Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
O, lucky, lucky me.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Had I not been so averse to the ruthlessly competitive nature of organic chemistry classes, I might have become a doctor.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I'm in "training" for a little knee surgery next week, and by "training" I mean keeping my caloric intake below normal. (Carefully avoiding the word "diet.")
Which brings me to the subject of pine cone bread.
I had never heard the term till yesterday, when I gathered with some friends for lunch and brought out my peanut butter and peach on whole grain bread sandwich.
(No, not peach jam, actual slices of fresh peaches--yum!)
I happened to mention how much I love super-grainy bread and how my daughter, a vegetarian for years now, considers it gritty. I simply could not imagine how anyone couldn't like the crunchy concoction.
But I digress.
I've also heard whole-grain yumminess referred to as twigs and bark. What is it with the comparisons with trees?
Maybe it's an astrological thing. I'm a taurus and apparently like things earthy. But perhaps those less attracted to the ground prefer to eat something more akin to sliced clouds.
So in defense of bread of an arboreal persuasion, let me say that:
(1) It's beautiful. Seriously, just look at the amazing texture and doo-dads on a slice.
(2) It takes strength to eat, giving your jaws a workout, thus burning extra calories.
(3) It's filling. I can eat a piece of pine cone bread and be satisfied for at least 2 hours longer than if I ate a similarly sized slice of cloud bread.
But I won't quibble any further.
Suffice it to say that I shall relish my beautiful pine cone bread + peanut butter + peach sammies as I "train" for the next 9 days for a lateral release.
And may those who prefer more fluff enjoy your own little slices of heaven.
Images by katiew , stephendl , and adineland
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Image by Peter Baer
Thursday, August 6, 2009
and I seemed to hear the pines
and the wind
and the rocky shores
say to me,
'You . . .lover of the wild,
are part of us.' "
-- Sigurd I. Olson
Image from The Group of Seven - Art History Archives - Canadian Art
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
But it was the loss of memory that prompted this move. And fortunately, she still knew me, Mr B, and my children. And we were blessed to have her, if even for a short time.
So August reminds me of her, reminds me of how phenomenally fortunate I was to have been loved by such a woman. Shortly after she died, after funeral services in Minnesota and Texas, Mr. B and I spent a weekend in Galveston, a place she loved, a place we both came for rest.
And I wrote these words, a letter to her of sorts, a way to reach through the veil . . .
Break of Day,
Good morning, Mom
I’m sitting on the beach at
It’s been 6 days since you died in my arms before dawn, since I kissed your snowy head and told you over and over that I loved you, and your breathing slowed, became quieter, shallow, whispery, then stopped, like a windup clock that’s ticked it’s way to silence. It’s been 7 days since I held your hands, all warm and twitchy, and asked you if you wanted to have a party in
This isn’t the party. That will come later, maybe spring, probably August. Yesterday was your funeral mass; last night, Randy and I came here to collapse. I woke up ridiculously early again, so I decided to watch the sun rise on the beach.
Crossing the dunes on the arched wooden bridge that connects Islander East Condominiums with the sand, it looked like a passageway to the heavens, and that brought the tears again. But after I got to the apex of the bridge, and started actually approaching the beach, I began to feel the beautiful peace that
Pam told me to take special note of birds during these weeks and months. People who lose someone they’ve loved deeply often seem to notice winged creatures, she said.
So I’m watching two gulls standing side by side on the beach, very close to the water. They’re facing the tide, occasionally twitching their feathers and looking from side to side. Just this moment, they moved toward the water in lockstep and stood in the shallow surf.
One took off to west, but the other stood a while longer. Up and down the beach she looked, then she turned her head back to glance at me. After eyeing me for a moment, she took flight, wings beating so hard, up and up, reaching seagull height, then arced to the west until it became north, flew in front of Islander East, and left my sight.
Sandpipers have been skittering up and down the beach, too. They look like little children at play, but I know they’re hungry and searching for food.
When I brought you to this very spot last August, one day before you moved to
Alex cartwheeled across the sand with those 11-year-old legs, creating art with her coltish body. She busied herself building drip castles and Sean went for a swim in his boxers. It was sunset then, a buttery breeze loving on us, and we talked about clouds, how magical the moment is when and sky and water became the same color, and how my children’s green eyes are like the color of Galveston at different times of the day.
I really think you’d love the cloud formations right now. There are long sweeps of soft gray shrouds. A small golden white is rising behind a dip in this shawl. Further to the east, the sun is rising and backlighting a kind cloud sand castle in soft purple and gold. A layer behind all of this is morning.
A gull just stood less than three feet from me, giving me the stare, most likely trying to see if I was some poor slob he could con some food from. I didn’t have any to offer. He took off after standing on those skinny little legs and poofing his feathers like an insult.
Now the sun is breaking through more boldly, with fans of light shooting skywards, emanating from a burning center that isn’t infinite but will certainly be around a long time. It just pulled out of the cloud bank to cast a golden trail on the surf, and it’s lighting me up as well.
The pinks are gone now, so fast, and the longest part of the sky, which meets the horizon, is a gold wash. The sun’s gone under the shroud of clouds for a while, but I’m pretty sure it’ll vanquish that shade as it keeps it march, steady and slow, and predictably upwards. The surf is the color of Sean’s eyes at the moment, well, maybe a little darker and there’s still gold on the water where it reaches the sand at its shallowest point. It’s a choppy surf today, loud, but not deafening. My little yellow beetle flew off.
I just spotted on the sand in front of me two small lengths of water-logged bamboo amidst a smattering of shells. And now I see a third. I love how proud you were of the bamboo you grew in our backyard, how it took off like crazy under your nurturing attention. I just took a stroll down the beach. Bold grackles seemed to be my company this time. As I walked back, five landed near my towel, started “crabbing” at each other, then flapping off elsewhere.
Yes, the sun’s winning out, making the shroud fade—more white clouds are taking over, and to the west, blue is a much broader canvas for your assortment of clouds. The water is the color of Laura’s eyes now, though not an exact match. Maybe it’s even more like Sean’s at the moment. The sun fan has changed directions, with rays pointing downward, and the sun’s gone behind a bank of clouds, though I can still see a sliver poking through.
When it was darkening and time to leave
We’re going to build a sand castle for you near the water’s edge so you really can be the royalty you dreamed of when you were a little girl, and then the sea and surf and you can decide what you want do and where you want to go next. Perhaps you’ll be parts of birds or sea life—perhaps all of them. But wherever you go, you’ll be free to travel at will.
I love you, Mom, and it’s so painful to know that I cannot hold your warm, tender hands any longer, or kiss your forehead or cheeks, or help you in and out of cars, wheelchairs, bed, or up and down stairs. But what a full and loving life you had. What a legacy you built for me and my children and Randy. Your love has infused us all with memories, strength, and warmth beyond measure.
No, you weren’t perfect—sorry—as hard as you tried to be. But you were way better than good enough. And that’s about as good as it gets in this world.
Peace be with you, Mom. God knows you gave it to me throughout my life—bringing me to
You were an extraordinary Mom and Grandma. I adore you, Mom, and will cherish your memory all the days of my life. We’ll be back next year, right here. God-willing, that is.
At least for now, the sun has won, and the clouds are its ornaments, your ornaments.
Larry Ludtke gave your eulogy yesterday. He modestly identified himself as a sculptor but talked about how you had challenged him to paint when he said for the “umpteenth time” that he wanted to try. He took up the challenge on one condition—that you’d sit for it. You agreed, and the portrait is stunning.
These were the final words Larry spoke to a church crowded with people who loved you:
“I have never, since I painted Celia, ever successfully put color into any portrait I tried over the years. The portraits I have done since then have all been monochromatic. The attempts at adding color have not worked for me. It is almost as if the colors I managed in Celia’s portrait drained from my pallet and placed themselves in her painting, never to be used again. It’s just as well. She deserved the colors. Full of life, she was always like a rainbow that touched us all.”
9:30 am. Hey, Mom! The sun did win! It’s a gorgeous day, and the sea is the color of Erik’s eyes.
That walk I took down the beach this morning? Larry’s colors washed up on the shore. They’re in little bits of shell, a soft fuchsia color, and then a luminescent abalone fragment–curved, almost like a long fingernail. I also found a couple shells that remind me of the tops of your delicate-strong hands, when your tendons and knuckles were so pronounced, moving under your thinning, baby-bird skin.
I placed those beautiful hands on my cheeks one last time as your body cooled. I had such a hard time letting go that morning, even though I knew you were indeed gone. I’m still not sure how I’ll manage without you and those hands. Maybe Larry could sculpt them.
Anyway, I’ve packed my beach finds carefully, and I plan to work them into a piece of jewelry. You always said your walks on
It appears the same is true for me.