What Is To Come

When I awoke this morning, the sky was again gray. A dim light behind the clouds assured me Helios, crowned by the shining aureole of the sun, was on course. As the morning progressed, the sky grew darker, denser and threatening. After being up a few hours, I opted to return to bed with a cup of coffee, muffin and a good book. Mocha was kind enough to share my bed with me. Her residual body heat warmed me as I snuggled under the thick comforter.

The luxury of time to read, write and contemplate has been mine since moving to Tennessee. I've squandered this gift at times, but today am immersed in a timely and important book that would serve us all well to read:

Authors Susan Kuner, Carol Matzkin Orsborn, Linda Quigley and Karen Leigh Stroup dare to propose we shift our perception of life-threatening and chronic illness from a battle to a doorway through which we can walk into a life lived fully. All four women are initiates of breast cancer. Their intimate and poignant stories translate well to the experiences, questions and struggles with any disease that enters our lives uninvited.

As I gaze out the window in my sitting room, goldfinches, cardinals, chickadees, tufted titmice, nuthatches and woodpeckers are feeding feverishly. I've grown to trust their prognostication skills over meteorologists. Their rush to fuel up tells me snow is coming, and soon.

Wrap yourself in warmth and embrace the gift of today.

Between Heaven and Texas

Daily, I search for the horizon,

food for my soul.

Daily, my gaze is halted

by ridges, dense forests, foothills.

Daily, my spirit seeks to rest

under a cumulonimbus cloud,

soaring 40,000 feet

between heaven and Texas

A copy of Texas Sky by Wyman Meinzer was placed in my outstretched hands on Valentine's Day. Thank you Linda for a most thoughtful, kind and loving gift.

Luckily, this book has a slick dust cover. Tears roll off nicely when I pine for the horizon. Sometimes, I walk around with it clutched to my breast. Silly you say? The words of Texas Parks and Wildlife Director, Andrew Sansom sum it up nicely,

Our identity as Texans is tied up with the sky, and our belief that anything is possible flourishes in a place of endless horizons and unobstructed access to the clouds and the stars.

Next week, I travel to Texas. You can rest assured whether twilight or day, I'll be basking under the endless Texas sky.

Closer to Clarity

Trail's end may not be clear

but shadows mark the way

as each step brings

me closer to clarity

A Slippery Slope

It's happened. I've lived long enough to become a participant in an activity I would (and did) scoff 25 years ago.

Picture this, it's 1983 and a group of young, hip friends are squeezed into a booth at Denny's consuming copious amounts of coffee and pancakes after a night of bar hopping. Our conversation is peppered with current events, antics from the night before and 20-something angst. I believe my hair was hot pink and jutting off in gravity-defying directions, held aloft by concrete hair products and cigarette smoke. A group of senior citizens enter the restaurant, shuffling past our booth. We watch the geriatric parade pass by in slow motion and settle into a table near us. Sitting on the edge of the booth, I could eavesdrop on their conversation, which was a person-by-person account of their physical ailments. This one's gall bladder, that one's liver, another one's diabetes. They were swapping tips on navigating Medicare, private insurance and worrying about how they were going to pay for medication on a fixed income. I remember thinking to myself, Oh God! Is that all they have to talk about...spare me!

Fast-forward to 2008 and I'm sitting in a bar with a friend and a new acquaintance. We are waiting for the Gospel Drag Show to start and after talking about the upcoming election, the paradox of gay Republicans and how delicious the chocolate sin cake was from the pot luck dinner, it happened. My friend started talking about her pending colonoscopy, which prompted many questions from the other person about cost, insurance, whether she'd have twilight anesthesia or be knocked out, etc... I sat mute thinking to myself, Oh God! It's happened. I'm sliding into middle age where the conversation will center around our bowels. Luckily, the disco ball started spinning, the music started thumping and out came drag queens in choir robes topped off with sequined shawls.

Balance had been struck. Whew!

Snowy Morning

Its' been snowing off and on since 5 pm yesterday. At this moment, I'm looking out the window at what this Texas girl would call a blizzard! The flakes are huge and being whipped about by gusts of wind that disallow their gentle ascent to the ground. This must be what it's like to live in a snow globe.

The snow shows off the bones of this place, the eye is drawn to the depths of the hollows and heights of the ridges. Even the steps leading from the meadow to the house resemble the human spine. I recently read that the exact minerals found in the Earth are found in the human body and in the same percentages. Our kinship is evident in these photos.

A Bear in the Chair

Kenzie aka Miss Moonbeam

taking an upside-down siesta

Remnants of a Season

Roadside Waterfall

Skyuka Mountain

Ancient Vine at Biltmore Mansion

Gnarled Roots at Dry Creek

Wild Mushrooms

These photos were all taken in the Fall of 2007, following a severe drought throughout the summer. I was struck by the similarities in color palette, shape and form. Twisted, gnarled, cracked, but all surviving despite the arid season that preceded.

Heart-Shaped World

Turn this heart-shaped world

upside down,

find the feminine form,

the beautifully rounded bottom

poured from the pitcher of Creation

Turn this heart-shaped world

right side up,

water, land masses, populace

flow into harmony and balance

Turn this heart-shaped world

on either side,

nothing will be lost,

simply held in trust...

the gift

poured from the pitcher of Creation

A Treasure in the Hen House

Last week, I had a Virgo moment and reorganized my office. This involved moving a file cabinet upstairs that had been in storage for who knows how long. I pulled every folder, piece of paper and stack of junk out of my office. It took an entire day to assimilate, discard, recycle and shred and yes, it was glorious!

Now, it was time to put the surviving papers away in an orderly fashion. First, I wanted to thoroughly clean the "new" file cabinet. The top drawer was no problem, just needed a little wiping down with some 409. Now I was picking up steam...by the second drawer I was starting to encounter bits of debris...time to get the vacuum cleaner. Third drawer, spider webs, scraps of old paper, twigs, straw and what's this, a feather? Hmmm...wonder what awaits me in the bottom drawer.

A hen's nest! Yes, lovely pure white feathers and a nest. This was going to require reinforcements. I pulled out the drawer and wedged in the back of the file cabinet was a packet of very old genealogy documents. My sense of adventure trumped my need to be organized and sat down to gingerly open each envelope. Most were inquiries for census, birth, death and education records, but I hit the jackpot when I unfolded a letter penned 120 years ago, now yellow with age and crumbling at the folds:

Woodville, Tenn

April 28, 1888

Dearest,

This is the anniversary of our marriage thirty years ago. Then you were young and I loved you as my bride. Since, and through the years which with many blessings have brought also some hard trials and afflictions, you have proven to be a [ ] to all the emergencies of life. You have developed strength and beauty of wifely and motherly character commanding my admiration and love in the highest degree. In your sphere you have no superior among all the women I have known on earth. I thank you that you are my wife "the best in the world". I wish I could be as good a husband as you are a wife. I do love you with an undivided heart - love you more and more; but I cannot love you more than is even possbile as you deserve. And you are the best mother on earth. The only thing in you that hurts me is that you are sacrficing yourself for me and the children. Do spare yourself, my darling.

Dear Louise - may she soon be better! How I love her! By Monday morning's mail send me a few words on postal card, care of Pub. House and a letter later in the week. Monday at 11:40 a.m. I expect to take the train at Curve for Nashville. I am well as usual. Love to all of you and most of all for you.

Husband



So taken was I by this find, all interest in the origin of the hen's nest was lost. I still don't know how it found it's way into the basement of Penuel Ridge. Those of you who care to speculate, feel free to leave a comment.

Metaphorically Speaking

Consider the dial of a compass,
with its cardinal points
free-floating to the call
of magnetic north.

A handy tool
to steer you home
when the dust settles
after a belly slide into third base.

But what if the only movement
is the running of the bases
over and over again
in your mind?

What then is the tool
to discern the direction

of true north?

The Color of the Day - White

Eyes open
snow falling
shoes crunching
in silent woods

Mouth smiling
dog bounding
lake swallowing
feathery flakes

Eaves wear
icicle lashes
sun cresting
the craggy ridge

Meadow strewn
with diamonds dazzling
air glistening
spirit is fed

Tearing Down

Tearing down to rebuild,
that's how life feels.

In the end,
I will savor
the new state
of liberation.

For now,
my psyche groans
as I struggle
to loosen the bindings.

Headline Worthy

*Why, Why, Why...

are the donuts on the opposite end of the grocery store from the tampons?

In my perfect world, there's a case of piping hot Shipley's plain glazed donuts between the condoms/lube/douche products and the tampons/panty liners/pads. No matter what your activity of the moment, you can self-medicate with a donut.

Does Mr. Retailer really want me stomping across the store in a PMS fog wielding a large box of tampons?

*My apologies to the "greeter" at WalMart to whom I posed this question at 4:30 am. Sadly, for all 5 people in the store at the time, the donut case was empty.

Salvation

“I had three good kids” is what my momma always says
I wonder what part of that is still true?

I guess we were good
as long as we were under her roof

Like most children
we grew
Like some children
we went out into the world

and learned
what we heard around the dinner table,
what we heard in the church pew
wasn’t true

my brother learned
that just because he could
drive a car fast
didn’t mean he couldn’t get hurt

my sister learned
that just because the boys
in our town didn’t court her
didn’t mean she wasn’t beautiful

me, I learned
that just because the preacher
taught one way to salvation
didn’t mean there weren’t other ways

my brother’s been married twice
and his only son is about to go
to prison for selling drugs
he (my brother) and his second wife
are disrespectful to my mom

I don’t talk to them anymore

my sister practices a religion of exclusion
she’s a good mom
and her only son is about to get married
we were close once

we don’t talk much anymore

me, I’m finding my way back
to myself after a 16 year marriage
to a deeply wounded man,
I'm finding my way back
to a self I didn’t know existed

I don’t talk to many people

but I talk to the prayer inside me
and I talk to my dog
and I talk to the birds
and to the trees
and to the creatures
that show themselves to me

…and the way to salvation

Meringue Pie Sky

meringue pie sky
foamy white peaks
scooped off the top
as they were cooling

who could fling it higher
so it'd stick
in the deep blue
hanging over our heads

we try not to giggle at momma
standing there
with one hand on her hip
looking at those naked pies

Barn at Bell's Bend Park

Release the Hound!

This is the mournful face of a golden retriever in the back of a Ford Explorer at the entrance to a dog-friendly park. Said park has hundreds of acres on which Mr. Gloomy Gus could have frolicked to his heart's delight.

Is that not the most pitiful face you have ever seen? I could plant corn in a furrow that deep.

Where are his people? Surely they didn't go walking in the park without the furry one.

In my dying moments, this face will flash before my eyes.

Sans the Super Bowl

It's Super Bowl Sunday, and I have no intention of watching the game. We've had a break in the weather and it's pleasant enough to go outside in two layers of clothing and/or one layer of very brown fur, if you're a Mocha dog.

I sat on a bench next to the lake and listened to birdsong and the sound of water rushing over the spillway with my eyes closed. Eyes open, I know each bird by name. Eyes closed, their identity is lost. The lake cast an upside-down reflection of the sky and surrounding trees, it's surface washed clean by wind and storms from previous days.

Partway through the afternoon, we jumped in the car and off we went on an old-fashioned Sunday drive in the country. Initially, I was looking for a road that ran parallel to the east shore of the Cumberland River. I often spy amazing homes perched atop those eastern bluffs and wanted to get a closer look. The Universe had a different idea as to my destination because every road I turned down was a dead end.

Catching the hint, I changed direction and used my instincts to locate a new dog-friendly park (Bell's Bend Park) and poof, it materialized after only a few turns. It covers hundreds of acres that were originally slotted to become a landfill for Nashville. When Mayor Purcell took office, he immediately redirected its usage for the Parks and Recreation Department...what a guy! I have a feeling it's going to be my new favorite destination. Its flat, low-lying delta sloping to the Cumberland is a little reminder of home!

On the drive back, I noticed an interesting detour off the not-so-beaten path that led to an old ferry crossing. We took the bait and were not disappointed by the miles of barns, livestock, silos and generations-old family farms. Driving slowly, a long metal fence caught the attention with its plethora of "Private Property, No Trespassing" signs flapping in the breeze. Past those signs, I spied movement maybe 100 yards away...two creatures, very large and very white grazing on short turf grass. At first I thought they were some sort of exotic livestock, since I'd just passed a farm with llamas, pigmy goats and donkeys.

All at once, I realized what I was seeing...a pair of whooping cranes! A rare and nearly exstinct bird that one would never expect to see in Tennessee is one I saw often growing up in South Texas. Our Texas Gulf Coast is the over-wintering home of hundreds of whooping cranes. Luckily, I had my camera and hoped for the best picture possible. My apologies for the poor quality, but they were very far away and I had no intention of entering their habitat to get closer.



Unbeknownst to me, an article had been written in early January about the appearance of these rare cranes. Here's a link to the story and a better picture:

http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/200801010210/NEWS01/801010358

Prayer Flags

Voices hushed

by the roaring cascade,

tattered prayer flags

mumble from the branches

of a black walnut tree.

Silhouette

Living in communion with creation gives me a front-row seat to breathtaking appearances by the wildlife inhabiting this land. Over the weekend, while driving down River Road, I spotted a barred (bard) owl perched in a tree near the road. It turned its head as we passed, so of course had to go back for a better look. Then, a few miles later, we spyed a Red Shouldered Hawk surveying his domain from the white branches of a sycamore tree.

Big deal? Yes, a very big deal considering I've not seen either in the 2 1/2 years I've been here.

Yesterday, Mocha and I were headed out when something very large lifted from a tree near the car and flew silently to perch a safer distance away. I stood very still and there, looking west, was the largest owl I have ever seen. It too was a barred (bard) owl and did not seem the least bit interested in me or my dog. I returned to the house for the camera and approached the subject silently across the saturated lawn. I was able to capture a silhouette, but wanted badly to photograph it from the front with the golden rays of the setting sun illuminating its face and elaborate network of barred feathers. As I raised the camera to frame the perfect shot, so rose the owl from the tree branch and he dropped out of sight into the lower meadow.

Take my word for it, this owl was spectacular.

All About You

We've all received them. Some of us have even sent them. I did a few days ago.

What? Emails that ask you to answer a myriad of questions about yourself under the guise that it will help your friends know you better.

It occurred to me last night that even though I'm guilty of participating, I really don't want to know these trivial things.

Here's what I really want to know:

1. What makes your heart sing?

2. Can I call you at 3 am to bail me out of jail and will you do it?

3. If you could, at this moment, go anywhere and be anything your heart desired, what would that look like?

4. What is stopping you from realizing #3?

5. How can I be a better friend to you?

If you care to respond, the comments are open.

Sycamore

Today was the day to capture you
in your state of undress,
your white-as-chalk limbs
glistening in the sun.

I was too late.

Your high crown still shimmered,
but your body dissolved in shadow
as winter's piercing rays
slid silently west.

Tomorrow, I'll return
and you will tell me
how to take root in
unforgiving soil

and thrive.

Really?

So these dudes show up on Monday at the Retreat Center and tell me we don't have termites, but a mouse infestation problem. Really? We're located on 135 acres in rural Tennessee. Do you think we might have some field mice living out here? Maybe in the corn field across the road? And maybe when it gets cold, they seek shelter. Do you think, maybe?

So one of the dudes with the clipboard and the starched white shirt with the name of the company embroidered on the pocket hands me his business card and his title is "wildlife specialist." He prattles on and on about how they (mice) carry disease and it's just awful and they can guarantee that after their procedure, no mouse will ever be able to get into the house, blah, blah, blah.

So he just called with a heightened sense of urgency in his voice that we need to schedule an appointment immediately for him to come out and measure and analyze and I don't know, count mouse turds and he'll let me know how much it's going to cost to be mouse-free.

I scheduled the appointment, i.e. baited the trap. Y'all say a prayer for this poor schmo.

Wintery Mix

That's what "they" call it when the weather Gods give us snow, rain and sleet at the same time. I popped outside about 7 pm last night to make a mailbox run and it was snowing big, wet flakes. It was more like clumps, compared to the dry snow of past winters. Mocha was not deterred and we romped in the meadow until it started to rain and then snow and then rain and then sleet and then snow some more.

When I awoke this morning, I expected to see a blanket of white, but alas, the wintery mix meant it melted in the night. Now drops of rain are suspended on the tips of branches and edges of eaves in anticipation of becoming icicles. They are putting up a good fight against gravity.

As I was donning my winter wear to go outside this morning, the hymn, "Oh, How I Love Jesus" popped into my head, with a little substitution in lyrics:

Oh, how I love my scarf,
Oh, how I love my scarf,
Oh, how I love my scarf
because it keeps me warm!

Feast

Make each movement a prayer, each breath
an exaltation to the God that swells within you.
It doesn't matter if your God has no name,
you know it.

When you touch the one who makes your heart sing
let love ooze from the tips of your fingers,
drip from the corner of your eye like a savory tear

sliding down your cheek.

Reach gently for the next thing,
as if caressing the essence of life.
Land softly on your spongy soul,
feel it bounce with joy.

This moment...
it's what you’ve been given.

This moment...

it's what you live in.

Feast.

Finding Neverland

I dart in front, then behind
the curtain changing
masks changing
minds changing
costumes changing
lives

From the wings,
I peer into the faces
of the onlookers

do they see me?
do they hear me?
do they touch me?
do they want me?

I'm not what they think I am

I stride onto the stage,
avoiding a backward glance
in the mirror

I'm not what I think I've become

Once Was Rain

I love the sound the lake makes

when its belly is full,

a basso snoring that wakes the creek.

Bubbling and wubbling,

churning and chortling,

it trips over roots and rocks

and its own feet,

letting out a woo hoo (!)

as it free falls down the cascade.

Deep In My Heart...Texas

Christmas Day, 2007

Washington, Texas

The Next Generation

Instead of "pass the gravy" I heard "pass the baby" at Christmas this year. 2007 marked the arrival of Brady, third son of Melissa and Preston born in May and twins Grant and Grace to Gus David and Bubba born in August. Brady is such a happy baby and I'm sorry I didn't get a picture, but here is my cousin Donna holding a sleeping Grace and a lovely family portrait of Bubba and Gus David holding Grant.

Welcome Brady, Gus David, Grant and Grace to the family. Your presence gives us another chance to open our arms, hearts and minds to the hope of our next generation.

Morning Mist

The sun's rays

coaxed the water to rise

in a swirling, dancing mist

'round the island home

of heron and panther
one is light

one is dark

and in between...

mystery.

Three Cheers for Untethered Women!

We met a decade ago. Since then, we've cried, laughed, danced, fallen flat on our faces, helped each other back up, shaken our heads in disbelief and shared some pretty fine wine. KC encouraged me when my spirit said, "write." Now it's my turn to encourage her in her journey. Her spirit has yet to speak its desire, but I'll be there to cheer her on when it does.

Heavyweight

My mind lies fallow.

Words catch
in the stubble
of autumn’s harvest.

The blank page
blows onto the river.

It too (the river that is)
is being pushed,
its only defense
to rise up with clenched fists
white-knuckled,
punching the black water.

The choice:
stand still or outrun the wind.

'tis the season

'Tis the season to lose sight of peace, joy and humanity. I suggest everyone stop for a moment and take a collective breath into a brown paper bag.

There, there...it's going to be ok.

First Snow

A light, soft snow is falling. I've been anticipating the first appearance of the season for the past two days, waking in the middle of the night, lying still in my bed listening for the signature silence that accompanies freshly fallen snow. I would rise and rush to the window, only to be disappointed and return to bed.

It began about 9 this morning and I am thoroughly delighted.

No She Didn't!

This dog...this little dog just dissed me!

Uh-huh, she uttered dog-mockery behind my back, with the righteous indignation of a put-upon teenager. I actually turned around in disbelief with one raised eyebrow and asked, "What did you just say?" and I swear she rolled here eyes at me. All because I let out an "Awwwwwww," (admittedly dripping with estrogen) while looking at this picture.

I ask you gentle reader, whose heart could not be squeezed by the likes of a 5 week old coyote pup?

Homecoming

and on the seventh day,

there was a glorious sunrise

a hint of blue sky

dotted with whispy white clouds

the gray ceiling has lifted

senses awaken

golden rays of morning sun

a homecoming parade

Shrouded

...in my own personal advent.

Driving, my mind wandered much the way the river road bends, slopes, climbs and dissects the thick tangle of woods between home and town. Tires cling to the gray slick ribbon of road, navigated more by memory than by sight. White-washed farm houses perched atop hills with their red-shuttered windows lean slightly forward as I pass, nudging my psyche into awareness that something is missing. I shake myself into the now, realizing the slow-footed river (usually to my right) has vanished under a shroud of fog. So deceivingly dense, it transformed the dark water into a white pristine beach.

Where had my mind wandered? Into the paradoxical thicket?

I cannot taste what I hunger for.
I can only smell what lives in my memory.
Sight is diminishing, yet I yearn to see more clearly.

A mirage on the contemplative landscape is seductive. The familiar crunch and groan of gravel under the weight of the car registers in my ears. I jerk the steering wheel to the left, inches from driving onto the fog bank and being swallowed by the slow-footed dark waters of the Cumberland.

It's a pj's kind of a day.

After a great struggle between the sun, mounting storm clouds and a raw north wind, the promise of a bright day has diminished into a cold, damp and dark cave with little contrast between now-barren branches and the sky.

I'm hunkered down in my big comfy chair looking at the birds outside my window who are feeding feverishly on thistle seed. Because my living quarters are in the basement, the bottom of the window is nearly flush with the ground, which gives me a great vantage point from which to observe creation.

Although winter has not officially arrived, today feels like the familiar gray days of winters past. Since my psyche is susceptible to the lack of sunshine, I'll move upstairs and park myself in front of the fireplace, working, reading and writing in the warmest and most well lit room at the Retreat Center.

This time of year puts me in a reflective state of mind. I'm not sure what it will produce, but I feel something churning inside me that's part melancholy, part anticipation and part gratitude.

American Pie

pluck the note from my throat
replace it with a sob

sharp wind of discord lofts
a soaring refrain into the air

what crescendos from the breast
snags on the swallow of intent

now

when branches bend
when leaves tumble

I hear a chorus

A Moment of Silence

My love affair with high heels started long before I actually slid my feet into a pair. As a young girl, I sat mesmerized watching my mom transform herself from a hard working mother of three into a goddess in long gowns, rhinestone jewelry, beaded bags and stiletto heels. I'm sure there's more than one black and white photo in the family album of me parading around in her heels with an ear-to-ear smile on my face. A rite of passage as a budding teenager was mom teaching me how to walk in heels. "Glide, glide, glide...walk from the hip, not from your knees," she coached. I was a quick and willing student.

I carried on the family tradition in fine form, acquiring heels the height of which made most women shudder. For years, I was more likely to stumble or trip in a pair of flats, rather than a pair of hot pink patent leather stilettos with 4" heels.

When I prepared to move to Tennessee and my new life at the Retreat Center, I didn't pack a single pair of heels, not even a sensible pump! I've spent the last two years in hiking boots, tennis shoes or sandals. So when the occasion arose where I needed to dress up, I had to buy new heels (what a sacrifice!) I purchased a classic pair in black with a wicked point and a mere 3" heel. The other pair, let's just say they are what fantasies are made of!

Today was a dress up day. I spent 5 hours at a local church standing at a table talking to passersby about the Retreat Center. So there I was in a tasteful dress, full makeup, hose and classic black heels. About 3 hours into the shift, I was overcome with a strange and unfamiliar sensation...my feet were hurting, no, throbbing! After only 3 hours? "What a lightweight," I thought to myself. I immediately found a chair in the high hope that the pain would cease.

My plan did not work. The longer I sat, the more aware I became of just how badly my feet hurt, how desperately I wanted to take off my classic black heels, which I was now cursing under my breath. Did I mention I was in church? To add insult to injury, not only were my feet screaming, but my knee was beginning to swell and that's when it hit me...

My days of wearing high heels are over. Yes, over as in I do not wish to torture myself in this way ever again.

Please join me in a moment of silence as I journey through yet another rite of passage in my life as a woman. I don't know whether to be sad or celebrate. I do know I need to find a good home for my collection. Maybe I'll find a drag queen who would appreciate a bequest of gently used, but flawless high heels!

Some Days are Like This

the needy need
the leaders lead
those in between
watch bewildered

Sloth Day

I am aware that sloth is #7 on the list of seven deadly sins. Even in this state of awareness, I intentionally chose to designate today, November 18th as my own personal sloth day. The irony that I've chosen to do this on a Sunday does not escape me.

When I was once entrenched in the 9-5 corporate world, sloth day would go as follows:

1. call in "sick"
2. turn on the answering machine
3. pile on the sofa in my pjs with my favorite blanket and pillow
4. make sure the following was on the coffee table: a bowl of peanut m&ms, the remote control, something to read, a diet coke
5. resolve to leave the sofa only to go to the bathroom or the kitchen
6. I would then nap, eat, watch tv, read and repeat this cycle until my exhaustion was abated and/or I ran out of m&ms

The next day, I'd return to work refreshed and get back on the hamster wheel for another 6 months or so before the need for another sloth day would arise.

No longer am I entrenched in the 9-5 corporate world, or the 9 -9 non-profit world and no longer do I drive myself to the point of exhaustion...well, almost never! I'm not sure why I needed a sloth day today, but I certainly listened to my body, mind and spirit and let it rip!

Today, my sloth day played out like this:

1. Stayed in my pjs most of the day
2. ate comfort food that was warm and nutritious
3. finished two books I had started
4. listened to my favorite Sunday PBS shows, which I haven't heard since I don't know when ("Say What," "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," "The Splendid Table," and "A Prairie Home Companion")
5. began accumulating things to take on the Thanksgiving trip
6. went through boxes, cookbooks and more boxes to find all the recipes and baking pans I need to make my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner (carrot cake...for anyone who's curious!)
7. crawled into my warm, comfy bed and watched "Moonstruck," interspersed with napping
8. took a shower
9. put on real clothes and took the dog for a joy ride in the car
10. blogged

OK...so a review of today's list looks less like sloth and more like feasting on that which feeds not only my body, but my mind and spirit. If that's gluttony, then maybe I traded one deadly sin for another, but I most certainly feel more clear-headed and energized than I did 12 hours ago.

What do you do to recharge?

The Milk Bone Lady Is Coming!

...that's what I had been telling Mocha for the week leading up to my mother's arrival. Mocha knows her as "the milk bone lady." I don't think I need to explain why.

The paradox for all to enjoy is that in my formative years, dogs had their place...outside, on a chain unless the temperature dropped below freezing (rare in South Texas) and fed dry kibble. It's not that they were treated poorly, they just weren't equal to say, children, in the eyes of my parents.

Flash forward 30+ years. Mom's mellowed quite a bit where the furry ones are concerned. Once her nest became empty, guess who filled the void?!?

While my mom's been here, we've had breakfast in the Dayspring room almost every morning. It's warm, bright and has excellent views of the bird feeders and the rising sun. The first morning, I prepared biscuits, eggs, fruit, etc... I set a pretty table and mom and I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. I noticed while eating, her pushing some scrambled eggs to the side of her plate. All the while, Mocha is laying very still under the breakfast table, pretending to watch the birds. In truth, she's waiting to see if the milk bone lady is going to come forth with a tasty morsel.

I feared the worse. Mom shot a sideways glance in my direction, picked up her fork and put 1/2 the scrambled eggs on it. In a sing-song voice, she called her grand dog over. "Sit Mocha," she said. Mocha obliged. Then she extended her arm, holding the fork full of eggs out with the instructions, "now take it pretty." Mocha gently slid the eggs off the end of the fork without scraping her teeth on the tines!

I tried not to giggle. That would only encourage my mother and well, what starts with scrambled eggs could end up as matching outfits. In my most stern voice I said, "Mom," to which she replied, "What?" It was the way she said "what" that completely disarmed me and I knew the battle was over before it had begun.

For the eight days my mom was here, Mocha got whatever Mocha wanted, including three dog treats at a time. Mom returned to Texas two days ago...Mocha is still moping.

The Natural World

Fall is being selective about when and where it makes an appearance. The thermometer plunged this week and the trees have responded. Monochromatic brushstrokes of yellow and gold have yielded to reds and oranges. A single tree more closely resembles a patchwork quilt than a Rothko painting.

We shared our morning walk with my mom, who is visiting from Texas. My love of the natural world was inherited from my mother, who inherited it from hers. We are women whose hands are never too far from a plot of earth.

The sun is now setting and the woods will become dim in the twilight. Tonight we will sit in front of the fireplace and talk or we will be struck dumb by the beauty of the flames. Either way, we will be warmed inside and out.

An Extra Hour

What did you do with your extra hour on Sunday?

Love's New Day

in the soft, still moments of morning
hands clasp, fingers lace
to steady the dizzy rush of love

for you,
the prayer inside me
each day born anew

two puzzle pieces
slide smoothly into place
aligned, there is no space
no trace of a seam

between us
the rise and fall of breath
our timekeeper
a fervent gaze
our barometer

we break the fast
on warm, supple lips
gather vibrant colors
of a hungry kiss

in an arc overhead,
a filter for the sun’s rays

as we usher in love's new day

A Little Fall Color

We encountered little fall color while in Chimney Rock Park. The trees are very slow to turn this year. Mainly, there is yellow and some gold, but very little of the vibrant reds, purples and oranges that mark the turning of the season. The Cherokee National Forest showed only sepia tones weeping from drought-stricken branches.

Atop Chimney Rock

A weekend getaway took us to Chimney Rock Park, located near Lake Lure, North Carolina. This is the view from atop Chimney Rock, a 315 foot monolith at the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Once you're on top, the elevation is nearly 2,300 feet...spectacular!

Linda's not a big fan of heights, but she braced up for a photo near the edge!

A lone scrappy pine clings to the rock

The view over our left shoulder.

We could hear the cries of peregrine falcons, who were nesting on this site.

Meet Miss Moonbeam

This is Kenzie, aka Miss Moonbeam, Ms. Satellite Dish or The Narrow Dog, an esteemed member of the Edwards Dog Pack of which Mocha is an honorary member!

She's an Irish Terrier who likes to:

chase the ball!

chase the ball!

chase the ball !

or

tug the rope!

tug the rope!

tug the rope!

or

bark at the chipmunk!

bark at the chipmunk!

bark at the chipmunk!


Miss Moonbeam is currently recovering from surgery to remove a cyst on her leg. In typical terrier fashion, she felt the stitches were completely unnecessary and systematically removed them, thus the Elizabethan cone she must wear until the incision heals.

The Edwards Dog Pack
Zoe, Linda and Kenzie (l) to (r)

Speedy recovery Miss Moonbeam!

Signed,

Your adoring fans from the Valentine Dog Pack