Smoke Break

I leave for Minneapolis in the morning. I’m tired of airplanes - tired of traversing the planet in the sky. In my best of all possible worlds, perhaps, I’d roll on my belly in the dirt – slither across the continent and feel not merely see the distance as it neared, I wallow in it and then crawl away.

I want a cigarette – such a little flush of plant, soaked in lethal chemicals and wrapped up in a bit a scrap paper can have the most seductive allure. I imagine myself sitting on a hillside with a perfect cup of coffee, dog by my side, and in the strike of a flint a year of resistance down the drain. But can’t you just smell the sickly sweet and stale smell of burning tobacco wrecking the crisp spring air? And the coffee - steamy and sticky and sweet? Sigh. It’s pretty to think so. And just as quickly I’m forced to flush those thoughts from my mind and stay the course.

Amidst Ed’s laundry I found a mostly empty pack, with a sole lonely cigarette inside. I wasn’t looking, mind you. I was sorting laundry – that’s all. And I pulled the pack out of the inside shirt pocket, took out the cigarette and rolled it between my fingers, held it in my hand and smelled it. I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror while I mock smoked it… just for a second before tossing it in the toilet and flushing it along with those thoughts.

Over a year since I set aside that seductress and still the sirens sometimes woo me with melodious enchantments - (empty) promises of a lush life. But when she turns round toward me in the pale light of morning, she’s old, weathered and wrinkled – not with those beautiful lines of character and a life well lived, but more like a hunger folding in on itself over and over again – (can you imagine all that greed and avarice coming down on that child’s lips?) If it wasn’t such a lie or at least if I could believe it…

Must Give Us Pause

My grandmother had a stroke on Sunday night. My mother flew to Minneapolis to be near her, to be with her, on Monday. She died this morning. Firstly, do not apologize. Secondly, don’t offer condolences. To do either of these things would denigrate her life.

My grandmother is a wonderful woman. The mother of my mother, she gave me the most precious gift. She is perhaps with me today in far keener state of mind than she has been for years. She is laughing and growing more youthful and vivacious as the seconds draw on and my grandfather’s arm wrap warmly around her, free of the burdens of flesh – as she grows more accustomed to this business of being dead and gets on with it.

As Rilke wrote:

And being dead is hard work
and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel
a trace of eternity. - Though the living are wrong to believe
in the too-sharp distinctions which they themselves have created.
Angels (they say) don’t know whether it is the living
they are moving among, or the dead.

In other words, she doesn’t recognize me as alive and I refuse to lament these distinctions. To lament her death is to lament her life. What is death but a pause, a form of punctuation, in our lives? Death is the final proof that we have capacity to continue to grow and change. Death maybe isn’t our final act, but it’s often an awkward chrysalis for the living to behold. Don’t count me among them - those that view the becoming as awkward or untoward, that is. Do count me as among the living, however.

I am clear that my grandmother’s death is not about me. And I won’t try to step in and steal her center stage through some erroneous display of grief. This was her gesture - the last attached to this flesh that I’ll have the luxury of savoring. I am grateful and humbled and honored in the face of that.

Again and Again

I arrived in Boston the day before yesterday - on the 20th (February). I clarify that because I think about writing here often, put thoughts on the page, and then think the better of posting, or maybe I don’t think at all and I just don’t post. I walked through Boston Commons yesterday, the 21st, during a brilliant snow storm. Nearly six inches. It was crisp and cold and clean snow blanketed the park as I walked the mile and a half in less than sensible shoes.

Later…

I walked on the mountain with Secret today – on the 28th (February), back in the Bay Area. Cassie contends that it’s not spring yet – she says, ”the trees don’t lie.” But the Madrone’s are flowering, wild irises are beginning to pepper the hillsides, Indian Paintbrushes flaunt their blooms and the buckeyes bear leaves cupped in the shape of small hands the ways hands would be shaped if they were displaying Easter eggs on their fingertips. Ha. It’s true, the trees don’t lie. It was only a matter of time. There was a mild breeze, high cottony clouds in a field of bird’s-egg-blue sky and sun shining through like grace – like grace on a divine day. It was perfect.

Later still…

I finished McGuire’s Mirror, Mirror on the airplane. I read through the notes provided for discussion groups. I used to be such a deep reader. I don’t know who the fairest one of all is – which leaves me feeling like a dork.

Again…

It’s March-something and I’ve never seen the desert in such spectacular bloom. I say this and still the ocotillos and beavertail cactus, except in the lower and warmest desert, have barely just begun to unfurl their buds – just the tiniest splashes of red and pink in seas of verbena, desert sunflowers, poppies, and dandelions, lupine, Canterbury bells and the bouquet of more goes on and on.

We drove to the base of Edom Hill to wallow in a landscape of delicate desert sunflowers wafting in the breeze – while ATVs corrupted the serenity. Joshua Tree was awesome. Although even the hills that abut downtown Palm Springs, running parallel to Palm Canyon Drive, are covered with such green it’s downright trickery – lush and tropical – not resembling a desert at all.

Home again, home again…

Can't Get His Pants Off

Show me a man with both feet firmly on the ground, and I'll show you a man who can't get his pants off. - Unknown

Fill Them With Gold

Honey Bee is on the mend and daily she’s more and more herself. She still has a bit of a scar on her nose and likely will from here on out. It’s added to the larger self inflicted scar in the shape of Italy. These are her little wabi sabi’s. I feel like I should fill them with gold.

Prickles from the Thistles

I love the sound of rain. It’s dancing on the roof like a huge chorus of showgirls, tiny dancers, with little feet - little fairy showgirls with wings and pink and blue and yellow tutus. I imagine the gutters will be filled with glitter and fairy dust and I’ll be sweeping out the sparkly things far into summer.

She’s healing, though I dote on her endlessly and love her mercilessly – she’s surviving nonetheless. In an attempt to get back on the proverbial bike we’ve toured the local bike shop twice thus far. Her ears go back and she flinches when she sees the wheels turning - a grand set back from where she’d been. Several mountain bikers had heard the news and stopped during our daily sojourns to offer their sympathies and were kind enough to let her reacquaint with the bikes. Her breathing is sometimes labored, likely due to the damage to her sinuses, which are clearly still suffering irritation. Perhaps the blood clots are loosening. It will take some time, but she’s speeding toward recovery.

The Neighbor is gone. Can you believe I didn’t pounce like a cat on my opportunity to announce this? It’s been over a week, nearly two now, and they are gone! There are lingering remains like dog urine soaked carpet, which she doused with so much ammonia that four days later it was still dripping (not merely damp) and leaving pools on the floor beneath carpet and heavy matting. Three years of dog urine and seemingly some kind of ritual ammonia use (?!?!?) destroyed the oak floors beneath the carpet. The floor guy complained of the smell and rolled his eyes, I hope you kept her deposit.

I’ve started working on pulling the weeds, an endeavor I anticipate will take a week or two (not constant) of labor. A day’s effort got me less than a quarter of the way through the wilderness of weed and I’ve filled one and a half large yard waste buckets thus far. The prickles from the thistle are lodged in my forearms – but somehow the sting feels merely like a symptom of progress.. in a good way.

Hate With Me

The broader and deeper our capacity for love, so the breadth and depth of our capacity for hate. It’s like an expanding universe with two interdependent elements, each growing (and shrinking?) in direct proportional correlation.

An asshole on a mountain bike collided with Secret Agent Dog. He and people like him are the reason why responsible cyclist are now banned from using trails. He collided with her while riding his bike across a playing field. The incident occurred about ten feet from a posted sign saying that bikes are to be walked across the playing field. Bikes are to be walked across the field because dickheads like him don’t grasp the concept that they need to yield to people (and their pets, which ARE allowed to be off lead in this particular field.) The egotistical, materialist dickwad with his four thousand dollar mountain bike (because he needed to announce this several times – you know.. “I’m an asshole with warped priorities”) felt that while he saw the dog that the dog should have gone around him.

While blood spilled from her nose and nostrils, the jerk wants to chat about his bicycle and how wronged he felt… as he stood spitting distance from the sign instructing him to STOP and walk his bike. Everyone, hate him with me.

She moved off to the distance and sat with the patience of a saint while he complained. She waited her turn and when I finally left him chattering on about his four thousand dollar bike, she rolled on her back and cried, trying to scrunch her body into a ball and climb all fifty pounds of her into my lap. She’ll be okay. Everyone… hate with me. It’s because I love her so much that I’m able to hate this man so deeply, profoundly and fiercely.