Word Search

I lost my words last week.

I was gathering them all together like Scrabble tiles,

arranging, rearranging….

Then Boston exploded,

sending my words in a thousand directions.

It has taken a good deal of effort to gather them all back in.

When I was finally able to go about retrieving them,

I found that they had been changed by the shock wave.

Some words, like “celebratory” and “success”

became “sadness” and “confusion.”

Some words, like “serenity” and “tranquility”

are still missing, though I haven’t given up hope of finding them again.

In the meantime, I will busy myself

gazing at the waning moon, watering my roses, exchanging exclamatory text messages with my teenaged granddaughter about the CD she loaned me

and continuing my search for the next good dog who will serendipitously bless my life.

Oh look—it appears I have found a few more words….

Retrieving the Gauntlet Thrown

I am removing the sod from a 15' x 15' patch of my back yard, digging up the sod myself, shovelful by shovelful. 

I am doing this so that I can plant a garden.

What I mean is, I am doing this because a foolish man said to me, “You won’t be able to do that.”

As soon as he said that, I knew that I would do it.  Knew that I would be in the back yard with a shovel on as many days as I could spare the time, plunging the sharp new spade into the earth, dancing on top of the blade to make the bite as deep as possible, bringing up the tightly woven clump of grass torn from its tapestry and tossing it as far as I could so the impact would knock off some of the clinging soil.  I knew I would keep at it, back-straining as the work may be, without calling The Grandson over to help (though this would be a project he would love).

Don’t misunderstand me; I like the foolish man who looked me in the eye and said, “You won’t be able to do this.”  He simply needs… a paradigm shift.

And I am writing this blog post today for another foolish man… one I don't like so much... one who criticized my writing earlier this week… the stranger who said, ‘You can’t have a paragraph that’s only one sentence long.  It’s not really a paragraph, is it?’

Is it?

Lavender Daze

I tend to wear purple or lavender often in March.  Not so much for the coming-of-spring awareness, but because it was Mom’s favorite color in the last years of her life, and she left us in March.  Hard to believe it’s been three years.  I talk to her every day, and nowadays I remember less the traumatic confrontations we once had, and I recall more the amusing stories…

When we were teens and I was learning to play guitar, my sister and I would sit around and play and sing for hours, working on harmonies or chord patterns.  She was a patient teacher—thank heavens, because we would often go over the same song again and again until my fingers moved automatically to form the chords.

One bright summer morning when we were trying to think of something to play, Mom interjected, “Play the one about the heroes.”

“What?” we answered.

“You know, the one about the heroes.”

We were perplexed.  We’d never done a song about heroes together.

“We don’t know….”

Mom looked at us like we were idiots—not an uncommon occurrence—and started to sing the beginning of the song.  We burst out laughing.  And then we started singing, “He rose from the dead….”

It was never about the lyrics for Mom.  She was happy when her children were getting along, and she loved to hear Peg and I sing.  At her memorial service, we sang “The Rose” together.  Maybe we should have done that “heroes” song as well.

Sunday ruminations

As I write this, Sugar Plum is creeping through the ever-lengthening backyard grass, crawling on her belly like a combat soldier, inching toward the small dove that has come down to peck up the seeds the finches are spilling from the feeder.  The dove looks her way, then continues to eat, the gift of a free meal overcoming her good judgment.  If you are a bird lover, no worries—Sug will not actually try to catch this bird as it is too large for her comfort zone (and even if she did ultimately sprint for it, she has grown too old to catch anything but the slowest of birds.

I am always glad for the company of Sugar Plum, my little dog-like cat.  She follows me around the house when I am home, purrs me to sleep at night and then remains curled against my side.  She loves the new house and the yard, and she seems happier here. She has been more playful and less skitterish of late.

But I long to expand our tiny family with a dog... or two.

Three weeks ago I filled out an online adoption application for one particular dog available through a rescue in Anaheim.  She’s a corgi/sheltie mix—just like Harper (if you’ve read the dog book).  I happened to see her profile on Petfinder, so I sent an email to the rescue group, asking about her temperament around cats, and I also filled out the application.  Nothing.  No response. Three weeks.

This is not the first time I’ve had this happen with a rescue group, and I find it distressing.  Such groups are always pleading for money, it seems—and rightfully so, for those who are doing the hard work of rescuing dogs and finding them permanent homes.  But too often I encounter groups that are run more like secret clubs whose members choose to snub those who are not deemed worthy.  It’s frustrating.

I’ve also made the rounds of some of the local city shelters.  I can never stay long.  I walk through quickly, looking for that special spark in a dog’s eye… and I remember that Alex and Nicki, both pound puppies, had no spark at all; I found them (a year apart) curled in the back of their kennels, ears drooping, tails tucked.

If I wanted a Pit Bull or a Chihuahua, I’d pretty much have my pick of whatever size, gender, age, color or temperament I might want.  The shelters are filled with them.  But I’m not a tiny dog fan, and I am reluctant to bring Sugie home a Pit Bull to boss around, because Sug will be the boss, whatever dog is here.

Maybe the answer is to start with a puppy.  But puppies are easily adopted, and I would rather rescue a big goofy looking dog, one that might not have a chance otherwise.

Alas, it’s a tedious process.  In the meantime, I’m watching every episode of The Dog Whisperer and Leader of the Pack I can find.  And I’m taking good care of Sugar Plum.

My new neighborhood... on a storm day... at dusk.

After living on the mountain for six years, it is taking some getting used to, living down here in civilization… in a housing tract… with street lights… and traffic noise… no absolute quiet or absolute darkness at night… no big owl hooting far off in the trees as I fall asleep.  I miss the drive down to work reviewing my day ahead, consulting my spirit guides.  I miss the longer drive home, listening to NPR, watching for golden eagles.

But there have been a few consolations….

Two years before I moved I found a set of wind chimes—big, serious wind chimes—at a curio shop far out in the desert while on my way to Randsburg.  I paid $60 for them—even though I knew I would not hang them until I left the mountain, as my lease with the Forest Service prohibited doing so.  Made by Grace Notes Chimes, Inc., they produce a gorgeous pentatonic scale when the wind wafts across them.  If you click here and then click on “Listen to the Chimes,” you can listen to them as you read the rest of this post.  A week after I moved in, I pulled them from the box where I’d kept them, waiting, and hung them on the back patio.  Their music has been the score for this period of transition.

On the same day I hung the chimes, I set up my composter, which sat empty far too long up on the mountain.  I realize this isn’t something most folks would get excited about.  But I love to play in the dirt.  And knowing that I am just weeks away from planting some fine elements of dinner (which have grown in soil nourished by my tea leaves and strawberry tops and banana peels) gives me a whole lot of goodness to look forward to.

And today I rode my bike to work for the second time this week.  The thirty-minute uphill ride in crisp morning air is just what the doctor ordered for my lungs.  And it’s all downhill on the way home.  Now, instead of filling up twice a week, I’m filling up once every two weeks.

Bestest of all, I can see my kids and grandkids more often.  A couple of weeks after I moved in, Ezra stopped by on his way home from work.  I made him dinner.  That went a long way to taking the sting out of moving away from my raccoons and bluejays.

And oh—my new home is very near the reservoir in Ontario.  A few mornings ago, as I walked outside to take the trash cans to the curb (another novelty, not having to pack out my own trash), I heard a Canada goose fly by overhead.  (You can see and hear one here; scroll down and click on "Sound," then scroll down again and click the first tab for "Honks... and Flight Calls.")  I haven’t heard one in the sky for over a decade.  I took that moment as a blessing, and later that afternoon as I was on my daily walk around the neighborhood and saw a goose floating languidly in the reservoir, I took that as a blessing as well.  A goose is a far cry from a golden eagle, perhaps.  But both are just as wild.

Lance, for once in your life....

      I would be remiss if I did not share a brief story here in the hours before Lance Armstrong's interview with Oprah Winfrey airs.

      Those who follow my blog (or my life) know that I have been a fan of cycling for more than three decades--OK, probably since I got that Stingray bike for Christmas in 1964.  I have followed Lance's career in amazement--pre-cancer, post-cancer and beyond--and I have defended him in the past.  When riders of integrity--George Hincapie, Levi Leipheimer, Frankie Andreu and others--came forward to finally tattle on him, I knew that the niggling thought in my sub-conscious--'But what if he really does dope?'--was in fact true.

      When my youngest son (not Ezra, for those of you who know him) was a boy, he was constantly in trouble--like most boys--for doing hare-brained, goofball things like ironing his clothes on the linoleum floor in the kitchen because he was too lazy to drag out the ironing board. When all evidence pointed in his direction, he would lie, loudly and repeatedly, no matter how long he was interrogated.  I could point to the evidence--in this case a burn mark in the flooring that exactly matched my steam iron--and remind him that only two of us lived in that house and that it wasn't something I had done, but he would adamantly deny any knowledge of the crime.  Why?  Because he is a man of stubborn pride.  He simply couldn't bring himself to confess that he had done something so stupid.  Sitting in a chair, looking me in the eye and telling me over and over he had no idea how it happened was easier for him than admitting he had made an enormous mistake.

      All that is to say, I understand why, up until this time, Lance has denied using performance enhancing drugs.  He is a man of stubborn pride.  He wanted so badly to win and win again and not be called a cheater.  And once he had won a Tour de France by doping, he knew he could never attempt to win without it, because by then everyone in the cycling world--including the sweetest, most moral of men--had stepped over the line.  Which is what I suspect we will hear in today's interview.  I would love to hear Lance--for his own sake--simply say, 'You know what?  I screwed up.  I cheated.  It's no one's fault but my own.  I've let a lot of people down, and I'm deeply sorry.'  But I doubt we will hear that.  We will hear excuses and blame, see shrugs and those hard-as-steel eyes, the windows to Lance's soul shuttered against the light of Truth.

      Many times in my son's life--months or years after doing some knucklehead stunt, then denying it repeatedly--he would tell me, in a moment of sober clarity and confession, the truth.  'Yeah, Mom, I don't know why I lied.  I did that.  What an idiot.'  And we would laugh together.  He always knew--I pray he always knew--that I had forgiven him long ago.

      And I forgive Lance.  But I hope and pray that no governing athletic body ever allows him to compete anywhere ever again.  Because if you can't--eventually--tell the truth, you simply can't be trusted.

BOLO--Be On the Look-Out: Gold Chevy Suburban Lic #6CPK813

Sometimes, up here in our quiet little neighborhood near Snowcrest Inn, we are unaware of the chaos going on just a quarter of a mile away.  Such was the case on New Year’s Day.  We’d had enough snow to make it possible for plastic sleds to slide out of control down a few slopes behind the campground, so the highway just below our private road was jammed with vehicles, some parked helter skelter and some rolling slowly forward as distracted drivers searched for a place to squeeze in.

Excited to attend my daughter’s poetry reading that evening, I hadn’t even considered what I might encounter as I tried to leave the mountain… until I white-knuckled it down our ice-slick road to find two SUV’s blocking the entrance to the main highway.  Both drivers ignored me when I tapped on the horn several times.  They also ignored me when I laid on the horn in frustration.  They did not ignore me when I got out and informed them impatiently that they were about to be ticketed by the ranger if he happened along.

Back in the truck, I tried to regain my usually calm demeanor as I watched the two drivers finally move off.  Taking deep breaths, I pulled onto the highway… and found myself in a long line of traffic rolling along at 10mph.  I had plenty of time, having left early, so I settled in for the drive… behind a gold Chevy Suburban, license plate #6CPK813.

As I watched, a child’s arm emerged from a side window on the passenger side.  Clutched in the small hand was a plastic bag.  Around one switchback, then another, I followed the Suburban, watching the bag hang precariously from the kid’s hand.  Then, as we navigated the final hairpin, right next to a turnout that leads to a beautiful, verdant section of the stream, the tiny hand opened wide… and the bag was ditched by the side of the road.

I hit my brakes as safely as I could with a line of cars on my back bumper, thinking the Suburban would brake, pull over, go back for the child’s treasure.  But no.  Of course not.  The drop was intentional.  Like so many people who come to visit, this family mistakenly believed that, like their local movie theater, after the pretty show some young people would come through with a trash can and brooms and clean the place up.

I have to wonder at the conversation in the car.  Was little Johnny reluctant when Mom or Dad or both told him to drop the trash out the window?  Did anyone in the car protest?  The bag had hung there out the window for at least a half mile.  Did Johnny have to be talked into committing this sin against the scenery?  I can only hope.

I followed the car all the way down the mountain and into Upland, but lost track of it when several cars pulled in between us at an intersection.  I wanted to catch them.  I wanted to pull up alongside, smile disarmingly, motion for them to roll down the window, then ask if our mountain looked like a giant trash can to them or who they thought would come along behind them to clean up their mess?

And, because I just can’t help myself, I looked for the bag on my way home (in the dark) and again the next morning on the way down the mountain.  It was gone, probably snatched up by a coyote, bits of the family’s trash no doubt chewed and strewed all along the stream.  Sigh.  I have committed their license number to memory.  I hope you will, too.  I just want to ask them the question… maybe look into little Johnny’s eyes.