for which I just bought a new $135 toner cartridge) from their fancy-schmancy new OS and why HP chooses to leave out big important chunks in their firmware upgrade instructions I just can't fathom. The only reason I haven't thrown the printer out the upstairs window is that the only thing I hate more than Apple and HP right now is throwing $885 away. That and the fear that it might land on my favorite fern. Okay, enough ranting. Hopefully I'll feel better with that off my chest.

Charleythecat

It's cold and getting colder. Charleythecat knows--as I write, he's curled up on the hood of my car, in the garage. His favorite place to be when I return from errands, engine nice and warm. Tonight, though, he'll beg to sleep in the den, on R's tummy. The colder it is, the longer he'll sleep. He knows if he acts up, it's out in the cold.

Intro stuff

I could have spent three days trying to come up with the perfect title for a blog, my first. But I've given up perfection for the month, so I went with the first thing that popped into my head. That one was taken, of course. And the second one, too. I could feel my perfectionism kicking in, so had to hurry. That's when I spotted the porch fan outside the den window. So, no, I'm not sitting under a porch fan in some sunny utopia. I'm under a Polartec throw in the middle of Tennessee on a chilly January day, looking out at a dreary gray sky and an unscreened porch that needs cleaning. But a porch fan can take me anywhere. If you want to stop in every now and then to see if I'm here, you're welcome to sit awhile and let your shadow catch up with you.