Under a Red Roof

Gregory asked for a photo, so he’ll see me when I call him on his new phone.  This is what I came up with.  How do people take such nice self-portraits?  I had such a hard time keeping the camera steady.  You’d think I was a drunkard.

Anyway, here they are…

Not bad if you like eucalyptus.

I’ve seen worse…

 Many politically incorrect mutterings running through my brain about this one.  I do like that I can finally see the whole outfit.  Cute shoes. 

Fingers over the flash?  Oy, where is a professional when I need one?  By the way, I’m trying to wave, so yes, I did intend for my hand to be that close.

Buddy, you’ll just have to take a photo of me, okay?  I think that would be best.

Andrea, over at one of my favorite blogs Superhero Journal, is always getting me thinking.  This week, she asked the question, “What are you willing to receive?”

The Answer?  EVERYTHING.  That’s right, everything: love, hate, friendship, rain, sunshine, flowers, filth.  I believe that if I am not fully willing to accept whatever comes my way, then I miss out on important opportunities for learning, growing, and most importantly, enjoying life.  Life is good.

Take this photo.  Last fall, I sat down on the toilet and swung my right leg off to the side, injuring myself, badly.  I could not walk, sitting back down on the toilet was excrutiating, as was standing up, lying down, and any other type of configuration that required me to move my right leg even slightly. 

Yet it was fun, too.  Gregory, my friends, and I had loads of laughs at my expense.  For starts, I injured myself on the toilet!   How is that not funny?  Then we went shopping at the Value Village to find something to help prop me up because medical supply stores are not open on Sunday.  I bought the walker for $15 after a serious test drive around the store.  I got many queer looks, but hey, at $50 and up retail, it was also a real bargain!

It was also a hoot to hear me groan at the slightest movement.  I felt like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally.  I don’t get that feeling often.  I’m usually more like Meg Ryan because I’m the worst kind of high maintenance, if you know what I mean.

On a more serious note, I also gained a greater appreciation for my body.  I have been known to say unkind things about her, pointing out her flaws, when, in reality, she is really quite remarkable.  Using a walker requires more arm strength that one might imagine.  I also discovered how much I love to exercise.  When it was over, I was sure happy to return to my yoga and rowing practices.  I had missed them.  I also learned to be a little kinder to old, and sometimes, not-so-old people with disabilities.  It takes a lot longer to maneuver a walker than two feet.

So there you have it, my willingness to receive turned what could have been an awful, crabby, pity party into a truly fun and wonderful experience.  I am smiling in the photo, after all.  Thanks for EVERYTHING.

Madame Ogden, my junior high French teacher, was a patient and thoughtful lady, always going that extra mile for the class.  One year, she decided that we should make Mother’s day cards.  She brought scissors, construction paper, markers, and various other craft supplies for each of us to make a masterpiece in honor of mom.  It was a very sweet idea, actually, but, as with many such notions from the minds of well intentioned teachers and into those of crazy teen age girls and boys, it went slighty awry.

The word for mother in French is mere and the word for day is jour, but silly kids that we were, we kept going at it in Franglais combining mere with day, and at a rather fast clip, so in the end, it sounded like mere-d.  Happy Mere-d, Madame Ogden!

Upon hearing this, Madame Ogden looked at us with a horrified expression.  We could not fathom a reason.  We were happily repeating mere-d in sing song voices while cutting out hearts and flowers, and aside from being a bit boisterous, we were generally doing as well as a class of junior high students could.  

Then she told us, her voice serious, knowing full well that this little bit of knowledge could be dangerous.  You see, merde is that other word, the one with the # and * in it, and if you say it aloud, you’ll hear how close we were.

We were stunned by the information.  How could she say a curse word in class?  How could that word be so close to mother?  Those crazy French!  Then we each repeated it aloud a few times while she looked on in terror, certainly wondering if some sort of melee would ensue.  In our defense, hadn’t she given us permission?   Luckily for her, the fervor died down after a few minutes and we returned to our cards, proud of our new found knowledge. 

After that, I never used it against her, but did tell my friends in rather hushed tones, books to my chest, “I know how to say s#*t in French.”

But, that is only the beginning of the post.  I started out wanting to write about my mom and wish her a happy Mother’s day, but as is very often the case, I was waylaid by my own thoughts.

These are some of my fondest memories of my mom: 

Hanging laundry on the clothesline

Being home every day after school

Having an after school snack for me, even in high school!

Telling me what I was like as a baby

Having my ears cleaned because it meant I got to rest my head in her lap

Kids at school saying, “Your mom is so pretty!”  Me knowing it was true.

Homemade dinners (except spaghetti and chicken Chinese) 

Watching her write - she has beautiful cursive

Running from the cold, air-conditioned grocery store, to sit for a moment in the hot car, windows rolled up.

Admiring her homemade birthday cakes - they were the best!

I love you Mom and wish you a very happy day…

Colleen is a nut

Stuck in a rut?

Willing to say tut-tut

Oh and but

She shall not shut

Herself in a hut…

          -Colleen

Red Door

Where do you lead?

To the hills of my ancestors or brave new territory?

Alluring and powerful

I cannot decide

What if I am not ready for the journey?

Bound by a million tides within

Each taking a different direction

Each terrifying with the possibility of a thrill

If only I’d try

Am I lost?

Or am I just beyond the threshold

Waiting for me?                

                              - Colleen

Well, not really, but I didn’t have another, more appropriate picture, and the envelope doesn’t photograph terribly well.

Anyhoo, I’m sending my dear novel to a publisher today.  I let her rest a bit, then did some editing, and more editing, and she’s off, destination North Carolina.  Send good thoughts her way, won’t you?

This next bit is for my friend Jeff and the many others who want to know what the book is about.  Gregory calls it my elevator speech.  I’m headed to the top floor, how about you?

 Polite Society is a rather optimistic and unconventional portrait of the world and its possibilities via dreams, friendship, and sabotage.  The story centers on the intersection of four lives in a small Oregon town: Serena, her mother Caroline, her Nana Helen, and a widowed teacher named Sharon.

Following her parent’s divorce, Serena moved in with her Nana.  She has not seen her father for three long years, and her mother has shown little more than parental duty towards her for as long as she can remember.  When Bob Barker, of The Price is Right, begins making regular appearances in Serena’s dreams, she takes his words to heart, forging a new path, one that brings friendship and changes the course of her life and those around her.

If you like slightly quirky stories involving cool cars, life, and coping with its difficulties, this one is for you!   

Despite the fact that I’ve never actually wanted children of my own, I am a sucker for them.

Take these cookies.  I bought the dough from the cute neighbor boys in support of their little league baseball team.

Next time, I think I’ll just make a donation - straight up, no purchasing of wrapping paper, junk food, chocolates, or cookie dough.  It will save me the agony of having all these things that I don’t really need, like Slim Jims and three pounds (yes, pounds!) of peanut butter dough taunting me every time I open the refrigerator.

“You know you want to eat me.  I am rather tasty by the spoonful, or you could stud me with chocolate chips (the way Gregory likes), so I get that mutant cookie look, and then bake me up.  How great would I be with a glass of milk on a perfect Portland day?”

Well, darn it all if the dough wasn’t right!  Now if Monday’s weather would return…

Gregory took this photo on our French vacation last summer.  I love the composition: the washed-out brightness in the foreground, in contrast with the pleasant glow of the slightly blurred background, beckoning visitors.  It reminds me of a poem that I like. 

Just Delicate Needles

It is so delicate, the light.

And there is so little of it.

The dark is huge.

Just delicate needles, the light

in an endless night.

And it has such a long way to go

through such desolate space.

So let’s be gentle with it.

Cherish it.

So it will come again in the morning.

We hope.

Rolf Jacobsen, translated by Robert Hedin

The light reminds me of people too, often delicate and more likely to come again when cherished and treated with tenderness. 

May you be treated with tenderness on this fifth day of May.

Something amazing happened to me the other day, mind blowing, wonderful kind of amazing.  I was finishing my yoga practice with a meditation before shavasana, something I don’t normally incorporate for reasons of time and laziness.

Anyway, as I was sitting there, listening to Shiva’s kind voice, I felt my body moving, only I didn’t feel like I was the one doing it.  It was just happening, smooth and effortless, a birch branch slowly oscillating in the breeze.   As I continued to move, I had this sensation of fullness, effervescence.  I could no longer tell where my body ended and the rest of the universe began.  In my closed eyes, I could see and feel billions of tiny bubbles of light pulsing and emanating to and from what I can only guess was the essence of all being: me, you, the sun, moon, and stars.

As you might imagine, it was exhilarating.  It brought me the greatest sense of joy, peace, and wonder, and the moment I became fully conscious of what was happening, I wanted it to continue, to watch where it might take me, but, of course, in this same moment, I made the connection back to my thinking mind, and it was over, leaving me with tiny traces of its perfection.

Thinking about it now, I feel a bit empty but in the most positive way.  Empty of pain, worry, suffering, and full of hope at the possibility of my life and our world.  Now I am sharing it with you.

Namaste…

I am touched by the kindness of whomever left this delightful surprise on my door.  Thank you!