Is This the Asylum or...

Is it one more stop down the highway?

We have a couple of neighbours who really enjoy squabbling with each other. I think both are monumentally bored and fussing with each other lends a little drama to their deadly dull lives.

They live two doors apart. One has a cat.  I live on a different floor and in a different wing. The one with a cat took a holiday last summer and asked me to look after her cat. I agreed, and three times a day traipsed to her unit to open and shut windows, feed, water and keep company with the cat who is a biter and is not to be trusted.

Her place probably would not quite qualify for an episode of Hoarders, but she's definitely not house-proud. She left for her holiday without cleaning the cat's litter box, which was packed concrete solid with soiled litter. It was so hard the cat could no longer scratch a hole in it, so he'd been using the floor in front of the box for a couple of days at least.

The odour was overwhelming. The first day I came home, got my shovel and broke up the litter in the box into manageable size blocks, shovelled it into several bags and filled the box with clean litter from my stock. Then I scrubbed down the floor, which was covered in pee and worse, and washed the matt that she had lying adjacent, which he had drug over his mistakes.

When she returned she was angry that I had changed the litter, and told me so in no uncertain terms (it's expensive!). She also didn't like the way I had fed the cat, but she had left no instructions, other than, "the food is in the pantry".  She complained almost daily about my cat-sitting sins until November, when she asked me to cat-sit for her two week Christmas holiday.

Not surprisingly I begged off. Thankfully the neighbour volunteered. That was good, except on the third day the neighbour showed up at my door and said, "I don't want to do it, you do it."  She hadn't cleaned the litter box for the three days she'd taken care of him. When cat lady returned she gave me holy hell (again) for not feeding cat the way she wanted. Told me I could have called her sister long distance for instructions if I didn't know what to feed him on what day. Complained about it from January until April when she asked me to take care of the cat during her two week summer holiday.

I said, "NO, in no uncertain terms! Right now I'm having trouble taking care of my own family." So she went to the neighbour and came back saying the neighbour will feed the cat and I can clean the litterbox. I asked her what part of no does she have trouble with? I am not taking care of the cat, or his litterbox. "Oh," she said.

She was scheduled to leave Friday morning. Thursday night she called me from the neighbour's. "Here", she said, "you and neighbour can work out the rotation of who is taking care of the cat on what days."

She handed the phone to the neighbour. I said to neighbour, "I told [cat lady] from the beginning that I am unable to take care of the cat. I am not cleaning the litterbox, I am not rotating days, or mornings and evenings. I am not doing it period. I told her that two months ago and have told her that every time she has brought it up. "

"Okay," the neighbour said, "I know you haven't been well. You have to take care of your health," (She is 30, healthy and is home all day, and has a young, strong husband). "Don't worry about it. We'll do it."

Today I got a long distance call from cat lady saying, "I just got an angry e-mail from neighbour asking why you aren't helping take care of the cat like you promised?"

If this is the Asylum some of us aren't getting our meds on time.

When the Student is Ready

The teacher will appear, or so Zen precepts say.

Allow me to introduce Brother Servant Salvador, master teacher of simplicity.

Here he meditates, using his mala beads, probably on which lesson the student needs to learn next and what technique to use.

Perhaps the lesson is that all things are temporary? For example, he teaches that the body is temporary in a unique way. He steals all the toothbrushes and hides them. While one isn't supposed to form an attachment to one's body, one's failure to achieve this state is never so obvious as when a molar has to be extracted from a bottom jaw. The roots reach into one's shoulder blades apparently.  Attachment is too mild a word.

Maybe the student's senses should be sharpened by the removal of and/or puncturing of skin? It is a well-known fact that students must be scourged. All religions are cognizant of the value of pain to heighten the senses, instill a healthy sense of fear and impress the need for immediate obedience.

The teacher also encourages simplicity by breaking items of value. The student's favourite vase? A bowl pushed off the counter onto the floor, a six-foot leap ending on the screen on the ipad?

The student's outburst of temper is eventually followed by the lesson of contrition and there will be cuddles. But not until after the shouting has subsided and the teacher has emerged from an appropriate period of contemplation under-the-furniture or in the too-high-for-her-to-reach-place.

The interruption of sleep is another valued tool the teacher uses. "Wake, lazy sluggard; for the hour is 3:00 am and the teacher is an hungered for grilled chicken with gravy from a can in the pantry!"  At 4:00 am the teacher begins to sing, "Wake oh lazy one! Dawn approaches and your toes are both titillating and delicious!" At 5:00 am the teacher begins a course of acupuncture on the student's scalp, a well-recognized technique for curing the migraine now throbbing on the right side of the student's head. 

At 5:10 the teacher is ejected with appropriate curses chanting, from the student's bed chamber. He begins his 80 decibel "song to the morning" howled by his sect from time immemorial. The older monk gets up from his perch on the cat tree, a scuffle ensues, there is some hissing and quiet descends on the monastery, at least temporarily.  

Exhaustion and intimidation have ever been the tool of brainwashing of religions. There is no other explanation for why we  become lifelong students in the school of catzen.

Unless you count kitten kisses.

Mud Pies in May

Calgary has three seasons, winter, monsoon and drought. Winter ends with not a whimper but a deluge that has the two rivers which flow through the city rambling out of their banks and up into the surrounding neighbourhoods looking for a cracked foundation, or a faulty sump pump. Streets and pathways are awash and basements are flooded.

Of course the 27th of May is the predicted date of the last frost of the season so eager gardeners, including yours truly, grab their gumboots and head for the garden centre. Having lost half the perennials I planted last spring to drought and the lack of a functioning irrigation system in the flower beds I laid a steel glove on the irrigation company and have exacted a promise that several additional sprinkler heads will be going into the flower beds. As soon as it stops raining.

Ian, bless him, the 10 hours I spent in labour with that boy have been repaid 1000 times over. He came over last Monday and took me plant shopping. Last year the pickings were slim and I came home with a pretty, but a somewhat disappointing bunch of plants. This year someone must have read my "want" list because the selection was everything I wanted and more.

The problem here is one of scale. This is a HUGE building. The main walk approaching the front door is 20 feet wide and 120 feet long. The beds were originally planted with potentillas, and some kind of coarse, leggy, ugly shrub which grows from the base each year and so accumulates a huge amount of dead wood and can't be trimmed into a neat shape. These plantings  are now 10 years old and need to be ripped out and replaced. My plan is to replace two or three a year until they are all gone.

It takes bold colours and mass plantings to achieve any impact on this scale. What we did last spring was 50 times better than what had been there before, but the plants were too small to have the needed impact. This year! Be still my heart. The garden centre had BIG plants with wonderful foliage that flower from June 'til frost. Plants that will tolerate shade. (I admit I went a little crazy.)

The landscaper was supposed to come and plant what I bought this past week. He was going to dig out some of the worst shrubs and replace them with plants I'd bought more suited for shade. I just couldn't take on this job. The soil in these flower beds is heavy clay with very little organic matter. In the south we'd call it "gumbo". Go down six inches and it's pure clay, with no organic matter whatsoever. So we needed to amend the soil before planting anything new.

But due to several days of non-stop-drenching-24-hour-around-the-clock rain the landscaper couldn't work, and rain is forecast for every day next week. Here I am with a balcony full of plants getting more pot bound by the minute, and an appt for oral surgery this coming week which will effectively erase my capacity to do anything for several days.

Thankfully the sky cleared about 10:00 and I begged Ian to come help his desperate mother get some plants in the ground. On the way he bought a bale of peat moss, a bag of builders sand and a bag of compost, all to add to the bag of sheep manure which has been languishing on my deck for the last year. He brought a wheelbarrow and long handled shovel and a willing heart. Oh I do love that boy.

First task was digging up five shrubs which were badly sited. They need full sun, and are in a spot where they perhaps get four or five hours a day. As a result they are lanky, soft stemmed and totally covered in black aphids by July. The honeydew they produce is so thick it drips like strings of black snot on the sidewalk. People brush the branches as they go past and it's a mess. I cut the shrubs back severely last spring, but it's like chopping up a starfish - the low light level makes them send out two match-stick size seven foot-long shoots from every spot where you cut the branch. 

Once the shrubs were dug up  we added large amounts of peat, compost, sand and manure to the black "gumbo" soil. It was hard work. Then we planted two roses, a yellow and a red, a Ligularia "Little Rocket", 10 white swan echinaceas, 10 shasta daisies, and half a dozen red Oriental poppies in the front bed. These are all substantial sized plants, with some "presence" to them, and that bed ought to be popping with colour and texture in a few weeks.

In the bed nearest the door, where Ian removed the worst shrubs,  we amended the soil and planted two pink Japanese Astilbes, with a Ligularia "Midnight Lady" between them. A couple of weeks ago I planted a white Astilbe on the other side of the walk, and I'll put the Coral Bells directly across , so the colours echo each other. I have several other plants to go in both beds but at this point the clouds were massing black and threatening, we were beginning to get rained on, and the thunder was rolling.


I still have the Coral Bells, a yellow leaved hosta, two dozen dusty miller, four English thyme, two dozen coleus, a half dozen veronica, three or four cranesbills, and a sedum mat to plant. And all the shrubs need trimming. (This is a job for the landscaper with his power trimmer.)  For now the remaining plants are back on my balcony, and we wait for a sunny day where the landscaper can come and finish the job.

This year the flower beds are going to be smashing. If I live to see it. Lord I am tired. But I live for the three months of the year that I can garden. I'd have to be dead not to be out making mud pies in May. 

The Zebra and Dr. Google

This is Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Awareness month and since I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) I thought I should write a post about it.

Several physicians have said to me, "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras." They are taught this dictum in med school, and it means that when a patient comes in with a complaint you first think of the common causes for their symptoms; a cold for a sore throat, an allergy for hives, arthritis for bone pain etc. rather than the exotic, like yellow fever, or beri-beri.

The problem is, I'm not a horse. I'm a zebra. I am to quote many a physician, "Complicated." Having one "rare" disorder is enough to discourage many physicians from taking any interest in you, but I have three, laid over a background of childhood polio. Much to your relief we are not here to discuss any but the last one I had diagnosed.

It's also the one which gives me the most trouble right now. EDS is caused by a genetic mutation leading to either a lack of collagen production, or defective collagen. Collagen is a group of proteins found in the muscles and connective tissues, and the main component of tissues that support, connect, or separate different organs of the body. It is found in tendons, ligaments and skin, and is also abundant in the cornea (eyes), cartilage (ends of bones), the bones, blood vessels, the gut, and the discs between the vertabrae.

Collagen underlies the:
• Storage of energy
• Protection of organs
• Structural framework for the body
• Connection of body tissues
• Connection of tendons, bone etc. to muscles

 It's clear from even this short description that being collagen deficient is not a particularly good idea. It's rather like being forty sandbags short of a dike when the water rises around your house in a flood. The water doesn't look at the 2000 sandbags you filled and piled so carefully, it simply finds the weak spot and suddenly your grand piano is floating in three feet of muddy water.

When EDS patients talk it's often of how to cope with the unending and severe pain they suffer. The muscles and the fascia that hold them together are fragile, and sustain many small rips or tears during even normal daily activity. This means constant deep muscle pain for many patients.

But pain is also the result of being "bendy", or in medical lingo "hypermobile". Joints move too far, they jump the rails and either partially or completely dislocate with little or no provocation. Turning over in bed, or pulling on a T-shirt can dislocate shoulders, a sneeze can subluxate (partially dislocate) ribs.

 I have always been extremely hypermobile. On the Beighton scale I score 8 of 9, even at an age where a 3 will get you diagnosed. I can place my palms together behind my back in what is called "the backwards prayer" pose. I can turn my feet entirely around so my toes face backward. I can bend my thumbs down to touch my forearms, and all my fingers will bend backwards to a 90 degree angle to my hand.

 But this slippery joint business also means one of my neck vertebrae slides forward just enough to entrap the nerve to the right side of my face, so it feels like I have a nail in my eye and a toothache in every tooth on that side of my head. My right hip slides too far sideways with each step, and my crooked spine has trapped my sciatic nerve so that if I walk too far, or climb steps, I get lightening bolts of pain from lower back, down through my abdomen, hip, knee to my foot. Picking up bags of groceries, or vacuuming, subluxates my shoulder and neck and I'll have a migraine for two or three days afterwards.

Another EDS marker is thin, transparent or extensible skin. My veins are easily visible through my skin, and blood draws are a nightmare because my veins are so fragile they rupture, collapse, or lack the surface tension needed to allow the needle to penetrate. Blood vessels are prone to rupture, vascular tumours are common, surgical sutures tear through, and scars widen and assume a thin "tissue-paper-like" appearance.

 However, I'm lucky, as I have a relatively mild case. Many are far worse off than I am. I know of children who are wheelchair bound at eight or ten because they are too loosely-jointed to walk. There is no treatment, other than supportive bracing and pain control, which many doctors, including my own, are reluctant to prescribe in adequate amounts. So you eke out the pain meds carefully, trying to get by without them whenever possible. And the pain becomes just one more thing to contend with.

You can't tell an EDS patient by appearance. Patients look perfectly healthy. So many, like me, slip through the diagnostic net for years, even though I showed dozens of doctors how hypermobile I am. I had vascular tumors and blood vessel ruptures and difficulty with scarring, and though the diagnosis was suggested by a young resident during rounds after I had an arterial rupture in 1975, it was rejected as "too rare".

I was only diagnosed three years ago, when I was 64, by an absolutely wonderful woman GP, who noticed my odd scars and hypermobility on her own. The diagnosis was confirmed by a geneticist just recently. Thank the Cosmos for the web where as "zebras" those with rare disorders can congregate and graze slowly across the virtual plains, talking to each other, finding comfort and safety in a herd that is not made up of horses. And for a place where we can write and educate patients and doctors who may know little (or nothing) about EDS, and may not recognize the symptoms for what they are.  And thankfully as someone joked the other day, physicians now often leave the exam room to consult "Dr. Google", who keeps the world's largest repository of medical knowledge.  Gotta love the innerwebs, the "zebras" best friend.

Predictable as Sunrise…

Yesterday, as reported, I planted six Osteospermum plants, which meant digging six small holes about four inches deep in soil which had been thoroughly dug on Monday last. I sprinkled a bit of time-release fertilizer granules in the bottom and plopped them in. My friend and neighbour Gail came along and planted the larger false spirea.

When I finished in the garden I brought the hand truck with the bin of garden implements, left it sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor and sort of collapsed into my chair. I even had an unexpected two hour nap on the sofa in late afternoon. 

Today I am climbing Mount Aconcagua, (aka "my dirty house"). I decided to call it Aconcagua because Aconcagua is the highest mountain in the Americas and since it is in Argentina it's appropriate since my house-keeping has definitely gone south. Unfortunately I had a very busy week for me, and I can barely move today. I start to sweat after 10 minutes on my feet. This climbing business is not for the faint of heart.

Wikipedia has thoughtfully provided me a to-do list for the day. Beginning with "Nido de Condores", which I think was a warning that if I didn't quicken my pace the condors (who are the world's largest vultures) were apt to mistake me for dead and tie on their bibs, the order of tasks is outlined. 

At "Nido de Condores" I cleaned out the cat box. (Maybe it's the stink that attracts them - "them" being the condors). The floor is absolutely awash in cat litter. Not just the floor in front of their box, or in the laundry alcove where the box lives, but the entire house. That little stripey bastard of a kitten rolls in the litter and carries it all over the house on his fur. He seems to think this is a big joke.

Moving up the side of the mountain, you can see my path was staggered. I veered like a drunken monkey, until at "Berlin" I hit the wall and had to sit for a few minutes. But the drier stopped and I had to shake out, fold or hang those clothes or else my days as a fashion maven will be over. This task is complicated somewhat because the stripey one thinks jumping in and out of the laundry hamper while you sort the socks, towels and undies is a cool thing to do, preferably when he's just rolled in the litter! (He's fortunate that he's so cute, and he knows how to smooch good.)

Looking farther up the mountain and measuring my progress. At "Independencia", the kitchen floor was finally independent of the bin and hand truck full with its cargo of hose, muddy shovel, fertilizer, and other gardening implements, and the counter and stove top became independent of dirty dishes and mysterious crusty bits.

While I was outside returning the gardening implements to their proper spot I stopped a moment and looked over the side of the balcony at our Japanese plum tree, which is just beginning to bloom. In a few days it will be covered so thickly in blossoms you won't be able to see the leaves.    

The mountain's final summit lies far ahead and will take a good deal of perseverance to achieve.  There are tufts of silver grey fur everywhere, along with a uniform layer of litter and a goodly amount of dust. In other words, I have to vacuum, but first I have to sit.  Vacuuming is the last 300 foot high cliff before I summit. But I have to move along, those condors are circling and they have a hungry gleam in their eye.

I Knew This Day Would Come

Eventually.

Winter never lasts forever in Calgary, it just seems so to those of us who may count the days between the first August frost and the … oh, if I say it I'll jinx the whole thing. I've seen it snow and freeze 10 days straight in JULY, so I'm grateful we are now experiencing summer. We went from snow and -15 C (5 f) to 24 C (75 F) in a couple of days. Skipped spring entirely. The apple and plum trees went from entirely dormant to bursting with clouds of pink and white blossoms in three days time.

Cinnamon Fern

The irrigation crew showed up Monday, dug a new bed and and put in three new sprinkler heads to create a "boggy" area for the cinnamon ferns I bought the week before. With any luck these will reach at least 3/4s of the their reputed size of 48" tall and 48" wide. We need something big in that space.

The crew will be back in a few days to put three new sprinkler heads in the front flower bed. That bed is blazing hot and there was not a single functioning sprinkler head in it last summer. Most of the perennials I planted there last spring died of thirst, despite me hauling 100 pounds of hose down there to water every few days.

After the crew left I planted the fern rhizomes (four of them) and (picture me doing my best skippy step) yesterday I added a bit of garden shopping to my list at the Wally World.

First thing off I bought one of these new fangled light-weight hoses. It only weighs about a pound but is coiled like an old-style telephone cord. It's 50 ft long but you're lucky to wrestle 30 feet of hose out of it. I will have to buy a second one to attach to the first one or wrestle with the hose all summer. It also has about 1/2" bore so watering is going to be a leisurely affair. That's fine by me, nothing more relaxing than standing out in the evening watering the garden. Very Zen.

Second thing I bought was some more decorative plastic fencing to put along the walk where I planted the cinnamon ferns, and I bought a half dozen purple Osteospermums, a member of the daisy family, all cheeky Charlie, to plant in front of the ferns, which you can't see, as they are not yet up. These plants don't get very tall, maybe 10-12", but will add some colour at the edge of the bed while we wait for the ferns to wake up.

This is an eight foot extension to the existing flower bed, one which takes the bed right to the concrete pad of the entrance. While most dog owners in the building are considerate, a few simply bring their dog to this spot, right outside the front door, and allow them to use it as their bathroom. Filling it with plants and fencing it should send a strong message that they need to move out to the designated area.

I also added a false spirea in the dappled shade below a Japanese plum, where it is paired with hostas, a lady fern and  bergenia (Elephant ears)  which came through the winter in fine form and hopefully will grace us with its lovely spike of pink flowers soon.

Gardening season has begun. In the next few days there will be a plant-buying-in- earnest trip. Kevin, the owner of our landscaping company, is coming to trim shrubs, weed, add compost, dig out some shrubs which aren't doing well where they are, and plant all the lovely things I will be buying. And the congregation said, "Amen."

Rocks in my Head

I've found in my 60s a freedom and acceptance of myself I never had when I was young and constantly heard my mother's litany of shame in my head. My mother equated affection with promiscuity and physical touch with shame, even between mother and child. Little surprise I grew up conflicted, my whole being longing for affection and affirmation, while I huddled on a ledge of fear, looking out at a world that I'd been told didn't want me.

Times have changed and we understand that companionship and touch are as necessary to physical and emotional health as are food and shelter. And at my age I can now hug freely, speak warmly, be affectionately encouraging to others without any of these gestures being interpreted as sexual in nature. More importantly I've realized my mother was a cracked vessel, and I have allowed her to own her version of me as ugly and unlovable. I have kicked it to the curb because it never reflected reality. I like myself a lot better now, though I still have a few rocks labeled "rejection" in my backpack (i.e. head). Ever so often I stop, take one out and throw it off the mountainside, and pray it doesn't hit any climbers down below. 

Since I'm learning to like myself better I find others like me better too. People come to my door in a near-constant stream, for a hug, a chat, and for no reason at all. People make up reasons to knock on my door. Although I may groan as I haul myself out of my chair, no one goes away without a hug or a word of appreciation, because I know what it's like to be deprived of those things, and to be hungry for them.  

One of the women in our building has Asperger Syndrome. She is avoided by many in the building because once you are her "friend" she's attached to you at the breastbone. This annoyed me to begin with, but then I thought about it. She is desperately lonely. I knew that feeling as a child. I know how it feels to be unwanted, how it feels when no one wants you to join the game or the conversation, sit at their table, or beside them on the bus home.

So I decided I can give her what I have to give, acceptance and normal  friendship. This decision made me feel vulnerable and shaky inside, because I wasn't sure I was up to the task. I had to set boundaries, so she doesn't call me at 6:00 every morning, and every 30 minutes during the day, or isn't camped out in my living room 10 hours on a Saturday, but it's working out fine.

It's good.  She's happier, and I'm happier because I always feel badly if I've hurt someone's feelings. But I couldn't have done it when I was younger.  Too many big rocks on the path. Too painful to climb over them.  What I did before was just let someone take advantage of me (purposefully or just because they were being themselves) until I grew so angry and exhausted that I snapped and completely cut off any communication with them. I felt terrible guilty about it, but I didn't know how else to handle it at the time.

Now I'm thinking that those 20 somethings, with their flat bellies and smooth skin, haven't got a march on this old Mama, looking back at the route she's climbed. I wouldn't exchange my life right now for a million dollars and a chance to live the years between 20-60 again.  It's not only love that's wasted on the young, it's contentment. 


 

So close we can't see it?

How do you handle the boring, mundane, potentially frustrating every day tasks of your life. Have you thought of this?

The Wreck of the Hesperus

  
'Tis the day after BBQ the Magnificent (stop your scoffing, for me it was a triumph!).

Because I conserved my energy to spend on said social gathering my floors went unswept yesterday. Today there are the usual two-days'-post-swept drifts of cat hair and dust silently mocking me everywhere I turn, and I am too done in to sweep.

Upstairs the neighbour is vigorously vacuuming her carpets. I praise the great gods of surfaces that I do not have carpet. At our time of life there is an existential crisis around carpeting. Do you or don't you?

Carpeting cushions falls, and in some cases prevents them, as it absorbs slippery liquids slopped on it by cats, and tea in cups held at a 45 degree angle to the floor by a distracted (yet delightful) husband. On the other hand it absorbs liquids like cat puke and the occasional… well, let's move on by just saying surface dirt is not all one worries about with carpeting.

Hard flooring is just that, hard when you trip, slip, slide, wobble or flop onto it. There is nowt between you and gravity when the floor is maple laminate. It's just you and your old brittle bones and easily aggravated capillaries. Where was I? Good Lord I wander like an ant who has discovered a picnic.    

Salvador Too, the "innocent baby cat"

Anyway, the floors are adrift in filth and the wretched baby cat, who considers himself abandoned when the bedroom door is closed at bedtime, had a lovely time overnight. I don't know how he manages to look so innocent.

I had a large bin of bits and bobs from the BBQ which I put on the table. Grocery bags, plastic bags, paper plates, paper napkins (we call them serviettes in Canada land), and many small bits. He "helped" me by unpacking everything, throwing it on the floor and then carrying or scooching items into every accessible corner. Under furniture, into the litter box, all over the floor, every room.  It looks like the city dump in here.

My mother had a phrase for this, "This place looks like the wreck of the Hesperus!" It seems the generation schooled at the turn of the 20th century was far more conversant with classical literature than we were. Those of us born in the 40s were a moanful bunch, complaining bitterly about being forced to read Beowulf, The Canterbury Tales and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, but at 60 my mother could still recite them from memory, a  feat I doubt any seventh grader could do now. On the other hand she could never believe man had actually gone to the moon. That was as impossible for her to comprehend as committing "The Wreck of the Hesperus" to memory was for me.

So I look out over my particular wreck, and do my little share of moaning and remember my mother's deep and long influence on my life. She was tiny, but all dynamite and determination. If I know her, she's probably scrubbing her side of the golden street in front of her mansion in Heaven right about now. I can't for a minute believe there are no clocks in the New Jerusalem because otherwise how could my mother know when it was appropriate to cluck her tongue at any neighbour who hasn't scrubbed her steps by 6:00 am? 

Wherever you are Mom, Happy Mother's Day. I've given you the gift of a house that looks like The Wreck of the Hesperus, so you can spend your day "mothering" me in the old familiar way.  I appreciate you a lot more at 67 than I did at 17, but my idea of Heaven still isn't scrubbing steps, so when I arrive (assuming I do!) we may live in different neighbourhoods of the New Jerusalem. I'll visit you though, and you can visit me, as long as you don't quote Longfellow. 

I Am Certifiable But I Have Fun!

It's spring clean-up and maintenance time for the condo building, which means sweeping the gravel from the parking lots and parkade, cleaning the carpets in all the common areas, having the outside of the building pressure washed and the windows cleaned, cleaning the dryer vents, having the sewer drains cleaned, repairing concrete and asphalt weathering, on and on and on.

This all involves a lot of inconvenience for residents, who must find alternate parking for several days, haul all their patio and/or balcony furniture and flower pots inside and back out again, and put up with no water, and not being able to even pour water down a sink or flush a toilet on the day the drains are cleaned.

So yours truly, (aka "She who will never learn") proposed at the last meeting of the condo board that we throw a BBQ for the residents mid-May, as all this cleaning got underway, to ease the inevitable grumbling. Everyone was enthusiastic. What I did not realize is that when I said, "The Condo Board…." the rest of the board heard… "*I* (meaning me individually, alone) will throw a BBQ for…."

Now this is not exactly true. I had plenty of help. Two other board members bought the food. One brought the big table with folding legs from his work. He also bought and brought the propane tank. Another brought the BBQ grill from her patio across the parking lot to the lawn where we were encamping before she took off for the weekend.

In the end only one other board member was here (of seven) to help me haul the food, the table, the cooler, and all the necessary tools out to the front lawn, where we set up in the shade and cooked the food. Even so it went just fine. We had burgers, hot dogs, both white and whole wheat wheat buns, three flavours of chips, condiments, cold drinks and popsicles, which is a pretty reasonable menu for a  Saturday afternoon BBQ.

The weather couldn't have been better. It was 27 C (80.6 F) with a light breeze. Perfect! 

When we sent out invitations we asked our residents to drop a note in the suggestion box to let if they were attending, and some did, but as expected, half the ones who said they were coming didn't, and many who didn't say they were did! In the end we had 48 attending, which was a great turnout! And even better, about 3/4ths of them came early, and sat to visit with their neighbours until the very end. People who had passed each other in the hall for ages finally learned each others' names and had pleasant conversations. I was especially thrilled that several of our residents who rarely interact with anyone came out and not only had lunch but talked with some other residents.

At the same time we had a "Swap Meet", where we said, "Bring anything that's still useful, good, clean that you want to move along to a new home and we'll play swap. If you see something you like, you may take it for free!"

So, most residents arrived with a box, bag or bin full of items to pass along. This was as much fun as a visit from Santa Claus, especially as one of our ladies draped the clothing over the limbs of the pine trees and gave fancy sales pitches for each one, resulting in a bit of an impromptu fashion show with some models not usually seen on Parisian catwalks.

I moved along a number of items (as described in a previous post) and came home with a couple of beautiful picture frames and a great storage piece for the bathroom. The items which were left at the end were boxed up to be delivered to the Sally Ann. 

So, dear Interweb friends, I had a bang-up afternoon and am completely knackered but am totally happy.

At Last!

Although this was taken a few days ago, 
I'm just getting around to sharing it now. 
From the flower bed out front.

The View From a Ledge

Things are looking up, but that's not what you're supposed to say when you are standing on a ledge. I can't say things are looking down, but when I survey Mount Clutter from this particular ledge the view is beginning to look less like the Alps and more like the less imposing but still rugged crags of Wales.

I am more than thrilled to report that except for one lone box which shall shortly be moved to a closet shelf which has been cleared the ugly mugster of a storage unit in our bedroom is empty of all save dust. It is headed for the bin!

Hooray me even though I am a bit cross-eyed with the effort and I think I have subluxated a rib or two (something which happens frequently), and my back and neck are out of place. But the satisfaction of achievement is overriding the pain, for the moment. It won't when I lie down and try to sleep tonight, but right now - fist pumps are in order!

The front hall closet is no longer a black abyss of vacuum cleaner hoses and old broom handles, seven more coats than any two people could ever need, and a dozen boxes saved in case we had to return a product. I will head for our closets next. My husband will wear a shirt that shows six inches of belly and fits like a second skin (not necessarily an attractive look at our time of life) so I'm purging those and the ones with permanent gravy stains. On my side I have several shirts which will go.

I made the heart-wrenching decision to give away my gorgeous Pashmina shawl, as all I ever do is stroke it and drool on it. Wearing it makes me feel a fraud. Elegance is just not part of my look. God knows I'd love to be elegant-looking, but I am far better suited to a pair of pull-on jeans and a T-shirt than a Pashmina shawl and hoop earrings. [edit: In the end I chickened out and pulled the shawl out of the give away bag and hung it back in the closet. A girl needs aspirations after all!] 

I've still got drawers to go through and those under the bed plastic storage bins. I have one full of fabric when I know I will probably never sew another stitch in my life. I'll keep a bit of that stuff, in case I get the urge to quilt again, but most of it is going.

For today I'm done. The litany, "keep it, give away, throw it away" is flying around and around in my head like a hornet you can't get rid of. But I've encamped on this ledge and will hunker down with my heating pad and perhaps even doze a bit. Tomorrow's another day, and there's still more mountain to cover.   

Climbing Mt. Clutter

Here it is is, looming up ahead. Endless. I know damn well when I crest that ridge before me, there's going to be another one lying another thousand feet further ahead, just as steep, just as rocky. I'm not enthusiastic about this climbing business.

 See the rocks? Each one is something I need and want, or no longer need, or something I want but do not need, or something I do not want but still need. And each one must be pried from its place, picked up, turned over, and examined. From the boulders to the tiny mossy pebbles each must be placed in one of three categories; keep, give away, throw away.

I keep wittering on about living a "simple" life, a spare life, but it is amazing what collects when you sit two years in a single spot and you don't feel like keeping up with the stuff that streams into your life, or you are not motivated to do so. Or you are brave enough. Mountains of paperwork you stick in a drawer, envelopes with addresses you mean to write down - some day.

Clothes you buy and will never wear, that do not fit, or that itch, or pull, or in a colour that made everyone ask, "Are you ill today?" But we have ordered a large dumpster bin for the condo, which arrives on Thursday, and are having a swap meet next Saturday, which has motivated me to attack Mt. Clutter and reduce it to a sweet green hill.

I had hoped to trim down enough to get rid of a very large and hideously ugly storage unit in our bedroom, but I'm not sure I can get find places for everything that is in it elsewhere. If not, is there justification of any kind for ditching it and buying a less disgusting piece of furniture? We dragged it from the curb to begin with and even though I am an eco-tourist I'm getting too old to put up with such ugliness first thing in the morning.

Anyway, that is the end of my break. I have to strap on my gear and get back to picking through rocks and pebbles. And from now on (I've said this before I believe) one item in, one item out and take care of the paper stream as it comes through the mailbox!

Loaded for Bear

Drawing from the Memory Bank: Year 1975:

It was early spring and the mountain air was sharp and fragrant with the rising sap from birch, oozing resin of fir, spruce and pine. Our small house was backed into the downslope of the last stony thrust of the Rocky Mountains. A flat area had been bulldozed where we parked the truck and built a small barn. The main door opened onto this area. The only window on this side was a small one which allowed you to see who was on the front porch. This floor held living room, kitchen, bath and the bedroom our sons, aged two and nine, shared. Our bedroom was downstairs.

The western view was breathtaking, a stretch of meadow, the Columbia River and beyond that the perpetually snow-capped Purcell Mountains. We lived surrounded by miles of unbroken wilderness.

Friends had come for dinner, the evening drew to a close. I tucked the boys in and retired to bed. About 2:00 A.M. I was awakened by our huge mastiff dog barking and pawing at the bedroom window. He raced around the house baying, and I had the sickening thought that maybe coyotes had gotten into the barn with the livestock. I threw on my robe and stumbled up the stairs.

I was a few feet from the front door when I heard the creaking. I stood transfixed as the solid door visibly bulged inward. Something very large was pushing on the door. I turned on the porch light and looked out the window. A huge black bear was standing on his hind feet, his shoulder pressed to the door, pushing with all his might.

My first thought was for the boys. If the bear got inside the boys were only steps away. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a skillet. I drew back and hit the door as hard as I could with the bottom of the skillet.

The bear said, "Oof!" and jumped backwards off the the porch. The dog grabbed a mouthful of bear end and began shaking. It wasn't much of a match, but it took the bear by surprise. He took off up the hill, the dog right behind him.

The bear came back the next night, but by then I'd borrowed an ancient long gun from a neighbour. When I fired it, the recoil knocked me down. The RCMP came out and laughed at me and my borrowed gun. “If you hit him with that you'll just make him mad,” the officer said. “You need get a better gun than that.”

I drove the 40 miles to town to buy a gun. The gun shop owner wouldn't sell me one. "Here's what you need," he said. From under the counter he pulled a slingshot. I am not lying. He wanted me to go after a huge bear with a slingshot. "This is a hunting sling," he said. (It was an aluminum gizmo with an extension that slipped over your forearm.)

"All you want to do is sting him,” he said. “Make him associate your place with pain. Get some rocks about the size of a big marble and smack him as hard as possible in the ribs with rocks as fast as you can reload."

So, that night I had two dozen quarter-sized rocks lined up on the window sill and my sling at the ready. When the dog began screaming, "BEAR! BEAR!" I ran upstairs, slammed the skillet on the door and while the dog and the bear circled each other 15 feet away I hit the bear in the ribs with three or four rocks in quick succession. He jumped, said, ooofff, and then hightailed it up the slope, dog on his heels.

The bear woke our nearest neighbour about midnight a few nights later. John raised sheep. He heard frantic bleating, grabbed his gun and ran to his flock. There was our bear, playing racquet ball with John's sheep, slamming them against the side of the barn, one by one. By the time John shot him the bear had killed 80 sheep.

Most of the time the bears (and cougars) came and went without incident, but this was the exception I'll always remember, and gives me the right to brag that I've hunted bear with a slingshot and lived to tell the tale.

Not Everything is Lost

Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.
 

This beautiful young woman could be any of my neighbours.

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days.
Gate 4-A was my own gate.
I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.

Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952)

This poem is making the rounds on FB. I looked up the poet, and feel somewhat ambiguous about posting it, as I don't want to contravene her copyright. No copyright infringement intended, just a message we need to hear in these days. Humanity may be wandering, but it is not lost. 

The Necessities

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. 

Without them humanity cannot survive. ~Dalai Lama
 

And not a single man died

About 20 years ago Ian and I went to a presentation by a local man who had climbed Everest. He gave long involved descriptions of the hideous weather, the cold, the impossible terrain, the many hardships as the party fought their way toward the summit.

But what stuck with both of us, and in fact had us doubled up with laughter as we crept out of the auditorium three-quarters of the way through the presentation, was the speaker's total dead-pan and sing-song delivery of one inevitable phrase. Each time he worked his way up through an escalating litany of mountaineer's woes he ended with a melodramatic tag-line, "…and another man died."

The expedition seemed cursed from the beginning. Equipment failed, dumping climbers into thousand foot deep crevasses, climbers were swept off ledges by the wind, buried under avalanches, others died of altitude sickness and hypothermia. By the time they approached the summit the party was reduced by half.

No, it was not funny, but his delivery of the phrase, again and again, milking every last bit of drama from a long and dull story made him sound like a commentator at the Master's describing the loser's putt approaching the cup.  It's been a catch phrase with us ever since.

Anyway, I do not know what brought that to mind, but by noon today it was a nasty 0 C with snow and a north wind that gusted to 40-50 mph.  I wasn't eager to get out in that. As I was working up the courage to make the assault on McKinley/Kilimanjaro, the phone rang.  It was Ian, asking if he could drop by. Who says no when their eldest child wants to visit?

In half an hour or so he was in the living room. When he learned I was going shopping he asked if I wanted him to go along and help. (Is chocolate tasty?)

So, my darling, beautiful, strong son drove me to the Mount McKinley WalMart, did the lifting, loading, unloading and we had a great lunch together while talking politics and other subjects of no particular interest to anyone except ourselves.

Then we tackled Kilimanjaro, where he ran around and got items for me, and again loaded, unloaded and was a very faithful Sherpa indeed.

Once he'd unloaded the two cartloads worth and had me settled in he took off, to attend a social function of some kind. And I am glad to say that on this expedition, not a single man (or old lady) died. I think that may only be because the Sherpa was so skilled at loading groceries, but then I may be prejudiced.    

Looking up at McKinley from base camp

Mount McKinley is the highest mountain peak in the United States and in North America with a summit elevation of 20,320 feet above sea level. I plan to make that climb tomorrow. Of course my Mount McKinley has a big  WalMart sign over the door. But because we are also facing a fridge empty of fresh fruit and veggies I'm hoping to go to the grocery store as well, so it's a WalMart/Sobey's (i.e.) McKinley/Kilimanjaro day.   

This is a daunting, if not frightening prospect, and the ascent takes preparation. The pantry, fridge, freezer and supplement supply must be checked and a list prepared. The weather forecast must be taken into account and the closet checked to make sure that the appropriate clothing is clean and ready to wear. (This entails a load of laundry) Several pieces of mail must be put into envelopes, addressed and stamped. The granny cart is taken from its place in the closet and put in the hallway.

The floor needs sweeping but if I do that today I will not be able to make my assault on the twin peaks of McKinley/Kilimanjaro tomorrow, so I leave the floor with rolling tumbleweeds of cat hair and drifts of dust. Sort of like the country around Odessa Texas, where we lived for a couple of years when I was a kid, with fewer rattlesnakes.

I watch what I eat. Care must be taken not to eat more than the permitted grams of carbohydrates, but to make sure I get adequate calories. The shower will be taken tonight, rather than tomorrow morning. The clock must be watched. Last night I was distracted and forgot to take my pain medications at 9:00, so I could sleep by midnight, which meant that I didn't sleep until 4:00 am. What a nuisance.

I miss the days, long ago admittedly, when I could just grab my purse and go; when I could be spontaneous. These days I have to plan and lay my shopping trips out as carefully as any mountaineering expedition. And I will feel as if I have been beaten and kicked by a gang of angry bikers for two or three days afterwards. 

Why talk about any of this?  It's just the way my life is. I won't lie and say I like it or have some kind of saintly acceptance. I've learned my limits, which I guess is a kind of acceptance, but life is damn hard work and there's no little flashing light that indicates you are struggling just to put the one foot in front of the other. But I still have some gear to prepare for the climb tomorrow, and it's coming up on pain pill time, and I don't want to miss that tonight. Wish me luck.    

In Praise of Boston

 Today, instead of a climbing or sitting in base camp post, I'm doing something I rarely do, reposting from someone else's blog. Dave Munger ran the Boston Marathon on Monday,  and if this doesn't bring you to tears you may not have a heart...

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

In praise of Boston

I wanted to tell you about my race yesterday at the Boston Marathon. That is what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell you everything about what happened to me during the race.

I wanted to tell you about leaving my Garmin in the hotel, and running the race with only a 1980s era digital wristwatch.

I wanted to tell you my splits for every mile of the race, how I started out strong, but then just gradually lost the energy to keep up the pace I had planned. I wanted to tell you all about it.

I wanted to tell you that I finished in 3:39, 17 minutes slower than my PR, and that I was disappointed with that.

But instead, I'm going to tell you about the people of Boston, and the way they come together, by the thousands, by the hundreds of thousands, for one day every year, to celebrate what we runners sometimes take for granted.

Before and after the race, I had dozens of ordinary people, not runners, stop me to tell me how proud they were of me. Not one of them asked what my finishing time was, or whether I was happy with my performance. They just wanted to share that they admired my accomplishment.  Read the rest... 

There were many...

Am I just not buying the right product?

Okay, to continue my report of my normal week. My day begins with the usual schizophrenic discussion between my brain and my body:

Body: "OMG! I feel like the Pittsburgh Penguins used me as a practice puck, all night long! %$#*& I HURT! Everything hurts! I am NOT moving.

Brain: "Listen you, get yer plush bum out of bed and get moving! It's just going to be worse the longer you lie here whining. Sheesh!"

Body: "Easy for you to say. It's not YOU that hurts! If I move I may die!"

Bladder: "If I may interrupt this scintillating conversation I really am at the tipping point. The two of you can argue about this on the way to the bathroom."

Groaning, I crawl out of bed and stumble toward the bathroom.  Within a half hour I have made coffee, fed the starving, squalling cats and collapsed into my rocker to watch the morning news.

And in the next half hour I have learned how to solve all my problems. If only I bought a certain brand of adult diaper I might not have to get out of bed at all, but I like the alternatives they show better. One commercial has ice-skaters wearing the diapers, and the next has a sparkly dancer wearing them. So, next time I shop I'll buy a package of them and instead of being the puck, I'll be a skater! 

As I climb my Seven Summits it would be handy to speak to my guides in their own languages, so I've been watching that commercial that promises their product will teach you how to speak a new language in 30 days. So far I can say, "Schwimmer", but I don't know what it means, or even what language it is.  I'll try it on my next Sherpa/grocery carry-out clerk and see what reaction I get. What could go wrong?

Right now, having swept yesterday (see previous post) my left shoulder is partly out of place and my arms, hands and fingers are stiff, aching and very sore.  I'm wrapping this up and heading for the pain pills. They aren't advertised, but they will help me get my body up out of the rocker and - oh wait, there's another ad - this product promises to take away wrinkles. Boy that's the last thing I worry about.

Off for those pills…

Another day in base camp

Today is another day in base camp, but at least I am able to do more than just look at the scattered remnants of a day of climbing and begin to straighten out the mess. At any rate if any neighbours drop in I won't die of embarrassment.

While it took every ounce of discipline I could manage (and a full bladder) to crowbar me out of bed this morning, I'm not in much pain. (Hoorah!) So after breakfast I wiped off the counters, and helped Tony put away the dishes which he unloaded from the dishwasher.

Then I swept. Okay, roll your eyes and snicker if you must, but for me sweeping is hard work. After the first few strokes of the broom I had to put His Supreme Naughtiness, Salvadore Too, into the kennel where he squalled like he was being killed. But he's taken up Smokey's trick of grabbing the broom with all four feet and hanging on for dear life. He's not quite five months old and only weighs six or seven pounds but he does make sweeping impossible.

"This mah baby, yu make him cry I bite yu!"

And I cleaned the litter box. As usual, as soon as it has been cleaned both cats climbed in (together) and used it, squatting side by side. (These guys are a hoot) This desperation to get into a clean box suggests it has been several weeks since it was cleaned but it was actually cleaned about 10 pm last night. They are just super-duper fastidious and don't like using a "soiled" box. So I cleaned it again once they'd both climbed out and kicked a bunch of litter on my newly swept floor. (I give up)

So, after a half hour's break I am feeling lucky. I think I'll go dig through the freezer for the short ribs I know are there, and put them in the crockpot with a bit of bbq sauce. Throw a bunch of potatoes in the big pot and with some parsley and an avocado and cucumber salad it will look dangerously like I have made dinner by about 6:00 pm.

The Seven Summits

Looking at me, you'd never guess. I'm a climber. I don't write about it because I'm doing it in secret.

I'm doing the Seven Summits. Yesterday was a good day and I did Mt. Kilimanjaro, otherwise known as Sobey's, the grocery store down the street. Actually I prefaced grocery shopping with a trip to the pharmacy, so I could have counted this as one of the higher summits but since I started calling this climb Kilimanjaro I'm not changing now.

But with me a "good day" is relative. I've reached a tipping point where I have little muscle left to work with, and the ones I have must work very very hard to compensate. By the time I'd unloaded the groceries into the granny cart for the final ascent I felt as if I was going to throw up from the exertion. But the wind was very cold and was clawing at my ears so I pushed on toward the top.

The local wildlife (i.e. the cats) had every intention of bowling me over and escaping as I struggled the cart through the door, but Tony grabbed the baby and I pushed Smokey back inside with the cart. There really wasn't much, I hadn't even filled the cart. Tony unloaded most of it so I didn't have to bend over. My recently subluxated ribs have yet to completely settle and bending still hurts. But his help was appreciated because he's rowing the Atlantic in a fishing dory all alone this month, and he's got his hands full without unloading groceries from the granny cart.

I grabbed my "treat", a bottle of fruit-flavored no-cal carbonated water, and flopped into my rocking chair. I hurt from stem to stern which is mixing watery-dory metaphors with stony-mountainy ones but right now I don't give a… well, I won't be rude.

I've been having trouble standing for more than a few minutes so we're trying out the ready-made meals from Sobey's. They have a kitchen right in the middle of the store where they prepare a whole range of take-away foods, with pre-packaged dinners (your choice of roast beef/chicken/ham/turkey/or meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and veggies) or you can put together your own combo. They have all kinds of food, from sushi to pasta to Chinese to Polish to southern fried chicken. One combo is enough for two meals for me, and surprisingly enough this is costing us less than buying the fresh food, because it often spoils before I can cook it. I also buy a lot of fruit, some cheese, eggs, and yogurt, and the freezer is full if I feel like cooking.

So that was yesterday for me. Kilimanjaro conquered, or vice versa, I'm never sure which, but today I was laid low in base camp and my sum accomplishments have been;
1. pull my shrieking muscles out of bed
2. make coffee
3. turn on a loaded dishwasher
4. sit in my chair and rock

That's it. I've answered a few e-mails and written this. Big day… Now it's nearly midnight and I hate to go to bed, because I always wake up feeling terrible. The pain meds I take to be able to sleep have worn off by morning and it's agony to move, and it's agony to lie there. So you grit your teeth and get up because you know that the first 10 minutes are the worst. After that it will probably get better. Probably. And quite possibly there's a mountain waiting.

We're All Bozos on the Bus!

The conversation is superficially about "Peak Oil" and the economic challenges we are facing. But there's a lot of wisdom here about how we deal with anxiety, sadness, and our neighbours. Well worth the time spent.

Kathy McMahon Psy.D. is a clinical psychologist who is internationally known for her writing about the psychological impacts of Peak Oil, climate change, and economic collapse.

Unexpected Pleasures

A week ago yesterday we had our condominium's annual general meeting. I sit on the board, as the landscaper and gardener. After the meeting one of my neighbours, a young man named Mark, approached with a gift, a pot of seven or eight tulips with buds only days from opening. Last summer he brought me an enormous hanging basket filled with beautiful flowers. Having a neighbour who works for a company which supplies all the floral displays for the city's large malls is a bonus. Receiving a pot of tulips was an unexpected pleasure.

I placed the tulips in the bedroom, on the table next to the window. I have other plants on that table and keep that door closed because certain cats in this household are plant shredders. A couple of days ago they opened and I took a few pictures. Lovely things. The blossoms are not large but they are so delicately fragrant and they are magnificent in form and in the colour variations, pinks and creams.

The last few days have been "warm", well, above freezing. Today it was practically hot as the temperature reached a blistering 19 C (66 F). This kind of warmth this early in the year means a cold snap is chasing the heat before it, and snow is in our forecast for tomorrow.

Despite several days of warm temperatures there are still dirty snowbanks piled in the flowerbeds on either side of the wide walkway leading to the front door. But when I looked out this morning a spot of colour caught my eye at this end of the flower bed.

I could hardly believe my eyes, but a single crocus had pushed through the dead leaves to lift its lavender face to the sun. I grabbed my camera and quickly ran down to take a picture. While there I scouted the rest of the beds for life. The smooth fleshy leaves of the "elephant ears" are uncoiling next to the sidewalk 15 feet farther down the bed. Otherwise everything is still sleeping. But I have that photo to look at until the rest of my flowers start to emerge and fill that bed with colour and texture.

Two quiet and unexpected pleasures -   

Cloudburst

Wonderful, wonderful!

When you are sick of sickness

You know the story of the serpent in the garden. Even in Paradise, Eve, who had everything she could possibly have wanted, needed, hoped for or desired, was willing to listen to the serpent's suggestion that she was being cheated of something. Eve was easily convinced that God was withholding knowledge or more specifically power  that would make her even happier than bliss.

The serpent was cunning. Clothed in a pleasing exterior, using the intimate tone of the friend, so very concerned for Eve's welfare, the serpent's real purpose was concealed. Plant the seed and in time Eve convinced herself that she was not as free as she believed, but was subjugated, a pawn, a victim even. Urged by a rising darker self to share her dissatisfaction with her closest friend, the two of them destroyed their own happiness. And so man fell from Paradise, or so the story goes.

It's the human story, reenacted again and again, in families, in the workplace, Little League or the not-for-profit, whenever any group forms to try and work together. No matter how carefully you screen, the serpent enters.

There's a time of waiting and assessment. Which of the group is most likely to play the part of Eve? There's always one who is fearful, suspicious or resentful. One who is constantly alert for signs that they are not included, respected or appreciated enough. A jealous one. That will be the one the serpent approaches first. Easily led by the serpent's tongue to dwell on their anger and dissatisfaction and be on the alert for any sign that reinforces their discontent, such feelings must be shared with a confidant. Yes, that one will agree.... thinking back, I remember when....

The serpent waits...then asks, "What did she mean by that?" The atmosphere chills, there are some signs of hostility.  There is a slow slide into chaos. The serpent sits back and enjoys watching it unfold.

But we have to understand that a serpent can't be anything other than what they are. The poison is in us. There's a Chinese proverb. "When you are sick of sickness, you are no longer sick."

People can be so kind

i have one arm full of a warm, silken kitten who keeps reaching up to kiss me, hence the one-fingered typing. i cannot bring myself to apologize. he is a bit perturbed not to be the entire focus of my attention so if any apologies need to be made they are to him.

after a ten-day stretch of cold and snow we had a sunny, warm (10 C or 50 F) day. this meant the car would not have to be cleared of snow, nor the windshield scraped free of ice. and since snow and cold are predicted to descend on us tonight and i needed to shop, away i went shortly after noon.

i have a subluxated rib and even breathing hurts. and yes i know that walmart is run by satan and his legions of demons but i shop there at least once a month because they have great prices and on a pension every penny has to count. i also shop there because they have most everything i need under one roof and i rarely have the energy to shop in two places. and they are close.

in fact i sort of love the wallys near our place because - i've said this before - you see people from all over the world there and you can hear a dozen different languages in as many minutes.  and in this wallys the staff is almost always very helpful.

when i reached the checkout today i asked the woman to please pack the sacks light, as I was having a hard time lifting anything. she looked at me - and said - 'i'll take the things from the cart for you, and pack them back in. are you parked in the lot? i'll get someone to take these to your car.' and she did. she unloaded the cart, rang it all through, packed my cart, and called someone to help me. two very kind ladies.

and as i pulled into my spot at home my neighbour gail came along and helped me load my cart, and carried what i couldn't get in the cart upstairs. this was such a help.

sometimes all we hear about are bad things people do, how rude shop clerks are, or how awful 'big box' stores are.  but today was a good day, a day when the kindness i was shown really mattered. i'm still sort of glowing inside, just thinking about it, and also from cuddling the kitten in my lap, who really loves his mama.

If people are quiet, they can be quiet anywhere

A few nights ago there was a documentary on Sister Wendy Beckett known to TV audiences as the lisping nun who has done several commentary series on great art. Sister Wendy lives as a contemplative nun, a hermit, in a small prefabricated house, much like a travel trailer or RV, on the grounds of a Carmelite Abbey. She was a bit perturbed that so much of the filming time was focused on her life, when what she really wanted to talk about were paintings of Christ and what they meant to her personally. In her 80s she is bent, fragile, and as she said, hoping it won't be long before I sleep, nodding at the Abbey's shaded and green cemetery as they passed it, with the other nuns.  A plain, quiet woman, deeply rooted in her faith.  
 
Counterpoint Press has just re-issued Road to Heaven, Bill Porter’s story of his search for Taoist and Buddhist hermits in China’s Chungnan mountains in 1989. In 1989, Porter, a scholar of Chinese religion and philosophy, wondered if the Buddhist hermit tradition still existed in China after years of persecution under Mao's Cultural Revolution.

But deep in the Chungnan mountains — the historical refuge of hermits — Porter discovered dozens of monks and nuns leading solitary lives in quiet contemplation of their faith. He found enough to fill a book with brief, lucid interviews and photographs. When he arrives at their doorsteps, they are generous and polite, but unconcerned with politics and worldly issues. Like many Westerners Porter looks for signs of "enlightenment" or some special dispensation of holiness but he finds plain people who simply have learned to be quiet.

Why come to the mountains?
It is a good place to practice.
Did there used to be more hermits?
There used to be more, and now there are less.
Is it a good place because it is quiet?
If people are quiet, they can be quiet anywhere.
Isn’t it hard?
After awhile, it’s all the same.
Isn’t it cold in the winter?
Winters are a good time to practice.
How do you practice?
I just pass the time.
Do you practice very much?
Practice is the only thing that matters. Have some tea. 

So what am I to take from this?
That I have a long way to go to learn to be quiet anywhere.