Summing It Up

Isak Dinesen begins with "I had a farm in Africa...."

I once had gardens fruiting and flowering, a porch swing, and a beachy home where a selkie could feel perfectly at home whilst land locked.

Now, my love and I come home sweat grimed, looking like coal miners. Some days we speed to work on a boat to another island and pile into a van loaded with sweaty men who know how to work and make road problems vanish. They execute delicate maneuvers with monster machines. Artistic flourishes with dirt, gravel and oil? Yes.

Life is different, inconvenient and awkward now. We are camping out in a teeny-tiny studio. This is what it's come down to. I puzzle over why I'm not completely miserable? Why am I so comfortable?

Maybe it's because the tent out in the yard has been up all summer and occupied with people who want to come visit? Or perhaps it's the porpoises, whales, starfish, and beach glass I find? Or how I'm learning to fish? Or the eagles and blue herons that fly by, curious? Is it Tessa's picturesque garden she shares with me? Maybe it's the smell of salt water coming in on the breeze, or the rhythm of living with the tides?

What will I remember fondly about this year, in ten years? I don't think it was what Isak Dinesen had that made her life story a riveting one, it was everything pulsing around the experience and adventure of that farm in Africa.

A Bertie Wooster Day

"As I sat in the bathtub soaping a meditative foot and singing, if I remember correctly, 'Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar', it would be deceiving my public to say that I was feeling a boomps-a-daisy."   -P.G. Wodehouse 

....it would be deceiving my public to say that everything is swell, so I am going to remind myself that I have had an incredible life (and the story isn't even over yet) by doing a random wordy free fall bungee jump...right on the threshold of....something....new? It came out just like this, in this order. My life, it's so big. I forget sometimes to be awed and grateful.



I’ve lived in California, Idaho, Florida, Colorado, North Dakota, Washington and Alaska. I’ve seen

Petra, the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Med, the Red, the Dead, DC, Ohio, Iowa, Florida, Kansas,

Nevada, Arkansas, Georgia, Tennessee, Arizona, New Mexico, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi,

California, Alaska, Minnesota, South Dakota, Nevada, Idaho, Hawaii - Maui, Big Island, Kauai,

 Oregon, Montana, Maryland, Jordon, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Austria, Wales, Australia,

 Tasmania, British Columbia, Alberta. I’d like to see Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Maine,

Pennsylvania, Virginia, Wisconsin, South Africa, isle of wight, Cornwall, The Hebrides. I’d like to

bicycle around Lake Michigan, the Great River Road, Paddle parts of the Missouri, the Snake, the

Columbia, and the Colorado Rivers.I can cut hair, cook for crowds, build with wood, weave baskets,

sculpt, weave, embroidery, crochet, make paper flowers, draw, paint, give affection, have amazing

orgasms, take pictures, edit, write poetry, write, I’ve been obscurely published 3 times, I’ve met

Kathleen Norris, Nigel Goodwin, Gregory Wolfe, Jeff Overstreet, Scott Cairns, Lucy Shaw, John

 Hoyte, Gregory Orr, Patricia Hampl, Warren Farha, Michael Card, David and Karen Nee, David

Dark, Sarah Masen, Charlie and Andi Ashworth, Over The Rhine, Steve Laube, Jerry Root, Earl

 Palmer, Dick Staub, and Eugene and Jan Peterson which means I might as well have met Bono. I

had a beautiful garden and a hospitable home. I’ve served thousands of people food. I have 2

daughters who love me and husband who’s been faithful, undeservedly. I have seen nuns ride horses

 in full habit. I’ve seen the northern lights. I’ve heard rocks roar and felt the ground tremble in

Hawaii. I’ve heard the rocks sing in Yelapa, Mexico. I’ve watched a young man shoot heroin. I heard

God laugh - twice. He danced with me once. He teased me on the beach twice. I’ve watched a

silversmith engrave, a cowboy braid leather in the round for a whip, a potter wrestle 15 pounds of

clay into a bread  bowl for me. I’ve seen a horse trained and a donkey pack. I’ve milked a cow and

collected eggs, I’ve butchered chickens and cried for my butchered lamb. I’ve seen had a lamb and

 dog put down. I’ve picked corn, hoed beets, planted beans, stacked hay, and dug potatoes. I’ve

harvested berries and filled a freezer. I’ve said “maybe next year for years. I intimately know the

mystery of sourdough and am still fascinated, after 35 years. I yearn for an outdoor stone hearth oven,

a place by the salt water, a whitehall slide seat row boat, an ocean kayak, I think horse toots are the

sweetest perfume. I have given thanks because He asked me to. I’ve hiked Tasmania’s Overland

Track I’ve wept more tears than I knew I had. I’ve seen, picked up, saved, and given away thousand

of heart shaped rocks. I feel blessed when I see rainbows, shooting stars, and pennies. I have gambled

with a quarter doing heads or tails with God. It didn’t turn out well. He didn’t want me addicted to

knowing for sure. I have crossed latitudes and divides, great rivers and oceans. I have seen old man’s

beard dripping to the ground and gravestones resting beside the sea. I have seen mill stones used for

gates keeping happy sheep. I saw a wallaby stretch her pocket out for her joey. I’ve laid down new

flooring and painted a 2 story house. I think I felt an angel correct me at the wheel. I believed I heard

God’s audible voice once as a child. But it must not have been. I’ve imagined myself into Little

House on the Prairie as well as Pride and Prejudice. I feel the punch or cut or birth pangs in movies.

 Blood makes me faint. I get motion sick on merry go rounds and swings -now that I’m old - which

makes me sad. I crave avocados, roasted vegetables, filberts, peanut butter and raw milk. I play piano

badly only in the key of C. I used to play accordion. I can pick up an harmonica and make music. I

wish I played the banjo. I want to learn more about stone boats, stone soup and hearthstones -

anchoring hospitality to safe harbors where people commune together. I love to garden with my

 daughter. I’ve seen opium poppy fields. Moab’s Arches is my favorite National Park. My favorite

 childish memory was watching my father fell and chop trees. I come from a formidable family of pie

 snobs. Everyday I pray to notice and learn how to love. I've tried to incubate eggs in between my

 breasts. I read several books simultaneously. I have a compulsion to read every word I see and can't

stop myself. I used to suck my thumb as a child. I'm currently homeless. I just found out there was

another child like me long ago. Her name was Catherine. Laura Riding wrote her four letters. I read

them on Brainpickin's and now know I'm not alone.

Supplication

Loverby's

hard

huge

strong 

trustworthy

hands 

hold

comfort

give

nourish

nurture 

caress

untangle

massage

minister 

love

help

serve

fix

and

anchor

me

I

willingly 

place 

myself 

there

in 

the 

palm 

of 

these 

hands 

Plaster of Paris Mold - Slip Cast Sculpture of Craig Overby's Hands - 

Taught by George Lowe - Village Potter - Holden Village - 2016 

Prayer for Dick Staub

This poem by Mark Nepo, from his book Reduced to Joy - 
is for Dick Staub - who I've always thought of by his real 
name, Richard the Lionhearted. I selfishly pray you regain 
your health, for we can't imagine our world without you in it. 

For Joel at 94

They say that miners in South America
strap small lamps around their chest, that
this works better than the light coming
from the center of your head.

They say the head can be fooled,
but the heart can’t turn without
the body. This makes me think of you
digging your way through your long life,
lighting everything with your heart.

It’s a good way to live. And when we
sit at the end of the day, our hearts
illumine the day and we see each other
in its radiance. I can tell, it reminds you
of many circles you’ve been a part of.
It’s a good way to measure time.

To make our way on Earth
by the light coming from our heart —
This is what you’ve taught us.

Is it any wonder that what you
touch, including us, glows.

Making Good Beer From Scratch

Craig, Terry, Seth, and George malt their own barley, roast their own crystal and chocolate, use real hops picked local. They've made many batches of really good beer from scratch - from classic pale ales to dark stouts with roasted cacao and espresso beans. I'm learning to like beer. It is fun to watch the process.

Making Good Beer From Scratch is written by our own renaissance man, Terry Sanderson. 

Holden Village - 2016 

Beautiful Hands

Ruth Playing Harp - Holden Village - October 2016 

Old Note-Scraps of Life

As I was sorting through an old box of miscellaneous scribbles and cut out magazine pages of articles and pictures I found this scrap of paper dated Jan 10, 1997 with this written down. 

Brita and Tess and I were setting at the table doing lessons when Brita started reaming her ear out with gusto and intense satisfaction. She pulled it out, looked at my curiously incredulous face and said, "Gotta wind up my ear - what, don't you ever have to wind up your ear?" 

Haahahahahahahahahha. Oh those weird homeschoolers. 

Belt Loop Love

I was sorting our closet to pack essentials for Holden VIllage, with a pile to give to Goodwill. 

For years and years Craig and I have both been puzzled by new jeans going missing from his closet. Then they'd show up mysteriously. The belt loops would soon come off. Craig quit wearing a belt and cursed cheap chinese sewing. This went on until Brita left home. Because…..

Little did we know she's always had a belt loop fettish. She finds scraping her thumb and finger alternatively along the inside raw edges of a belt loop satisfying, gratifying and comforting. As comforting as sucking her thumb used to be when she was little. Especially when it becomes all soft and frayed, weary of resisting her relentless handling. She carries pieces of belt loops she cuts off her own pants in her pockets until they've been worn out. She seriously lusts after a crisp, fresh off the shelf belt loop. She has been known to buy jeans at thrift stores and Walmart because she was out of options. 

We had no idea until she confessed and solved Craig's mysterious new pants dilemma. We howled in disbelief…… thankful it was a harmless obsession/fixation. 

So, I cut off small square pieces of jeans with loops attached - for a year's supply. I'm prompting Craig to write a hand written note to her to put in a gift bag of twelve cut belt loop squares to send her before we go. 

Dear Brita, 

 

I'm pretty sure during this year in Holden I'll wish a pair of my jeans would go missing, then be mysteriously returned with some belt loops loose. I'm not sure what the criteria is for a proper loop worthy of a good working over, but here is a supply…..until we see you again. I love you as much as you love your belt loops. I promise you have a lifetime supply. Keep me in your pocket. 

 

Dad 

Yes, if you see tear stains on this page, they are mine. These things give life purpose and texture and layers more precious than gold…… 

Homemade Daughter

Her wedding dress

lays folded

finally finished

the last stitch knotted 

buttons on 

hem pressed 

waiting to hang

till it graces her 

lovely shoulders. 

It wasn't made in China

in a factory assembled 

by strange hands or

checked by quality control

before being shipped to 

the mall store. 

There were times 

my insecurity wanted 

it to be tagged and 

stickered and priced

sophisticated like that,

but I couldn't talk her

out of homemade. 

She picked the lace 

and floating silk chiffon

that layers over a weighty

silk satin skirt. 

"Mama, could you 

make it have a small

train and leave the back

open like this?" 

She doesn't know 

I couldn't make myself

use the hem stitch foot 

to roll the bottom 

easy and quick. I needed 

to thread the needle - 

slip stitching love 

five per inch. 

She doesn't know I 

pricked my finger, 

hoping no blood stains

remained.

. 

She doesn't know I

found the cat laying on 

it like the Queen of Sheba

nestled in a silk stole.  

After the wedding

guests leave he'll

unbutton the waist

that I button up 

before their vows. 

They prepare promises

to forsake all others 

and cleave to one 

another in sickness 

and in health, for 

better or worse, until

death parts them. 

I hate being left so they 

may do the needed

forsaking part. 

She doesn't know

she's taking 

my sunshine 

away. 

He doesn't know 

what it feels like 

yet, to be the moon. 

Make Summer Glad

Find wood, gather kindling, strike a match to crumpled paper. 

Toast marshmallows, squish them warm between two graham crackers and chocolate. 

Take the rain flap off the top off the tent to look at the stars. They are waiting for you. 

Sleep naked beside someone you love. 

Make a warm oven under the duvet where cold can't reach. 

Caress flesh and feel the cares of pavement, malls, florescent lights, traffic, and technology flee. 

Pump the coleman lantern. Marvel at the mantles.

Pump the coleman stove. Light the burner. 

Set the tea kettle to whistle time for cocoa, spiced cider, or tea. 

Touch a toe to the freezing water. Go in if you dare, but never skinny dip........alone. 

Stay awake until the coyotes howl and mourning doves coo. 

Listen for owls and wrestling raccoons. 

Stay bundled, cocooned in the morning until your bladder won't let you wait another minute. 

Put layers on. Unzip the day. Fry bacon. Boil coffee. 

Give morning hope and call the sunshine to breakfast.

Lay on your back with wild flowers and blow clouds across the sky. 

Sing to the fire, make it dance. 

Gather a bouquet of violets or willow leaves and dress the table.

Poke the wood surrounded by bruised flames and loose the sparks. 

Look for little people in hollow logs or under mushrooms. 

Listen for the silence to speak.

Let trees embrace your ache.

Let scents of pine and pitch and smoke soothe your anxious thoughts. 

Allow the quiet to cushion your heart. 

Notice the water lapping at the edges. 

Camp unencumbered. Camp uncluttered. Camp unfettered. 

Sweep the dirt if you must and clean your fingernails, but let go of primping and scrimping and limping. 

Swing in a hammock all day and accomplish nothing except daydreams.  

How a Paintshirt Becomes One

A needle 

threaded by help of 

new readers 

lays easy in my hand 

sliding stitches full of color 

in and out. Today I 

will only think

about sewing (I think), 

so an unstained shirt

is worn. In between

stitches, I see glue is

needed right now

to keep loose ends 

together. Before its 

stickiness has time to 

dry, I wonder if another

layer of paint should be 

put on that board waiting 

in the corner. Oh, and those 

strips need chalked along

the edges. Content, 

I wipe my hands before

getting back to my needle. 

Another paint shirt is born

hand printed with colors 

lifted from life. Don't 

suggest an apron, I 

was only going to sew. 

Going Ahead Anyways

A long time aquaintance of mine is in the middle of a project worthy of a mention. It isn't merely the dreams that she is seeing come to completion, but the timing of it all. Her blog is an intriguing follow.

Jeri and her husband Kurt are expats living in Abu Dhabi. He is retiring from BP. They bought a piece of property on the shores of the Mediterranean in Kas, Turkey a while back. They dreamed of refurbishing and repurposing this derelict estate into a home to invite hungry, weary pilgrims to "come and rest a while and learn the unforced rhythm of grace".

Many of us have been following the progress of the structure as laborers - craftsmen all - breath three dimensional life into the one dimensional blueprints Jeri drew up. They saw what she dreamed...

The astonishing thing is the time in which it has been happening. Earthquakes in Haiti, Chile, and Japan. Political turmoil in surrounding countries. Dictators falling. Oil spills. Floods. Famine. Sex trafficking ramped up. The economic meltdown keeping pace with the possible fallout of another Chernobyl.

It is hard to fight the instinct to dig into a dark bunker, hunker down and live off the stash we've cached. Some desperately pray for escape by rapture - taking us to the heaven we hope is true.

I got a lump in my throat when I saw the latest pictures this week. It took me awhile to process why it filled me with jubilation. I wanted to stand and applaud this family who isn't caving into despair, but fighting valiantly with all their energy to create beauty on a tiny bit of dangerous earth. A place that is hospitable - inviting the creative encouragers from all over the world to receive  refreshing. Laura said the other day that she wanted to be a beauty activist. I loved those words. It fits in with this story of this home.

A home with no agenda. No programs. No stipulations. No drawn lines of separation across creeds or gender. No price tag. No strings attached. No gimmick. Ugly isn't invited.

It will be a home with lights on. A home with food shared around a common table with stimulating conversation. A home with chairs catching the breeze on a veranda looking towards the sea. A home lined with good books, lovely music. A home with a welcome mat always out.

Jeri and Kurt redefine and reframe the word retire into inspire. [Deep curtsy]

Sucking on Succor

Succor means: to aid, assist, help, offer comfort, encouragement.

This last week, I was in the sludge of discouragement. I took the week off from the world wide web and connected with comfortable behaviors and uncomfortable ones. I didn't have the inclination or energy for too much eyeball to eyeball or skin to skin engagement. For introverts it can be exhausting at such times.

Many hours were spent reading. This activity included a dog curled up on the blanket corner at my feet and a hot mug of tea. It was restorative and inspirational reading. Contemplative. Nourishing. Quiet.

I dug out some dormant art supplies which haven't been used in years. Sitting down facing a blank white page paralyzed me for a while. I finally gave myself permission to be a kid and simply put color on the white paper. It didn't turn out very good. The next one not much better. The third? Pretty much the same. Each was whimsical and colorful, though. They will stay private or be gracefully laid in the garbage. The thing was - I needed to be creative in new ways. Make myself uncomfortable. The finished products weren't good, but they bushwhacked the brush, clearing some plugged trails. The exercise wasn't wasted or futile. Some times creative juices need some sort of laxative to start the flow again........creative constipation happens. Taking action is imperative for me to get unplugged. The momentum carries over into other areas.

Because I was so discouraged, I thought - maybe I'm not the only one. I determined to send personal, hand written encouragement to everyone on my address list who loves words and writes. To give what I needed most. Writers need to know that words do matter in our world. It is a lonely, solitary call. Most the time, the lack of feedback is crushing. We don't know if the void has ears, or if there is a soulish connection being made. As I put that batch of envelopes in the mail, I felt presumptuous and foolish. I have people on my mailing list who surely don't want or need my simple offering? They are VIP's! I heard a mocking cackle of derision gurgling up through the slimy pit below me.

One of the most profound books I've read is The Gift by Lewis Hyde. A gift has to move. In a circle. It has to be passed on. Today I was at the end of the receiving line and got all the abundant excess somehow. Could it be because I offered the little I had to another?  I don't know. Truly I don't.

This day has been so full of gifts being rained down on me. A blizzard of emotional goodness swirling me in loving eddies of affection and encouragement. I feel like I'm sucking on a succor cube of sweetness.

It came on a day that I thought I was going down gasping one last time - like Stevie Smith said, "Not waving but drowning."

Be strong and of good courage my friend. You are beloved. You are not alone.

Crushed

Seeing the wine harvest brought in and crushed, has been on my bucket list since forever. I will be down in Oregon, having a peek at the process. In order to have the privilege, I have offered to clean toilets, pick stems, or do dishes for the family and friends loving Sineann Wine into being.

I go, hungry to sense and absorb the aspects of this process. Lord, help me see.

Thanks Peter and Nancy. See you.

Launch #1

Tessa left home with her car packed yesterday. She snuggled with me in bed before we had coffee. As we hugged good by I couldn't quit sniffing her neck and cheeks and hair. Her scent is her own. I have already misplaced it. This makes me feel blind. Crippled. Numb.

I made her two aprons. One, a girl apron in pink floral and polka dots. The other a plain, John Deere print with tractor pockets - farm girl wanna be apron. She is an amazing cook, infusing her creations with sensuous passion. I think she stays pure and virginal physically because she can release and transform her desire into the food she shares. We have been blessed by many meals where the only sound at the table was a soft moan of satiated hunger.

Tucked into the aprons was a love note. Her middle name is Rose. Another gift to the world is her music. I will miss the piano throbbing the windows silly. The girl has soul. You can't learn it or buy it. You can only be born with it. It has nothing to do with perfection or performance.

On the back are taped tickets. Unlimited tickets to return home or ask for help if she needs to.

This was a love letter printed with crayon on first grade tablet paper. 

It seems like yesterday when she was practicing cursive on it. 

Tessa Punkin' Noodle Rosebud ~ 

Don't forget whose you are. 

Be the bride.

 Look loved instead of trying to look good. 

Present yourself as a gift. 

You are. 

See others in that pink light also. 

Give. 

Save. 

Pray. 

Live simple and real.

 Live fully alive and engaged. 

Work and love from fullness and rest. 

Be instead of do. 

Don't look back. 

Move forward within the tension of waiting. 

Shine. 

Twinkle.

 Offer. 

Laugh. 

Play. 

Smile on your world. 

You are needed. 

Bloody Berries

Falling into the berry patch hurts. Dumping the full basket is discouraging. Spider webs trapped me. Barbed thorns hooked tender flesh. Hair chunks getting yanked out by a bramble branch made me cry behind askew sunglasses.

Is that blood oozing or berry stains?

Another two quarts of berries in the freezer is all I have for my trouble today.

Why do I do it?

It is never about the berries.

It's about the sensual satisfaction of gathering summer and putting it by. For later.

Deliverance

Loverby and I drove six hours to meet a simple country girl, her family, and one of her favorite musicians. She invited us. It was worth the drive. The farm country filled our senses with healing and wholeness. We miss small town farm life.

We packed light. Our tent, bedding, and coffee pot.

The first night we found a free camp spot on the Snake River called Madame Dorian's. It had an outhouse. No running water. Right on a lake with a train whistling through at all hours. It seemed a good fit. The sardine packed RV park that we had just passed wasn't our style.


It was dark when we arrived. As we were setting up the tent with a small flashlight, two older men came over with lanterns. The were toothless, wore scruffy clothes, and had had a bad hair day. They each had one lazy eye that kept drifting off. With severe speech impediments, they talked incessantly. We were grateful for the light, and their kindness, but it was awkward. It became clear that they were mentally disabled. Getting them to go home became a challenge. Social codes, norms, and cues weren't translating well.

Loverby needed to use the outhouse. He was gone quite a while. Too long. I started imagining the worst: Those men were part of a gypsy band of miscreants. They had jumped him. Stolen his wallet, threw him in the bushes dead. The truck keys were in his pocket. The area had few other campers. It was dark. The stake hammer was outside, out of reach. It felt like this was Deliverance and we were in need of some. Was that Dueling Banjos playing faintly in the background?

He finally came back. I asked if he could grab the hammer on the ground.

Sure, I'll put it in the truck.

No, no, bring it inside.

Why.

It is our only weapon.

Oh. For what?

Well, just in case we need it.

Hmmm.

We promptly fell asleep to a train racing along the river. Its whistle was the last thing I remember until a patch of sheet lightning, lightning and cracking thunder woke us up. The sky split open. A downpour pounded. The tent pitched and bucked, but we went back to sleep when we realized no water was coming in. We woke up ~ surprised to be not only alive, but warm and dry.

The brothers and a son were waiting outside to greet us, as soon as we unzipped the door. Each was eating a bowl of dry fruit loops. Our hair looked similar to theirs now. Our clothes just as rumpled. Our smiles towards the lovely sunrise, and sage scented morning ~ exactly the same.

The oldest one melted my heart when he told Loverby he missed living on the farm they grew up on.

By morning's filter, after a strong cup of coffee ~ they only looked like two brothers taking care of each other in a harsh world ~ with enough kindness left over to offer us their light.

Under the Umbrella

My tagline is ~ We don't live a Christmas letter life; if you don't either, welcome. 


I believe in excellence. Hate mediocrity. Even so, awards, trophies, plaques, and blue ribbons aren't lining our shelves.

We do have a room wall to wall with framed photos. Pictures celebrating memories we have in common as a family. Brita and Tessa have most the shelf room. They are our treasures, engraved on our hearts.

We have a drawer of love notes from our daughters.
We hug and cuddle a lot.
We still gather to eat a meal together once in while.
We sit around and talk.
We do chores side by side.
We laugh.
We pray together.
We argue.
We're messy.
We breakdown with real or imagined misery.
We have pity parties.
We play.
We fight.
We procrastinate.
We are ridiculously in love with our golden, Maggie.
Craig whistles.
The girls make music.

See how our days aren't filled amazing accomplishments. We're not on committees, boards, or listed anywhere. We're not on the cutting edge of anything. No one is following us or hanging on every word.

Slow days filled with the common, simple, and ordinary rhythms of family life ~ nothing stunning enough to make the grade for an impressive Christmas letter. 

Most of you know Craig and I had engine trouble recently. Coming home from vacation in Idaho, we
had to leave the truck to get the transmission repaired. Relay fashion, inconveniencing more than one branch of the family, we limped home.

This last weekend, we had to pick up the fixed truck in Oregon, eight hours away.

Our youngest, Brita, always has a sturdy savings account. She graciously allowed us to borrow enough for this unexpected emergency. She offered her gas saving small car.

As we left, we found a small cooler filled with two bottles of tea and two bottles of water - on ice. The gas tank was full. A fresh, unopened bag of hearty trail mix sat between us. Her car was clean and uncluttered. Lagniappe. Unexpected gift.

Tess is currently housesitting for some mutual friends. Adult to adult, friend to friend ~ she invited us over to enjoy the hot tub. We laughed like giddy children, steaming away in the cold rain. With perfect timing, she arrived carrying hot Peet's decaf in big mugs. Mine with warm cream. We could only sigh with contentment at such a lovely gesture.

I blame Craig entirely for the thoughtful and generous genes passed on to our progeny.

Coming away from both of these recent experiences leaves me with warm fuzzies. Our dreams for our girls were simple and few. Being capable of giving and receiving love was on top of the list, for it is the umbrella over all.

In spite of ourselves, and in spite of the rain which falls around us, we're covered. Love is a circus tent sized umbrella. Under the Big Top there's lot's of room. Come in. Welcome. It's so good to see you.

"You are our letter, written on our hearts....." ~ Paul

"For life, with all it yields

of joy and woe

And hope and fear, 

Is just our chance o' the 

prize of learning love ~ 

How love might be, 

hath been indeed, and is."  

~ Browning 

Barn Swallows Do

A glop of mud is carried to the brick ledge. Picked up and transferred by a beak. The other parent, probably heavy with eggs wanting laid, brings a sprig of grass to weave into the wet dollop.

It has a rhythm, this nest building. An imperfect rhythm, because it was our morning spot. The invaders made us feel like intruders, rocking away on the patio with our coffee. The pair of swallows seemed frantic. They tried dive bombing and fly-by aggression trying to persuade us to leave.

Feathers in my cup won't bully me into missing the show. No way. We didn't budge. If they were determined to have that spot for a nest, they'd have to let us be an audience. It was wonderful, as in full of wonder.

Every day we quietly watched them create a nest. The engineering and architecture bedazzled us. The mud half bowl appeared slowly but steadily on the wall.

They worked non-stop. We had to leave before witnessing their finished home. It probably is lined with soft down plucked from the parents by now. She might be setting on eggs already. The male will bring her food until the chicks hatch. Both of them will tirelessly feed their offspring.

Mom didn't especially relish the nasty residue they would leave all over the patio, but didn't have the heart to keep them away.

Baby swallows hang their little behinds over the edge to relieve themselves. They have this instinct passed down from ancient times - they won't spoil their home. The place they sleep, eat, grow, and feel safe in.... stays clean. I'm glad it didn't get knocked down before it had a chance to shelter life.

Mom has ponds that breed mosquitos. These swallows and their families keep the mosquitos down. Her hospitality will be repaid.

I had a bird's eye view of home.

How a Day Stays

Spray the grease stains on my two
red table cloths while remembering
he sat just there and laughed with his
belly full of happiness, passing the
bread basket warm.

Breaking bread together is much
better with butter on it. Lifting
a baby's cheek to get at the sweet
cream  and honey in her neck is tastier
even than butter on bread.

Lemon wedge water glass toasts
will do when sending her off
in other's care. They'll look after
her  well; she's easy like a big dollop
of pudding in crust.

Bones clack on plate after sucking the
the goodness gone. Eggs bedeviled,
orphaned, forgotten, left out in the cold.
Bowls left swimming with white juice
 puddles from green slaw gone.

Napkins with wrinkled wings and broken backs
lay crumpled and limp now. They absorbed the
afternoon like I did. Crisp traded for useful.
All departing drips from lips, floor and laps
get wadded up, thrown now into yesterday.


We had about 25 friends over today for a classic All American BBQ. Five thick racks of dry rubbed ribs soaked overnight with peppers and onions. Grilled asparagus, sweet potatoes, fingerlings, zucchini and mushrooms. Coleslaw. Hot sourdough buns.

Two platters of deviled eggs were forgotten in the fridge. Woops. Strawberry shortcake juxtaposed with brownies for the base. And coffee. Of course, coffee.

We were saying good by to Sarah and her children as they move to PA. It's on the other side of the nation and feels a bit final.  We wished her well with hopes to visit someday. She will be missed.

I am most happy when the house is packed. Food and good conversation flows along with affection and mouth watering aromas. Nothing can take those away even when the day is used up and the dishes put away. No one can put the day in the trash like the napkins. The day stays with the pictures taken; the kind of pictures forever engraved inside.

Feeding a crowd comes easy to me for some reason. One of them was sitting across the room from me. I watched Loverby as he passed the hot bread. He was laughing so hard the basket wobbled a bit. It was good. All of it. His tandem help is what makes it easy. His enjoyment makes it worth it.
Today was just right, like the baby bear's porridge.