tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75748226723910903432024-02-06T20:26:47.326-08:00Enchanted OakA poet recoversEnchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.comBlogger470125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-75531112461408545822012-08-19T09:06:00.000-07:002015-11-22T15:16:13.168-08:00An End and a Beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bees dance when they have something to say. They came to my yard one day to show me how they speak. In this photo, a bee dances in the center of a crowd of listeners. Guided by some sort of spirit, a hive nearby knew it was time to split the community, and the queen took half her servants in search of a new home. They rested for a few hours in one of my rose bushes, and they showed me how the scouts direct the swarm to a suitable new hive, an amazing display of sustainable choices and a great mystery in the natural order of life.</div>
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In contrast, we humans tend to be rigid in our beliefs, convinced that our brains know the way of things. We often don't question our knowledge and indoctrinations, mistaking our judgments and opinions for a Universal Truth. </div>
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For the past six months I've been on an expedition, like the bees. There have been upheavals and discoveries, sadness and epiphanies. I wondered if my stories here had reached their appointed end. Today, like the bees that paused at my house this past spring, I'm going to dance my story.</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h3>
What in God’s Name?</h3>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You can call God <em>Max</em> if you want to,<br />
says the woman who mentors me<br />
in matters spiritual and guttural<br />
between phone calls to her oncologist<br />
and shopping trips for still more hats<br />
for yet another season of baldness.<br />
<br />
I don’t mind being juggled between<br />
the specialists and their repercussions,<br />
a sunny yellow ball shining among<br />
the dry-blood spheres of toxic doctors<br />
and the baby blues of her infant head.<br />
I have her here now, and laughing,<br />
certain she won’t die today, not before<br />
she finishes the job I handed her:<br />
Find a God for me, the newly godless.<br />
<br />
On the Fourth of July, she told me<br />
God might dwell in fireworks, <br />
a pyrotechnic atom all crackling red<br />
and shimmering gold. Before that,<br />
she said he dallied in the roses<br />
for my clippers to unleash him, <br />
and before that, she said he bided <br />
at my mother’s, humming in the <br />
sprinkler lines I mended, mourning.<br />
<br />
I seek wherever she sends me because<br />
I fired the irascible Judge with a clipboard<br />
the day I found my mother up to her elbows<br />
stirring turds in her toilet with a conviction<br />
only the demented can muster. As I begged<br />
the God of my mother to release his<br />
faithful servant from her shitty life,<br />
the scales fell from my eyes: Suddenly<br />
I knew that old Curmudgeon suffered<br />
psychological disorders, eons untreated, <br />
and I forsook him on the spot. But I <br />
was groomed since birth for God,<br />
the fear of blasphemy embedded deep <br />
in my reptilian brain. To be godless is<br />
to be legless, sightless, hopeless, damned. <br />
<br />
As my mentor fights for life, she leads me<br />
through her curious garden, pungent with <br />
the scents of anarchy and heresy, assigning<br />
my tasks: Glean that field of God particles,<br />
rake the fallen leaves under Tolstoy’s vine, <br />
take cuttings from the tree of Martin Luther.<br />
Here she has planted every rotten thing<br />
that ever came to her, and made it bloom:<br />
the young and dead, the broken, unjust,<br />
the bitter losses and the insidious cancer <br />
that tries to claim her every few years. <br />
<br />
Here each stone and growing shoot <br />
holds meaning, a miniature magnificence <br />
that speaks of something so immense, <br />
it can’t be grasped. But I reach anyway, <br />
oh puny hand, for some divine, redemptive<br />
purpose in my mother stirring turds<br />
and all the other shocking shit of life.<br />
<br />
You can call him Max, my mentor says:<br />
Think about that. So I consider this <br />
ludicrous thought: calling my new God<br />
the name I circled in red ink in a baby book<br />
so long ago, chosen for a son I never had. <br />
Would I be free at last, I ask, of the tyrant<br />
who ordains impossible standards knowing<br />
I will fail, my eternal, horrid, raging father?<br />
<em>Hello, Max</em>, I say, reaching out my hand,<br />
and something brushes against my palm:<br />
a weightless kiss of wings, or lips.</blockquote>
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<br />Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-58793473065102175912012-03-17T11:27:00.002-07:002012-03-17T12:13:47.342-07:00Freedom from Injustice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1MUnoEkqMgoNiKXnaNJ18yQg6yx2GwVGOa6JM91Pkw3GQisWCStJ_s8w2yIbR8udvQ8glHld-UeBIEkgS1rUdwXu0La_tPH4s1A1NZqKMo1dbn0szhnz6oQybpFOLBnmWLi151JakY4/s1600/Hummingbird.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1MUnoEkqMgoNiKXnaNJ18yQg6yx2GwVGOa6JM91Pkw3GQisWCStJ_s8w2yIbR8udvQ8glHld-UeBIEkgS1rUdwXu0La_tPH4s1A1NZqKMo1dbn0szhnz6oQybpFOLBnmWLi151JakY4/s400/Hummingbird.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<i>Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree.</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rabindranath Tagore</span></div><br />
I’ve been busy shining light in my own soul for the past few weeks, seeing for the first time in two years some hard truths about myself. I know without a doubt now there’s a Higher Power who’s personally interested in my spiritual growth, because the sequence of events these last weeks has inexorably brought me to a gigantic, life-shifting <em>Aha!</em> moment of emancipation, forgiveness, and peace.<br />
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My inner darkness began two years ago this month when the FBI burst into my mother’s care facility one morning, arrested the owners for trafficking in slavery, booted out the residents, and destroyed my demented mom’s life. She lost her fragile grip on reality and was dead four months later. I got a major resentment and wrote about it here in April of 2010.<br />
<br />
Three weeks ago, the newspaper reported the care home’s owners were sentenced to 18 months in prison and $600,000 restitution to nine workers brought in illegally from a foreign country and treated like slaves. As I read the newspaper report, I suddenly remembered searching for a new home for my mother in the weeks before the FBI raid because the quality of care had deteriorated.<br />
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My intuition had told me to move my mother but I didn’t act fast enough. The facility owners and the FBI were beyond my control, but I suddenly saw my part in the fiasco. Recognizing my role in Mom’s meltdown had an immediate effect, releasing me from two years of resentment over the injustice of it all.<br />
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That epiphany created a chink in my armor. On its heels came a series of events that brought me face to face with other people whose actions were unjust in the past two years. A little army of people who had hurt me came marching through my life, in circumstances that required me to act helpfully and humanely toward them – something I can’t do when I’m fiercely holding on to resentment about the injuries I suffered. <br />
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Because of the chink in my armor, I saw flaws in my own character that were surprisingly similar to those in other people I had judged harshly. I went to my AA sponsor, a woman I’ve met with almost every week for the past year because I wanted her help in learning to live in an unjust world. I told her what I saw in myself. She nodded her head and smiled. She reminded me that we’re all God's children doing the best we can with what we’ve got inside us.<br />
<br />
I left her house that night a free woman. My resentments evaporated. I could do the right things now, for the right reasons, with a clean soul. <br />
<br />
When I’m willing see my full truth and come clean inside, accepting my part in whatever has injured me, I’m no longer the helpless victim of someone’s wrongdoing. In my experience, all of us lit matches that sent something up in flames. I don’t have to blame anyone anymore. I’m freed from the bondage of resentment through the gift of forgiveness.<br />
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I’ve been digesting this as I worked preparing my garden for spring. I’ve pulled out dead stalks, turned the soil, and planted seeds, thinking all the while how wonderful it is to be an imperfect human being. Last night the rain came at last. This morning the ground is soaked, black and beautiful. Fragile first leaves are emerging. Life is good.<br />
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<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-65424649643692921722012-02-14T16:16:00.000-08:002012-02-15T02:38:49.297-08:00Love Is a Miracle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPgfaWDb2qa4lWQyi-ViDsOrBxDldAzFeFTw5Y2oOhnNJYUBAnnmLkt8H0XG-D9kQbLbe8I3OVHYrwRjeh9RQ4KGaxmEiaVpcka85E4Po-NwQel8OUwN4AbX39Ijw3KtCoda5G56921k/s1600/Mulberry+blossom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="370" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrPgfaWDb2qa4lWQyi-ViDsOrBxDldAzFeFTw5Y2oOhnNJYUBAnnmLkt8H0XG-D9kQbLbe8I3OVHYrwRjeh9RQ4KGaxmEiaVpcka85E4Po-NwQel8OUwN4AbX39Ijw3KtCoda5G56921k/s400/Mulberry+blossom.JPG" /></a></div><br />
A miracle is in progress out in the yard. Despite freezing nights, despite drought in our part of the country, buds burgeon on plants that winter stripped of every living thing. The life force is stronger than all the adversity this winter has thrown at it.<br />
<br />
Another miracle: I'm at home with the man I love on our 20th Valentine's Day. We two, who have six marriages between us, have survived everything those 20 years threw at us, in part because No Matter What we kept the promise we made all those years ago: not to run, not to stuff things down, and not to lie to each other ~ not a very elegant promise, but an effective one for us. <br />
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<a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com">Poetry Jam</a> focuses on miracles this week. The past year has been my time of learning to see the small miracles that happen in everyday life and be grateful for them. <br />
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<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>You Could Use a Cheap Miracle<br />
</b><br />
<br />
“The quality of my life is so poor – <br />
no money,” you said, counting the obligations that<br />
<br />
Loom, while penniless you worry –<br />
tell, instead, the last miracle you saw, and what<br />
<br />
It cost you. Did you view it from a window<br />
? or did that small fire flare in your chest when<br />
<br />
In the half-dark he reached for you <i>even<br />
in his sleep</i>? The whimper of thanksgiving<br />
<br />
Is as good as a hymn <br />
but easily missed – better than meat<br />
<br />
After days without food<br />
when your soul is starving.<br />
</blockquote><br />
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<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-25617616600298401142012-02-11T10:19:00.000-08:002012-02-11T10:19:22.832-08:00Hot and Spicy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSWv4IehCvEPPWwVF05rCLBJw1f5tl7y96CeXh53gubuLBub75lWxNtI1cBH-w_mmqYPI6FNXlcI6kFhaIWkD0YVLpZ8JhVzZjIS_p4KI-B69cSmAxs7cNDyJ-86PsgqJCxGyjinLRMo/s1600/Poetry+Jam+spices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSWv4IehCvEPPWwVF05rCLBJw1f5tl7y96CeXh53gubuLBub75lWxNtI1cBH-w_mmqYPI6FNXlcI6kFhaIWkD0YVLpZ8JhVzZjIS_p4KI-B69cSmAxs7cNDyJ-86PsgqJCxGyjinLRMo/s400/Poetry+Jam+spices.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Boredom and complacency spell the death of everything, from marriage to political activism. When I saw the prompt for this week’s <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">Poetry Jam</a>, to write a poem about spices, I thought of the restaurant menu I read last week while doing a magazine assignment. How do you liven up your life?<br />
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<blockquote><blockquote><b>Chili-Dusted Potatoes</b><br />
<br />
Wake us up from our slumber with hot spices<br />
We need something disturbing to crack the shell<br />
of lethargy, and the mouth is such a tender place<br />
all moist and plump and pliable, doughy kisses<br />
and pabulum. Explode<br />
<br />
Our placid pigeonholed lives, pull out all<br />
the glottal stops that swallowed dreams <br />
like gulping fish. Wake us with a howitzer <br />
of warring words, divisive tongues<br />
Spur us into life again</blockquote></blockquote><br />
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<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-78720359750550490902012-02-09T12:25:00.000-08:002012-02-09T12:25:05.584-08:00Bad Habits Die Hard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88wq4Ap_p1stH5mpJjOe7vxRd_BBYpkNvT8ObRPFbWaTNNXVu6PmdvauUzoZAaavajM7XsqrFThAlLmY2hCzuT7twrwTt-c8vwboAc2s3uDYe1IdwyHDWmdbz7LWfBeF_VQVUrKEDgR4/s1600/Cat+ribbons+OMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88wq4Ap_p1stH5mpJjOe7vxRd_BBYpkNvT8ObRPFbWaTNNXVu6PmdvauUzoZAaavajM7XsqrFThAlLmY2hCzuT7twrwTt-c8vwboAc2s3uDYe1IdwyHDWmdbz7LWfBeF_VQVUrKEDgR4/s400/Cat+ribbons+OMG.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Destructive habits fight for survival like hyenas would fight for the last scrap of tendon from the last tough gazelle on the planet. <br />
<br />
I’m a deadline junkie. When the countdown hits those final seconds, I go to work: It’s DO or DIE, dearie, so yes I do it, I pull it off, I slide in right under the wire. Watch me crank, every move a ballet, Hail Mary – nothing but net!<br />
<br />
The deadline crunch is a way of life, a drug-free adrenaline rush. I write for a living. For 35 years, that copy due-date has ruled my brain. Since my car was rear-ended last November, I’ve been suffering a solid week of misery month after month. All that 11th-hour work, glued to the computer in a deadline frenzy, just kills my injured neck. It turns around and murders ME, and then I have to go prone for two straight days to let my neck recover.<br />
<br />
My physical therapist and my AA sponsor have been noodling me to change my way of life. I say, yeah, yeah, I need to do things differently, and then habit takes over, and I’m doing the same old thing, getting the same old results, month after month. <br />
<br />
Habits hate change. They’re living creatures who will fight for survival. They live in your brain. They pull strings there, sometimes subtly sabotaging your thoughts (“<i>That can wait till tomorrow</i>…”), and sometimes screaming outright (“<i>NoNoNoNoNO! You can’t do that!</i>”). They’ll try every trick in the book to preserve themselves.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Excessive Misery Is A Good Teacher</span>. That’s scrawled in big orange letters in one of my AA books (<i>Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions</i>, to be exact, at the end of Step Six, where we address the character flaws that made our lives so adventurous, so thrilling, so disastrous). A short paragraph is highlighted in pink: “in no case does He render us white as snow and keep us that way without our <span style="color: blue;">cooperation</span> [blue-ink underline there]. This is something we are supposed to be willing to work toward ourselves.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Excessive Misery Is A Good Teacher</span>. Sick and tired of being miserable, huh? Maybe…do something different? Change, perhaps? Commit, say, to slaughter a bad habit, even if it bites, scratches and goes down fighting? Whose brain is it, anyway? Who’s in charge here?<br />
<br />
So I acted like I was in charge. I knuckled down this past week, made a real effort to be smarter about meeting my writing deadline. Started earlier. Worked shorter hours at the computer. Stayed off the computer entirely if I wasn’t working on a story. Took those breaks everyone was advising I take. <br />
<br />
Got the work done a day early! Holy crap! Didn’t have to go to bed for two days! Didn’t get the adrenaline rush, either. Ho-hum. Life threatens to get boring. [That’s a whisper from a dying bad habit…those suckers die hard.] Ah. Maybe I’ll take up bungee-jumping… <br />
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<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-280480218103626702012-01-28T11:42:00.000-08:002012-01-28T14:35:19.030-08:00Throw in the Towel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzu5ZzQVgQhLEOwyHMDe07_ISd9jaVgXhrWzO6LiPnm7XPwZpOT9znOAZLlBsh9_vq3VHzb8UG_hDd6kGerRRIjr3K8QjxKkuGvV1aaQ5IQJmgpUw0i7H2cbxYpjdlRByJtFKY65euvI/s1600/74450200059571722_i8oSSQg2_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzu5ZzQVgQhLEOwyHMDe07_ISd9jaVgXhrWzO6LiPnm7XPwZpOT9znOAZLlBsh9_vq3VHzb8UG_hDd6kGerRRIjr3K8QjxKkuGvV1aaQ5IQJmgpUw0i7H2cbxYpjdlRByJtFKY65euvI/s400/74450200059571722_i8oSSQg2_c.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
My future as an inventor has sunk. I’ve dismantled the brilliant experiment in the last post and tossed the address of the Patent people. <br />
<br />
I don’t know beans about thermodynamics. I’m just an English major who can spell it (a long crush on Einstein). What I know about mechanics, I learned in “Humanities 471: Human Values in Engineering.” My final project was sci-fi story (got an A!). <br />
<br />
My father was a mechanical man. He designed complex heating and air-conditioning installations, using two tools: the tape measure that lived on his belt, and crude shapes he scribbled on napkins, paper plates, bits torn from little spiral tablets. He nearly failed high school, then spent his life inventing mechanical solutions. <br />
<br />
He didn’t teach me those things, and he enjoyed my ignorance. When I was 17, I cracked the head of my 1960 Studebaker Lark convertible by letting the radiator run dry. He handed me the keys to an old VW Bug and sternly told me to be sure I kept its radiator full. Then he fell out of his chair, cackling, when he heard I’d asked a gas-station attendant to check the Bug’s water. That’s how I learned about air-cooled engines. Thanks, Dad.<br />
<br />
So here I sit, hopes dashed in my venture into the use of convection-heated shelter for a wild cat. The cat loves the food but scorns the toaster bed. “I have not failed,” Thomas Edison once said. “I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.”<br />
<br />
I’m going to put out food for the cat and stick to inventing sentences and poems.<br />
<p><p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-71229795932994053532012-01-27T08:19:00.000-08:002012-01-27T09:13:45.552-08:00Wildcat Experiment Continues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5GWpSAMTmkbTQuNZ3syfauUYM-CsNDsId9TK_OgGwgzCQ8nCGo2JAp1-qcxIp9qbfNxjUCoVBTbEqtEfNpC-CiosCRBjtzkrShKgjM1Mn6pOOtt4N0huRyj3y0Gkl_JF_xlo3N5JEqM/s1600/Toaster+Bed+experiment+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5GWpSAMTmkbTQuNZ3syfauUYM-CsNDsId9TK_OgGwgzCQ8nCGo2JAp1-qcxIp9qbfNxjUCoVBTbEqtEfNpC-CiosCRBjtzkrShKgjM1Mn6pOOtt4N0huRyj3y0Gkl_JF_xlo3N5JEqM/s640/Toaster+Bed+experiment+%25282%2529.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br />
<div align="center"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Today's update below</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">)</span></span></div><br />
(<em>Tuesday, 1/24/12</em>) I keep my hands off feral cats unless they’re nursing kittens who appear to be abandoned. I’m a sucker for those, having adopted five ourselves over the years and placed a few others elsewhere.<br />
<br />
But my heart’s gone out to a long-haired cat who adopted our front shrubbery last year. It doesn’t behave like a feral tom. It behaves like a frightened abandoned pet. I kept hands-off for months, but the temps have dropped to low twenties/high teens, and the cat has made a tiny nest in the nook of the fireplace wall this past month. It’s right outside my sunroom. The first rains came last weekend.<br />
<br />
At dusk last night I saw it curled up there, and I swear I saw it shivering. The sight plagued me. Early this morning while nesting in my warm bed, I dreamed up a toaster bed for this cat. It involves heavy-duty aluminum foil over a wire hut and under its nest of leaves (carefully saved and replaced while wearing gloves), supplemented with hanks of Spanish moss under and over for insulation. I put out food as well to make this hut enticing. I think it might be too tall to reflect any heat, but better than nothing perhaps? We’ll see if the cat welcomes my interference. I let you know. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day One: Cat Checks Bed, Says Yes to the Food, No to the Bed</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Night Two:</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Food’s gone again. Cat slept under my car, even though I made my husband burn the last of our wood in the fireplace. This morning I’m getting sneaky. Put two morsels in food bowl but a whole handful on two leaves inside the hut. More firewood’s on order. Mark the <a href="http://themanwhowalksalonewalksfaster.blogspot.com/">Walking Man</a> has offered construction advice in his comment. I shall refine the bed per his suggestions, since I don't know shit, really, about the reflective properties of inward-facing aluminum foil.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial;">Third Day: (Investigator's notebook)</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone was here during the night: evidence</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">leaf out of place</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">contents of offering plate, gone</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">footprints on moss carpet (maybe)</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing proves </span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">who: any hungry nightcrawler</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">might have fallen joyfully upon the altar</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Possible suspects: recently noted</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">gray squirrel w/ high-plumed tail, sniffing fence</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">tomcat, B&W cruising northbound</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">27 cedar waxwings casing the place</span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">skunk on road (dead)</span></blockquote><br />
<br />
Poetry Jam requests poems of the senses this week, so I’ve adopted the feral cat’s view of this ridiculous experiment. Find more sensual stuff <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">here</a>. <br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>Wild Cat Haiku</b><br />
<br />
Whoever you are<br />
What have you done to my nest?<br />
It smells like a trap<br />
<br />
I see what you made<br />
That foreign thing is a mouth<br />
I don’t enter mouths<br />
<br />
Food magnet draws me<br />
Crackling danger sounds inside<br />
Ears laid low, I flee<br />
<br />
Catastrophic mess!<br />
Suspicious hair stands on end <br />
I watch, quiver, wait<br />
<br />
Then attack the food<br />
Place stinks but how dear the meal<br />
It tastes like more, please</blockquote><br />
</blockquote>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-26968119749186963562012-01-21T11:05:00.000-08:002012-01-21T11:05:16.986-08:00Stripped<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SufQ2h9GSYeRQk4-wnRLQpVVybpffZHkySiP7EXdGFnQhLVv6K1_moB9nYx-jrsUVj7_4ZSPBSEyf_GP_5GzwTzvT0oTGR9r6vIEV05QMFIVKGlJSGk84vkYKeCJPBQrZWEfAT78eb4/s1600/2011-12-31+002+2011-12-31+008+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SufQ2h9GSYeRQk4-wnRLQpVVybpffZHkySiP7EXdGFnQhLVv6K1_moB9nYx-jrsUVj7_4ZSPBSEyf_GP_5GzwTzvT0oTGR9r6vIEV05QMFIVKGlJSGk84vkYKeCJPBQrZWEfAT78eb4/s640/2011-12-31+002+2011-12-31+008+%25284%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
My life has been stripped of a few things in recent days. See all the red berries on the cotoneaster in my header photo up there? The migrating flocks of cedar waxwings, who made their first appearance here on December 16, have stripped them for sustenance on their winter voyage to Mexico. I rejoice in the fact that my little piece of paradise helped fuel their epic flight from the northern climes to their hiatus in the south. <br />
<br />
Then I received a splendid tool last week from my physical therapist, who has made it his mission to strip my neck of the agony that plagues me. He gave me a TENS unit, designed to combat pain with electrical stimulation of the nerve pathways that conduct messages of misery to my brain. I attach electrodes to my neck and direct the palm-sized unit to zap the neural fibers in the musculature with a level of intensity that I control. It works! I crank that baby up to the echelon of warfare and rejoice as it slams shut the gateways to pain.<br />
<br />
It is empowering to live in the solution rather than mucking about in the problem. I’m so jazzed that I’ve dived into the brown lifeless stuff in the garden. Hacking away at the evidence of death is a joy too, because visions of crispy brown crap drags at my sense of hope. Tearing it away fuels little jolts of delight as I uncover tiny shoots of the hardy harbingers of spring. Hyacinths and tulips push through the hard, droughty soil in their enduring drive to bloom. <br />
<br />
Next comes the Zen of pruning frost-ravaged roses. I have 13 of those, looking like shit in the front yard, yelling “Life has ceased!” every single day since the hard frost hit. I hollered back at five of them yesterday with a litany of “Prepare for spring!” I was a rose-pruning ninja, not a Zen master, because I only had an hour and was impatient to dive into solutions again. Having made the crucial beginning, I will go more slowly today and savor the art.<br />
<br />
It’s lovely to be stripped of things that then fuel flight.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvjj0sr1Fr1ruycGlZ-zOqq7CAI-Lws7VhGQ-tWRSX7vzCBbnY13Vb20-DqAf29iwPOTKn1lPfvjl6Uzu_eYIXnJL_VaFL_Pd28V4LmXYS0tqyut352vjHoYXaYIvciE_mUk0O3UThyk/s1600/Pruned+rose+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvjj0sr1Fr1ruycGlZ-zOqq7CAI-Lws7VhGQ-tWRSX7vzCBbnY13Vb20-DqAf29iwPOTKn1lPfvjl6Uzu_eYIXnJL_VaFL_Pd28V4LmXYS0tqyut352vjHoYXaYIvciE_mUk0O3UThyk/s400/Pruned+rose+%25283%2529.jpg" width="341" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hope, personified in the eye of growth on a winter rosebush.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-57981239555539148382012-01-18T12:24:00.000-08:002012-01-18T13:39:01.255-08:00Something’s Amuck in Paradise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB2fIFVKqVO5PujsgP-JEOiWtW3yP-Zhv34Ay12kjT6Z3W4vpj9Zcf_9Wbm7bDhClyWGSzXNRZADcIigsBEQ_saLXvoycWvibB-B8mk091r5k5G470plRs_yl7WNWilZ1RR0UzJ3Ynvo/s1600/Chris+beautiful+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvB2fIFVKqVO5PujsgP-JEOiWtW3yP-Zhv34Ay12kjT6Z3W4vpj9Zcf_9Wbm7bDhClyWGSzXNRZADcIigsBEQ_saLXvoycWvibB-B8mk091r5k5G470plRs_yl7WNWilZ1RR0UzJ3Ynvo/s640/Chris+beautiful+snow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My first brilliant thought this morning: Something’s amuck in paradise. No coffee. No newspaper. And the phone rings, bearing wild anxiety from a woman I sponsor. <br />
<br />
Mr. Coffee steams like mad to produce a thimbleful of lukewarm coffee. A hike into the colder-than-crap outdoors produces no newspaper. Both are essentials to awaken my bleary brain and allow me to produce speech. So I’m pretty pathetic when my frantic friend calls about her new medical insurance bill.<br />
<br />
I tell my friend to hit her knees, then unearth the old percolator from the garage’s camping gear and crack open my morning meditation book, which discusses faith overcoming all adverse conditions.<br />
<br />
That’s when my husband enters, bearing a hot latte and the newly arrived newspaper. <br />
<br />
My Higher Power’s sense of humor is busy on a chaotic Wednesday morning. <br />
<br />
The phone rings again: A service technician wants to postpone today’s scheduled maintenance so he can fix the heaters of those who are without heat on this 21-degree morning. Again I’m reminded that things could always be worse. I could be flat-broke like the woman I sponsor. I could be both broke and frozen too like others whose heaters aren’t working. I could be headed for chemotherapy this afternoon, like my own AA sponsor, or for radiation, like a man my hubby sponsors. <br />
<br />
I shouldn’t ever take my first brilliant thoughts seriously. I can be as sour as I want to, or as joyful, because I’m free to start my day over again any time I like. By returning to a position of gratitude, by remembering to be thankful for what I have, I can make my home a better place in which to greet the world.<br />
<br />
Today I have no legitimate complaints, as a man used to say in the early AA meetings I sat through 22 years ago. My humorous Higher Power converts even trivial adverse conditions into teaching moments about the value of faith. There’s nothing at all amuck in paradise today.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>Scenes of Winter</b><br />
<br />
The catfight wind yowls<br />
churning the shrubbery<br />
scrabbling over fences<br />
staggers even the stoutest trees.<br />
<br />
The stalk of a budded lily<br />
arrow dipped in blood <br />
aimed at heaven <br />
quivers in its invisible bow.<br />
<br />
The moon’s white opal<br />
glows on blue velvet<br />
rainswept with diamonds<br />
swallowed by clouds.<br />
<br />
Inside your love <br />
is a woolly blanket<br />
abrasively delicious<br />
on a bitter night.</blockquote><br />
</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9Wx2z8ax7U0cieu0pCJbx2k3phlWJqlF0s4sDfW3m7AutvsHLQXlJAEL0A3ozwnOERmWasC2-0GaPArWX-o1h_XWoZSN63aMSPnMeqA7qVnXJusUPyZs4vf7e8yfqrhVEKqONG8DWDs/s1600/Lily.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9Wx2z8ax7U0cieu0pCJbx2k3phlWJqlF0s4sDfW3m7AutvsHLQXlJAEL0A3ozwnOERmWasC2-0GaPArWX-o1h_XWoZSN63aMSPnMeqA7qVnXJusUPyZs4vf7e8yfqrhVEKqONG8DWDs/s400/Lily.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><br />
<div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
What reasons do you have to be grateful today? <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Over at <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">Poetry Jam</a> people are pondering the power of home. </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-649183566560560602012-01-16T08:00:00.000-08:002012-01-16T10:11:03.648-08:00War Horse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDhcPZ0lERA3lwMXBpE7QErKmtQgwvodseEppTDqd2CXwKHaMyhSmxylIdYIjfVNbUJAa-M7lvMT8HLiu0JZedfI-LnaqxZxxssyDIVI_4hQDny1sKDQmD1vhFF1wcIjv5Yvm_nR1QSOA/s1600/War_Horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="269" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDhcPZ0lERA3lwMXBpE7QErKmtQgwvodseEppTDqd2CXwKHaMyhSmxylIdYIjfVNbUJAa-M7lvMT8HLiu0JZedfI-LnaqxZxxssyDIVI_4hQDny1sKDQmD1vhFF1wcIjv5Yvm_nR1QSOA/s400/War_Horse.jpg" /></a></div><br />
If you know how to soldier on, applause for you today! For no reason whatsoever I dedicate this day to the noble art of perseverance. <br />
<br />
Those who persist when the going gets tough rank among the elite in my book. It’s hard work, being noble. Endurance takes grit and grace because pain hurts and fear is frightening. It’s easier to give up than to soldier on. <br />
<br />
I had to meet my magazine deadlines last week with what felt like a red-hot spear buried in my neck, and that’s what started a preoccupation with fortitude. I have a bad habit of doing all my assignments in one long 11th-hour session, fine when you’re young and strong but my cervical vertebrae are disintegrating now, and I sustained a whiplash injury seven weeks ago when a Suburban plowed into my car at a crosswalk. <br />
<br />
As I worked at the computer last week, someone heated the fireplace poker to red-hot and then plunged it into my neck. There it burned relentlessly until I sent off my last story (on time) and went prone for two days. Then we went to see Steven Spielberg’s <i>War Horse</i> this weekend.<br />
<br />
I had to clap my hands over my mouth to stifle the exclamations that wanted to burst out. <i>War Horse</i> contains moments that myths are made of, and a lot of sheer nobility. From the first battle charge an hour into the film, men and horses mine the depths of sacrificial bravery in one concussive nightmare after another in that terrible war. <br />
<br />
Modern life also offers ample opportunities to prove we’re capable of courage. If you’re persevering through difficulty today, I salute you. <br />
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<p><br />
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<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-12909020533378099542012-01-11T12:00:00.000-08:002012-01-11T12:56:51.245-08:00Laugh in the Face of Everything<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHMQA_xmSmEjM6CTjyOqvbUJ15v3j6QYRAQUbLUOamoPhAM0An78i78ndJe-LjFT2-rdn1l_oQEzbwuVhRD6NDAq6KE3jadwnsPTmxMdVqPc-6gc_WMzipwN_A9z9ensVh76tD93yHj4/s1600/Polish+couple+laughing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHMQA_xmSmEjM6CTjyOqvbUJ15v3j6QYRAQUbLUOamoPhAM0An78i78ndJe-LjFT2-rdn1l_oQEzbwuVhRD6NDAq6KE3jadwnsPTmxMdVqPc-6gc_WMzipwN_A9z9ensVh76tD93yHj4/s400/Polish+couple+laughing.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farm couple shares a laugh in 1940</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote>Got no crop last year<br />
Lived off the fat of the land<br />
Ma says I taste good<br />
<br />
On that new kwi-zine<br />
Ma feasted. I fasted. Look:<br />
Now I need new pants<br />
<br />
Crop came in this year<br />
We’re living high on the hog<br />
Food’s good. Love’s better.</blockquote><br />
</blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
This old photograph reminds me that laughter's one of strongest medicines on earth. While 1940 wasn't a banner year in history, the farming couple from Connecticut still enjoys a joke, maybe made by the husband as he hoists his pants. <br />
<br />
A sense of humor helps maintain my equilibrium as the world churns around me. I suffer from a tendency for catastrophic thinking, but there’s an antidote: a dose of hilarity. Mentors showed me I can improve my perspective whenever I want to, no matter what’s on deck, by celebrating life’s absurdities. I'm thankful for the power of laughter.<br />
<br />
<em>See what the photo inspires in others over at the </em><a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/"><em>Poetry Jam</em></a><em>. </em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Photo credit:</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Public Domain Photograph from the Farm Security Administration – Office of War Information Photograph Collection in the Library of Congress; Jack Delano, photographer.</em></span><br />
<br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-6833756502990011562012-01-05T13:41:00.000-08:002012-01-07T01:26:47.962-08:00Sun Lovers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGeX_iTI1Wm4JlLyKojlp82XRKDzKEEblh2joWwObDSFEA5M_2OODWQMSX1dt-jYKnDfJKJM67lBS9b5GHYvVPO7H_q26j7iUvQwbkSfoCCcY44w6GM2htzFPhQ9aGKMOeGe_KxQ1oRw/s1600/Spider+web+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGeX_iTI1Wm4JlLyKojlp82XRKDzKEEblh2joWwObDSFEA5M_2OODWQMSX1dt-jYKnDfJKJM67lBS9b5GHYvVPO7H_q26j7iUvQwbkSfoCCcY44w6GM2htzFPhQ9aGKMOeGe_KxQ1oRw/s400/Spider+web+blog.JPG" width="267" /></a></div>In winter I think of the sun because it’s fickle. Fickle things annoy me. I need that sun, need its vitamin D and its hopefulness. When it’s shining, I’m thankful. Even if it is the color of watered down nonfat milk, it’s got power. <br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Happiness is a sparkling strand of spider’s silk<br />
diamonds of dewdrops<br />
in the rising sun <br />
<br />
Happiness is finding in the rose’s thorny mass <br />
a pair of praying hands<br />
open to receive the winter sun<br />
<br />
Happiness is waking beside a new beloved<br />
surprised your body delivered the verdict<br />
your heart hoped for<br />
A new sun smiles</blockquote><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS68SpzKomwKwvR0EAha_46du_UuLgJtVndlTFqXqJp2HKrjZKyWgOOUiybiJPJBXEmtRttFXTvlgGqo_bdSFvW2xaw_BM2w3GZrWTBeky20X3YnCKkmnrdAFrXclzmsJf2l3-AKp56-s/s1600/Pruned+rose+blog+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS68SpzKomwKwvR0EAha_46du_UuLgJtVndlTFqXqJp2HKrjZKyWgOOUiybiJPJBXEmtRttFXTvlgGqo_bdSFvW2xaw_BM2w3GZrWTBeky20X3YnCKkmnrdAFrXclzmsJf2l3-AKp56-s/s400/Pruned+rose+blog+%25282%2529.jpg" width="345" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
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<br />
Telling a tale in exactly 55 words is the G-Man's Flash Friday challenge. Check it out <a href="http://g-man-mrknowitall.blogspot.com/">here</a>. <br />
Color is what poets are jamming about this week at Poetry Jam. Find crayons <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-20337174788050254942012-01-03T06:00:00.000-08:002012-01-03T07:56:45.991-08:00Peckers of the World Unite!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinO8UVlibFQulGlUCVPYgu8UTBIGFQjasmcHXE8zdeh9-iRSpOWRz-LLADFLmcjJR_k_Mbb4kDcrXdYXt4tO18tn47Xgf0mp6H8BNnCa3wP07nlWDSOHOb00dOk7mfMLNA4O8rniAdors/s1600/Acorn_Woodpecker_FamilyFeast2427_4x6L_lores-472x309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinO8UVlibFQulGlUCVPYgu8UTBIGFQjasmcHXE8zdeh9-iRSpOWRz-LLADFLmcjJR_k_Mbb4kDcrXdYXt4tO18tn47Xgf0mp6H8BNnCa3wP07nlWDSOHOb00dOk7mfMLNA4O8rniAdors/s320/Acorn_Woodpecker_FamilyFeast2427_4x6L_lores-472x309.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="text"><span style="line-height: 37px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The colony of acorn woodpeckers that lives in the three oaks next to my house is worth telling about. Since we're next-door neighbors and the birds live their lives in the open, I've learned some of their habits by observation. What I've seen has driven me to bird books, for which I thank my grandfather and my mother, and possibly their grandfathers too, because I've read that reading is a learned behavior.<br />
<br />
Both my mother and my Granddad carried nature-identification books into the forests and deserts we visited, and I remember the pair of them, sometimes with my aunt or uncles, poring over the guide books at picnic tables, laboriously trying to identify--by studying the minute features of it--some particular tree or bird or flower. They could spend what seemed like hours doing this. And some of the family still can't visit nature, or even our back yards sometimes, without hauling out the reference books and binoculars.<br />
<br />
The acorn woodpecker excited the last nature discussions I remember having with Mom and family members. We're fortunate here in the oak woodlands to have these birds; their range is small, and from what my books tell me, they seem unique among woodpeckers. Both males and females wear a red cap and a black and white tuxedo, and they're exceedingly busy in the fall with their acorn harvest. <br />
<br />
One of my three oaks is what's called a granary tree: This one large oak is where they store their harvest, in holes peppered all up and down the length of the tree's trunk and arcing out into its branches. It looks like this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLedJs10Gx9EI-NGh4RUDqjC120SZf3Lc9xkM37HSMJZXcXuSSefIm69z-FTinZc4EKMP9QHtnCH-wdfpn1rJ_hGpxq84rBo6-oJRY6SjfudvN5LiMXb29uDPJNzIpyWHoWkhXWOu4XA/s1600/Oak+acorns+in+trunk+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLedJs10Gx9EI-NGh4RUDqjC120SZf3Lc9xkM37HSMJZXcXuSSefIm69z-FTinZc4EKMP9QHtnCH-wdfpn1rJ_hGpxq84rBo6-oJRY6SjfudvN5LiMXb29uDPJNzIpyWHoWkhXWOu4XA/s400/Oak+acorns+in+trunk+%25282%2529.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The woodpeckers in my oaks are great stewards of their resources.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The wonderful thing, the unique thing, about these woodpeckers is their community. They live as a colony in these three trees. Everyone harvests, everyone works hard poking acorns into well-worn holes, everyone helps. They share in the work, and they share in the bounty. We wondered if they harvest grubs that might grow in the stored acorns, but the books say they dine all year on acorns themselves (with insects as a side dish), stored meticulously in the granary tree, in holes that are reused and carefully selected for each individual acorn.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNm2jJ5kiC7z4kAXEc2mF8tH9JKkmGnQ19d2t86hXSi5kryu39q2gO2KjWlkTjH6ebI1kmf5Em2qg6_HXzthWObDHrXFY2Erv1ju9vTpqCTtMv4HGUjEmv4Skr3swBSuZlnlHeQ3lVjcQ/s1600/woodpecker+hole+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNm2jJ5kiC7z4kAXEc2mF8tH9JKkmGnQ19d2t86hXSi5kryu39q2gO2KjWlkTjH6ebI1kmf5Em2qg6_HXzthWObDHrXFY2Erv1ju9vTpqCTtMv4HGUjEmv4Skr3swBSuZlnlHeQ3lVjcQ/s400/woodpecker+hole+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch menu: Would you like it roasted, or perhaps in a wrap?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>They even cooperate in raising their young, from sharing the duties of incubating the eggs to sharing the endless chore of feeding the young and, finally, training them to fly. The young belong to everyone.<br />
<br />
I have seen this colony of woodpeckers work together also to fend off an onslaught of starlings that appeared one day earlier this year. The woodpeckers unified to protect their interest in the three oaks. Even though the numbers of starlings and woodpeckers seemed about even, after several hours of strategic swooping and chattering, the woodpeckers convinced the starlings to set up house elsewhere.<br />
<br />
Together they protect their habitat. They are a sustainable community, taking care of their land and resources, reusing the same holes year after year. They diversify by consuming crops from different varieties of oaks, and they maintain emergency supplies, living on nature's bounty of insects when that "crop" is available. <br />
<br />
They share in the rearing of their offspring, cooperating in raising up a new brood of responsible woodpeckers and sending them off to find new communities elsewhere, thus keeping their population stable and not overtaxing their resources. <br />
<br />
It appears to me that the acorn woodpeckers illustrate the life of a good community. I hope my community's leaders make decisions that use our resources well and protect our habitat. I hope the spirit of cooperation flourishes in the state, national, and global level, that we and our leaders all work hard to be good stewards and share the bounty of our efforts with those less fortunate than we are. <br />
<br />
The best I can do to make that happen is to bring such a spirit with me into this one day, today, and be alert with the people who come across my path this day, then keep on doing that, one day at a time. <br />
<br />
It's easy, as one of the "99 percent," to feel overwhelmed, ignored, and powerless. But I fight to believe that my actions, my mindfulness, in the small sphere of my daily life makes a difference one human being at a time, one day at a time. I believe in the ripples in the pond: that my responsible, kind, thoughtful actions with the people I meet are used by the Creator to spread to others, in the same way they were passed on to me. May God bless us, every one, with an awareness of the small, but global, ripple effect of our personal actions in this new year.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVq5XITwaW-gtQq9tCiUSez1DXB6PkjctpXmIcdrMwdWOTjZSpCeiSTfI07xXyULIWQt89CyYsl5bs-eBgbdnQrZ3sj9EpGkRIc96P7DrDzoMCIyD8DWm64-mX-Bx8RoPm1MkZkbF_6I/s1600/acorn+woodpecker+widipedia+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVq5XITwaW-gtQq9tCiUSez1DXB6PkjctpXmIcdrMwdWOTjZSpCeiSTfI07xXyULIWQt89CyYsl5bs-eBgbdnQrZ3sj9EpGkRIc96P7DrDzoMCIyD8DWm64-mX-Bx8RoPm1MkZkbF_6I/s320/acorn+woodpecker+widipedia+%25282%2529.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Acorn Woodpecker courtesy Wikipedia<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><span style="font-size: small;">Just to prove I don't sit around all the time pondering nature and serious social issues, here is a recent poem inspired by these birds:</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<blockquote><b><span style="font-size: small;">Two Woodpeckers Sitting on a Church Steeple</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">One woodpecker says to the other,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I’ve lost my pecker.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The second woodpecker says to the first,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">It’s hanging there right under your nose, dude.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The first woodpecker says,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">That’s not my pecker, idiot, that’s my beak.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">They look at each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The second woodpecker says to the first,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Well, where’s your pecker then?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The first woodpecker says,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">If I knew that, my pecker wouldn’t be lost.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">They look at each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The sun goes down behind the steeple.</span></blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Top photo credit: Victory Dance and Family Feast, courtesy <span class="text"><span style="line-height: 37px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">ShareTheRoad Productions</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-78105284184514915002011-12-31T14:24:00.000-08:002011-12-31T14:29:04.676-08:00The Beginning and the End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN4Kj7z_ynAOLvHkXzH0VK-KWOfMBHzgDU3n1E6kcyNyeWzMFIdjYF7BCfDLoxDP7SnTIR4DrKo444edU_xNAGhD69vGrEKOrp4Xos6dL55aXSTrkkPuHPmZGDQyHYqq4G0UfmTOmCwo/s1600/Rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN4Kj7z_ynAOLvHkXzH0VK-KWOfMBHzgDU3n1E6kcyNyeWzMFIdjYF7BCfDLoxDP7SnTIR4DrKo444edU_xNAGhD69vGrEKOrp4Xos6dL55aXSTrkkPuHPmZGDQyHYqq4G0UfmTOmCwo/s400/Rainbow.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br />
Thus ends the year. Though much has been taken, much abides, to quote Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” and something big begins: My daughter Milo became engaged as autumn turned to winter, to a man we love too. The rainbow photo, taken in the mountains of northern California, is for her, my child who has always loved this symbol of hope. <br />
<br />
This final post of 2011 is for love. Love is <i>not </i>blind. With eyes wide open, love sees, bears, believes, forgives, and celebrates. Love <i>does</i> fail, but it can dust its mucky knees and stand again. Its strength is tensile, a bond capable of stretching beyond the reach of human arms. <br />
<br />
My daughter said I have never written a poem for her. So I wrote one last night for her and the man she loves, whom we met for the first time at a storage facility where our daughter lived with her best friend in the manager's apartment. With their permission, I share it with you on the last day of a hard year that ends with rejoicing, in love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>My Child’s Freshly Minted Fiancé</b><br />
<br />
We did not have to wade <br />
through an ocean of assholes to reach you;<br />
you, unbidden, appeared,<br />
our Knight,<br />
to claim our daughter’s hand, heart, hazel eyes<br />
laughing as we had never seen her eyes laugh<br />
before<br />
you came.<br />
<br />
You, unbidden, appeared,<br />
completely unexpected,<br />
a Knight in a storage yard where junk is gold,<br />
where junk unwanted yet unloosed is locked<br />
behind blank doors <br />
in an undead limbo between lost<br />
and claimed, paid for but<br />
discarded.<br />
You came<br />
<br />
unbidden, unexpected, <br />
from that storage yard into our daughter’s heart,<br />
our Knight <br />
in chain-link fencing, your clear eyes kind<br />
and your mind keen, seeing in our daughter<br />
that great beauty<br />
blooming<br />
like a flower in a crack in the asphalt<br />
before<br />
you freed her.<br />
<br />
</blockquote></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnifeguTjLlV5qN83IpmJgQY6jQNOx3YXAFlYirUwEpgP0iSPaKe3jrFNsE9bsQQl2XqBdt4jdD2HQEPgHcM_oTeZiAqR_nS9vul7mbv8Spruyp3liboLpofiCZUfSb0Y0Flla-MpiSmM/s1600/20100424_2032+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnifeguTjLlV5qN83IpmJgQY6jQNOx3YXAFlYirUwEpgP0iSPaKe3jrFNsE9bsQQl2XqBdt4jdD2HQEPgHcM_oTeZiAqR_nS9vul7mbv8Spruyp3liboLpofiCZUfSb0Y0Flla-MpiSmM/s400/20100424_2032+%25282%2529.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milo and Kaleb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-13528724381611910522011-12-29T01:30:00.000-08:002011-12-29T21:21:42.360-08:00An End To ItMusic ended a decades-long writer’s block for me. What I wrote that night five years ago is not a great poem, but it was an ice breaker. I’ve learned that making a beginning is the key to everything. And with the <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com">Poetry Jam’s prompt </a>this week being music, and with the year ending, this subject has special meaning for me. I’ll share the song that ended the long silence of poetry for me, “Tu Quieres Volver” by Sarah Brightman. <br />
<br />
To get the gist of what happened to me, you might listen to the song first, then read the poem that arose from it. I’ve posted the poem before, so if it sounds familiar, please just enjoy Sarah singing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9s6gpcpE2zA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>Look at It This Way<br />
</b><br />
<br />
this is you<br />
this is her<br />
twin threads twining in space<br />
up and up andupandup<br />
sinuous as snakes <br />
the dance of the double helix<br />
making life grow high<br />
<br />
this is you<br />
this is her<br />
round notes soaring<br />
high and round as the moon <br />
in a purple sky<br />
full of light a bird in flight<br />
a waltz of wind and feather<br />
mounting waves of air<br />
<br />
this is you<br />
this is her<br />
a swelling-rising-rearing-<br />
crashing wave<br />
shatters on the sand <br />
and the sand soothes<br />
calms and suckles<br />
a soft sighing washing smooth<br />
the rough edges and the fury<br />
<br />
this is you<br />
this is her<br />
strong arms gripping <br />
across the precipice of loneliness<br />
strong limbs bowing with the wind<br />
strong lines moored in heavy seas<br />
above all holding fast<br />
in the face of all storms<br />
</blockquote></blockquote><p><br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-61160620325708509962011-12-28T10:34:00.000-08:002011-12-28T18:07:50.015-08:00War!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpKNaIbr7PB9qNV-FKDjJiOQ91OACmgaEkvqLJDLfF_C3h9GvEmS3_2mLNjtShR87twiFFk67GpPESvXKHoGycNdKp6XE5Q2Awbe7ybozStllH5Cyg2tRYAckjQ3ZoByw7Uv1y0sHgnA/s1600/cedar+waxwing1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpKNaIbr7PB9qNV-FKDjJiOQ91OACmgaEkvqLJDLfF_C3h9GvEmS3_2mLNjtShR87twiFFk67GpPESvXKHoGycNdKp6XE5Q2Awbe7ybozStllH5Cyg2tRYAckjQ3ZoByw7Uv1y0sHgnA/s320/cedar+waxwing1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I watched a war take place this morning. While reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee (that grammar makes for an interesting idea: could an electronic eye be embedded in a coffee cup & used to scan the paper to a speech program for people with sight disability?), I glanced out the sunroom windows to see a war in progress. <br />
<br />
This bird, the acorn woodpecker, lives year round with his flock in the oaks outside:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wVof1wpnn1kBLe9CdK9eQsNIukXgOPCuRc-GPzR2R9Re_2RdYZfdgqMSSGf12HdlYE01isEojIjNmkqAKN4IP-T4MDkhHUS1dS2ogbn0QsZZTWTk102uv4-QEuzXd_uFu7cqYJ5VS7M/s1600/acorn+woodpecker+widipedia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wVof1wpnn1kBLe9CdK9eQsNIukXgOPCuRc-GPzR2R9Re_2RdYZfdgqMSSGf12HdlYE01isEojIjNmkqAKN4IP-T4MDkhHUS1dS2ogbn0QsZZTWTk102uv4-QEuzXd_uFu7cqYJ5VS7M/s320/acorn+woodpecker+widipedia.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Acorn Woodpecker, from Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>He and a flockmate or two were harrying a couple of cedar waxwings, who migrate through here in the winter on their way south to Mexico:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FtMIC_cZdvZ3m-AjHvqVJOCHUSJLOFQD0xjI2IYuzslOcB3iGl3Vf9EiA3LR1Nb7qwpIRNiwkVdnzbxetZQYoxr2_kDYXZ0vMxEqUG5VuxkKOCZzl4yTwuUD0qqhK0bYBjX9qiA3fk0/s1600/cedar+waxwing3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FtMIC_cZdvZ3m-AjHvqVJOCHUSJLOFQD0xjI2IYuzslOcB3iGl3Vf9EiA3LR1Nb7qwpIRNiwkVdnzbxetZQYoxr2_kDYXZ0vMxEqUG5VuxkKOCZzl4yTwuUD0qqhK0bYBjX9qiA3fk0/s320/cedar+waxwing3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo source: NatureWorks.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The cedar waxwings love my neighborhood because of the luscious red berries of the cottoneaster shrubs in my blog header:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkJItkagqvDEqHt7oEqbWzu9kDCWkAr4zzEz7SmBtjj5fA59uA74vyPMNLYR_KX9HIPZwUKyqlDUDnGwbaUf2SYyVYZgDXMTxP979evakorlBHabVmPpZrrCwbZOaQsakiPHpwL5OKCI/s1600/cedar+waxwing2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkJItkagqvDEqHt7oEqbWzu9kDCWkAr4zzEz7SmBtjj5fA59uA74vyPMNLYR_KX9HIPZwUKyqlDUDnGwbaUf2SYyVYZgDXMTxP979evakorlBHabVmPpZrrCwbZOaQsakiPHpwL5OKCI/s320/cedar+waxwing2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">US Fish and Wildlife</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So the small flock of cedar waxwings was under attack by the small flock of angry acorn woodpeckers. As the waxwings tried to swallow a berry or two, a woodpecker would dive-bomb them. This made the waxwings nervous, and they either would duck and hunker down or would fly off. Having won the skirmish, the woodpecker would then retire to the big oak, where it would raucously screech its triumph with a wing display. Whilst it was doing the victory dance, the cedar waxwing or two would return to gobbling berries, hungry as hell from its long flight from the northern reaches.<br />
<br />
I'm a fan of both birds, but I was a bit ticked off at the woodpeckers. The cedar waxwings were not stealing their food supply. Acorn woodpeckers eat insects and acorns, for Pete's sake, which they store for year-round cuisine in the oak, in lovely holes they drill and reuse just for that purpose. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, maybe woodpeckers don't know cedar waxwings from a hole in the ground. What they DO know is the terrible starlings who periodically attempt to take over the oaks, and then a real battle ensues between the woodpeckers fighting for their home of decades, maybe centuries, and the starling squatters. The woodpeckers, fighting for homeland, always have won, so far. Their vigilance has paid off. So, dear waxwings, flutter onward, where other berries are in abundance nearby.<br />
<br />
My lesson today, then, is to choose my battles carefully, lest I drive away a harmless body merely hungry for kindness and a rest from life's travails.<br />
<br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-17977157547989144252011-12-25T18:00:00.000-08:002011-12-25T18:09:56.014-08:00A Christmas Lesson in Fractals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7NZn6QPsI1bYn_MC7KleDFMbDuvQYwiUo5s_WOrGaOUg1hZSDiRO3095ak-3TGUqko8w15Q6bOE_Tv_MlYsQHX3c7U1x3k-9xez71u6tSIvxvvgfzJa-MP0RnW3BFbisABSJlIW7Xo0/s1600/Christmas+lights+wavy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7NZn6QPsI1bYn_MC7KleDFMbDuvQYwiUo5s_WOrGaOUg1hZSDiRO3095ak-3TGUqko8w15Q6bOE_Tv_MlYsQHX3c7U1x3k-9xez71u6tSIvxvvgfzJa-MP0RnW3BFbisABSJlIW7Xo0/s400/Christmas+lights+wavy.JPG" width="310" /></a></div><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What a fine Christmas Day: Hubby and me, daughter and fiance, my sponsor & spouse for dinner; expenditures minimal but pleasure in giving maximal, small thoughtful gifts and lovely times. Wishing such peace for everyone....</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>A Midnight Course in Fractal Geometry</b><br />
<br />
Sleepless again a repetition of many nights<br />
Windows in the pentagonal glass room reflect<br />
Endless patterns of white Christmas lights<br />
Cheerful chaos erupts <br />
From ordinary roofs and shrubs<br />
Curves and angles and loop de loops <br />
Swing in a wind rocking a storm in its arms<br />
A rope of blue light transforms the invisible<br />
Fence Waves on a blue sea undulate<br />
Again and again and again<br />
In the looking glass <br />
Infinite points of light<br />
Form infinite replicas of stars <br />
Repeating themselves until they vanish<br />
In the midnight place Men know how<br />
To wrest order from chaos <br />
They can turn these patterns into formulas<br />
Explaining why the shapes make sense<br />
But they can’t say why <br />
The stars make peace<br />
On a December night</blockquote></blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Peace on earth, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">Poetry Jam</a>: "solitary"Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-1813172075868861492011-12-19T21:56:00.000-08:002011-12-20T09:23:57.597-08:00Furrst Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaxVuXC43FJZbX3jgGIFCE1uCy7uyoCnOwbd5zsV6X3sI4RW9vHzOy8vPL-HG_nDRIxx6FSPOTF-htp1KX1fqEPF4XZhO-wd26ke-mZaGydyNfZz73N3wZjiJklKMH7xIiSUkd9KbJxM/s1600/IMG_4922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaxVuXC43FJZbX3jgGIFCE1uCy7uyoCnOwbd5zsV6X3sI4RW9vHzOy8vPL-HG_nDRIxx6FSPOTF-htp1KX1fqEPF4XZhO-wd26ke-mZaGydyNfZz73N3wZjiJklKMH7xIiSUkd9KbJxM/s400/IMG_4922.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><b>Heavy Petting</b><br />
<br />
Oh Kate, Kate,<br />
hefty weight of softest fur, <br />
the pat on lap brings her leaping<br />
up to crouch contented there<br />
prickle paws, claws dig in<br />
sumptuously glad<br />
for stroking hand on silky back,<br />
she lifts her head, squinty eyed,<br />
for cheeky rubs, damp-nosed<br />
happiness, vibrating purr<br />
leaning all of her against my breast,<br />
my Kate, my joyous cat.</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><br />
<blockquote><blockquote><blockquote><br />
</blockquote></blockquote><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDER3AwtExp46jCIbh5uNa-7XYnQ653g_Lvuva7rwybnBWnZ1eB5Ls6nepeyRhZq0exjrmMhpqLd3Oiav-AwzhtGo8OKmEGX0dwfqPGNqJje9KYaDvr9X2Rihua9IZ9EydpR736QQEYpg/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDER3AwtExp46jCIbh5uNa-7XYnQ653g_Lvuva7rwybnBWnZ1eB5Ls6nepeyRhZq0exjrmMhpqLd3Oiav-AwzhtGo8OKmEGX0dwfqPGNqJje9KYaDvr9X2Rihua9IZ9EydpR736QQEYpg/s400/005.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kate and her sister Mystery were abandoned feral foundlings, eyes barely opened. Nursed by hand, raised by beagles and women, what they know of life is human kindness and doggie tolerance, the world is their oyster, and our laps belong to them.</span></em></blockquote></blockquote><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwp5YJyTT_p40EaQ1q48MF3EHh0iv6KFYX4sCArBQ53NYOkTYrQI-06ZQicdOVAcW9w3F4df6YBfrE58Vwv8otRX6u95QHKsshT1r4EZihePUjYKvhZiCd3yLPqcqesrKfa3m-e5KcHtQ/s1600/IMG_5159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwp5YJyTT_p40EaQ1q48MF3EHh0iv6KFYX4sCArBQ53NYOkTYrQI-06ZQicdOVAcW9w3F4df6YBfrE58Vwv8otRX6u95QHKsshT1r4EZihePUjYKvhZiCd3yLPqcqesrKfa3m-e5KcHtQ/s400/IMG_5159.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Sometimes, when the world seems dismal, my cat helps me to remember simple things are still priceless. </div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvnNchw_ESTB-OTfD2MEBpOIyTBo-IZ-ZJbflIJgrRKrcwWzrjwgnqThz_w6p4mQmyxy2StSyaq5Nd-Z9bTKqIwMlE7_ehKOyjWo3Wdc8QD5cje3KTE1dbHWum_UB7M_BaWRbITLXqEc/s1600/20100702_2495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvnNchw_ESTB-OTfD2MEBpOIyTBo-IZ-ZJbflIJgrRKrcwWzrjwgnqThz_w6p4mQmyxy2StSyaq5Nd-Z9bTKqIwMlE7_ehKOyjWo3Wdc8QD5cje3KTE1dbHWum_UB7M_BaWRbITLXqEc/s400/20100702_2495.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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</div>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-29594205899395978222011-12-18T10:00:00.000-08:002011-12-18T10:55:55.913-08:00A Tiny Victory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ga_-vBjyswAnRg4CB-mwjbti1omFKNeMLYKDnwVunKZH7oDOahcbleXtFDLuYiizwjNkTG6X1ypJtZeZWMT87fBKp_i6W6Mg-1kLYKXHVtIUbZhXHbmDXaeck9Q5PRLmxxA6RYe000A/s1600/Oak+in+autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ga_-vBjyswAnRg4CB-mwjbti1omFKNeMLYKDnwVunKZH7oDOahcbleXtFDLuYiizwjNkTG6X1ypJtZeZWMT87fBKp_i6W6Mg-1kLYKXHVtIUbZhXHbmDXaeck9Q5PRLmxxA6RYe000A/s320/Oak+in+autumn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I hope I'm not the only writer who sometimes can't think of a single thing to say. <br />
<br />
All my energy has been devoted to working through a paralyzing anxiety attack this week. I'm grateful that in spite of it I've conducted the basic stuff of living. Small things like paying bills and trimming the Christmas tree have been accomplished with gritted teeth and prayer, and the fear recedes a little more each day. <br />
<br />
And today, a migrating flock of cedar waxwings paid a visit to the shrubs outside my office window. Their annual visitation always gives me joy. This morning I was especially thankful, because I have battled a beast and not been defeated. There are many kinds of victories, some so ordinary that they can be easily overlooked. I'm glad my eyes were open today.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8Ujh9DD4ahb1Uh6CaSd-DithyGreVUatiDPI9Z8p6kHa25_4LARVni8WXgdC5jAam7PstuojMlTgnSY6fDhyJNaqZkp9HKNnEVwQk1pKJm9VRg2l0xRp6HrMpDReKbiUhiUO2j2G32k/s1600/Cedar+waxwing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8Ujh9DD4ahb1Uh6CaSd-DithyGreVUatiDPI9Z8p6kHa25_4LARVni8WXgdC5jAam7PstuojMlTgnSY6fDhyJNaqZkp9HKNnEVwQk1pKJm9VRg2l0xRp6HrMpDReKbiUhiUO2j2G32k/s320/Cedar+waxwing.jpg" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Don't know who to credit for this lovely shot of a cedar waxwing)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><em>Sunday Morning Addendum:</em></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Cedar waxwings everywhere! This morning's flock is huge, gorging on the red-berry bushes! Underneath the bushes, the kitties crouch, yakking at the beautiful birdies!</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7tpeNI2-MMbd5FsknRYMVrSNEdXcCcLUq2aaEXFw0oqLDIC-JP9IK11FJ8CTKkNBoBdKb6psq99i_RSWupWbJIHDIkorKkOq-meHDyYdoFA3NltEPidHj5yVGEpfHVjfDeP5PZFvGMo/s1600/Mystery+talking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7tpeNI2-MMbd5FsknRYMVrSNEdXcCcLUq2aaEXFw0oqLDIC-JP9IK11FJ8CTKkNBoBdKb6psq99i_RSWupWbJIHDIkorKkOq-meHDyYdoFA3NltEPidHj5yVGEpfHVjfDeP5PZFvGMo/s320/Mystery+talking.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Come to me, lovely little birdies!" says Mystery the Cat. The waxwings respectfully decline.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-74966183745352470202011-12-14T18:11:00.000-08:002012-08-18T20:15:09.377-07:00Occupy THIS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoUI7dJARrMvYYPWzOR8ZSueTXW7qZEcqXP-vWdzox21j998k7TyTRowS3v1PIeXQf91Gh2eP9yNZViWoe7LGHNAKN4aW1_EFk9gMKgPbQcWJdu1u0weXlNNMdIiCg44knwt1A6NCGe8/s1600/occupy-oakland-620x317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoUI7dJARrMvYYPWzOR8ZSueTXW7qZEcqXP-vWdzox21j998k7TyTRowS3v1PIeXQf91Gh2eP9yNZViWoe7LGHNAKN4aW1_EFk9gMKgPbQcWJdu1u0weXlNNMdIiCg44knwt1A6NCGe8/s640/occupy-oakland-620x317.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
An amazing thing happened today. My husband said he thinks a water pipe is leaking in an interior wall, and he pointed out his evidence. (This man has been ordered by our plumber to refrain from “fixing” things himself.) I studied hubby’s evidence, and it didn’t look like evidence to me. <br />
<br />
But my head leaped straight into fear. Another expense! More bad news! Another explosion in our tight budget! My head freaked out so thoroughly, it hurled me right into an anxiety attack.<br />
<br />
I was mauled by the sense of impending doom, pummeled by the “What Ifs” and the “Oh Nos”! Right off the top of my head, I conceived of 1,000 other things that could go wrong, from the personal to the global level. Then I went straight to the place where I can kneel in prayer, did that, jumped up and went to an AA meeting. Came home, breathed, called my sponsor. Was instructed to breathe some more. <br />
<br />
I haven’t had an attack of fear like that in a long time. In recovery I’ve learned how to redirect the kind of catastrophic thinking that used to plague me. I have tools that work. Hours later, I’m still shaky, but my feet are planted firmly in the present, where all my needs are taken care of. After dinner, I’ll go set up a church hall for an AA meeting, where I know I’ll hear the music of faith from people who have been transformed. <br />
<br />
I’m grateful that I can occupy my mind with what’s good, here and now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<b>Too Preoccupied with Birds to Notice</b><br />
<br />
Sometimes when my mind is full of dire news<br />
swollen by streams of the world’s sorrows,<br />
I hunt for robins.<br />
<br />
A pair of them live like lords on my land,<br />
where they feast on a cornucopia of insects<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
leading busy lives in centuries of mulch.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
The world’s calamitous chatter fades, </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
irrelevant, as the robins strut and pluck </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
the strands of their living harp.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
</blockquote>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br />
<br />
Posted for <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">Poetry Jam: “Occupy This”</a></div>
Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-71486388648553550262011-12-05T06:35:00.000-08:002011-12-05T08:18:53.166-08:00Oh, Boy! Deep Freeze<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3yxO-WKU96KLBw_rXeOW6oVkNkgtCRrUugNYI8-pTjAGVSGbqyYv_NvENON6YKSko8vBfrNeEUx8jaZX3WVPHZUUDeusQjgeXjK05H0-MucsCrW1OLTDCRdAokxll6dQDM5I2pnD23I/s1600/IMG_5181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX3yxO-WKU96KLBw_rXeOW6oVkNkgtCRrUugNYI8-pTjAGVSGbqyYv_NvENON6YKSko8vBfrNeEUx8jaZX3WVPHZUUDeusQjgeXjK05H0-MucsCrW1OLTDCRdAokxll6dQDM5I2pnD23I/s400/IMG_5181.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The killing frosts have hit us here on the central coast of California. Our nights are down in the 25-degree zone that kills all the tender growing things in the garden. Tomatoes that remained on the vine are popsicles in the mornings, turning to paste after sun-up. My beautiful dahlias are now brown stalks of mush. Normally, this would depress me: <i>Winter is coming, alack! alas!</i> But something’s different this year. I don’t feel like Eeyore.<br />
<br />
In fact, I feel pretty interested in life. I’m checking out this garden scenery….<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fX_mXOZdQF6wWIe_kdxL1DzenRP_k7qYPCFMZlopKS53qkOjdo6fgvBWw2TfOI_lWmYGc1LiyP4ZNTQem2Ok4_1rWsos2iUBED_ZhcYEJwaH2lULGOBd_elSW7KcZU0FFFXnLDySBv0/s1600/IMG_5178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6fX_mXOZdQF6wWIe_kdxL1DzenRP_k7qYPCFMZlopKS53qkOjdo6fgvBWw2TfOI_lWmYGc1LiyP4ZNTQem2Ok4_1rWsos2iUBED_ZhcYEJwaH2lULGOBd_elSW7KcZU0FFFXnLDySBv0/s400/IMG_5178.jpg" /></a></div><br />
…and I’m thinking, I betcha that puppy has viable seeds in it! I’m looking at this dahlia….<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyCwvW9pLpjfloqZ9PGhjLvNa290eKaPUcTfp-V7R7aLyKhGEljYOv33N28KwgAUHvfilP63FHrsseoGFz84efSmuYh0x2pl2AwKVLzKtEN3J8ZbSos46GDfTfU8oTRNoPsBdU8kyj4E/s1600/IMG_5174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyCwvW9pLpjfloqZ9PGhjLvNa290eKaPUcTfp-V7R7aLyKhGEljYOv33N28KwgAUHvfilP63FHrsseoGFz84efSmuYh0x2pl2AwKVLzKtEN3J8ZbSos46GDfTfU8oTRNoPsBdU8kyj4E/s400/IMG_5174.jpg" /></a></div><br />
…and I’m thinking, there’s a gift for me in there! I suspect a praying mantis laid an egg case on one of those branches, and I’m going to find it and save it when I cut that dahlia back.<br />
<br />
Several things are different in my life this year. I’ve been working with a new AA sponsor, and she’s had a big impact on my outlook. We’ve been studying faith and gratitude, and I’m reading Leo Tolstoy’s <i>The Kingdom of God Is Within You</i>. She also was diagnosed last month with stage-four lung cancer. Now we have our weekly talks while she’s getting her chemo treatment. I’m not scared about her future; I’m blessed by her life.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH__ZhWZcGsSsMnvC2DPs2Eqr2Uue2ilaHHHTbZPY02aA9AjBtkTMYedDBK8ZfYzrDGAW7hsoPGipq_z-4zgmqvhi8D6ZzlBM5noJbHiUILPOeAKWFKVtnuAIEjnxzqyjiiURFJuX0cZ8/s1600/IMG_5176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH__ZhWZcGsSsMnvC2DPs2Eqr2Uue2ilaHHHTbZPY02aA9AjBtkTMYedDBK8ZfYzrDGAW7hsoPGipq_z-4zgmqvhi8D6ZzlBM5noJbHiUILPOeAKWFKVtnuAIEjnxzqyjiiURFJuX0cZ8/s400/IMG_5176.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Maybe it’s the added vitamin D in my diet. I’ve taken substantial D-3 since a deficiency was diagnosed back in March. My immune system is vastly stronger than it was last year, with its serial pneumonia and relentless infections. There’s a correlation, too, between major depression and D deficiency. Maybe the converse is true as well, and I’m nutritionally better equipped. Who knows? Is it God or vitamin D? Who cares? Life is good.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEnemv1A7ZlFB3ymRG4VEx1noE7m3ANgzQBLoUy03pbWn4AIIpMM2cYjzwD3AToayodCkM2nQ4HKQEBAV-7_A7P9EWYui4mMHasUoQNB15OfP9RRe2vMPn-UKAsuZnQeEpQez2tzraJnw/s1600/Sycamore+limbs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEnemv1A7ZlFB3ymRG4VEx1noE7m3ANgzQBLoUy03pbWn4AIIpMM2cYjzwD3AToayodCkM2nQ4HKQEBAV-7_A7P9EWYui4mMHasUoQNB15OfP9RRe2vMPn-UKAsuZnQeEpQez2tzraJnw/s400/Sycamore+limbs.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The deep freeze around here has sent the sap earthward, but my spirit lifts upward. Tolstoy has affected me greatly, a gift from out of the blue. I caught the tail end of <i>The Last Station </i>a while back, and it sent me on a research run to learn more about his "spiritual anarchy." His study <i>The Gospel in Brief </i>held me spellbound. When the word “deep” was offered this week as a prompt on the <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com">Poetry Jam</a> blog, I thought of this poem, written a month ago at a café while waiting for a lunch date who never showed. <br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><blockquote><b>The Water Walker<br />
</b><br />
<br />
Faith made Peter climb out of the boat<br />
and walk on water for a while until<br />
he remembered people can’t do that<br />
and then he sank. I understand <br />
his sinking; I too have sunk <br />
into the impossible and had to stroke <br />
for shore, arising on reality<br />
drenched and choking.<br />
<br />
It’s the faith I want to summon in the boat<br />
that mesmerizes me: to see the liquid<br />
which I know cannot support me, yet<br />
to trust in God’s incredible command<br />
that I be more than bone and flesh<br />
tethered to physics and the imagined<br />
certainty of all my limitations.<br />
</blockquote></blockquote><br />
<p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxqlLPKGHPeOOdxrL3Wd21DF98ig8XflwJpxcJ2fsPAUrkBPZ1zYJaFeTpUngt9a-K60-J1EUdMBbBfs_hbz1Y0u4xahE14_KbX9YtsqGwryznjy4RivH7POw71IPKPUfWGLF3IIfhPs/s1600/Believe+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxqlLPKGHPeOOdxrL3Wd21DF98ig8XflwJpxcJ2fsPAUrkBPZ1zYJaFeTpUngt9a-K60-J1EUdMBbBfs_hbz1Y0u4xahE14_KbX9YtsqGwryznjy4RivH7POw71IPKPUfWGLF3IIfhPs/s400/Believe+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-86125938134061770472011-11-27T16:05:00.000-08:002011-11-28T09:46:51.663-08:00The Bravest Thing I've Ever Done<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3zelOVg8MO2hcWYXS8z9lga1wVu5SKtpUov77NLjahaLprM8q8qUGBKJ7JqYMErGxwiF3j_4-Rs1BbleLbZbJgWcEpzQBUhl0OZrTtRevfBOhgkDzIbq7xlFYtuPxb1LiI6LMY16KIM/s1600/Paradise_Lost_Dore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3zelOVg8MO2hcWYXS8z9lga1wVu5SKtpUov77NLjahaLprM8q8qUGBKJ7JqYMErGxwiF3j_4-Rs1BbleLbZbJgWcEpzQBUhl0OZrTtRevfBOhgkDzIbq7xlFYtuPxb1LiI6LMY16KIM/s400/Paradise_Lost_Dore.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><br />
Getting sober is the bravest thing I’ve ever done. To look the world straight in the eye, without self-medicating first, requires this alcoholic to dig deep for the courage that many people seem to come by naturally. And she has to keep digging too, to keep up with the adventures of being human. <br />
<br />
The artwork I’m using today is an illustration by Gustave Doré in the 1866 version of John Milton's <i>Paradise Lost</i>. “Satan rises from the burning lake” illustrates what Milton calls Lucifer’s “courage never to submit or yield.” The piece also has been used in reference to one of my all-time favorite poems, “Ulysses” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, which ends with these wonderful lines:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’<br />
We are not now that strength which in old days<br />
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;<br />
One equal temper of heroic hearts,<br />
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will<br />
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.</blockquote>I memorized “Ulysses” for a college speech class, drawn to its celebration of the enduring adventuresome spirit. I never have read <i>Paradise Lost</i>, and I find the Satan connection a little icky. But the prompt for this week’s <i>Poetry Jam</i> asked poets to write something inspired by <i>Paradise Lost</i>, John Milton, or Gustave Doré, and my research led me to my beloved “Ulysses” via the aforementioned Lucifer link.<br />
<br />
Courage is the thing that gets me excited. I’ve had to find some. I’ve had to learn how to endure when life goes sideways. I’ve had to learn self-discipline, the courageous act of refusing to yield to my own wild impulses, which would have me flee from uncomfortable circumstances. I’ve had to plumb my inner resources when shit hit the fan, and when I came up empty, I’ve had to discover that God’s grace is sufficient on any given day. <br />
<br />
All of which is a boatload of verbiage to introduce a very short poem ~ 160 characters, to be exact, counting the spaces. Visit other poets monkeying around with ultra-shorts at Monkey Man’s place <a href="http://petzoldspracticalprose.blogspot.com/">here</a>, or jamming with Milton <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">here</a>. <br />
<br />
<blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Here is my extremely short epic poem:</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Without a shield, I face my fears</div><div style="text-align: center;">Weak, unarmed, I will not yield</div><div style="text-align: center;">As the smoke of battle clears</div><div style="text-align: center;">I’m still standing on the field</div><div style="text-align: center;">By your cheers my wounds are healed!</div></blockquote><p><p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-67400787941596864992011-11-23T09:09:00.000-08:002011-11-23T09:09:31.686-08:00Thank God My Car Was Smashed, Not Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhdjhD3PuRkfrHYsbJ9GIpE-YDu-tZdI5uOgZ8o-VzSOcriju_OhzP9O8amwX9HbARgA9HuTIwiSj2JvEPccyu11dMolZcwb_mVrSwprMs2cJYVdD_AVEtl2i7HpBisKdpYNhttdlf2wo/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhdjhD3PuRkfrHYsbJ9GIpE-YDu-tZdI5uOgZ8o-VzSOcriju_OhzP9O8amwX9HbARgA9HuTIwiSj2JvEPccyu11dMolZcwb_mVrSwprMs2cJYVdD_AVEtl2i7HpBisKdpYNhttdlf2wo/s320/blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
A tank destroyed my rear end this week. I’m grateful that it was my automobile’s and not my own posterior.<br />
<br />
I didn’t see that at first. My initial reaction was a lot of effin’ this ’n’ thatness when the young lady in the souped-up Suburban plowed into us at full street speed, having failed to notice the cars ahead were stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk. Her apologies seemed inadequate to my shocked and whiplashed self as I confronted our seriously wounded beautiful car.<br />
<br />
Afterward the 12-Step training kicked into gear and waged a rousing battle with resentment, armed with those formidable “Thank God” weapons. It’s not a walk in the park to be grateful in the face of crap, but it’s doable. Thank God for insurance on both automobiles, for no serious injuries, for credit cards and car rentals and trustworthy auto-body specialists owned by AA friends.<br />
<br />
We’re off now to spend Thanksgiving amid the blessings of family, friends, and our old AA home group. A study of gratitude made the news today, finding that gratitude is good for the brain and the body’s well-being. Alcoholics Anonymous has preached that for 75 years. May you swim in thanksgiving, no matter what adversity you face. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">"Every decision I make is a choice between a grievance and a miracle. I relinquish all regrets, grievances and resentments, and I chose the miracle."</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Deepak Chopra, “The Soul of Healing Meditation”)</span></i><br />
<br />
</div>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-11620457155942467392011-11-21T05:51:00.000-08:002011-11-21T05:51:00.348-08:00A Priceless Gift<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioDvEbiKH5Ubv6Akn5EACMK-OlENsjf3Z_gq9GDD_a-Hfl2JAdSk5QHbtkJGAno1WcbbrrsK4MB7k0ABEas3JIU1C2_LwhEa1XguOKOqJYTzkoWZna6pz-439qgAoazI763kMZWEOApjY/s1600/IMG_3754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hda="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioDvEbiKH5Ubv6Akn5EACMK-OlENsjf3Z_gq9GDD_a-Hfl2JAdSk5QHbtkJGAno1WcbbrrsK4MB7k0ABEas3JIU1C2_LwhEa1XguOKOqJYTzkoWZna6pz-439qgAoazI763kMZWEOApjY/s400/IMG_3754.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The garden's last flowers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I received a precious gift on my birthday, making it the most beautiful of birthdays in a long time. It came from a beloved member of my family, who was given the great burden of a severe-early-onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis, shortly after Mom died of that disease. <br />
<br />
To understand the gift’s significance, you have to understand that severe Alzheimer’s steals not just memories, not just language in all its totality as the foundation of communicating between people. It steals the brain’s computer processor, so it can’t access stored information, filter data, recognize context, transfer essential messages, or discern logical pathways in the process of decision-making. Areas within itself are isolated from each other. The brain fights through this incredible interference to make sense of a whole world in incoherent motion, as it tries to serve its owner’s needs.<br />
<br />
After months of withdrawal, as my loved one struggled in the aftermath that diagnosis, a birthday card arrived the day before my birthday. It was followed by a phone call on my birthday, opening with the birthday song, and then a long conversation, full of news and willingness to patiently work through spots where words would vanish, a strength of attention to hear my words. Love lived energetically in that phone call, a wonderful feat of reaching out.<br />
<br />
At dinner with my husband later, I opened all my birthday cards, saving that special one for last. It was signed with a loving message, warm with recognition of our history together. At first I wept at the evidence of language difficulty, fleeing to the ladies room for another (brief) war with God over this. I washed my face, came back, and read the card again, this time thankful for the strength and love that glowed in its message. Sorrow can be blinding. When I wipe my eyes, I can see the tender mercies that always there.<br />
<br />
It was a blessed birthday, rich with loving gifts from my family. I’m thankful to be part of the human experience, present and sober and wiser for the life given to me to live on this planet. May all our days be rich with reaching out, offering some simple blessing to someone else.<br />
<p>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7574822672391090343.post-77701733065487898262011-11-19T08:26:00.000-08:002011-11-19T08:27:11.432-08:00Learning Endurance<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcdSGtPbADHcAawEBdHkPc_0jPuJVR9_VpEtZ5nB6_xEZNJbVhoaFgPW3kAYjgQKvBqPbc3INFOtSyFxq74ckTVhNk64XgRhVYt-ceG6GJkBfX8xi0MKCVmVEVJqrfscMi0fic6DM678/s1600/Dorothea+Lange+Migrant+Mother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcdSGtPbADHcAawEBdHkPc_0jPuJVR9_VpEtZ5nB6_xEZNJbVhoaFgPW3kAYjgQKvBqPbc3INFOtSyFxq74ckTVhNk64XgRhVYt-ceG6GJkBfX8xi0MKCVmVEVJqrfscMi0fic6DM678/s400/Dorothea+Lange+Migrant+Mother.jpg" width="321" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Dorthea Lange, 1936</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div align="center"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: x-small;">Great moments in history on this date: Goodbye, Ford Edsel; Hello again, Moon (second Apollo landing); and Lincoln's Gettysburg Address</span></em></div><div align="center"><span style="color: #cc0000;"> "We can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. ... It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us ... that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."</span> </div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I wonder if survivors of the Great Depression and the Midwest Dust Bowl bequeath a primal-memory gene to some of their kids… some inheritable, shady sense of having endured the catastrophic and standing ready to endure it again. <br />
<br />
I owe my life to the Depression and the Dust Bowl (proof I should remember next time I question whether ill winds really do blow in some good). On both sides, my parents’ families were migrant workers in the 1930s, one from Oklahoma, one from Montana, who came together in a small California town, eventually creating me. It’s my birthday this week, and I’m pondering my beginnings. <br />
<br />
The photo I’m using with this post was taken by Dorthea Lange in 1936 just down the road from where I was born. It shows a woman named Florence Thompson with three of her seven children, at a migrant camp near the pea fields (which still are grown there). Lange easily could have photographed one of my grandmothers with my father or mother in tow, heading for their rendezvous with destiny (sorry). <br />
<br />
Besides my own family history (discussed around dining tables all my life), I’ve also interviewed many Great Depression and WWII survivors in my magazine work… so maybe it’s just familiarity with their generations that gives me a sense of kinship, rather than some unconscious primal memory of endurance as a way of life. What I know deep in my bones, whether it has come via genetic code or education, is that human beings are capable of suffering great loss and misery with dignity, without complaint, and with a majestic patience. That character is something I want in my life.<br />
<br />
Lange’s “Migrant Mother” is the poetry prompt this week at <a href="http://poetryjaam.blogspot.com/">Poetry Jam</a>, where you’ll find other interpretations of that great photo. Here’s mine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote><b>Good Norwegian Stock</b><br />
<br />
My grandfather’s ways sprout from my fingers<br />
like seeds lifting their round heads <br />
out of black earth under a broad blue sky.<br />
Skydotter, he called me, with mirth in his eye:<br />
the Norwegian name for rain-laden clouds.<br />
And daughter I am, a loaded ship of cloud <br />
in an ocean of sky, sailing the big Plain <br />
sowing grain in my wake.<br />
<br />
In his time,<br />
Grandfather paused to tip back his hat <br />
and watch the wild geese vee southward<br />
as clouds lowered for winter’s long march. <br />
Eyes watering with Montana cold, <br />
well-worn flannel warming his neck,<br />
he spared a moment in endless treks<br />
from house to barn to fields and back <br />
to honor the enduring geometry of geese.<br />
<br />
The time came <br />
when he bowed his head before dry fields <br />
that refused the seed and sealed the land<br />
against the grain. He surrendered <br />
the farm to the drought-battered Plain <br />
and turned westward, where his hands<br />
skilled in the nurture of growing things<br />
became carpenter’s hands, sawing trees<br />
into usefulness as cupboards and houses, <br />
though he preferred them wild.<br />
<br />
Undeterred,<br />
he dug his hands in the unfriendly dirt<br />
behind the small place in the new country,<br />
with aging patience coaxing from it <br />
fields of freesias and clouds of lilac,<br />
roses bowing heads heavy with buds<br />
above a sea of tulips. Tomatoes marched <br />
through rainless summers in his garden <br />
guarded with small offerings of water<br />
and waves of corn ripened by the fence.<br />
<br />
I grew up in a field of plenty, cultivated<br />
by a grandfather still wearing the old felt hat.<br />
I, his sky daughter, wore his hat with pride<br />
the day I stood as the heavy sky burst,<br />
my dirty hands outstretched to catch the rain<br />
falling, falling, on the young strong grain.<br />
<br />
</blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: x-small;">Dorthea Lange’s photo is reproduced from </span></em><a href="http://flickr.com/commons"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: x-small;">The Commons on Flickr</span></em></a>,<em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: x-small;"> an awesome site of worldwide photography in the public domain, with use restricted to personal, educational or research purposes.)</span></em>Enchanted Oakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14815997287116818456noreply@blogger.com16