This is Winter

 

This is my peach tree, pruned and bare. Every night and every morning before dawn, in our forays into the yard for Maya's last potty, I stand on the walkway and stare at this tree (when I'm not staring at the stars), willing her to once again leaf out, then blossom, then bear fruit. "Stay strong, Peachtree," I tell her. But I know I'm really saying it to myself.

In her gorgeous memoir, A Circle of Quiet, Madeleine L'Engle writes of keeping herself from the darkness of depression by surrounding herself with "candles," as she calls them--those small artifacts in our lives that bring us the light of joy--books, songs, dogs, cats, tall trees, wild creatures, sometimes certain people.... This is my list, not hers. Like a squirrel gathering acorns in the fall, I gather these things around me to prepare for Winter's long nights, the lack of sunshine and warmth, the fleeting sense that everything else has died and death is inevitable and why not sooner than later? That last thought becomes more fleeting as the years pass. The light of my "candles" helps extinguish it.

Winter isn't always dark. When not obscured by clouds, the sun's rays are present, albeit slanted, so that the sun shines at us instead of on us. It isn't hot, but on some days, boy howdy, it is bright. I live for these days, for long hikes with friends in cool temperatures, so I can experience this bliss:

And because some trees are bare... and the slant of the sun is what it is... we are gifted (if we walk through a woodsy canyon early) with sights such as this:

Which brings to mind a few brief lines from Emily Dickinson:

There's a certain Slant of light,/Winter Afternoons - 

The poet feels this slant of light "oppresses," but, all due respect to Miss Emily, for me, it blesses.

And Winter, my dear friends, is only twelve weeks long. I know. It seems to drag on, doesn't it? Much like the dog days of August....

What else is there to do but be grateful in these brief weeks? For books and songs and good dogs and zany cats and the sudden sight of deer grazing in a meadow or a bobcat trotting shiftily across our path or a surprise letter in the box from a much-loved friend and the sweetness of an orange and the satisfying sip of pure Ceylon tea and the comfort of flannel against chilled skin and the brilliance of stars after a storm. I could go on. You make your own list, okay? Let's meet back here next December to compare notes.

Nothing But Gratitude

 

On Friday I had one of those moments of profound exasperation at the absolute mindless insensitivity of some people, and (if I may state this publicly without seeming like a complete judgy wench) the idiocy of some people in the treatment of their dogs. Sigh….

I needed a few warm, fuzzy feelings to balance the negative energy, so I asked Facebook friends to post pictures of their pets. Boy howdy, did they ever. If you were one of those folks, thank you. We can never underestimate the power of seeing a cute dog or cat or horse or reindeer face (or robot—long story) to release a bit of oxytocin and calm our troubled hearts.

After perusing those pics for half an hour, I left the valley and drove to Lake Arrowhead to do a quick hike then visit my granddaughter and her baby daughter—all of which enhanced my oxytocin high.

Beyond that good stuff, I want to take a moment to thank those of you who are regular readers of my posts. I began this blog in 2009 while I was living in the wilderness of Mt. Baldy, having adventures with nature and wildlife nearly every day—while also experiencing many, many rejections of my work written for commercial purposes (and an occasional sale or two). I wanted to write about whatever I felt like writing about, with no concern for word count or market viability. So I began to blog (the first post mentioning how much I loathe the word “blog”).

At first, I had a handful of folks who were regular readers willing to skim through my somewhat provincial if not inane musings. Slowly, as the posts went out into the world—and I began to write about more pressing issues, such as race relations in the U.S. and the “Me too” movement—views of my posts increased from 30 a month to 100 a month and then close to a thousand a month, which is where the average now hovers.

But last month was a banner month. I mean, I had a lotta lotta views. The analytics on Blogger allow me to see what posts people are looking at, so I know what started the upward trend in views (a post that could be construed as political), but I was downright shocked when I saw the numbers skyrocket.

Total number of overall views for June: 9,041. These were not views of the same post; there were a number of different, er, issue-related posts being viewed. But oh my goodness, I am humbled and grateful whenever people read my words, be it 5 or 500. This number nearly floored me.

So thank you, dear Readers, for clicking that link again and again over the months or years to see what the heck I might have to write about in my rambling, parentheses-and-dash-infused style. Before you click away from the page, here’s one more silly rambling offered for your amusement:

Things to do while the oatmeal is cooking:

(Note: Of course it’s cooking—no packets here, no “instant” for me! Damn right it’s steel cut (whatever that means), organic, they-take-forever, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal for this “granola head.”)

Start a load of laundry.

Add “laundry detergent” to the grocery list.

Empty the dishwasher.

Open the door for Jenny the Cat to sashay outside and begin her day, warning her not to bring yet another mouse into the house.

Wash the dogs’ dishes and Jenny’s dish.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Catch the mouse that is now scampering about the living room with Jenny merrily giving chase (without letting Jenny see you taking him... or her).

Carry the mouse outside (in an empty oatmeal can) and down the block, depositing him/her near the ravine (and thus near food, shelter, water).

Stop. Notice the sunrise as it tops Mt. San Jacinto.

Think of that one guy who always makes you smile.

Smile.

Return to the house.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Encourage Jenny disingenuously to “keep looking for Mr. Mousie,” pretending it “must be here somewhere.”

Create a Facebook post documenting the number of mice Jenny has brought into the house to play with.

Walk all the way back to the bedroom to pet Sgt. Thomas Tibbs in his bed and tell him he is the best boy ever.

Walk back down the hallway to the den to pet Maya and tell her she is the best girl ever.

Wash hands thoroughly.

Stir the oatmeal.

Add walnuts.

Grab the blank page journal used for poems and jot down the lines that came to mind about that one guy while you were walking back from relocating the mouse.

Turn off the burner under the oatmeal and add raisins, dried blueberries, banana slices, cinnamon, and brown sugar.

Stop. Close your eyes. In one long inhale of this sweet-scented repast, acknowledge with gratitude the blessings of food, cat, mouse, dogs, dishwasher, washing machine, sunrises, wild spaces, warm smiles, word gifts… and that one guy.

 

Thankful

Last night I woke in the middle of the night. I felt the warmth and pressure of a cat curled against the back of my knees. I reached down in the dark and stroked Sugar Plum's head, resulting in a vociferous vibration. Another cat lay stretched against my thighs on the other side. I knew better, but like an older sibling who just can't leave well enough alone, I reached down slowly to touch her--and felt her teeth in my hand. She didn't bite down, and I chuckled. Purrl will always remind me that she doesn't appreciate being disturbed when she's sleeping.

The sheets were clean and cool, the pillow soft beneath my head. I lay in the dark, waiting, barely breathing, until I heard the sound that has been the source of comfort many, many times throughout my life in similar midnight wakings--that gentle susurration of a dog's contented sigh. Thomas has his choice most nights of where he wants to sleep. The door to the garage is always open; he has a bed there (where he sleeps when the house is too warm), a bed in the living room (where he sleeps if I have the bedroom window open--because it startles him every time the neighbor snores or coughs or... whatever... in the night) and a bed next to my bed (where he comes to be close when he feels safe). He is never with us when we fall asleep, but he is often there when I wake in the night, and though I cannot see him in the pitch-dark room, I hear the long sigh he emits when I laugh at Purrl or whisper to the cats to move over.

These three amuse me, comfort me, give me a reason to rise every morning early (because how can I not when Sug is poking her foot in my arm wanting food?) and guard me against profound loneliness. I am thankful for them.

Last night, when Thom sighed, I did, too--a long inhalation and exhalation, and I smiled. No wheezing! Nothing rattling around in my lungs. I didn't use my inhaler before I went to bed, but my breathing was clear and easy. I am thankful for that, and I am thankful for my pulmonary doctor who diagnosed my bronchiectasis five years ago and did it cheerfully. ("But you don't have cancer! This is great news!") He is bright and vibrant and funny, and I enjoy our annual talks, which have now become "How's your family?" conversations, because my lungs are behaving despite their disease. And I am thankful for that.

And while I know we live in stressful times with new political turmoil every day, I am thankful for what we have achieved as a society. I am thankful that my gay son can be who he is every day, openly, wherever he is. I am thankful that my transgender friends can be who they were born to be. I am so, so thankful for all the women who've had the courage in recent weeks to come forward and say, 'This happened to me, and it is not okay.' I will always feel proud to have participated in the March for Women this year, to have shown up and participated, even though it's outside my comfort zone to do so, as I know it was for many of the women and men who showed up and marched. Good job, my friends.

I am most thankful that right now, at this moment, all of my children are safe and well. That might not be the case tomorrow, I know; we are given no guarantees in this life. But last night as I lay awake in the middle of the night and did my motherly head count, I smiled to know that all four were safe and well at our last communication. May that trend continue....

I woke this morning (before dawn, of course, thanks to Sug) to brilliant stars overhead, and I took a few minutes outside (while Thomas trotted around, wagging his tail, sniffing out a possum trail) to identify the constellations I know, to allow the magnitude of the Universe to sink in just for a moment (before its enormity overwhelmed me, as it has since my childhood). Then I went back inside to make breakfast for all of us--and aren't we abundantly blessed there as well? The animals chowing down on all the good stuff that comes to them from Petco, and me with my day-greeting Irish breakfast tea and the steel cut oatmeal with raisins and walnuts that bolsters me for those long dog walks once the sun rises.

Oh, and just the walking--that is enough in and of itself to be thankful for. The Sesamoiditis I had a year ago is mostly gone--or relieved enough for me to walk as far as I want with Thom and not even think of it. The torn ligament in my left foot is healed. The SIJD in my right hip has not been an issue of late, so my level of chronic pain is way, way down.

As I write this, it's almost bedtime. The front door is open, and a cool breeze is wafting in. It's time for Thom's Last Chance Outside opportunity. Then he gets his Greenie (his favorite part of the day) and retreats to his garage bed to chew it up and, I hope, contemplate what a good boy he is. The girls have already wandered off to the bedroom; I'll have to relocate someone (gently, if it's Purrl) in order to get in bed with a good book. When I switch off the light, I will resist thinking about what happened in the news today, and I will begin to count again the many blessings in my life. Really, though, they are countless.