Baking Up My Brand New Life

Well, I did it.

I.
Did.
It.

I just wrapped up Week #2 of My Brand New Life and am still pinching myself every single day.

What is this life, you ask? Well ... just like my first 53 years, I'm figuring it out as I go but instead of just imagining and totally seat-of-pants-ing, I've made the first real step toward intentionally designing the life I want to live for the next 53 years. More or less.

I left my agency job. The work I've done to pay the bills for the past 20+ years. The job with the "traditional" benefits (healthcare, 401K, paid time off). I teetered at the edge of the scary-exciting great unknown and decided to leap.

To work at a bakery for a fraction of the pay - but with the time and brain space to build the freelance writing etc. business I'd tossed around in my head. I don't have it all figured out. The pieces are still coming together. It's a little scary but oddly, I'm not as scared as I should be.

When I announced the decision I'd made, my greatest life project - the loin fruit (Amazing Lizz) gifted me with a pound of Baddass Women Blend coffee from my favorite roaster.

I've had so much support from every corner. It's like everyone said, "finally." It was only I who had to get out of the way and make room for the possibility ... of possibility.

I am excited and overjoyed to jump out of bed every day. Even at 3:25 a.m. on the days I report at 4:30. Four days a week, my five-minute walking commute takes me to the cutest, teensy-tiny bakery, where I put on my baking hat (literally) and apron du jour, wash my hands and start slicing apples. Then I roll out dough and assemble dozens of galettes and spend the next few hours mixing, measuring, slicing, dicing, shaping, egg-washing, baking, cleaning and otherwise preparing to open up to our first customers at 7:30 a.m. W-F and 8 a.m. on Saturday.

Bread, pastries, scones, muffins and granola! 

Every day is fresh-baked fun. 

Even the coffee is from a local roaster. 

I'm learning many new skills. Like just the right number of galette folds. And how to properly roll brioche buns. Even replacing a mop head (on day #3 the cleaning guy called in sick). I welcome"all other duties as assigned" seriously and joyfully. I love interacting with the customers -- seeing their eyes open wide when they walk in our cozy shop. They invariably stop and inhale and close their eyes before stepping all of the way in. I totally get it. I've done it too from the first time I walked in last year when The Bread Guy opened its doors. I'm hoping to combine my lifelong love of transforming flour, sugar, butter and yeast into tasty and memorable creations with my also (nearly) lifelong storytelling experience and talent to help a young business owner build his dream.

And I embrace Mondays. You know that feeling of dread so many have on Sundays knowing they either crammed in too much weekending or didn't do enough and then the rat race or hamster wheel or whatever starts again bright and early? I've lost that feeling. I don't miss it at all. On Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays, I sleep in (aka any time after 4 a.m. is "sleeping in"). The past few weeks, I've spent much of my "spare time" volunteering with a local soup kitchen and homeless shelter and doing some necessary paperwork and errands. Pieces are coming together bit by bit.

I sleep sooo soundly at night. My body is tired from the physical labor. And at least for now, all the tabs are not open at 2 a.m. or any other time. It's a beautiful thing.

It seems like all the planets aligned to make this life change possible.

I still doesn't seem real but it is. It so is.

Sound bites, safety pins and silver linings

What a week this has been.

From the dark night of 11/9 (the entire day, that is), to the dismal, nearly debilitating, disgust, despair and despondency of the next day, to all of the other "D words" and stages of grief those of us of like mind and heart have been working through the past few days ...

Some of us talk in hushed voices - in offices and hallways and on street corners. In coffee shops. In other "safe" spaces - like Mexican restaurants. We share the words and sound bites that speak to us on social media. Maybe not caring as much about offending the "others" as before. (Wondering: Perhaps I should have stopped caring about that a lot sooner. Would it have made a difference?)

I'm really sick of screaming obscenities at the radio in the car until my voice is hoarse. I'm tired of feeling like puking every time I hear ... whatshisname's voice. I'm tired of being sick and tired.

It's like living in a piece of dystopian fiction. Nope. Nope. Nope. Can't go there.

As always, I'm desperately seeking silver linings. Here are a few:

• Stephen Colbert and healing laughter! (Without this feeling that the apocalypse is upon us, I might not have taken the time watch these videos!)
• Remembering Schoolhouse Rock - I forgot how much I enjoyed those clips as a kid!
• Finding and connecting with kindred spirits and making new friends locally, across the country and around the globe
• Safety pins and similar positive symbols of solidarity and hope
• Science - remember science? 
• The wise and wonderful Warren Buffett 
• And yes - gasp - even beginning to tentatively talk with Trump supporters in my "village" to try to understand what happened, where we can find common ground and how we can heal and live together and ...

Puppies! Babies! Sunshine! Blue skies! Walking on two feet!

There is hope.

It was (not) a dark and stormy night

My 2010 Pontiac Vibe
(at towing lot)
showing main points of impact

It was a dark and stormy night ...

No, that's not right. It was, in fact, a sunny, clear, gorgeous summer evening. A Monday, which meant rowing night. And on my way from work to rowing, I got in a car accident. The kind that gives you shivers when you imagine it happening. And miraculously, the kind that included me emerging practically unscathed.

I began to draft this post almost one year ago. Mid-July. I'd completely forgotten that I'd captured all of the detail here when it was all too fresh. Maybe that's why I never posted, never finished editing. I had not fully processed what had happened. I still haven't, really. Life just picked up where it left off, mostly. There have been many topics bouncing around in my head wanting out over the past many weeks, and I didn't think this was one of them, but perhaps it's time to finish what I started ...

I cannot blame this accident, this crash, on a moose, deer, caribou, donkey, herds of goats or other such causes my friend Scott offered up when he saw the destruction of my car. I can't point to weather or a drunk driver or people on their cell phones. The skies were clear. The road was dry. There was construction ahead and if I'd driven that way every day, I'd later discover, I would have known that I was reaching a stretch of road where the unexpected had been happening so often it should be expected. (Skid marks and reports from friends bear this out.)

Traffic was moving along and then ... it wasn't. Somehow, somewhere between those two states - of motion and rest - I shifted my gaze from the road just long enough. Maybe less than a second. As I passed an exit I'd taken the last time I went that way, I may have shifted my gaze, thinking perhaps I should have taken that route. I remember having several things on my mind but I don't quite remember turning my head. But suddenly, I realized that I was approaching the car ahead of me too fast - because traffic had stopped. Time stopped. I slammed on my brakes and swerved to avoid a collision. I caught the back end of the car with my front end and it felt like I bounced off a lot of other things as I spun around and off the side of the road. The airbags deployed. All of them, including the new one from the last GM recall. Smacked me in the face. The smelly powder went up my nose. When the car stopped I looked down at myself, patted my face, chest and arms and was surprised there was no blood. I wasn't completely certain I was even alive but somehow I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to open my door. It wouldn't budge. After a momentary panic, I crawled through the cloud of powder and opened the passenger door. I stood in the long grass on the side of the road for a moment and looked across at the mess in the road and the other cars. At the time, I didn't know I'd only hit one. There were several people on the road. Then I leaned in and grabbed my shoes – they'd been knocked off. And my phone – which had been under my purse but was on the floor. And my purse – also on the floor. And the keys from the ignition.  

When I got back out I saw there was blood on my shirt after all. That's when I discovered that I'd split the frenulum inside my upper lip, that little piece of tissue that connects the lip to the gums. I spit blood out of my mouth while I felt around for broken teeth or gashes. I was incredulous that I couldn't find any.

It was like a scene in slow motion with traffic moving along, driving around the debris on the road.

A wheel - mine? Bits of plastic and metal in all shapes and sizes. People getting out of cars, probably exchanging notes.

I went up near the road and sat down on my purse. I was a little wobbly and my neck was starting to hurt a little. A nice man who works as a pipefitter at Dow (he'd called 911) came over to check on me. He said his wife was a nurse and would kill him if she knew there'd been an accident and he didn't stop. Another nurse came over and checked on me and also on the people standing on the other side of the road. 

The pipefitter and the nurse (never got their names) stayed with me until the state police arrived and then we moved over to the median so they could clear a lane and let traffic move through. I ambulated across the road, which was repeated and recorded. The man I'd hit (I think it was him - and I think the report said to whose bumper I'd "struck a glancing blow") kept offering for me to sit in his car but I wanted to be in the fresh air. Firemen and an ambulance came. They checked me over and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said no, of course I didn't want to go to the hospital … but asked the professionals if they thought I should. I had an angry-looking abrasion from the seatbelt, my neck had started to hurt and I had some scratches on my legs that we could see but otherwise I was in one piece and nothing felt broken. Still, I listened to the experts. The other driver declined treatment apparently. I honestly don't know what damage I did to his car and if he drove away afterward. I saw a flatbed truck come to get my car.

Not very long after I got to the ER (man, it was busy that night), my sister and brother-in-law arrived. I'd texted from the ambulance. They stayed while I was wheeled off for X-rays and a CT scan. The doctor (Dr. Walker)  was very good looking and he made us all laugh when he said I'd split my frenulum, and I knew I needed to share that with my writer friends. Jake had just gotten his Medicare card (he turned 65 the next day) and was having fun showing it to all of the nurses and anyone else who would listen. After I was discharged, we stopped for root beer floats on the way to get my prescriptions. 

The next day I mostly rested and iced my injuries and called the insurance company and went to pick up my stuff from my car. A sweet co-worker brought a beautiful Edible Arrangement and card from the office and the ham, turkey and potatoes another dear friend/co-worker sent. I tried to move around as much as possible before rigor mortis set in and my summer housemate was a wonderful nurse. I was achy and sore but alive. We feasted on honey-baked ham and chocolate-dipped fruit and I felt so loved and blessed with wonderful friends – and family. I had caring emails, texts and calls all day.

---

That was where I left off nearly a year ago. Reading it again, it all seems like a dream. There was the time "before" and now I'm in the time "after." In the "before," I drove a red Vibe. In the "after," I drive a titanium-colored Soul - my spirit element, I've decided. "Before," I woke up early and went to barre class and work Monday through Friday. Rowing on Saturday mornings and Monday and Wednesday evenings. Kids' sporting events, dance recitals and birthday parties. I read books and took naps and made soup and went to the farmers market and avoided housework. Smelled the flowers. Drank the good wine and used the good china. I smooched my great nephews and nieces and was grateful for my family and friends and my life. "After," I try to be more mindful, more appreciative ... and I still do most of the rest, except I have not yet gone back to rowing and have been taking a break from barre since January (but that's another story and I plan to go back really soon).

I look at the photos of my broken car and still can't believe I walked - ambulated - away. I am so incredibly thankful that nobody was hurt. I try - really try - to avoid distractions. Hands at 10 and 2. I can never be too alert. And no matter what I do, I know an instant is all it takes to go from before ... to after.

Interior with airbag deployed

Crumpled front left quarter panel and door, curtain airbag deployed

Side curtain airbags deployed,
crumpled front door

Closeup of front left wheel

Phun with werdz

Best. Birthday cake. Ever.

I promised a friend I would join her in blogging every day in June. Yikes. It has officially been more than two years since I have posted a few words in this here space.

My brain is a bit frazzled so I do not have many things to say. Now. At this moment. So I will share a few of my most recent word nerd thoughts. (Like: Why not werd nerd? Why is word not pronounced wORd?)

And union. Why is that pronounced "you"-nyun and onion is "un"-yun?

Who made these decisions? And why was I not consulted? And why do my quotation marks look like inch marks? I hate that.

Oh, by the way: Happy Palindrome Day. When Lizz texted to wish me HPD (it's 6116, and I kindly didn't point out it's really 060116), I simply wished her a happy day in return since I couldn't think of a clever response. Then later I was sharing something else with my sister and her response was, "LOL. WOW." And I thought, "Doh."

Of mermaids and goats and geriatric cats

MerLois of the sea. 

Recent happenings have had me thinking about life. How it's a blend of raucously good and happy times. And unremarkable, mundane bits. Sweet and silly moments. Curious bits. And sad parts.

Last weekend was filled with the happy, fun sorts of things. On Friday I went to my first book club gathering (at which we discussed The Happiness Project) and had a delightful time with a roomful of smart, interesting women drinking wine and munching on lovely munchies and talking about kids and work and life and what brought us joy.

Last Saturday was the annual "Recycling Christmas" party I've been going to with my sister for about five years.

The event consists of three main parts:

1. Fabulous food and wine 
Caprese salad, guacamole, pasta with butternut squash and chicken meatballs, darling little crab cakes, tender bites of beef with yummy sauce, miso black cod, little bits of cheese and scrumptious teeny crackers, chocolaty things, tiramisu, key lime pie, espresso chip meringues ... too much yum.

2. The Project
Project particulars vary every year, but the basics include some arts and crafts activity, presentation of the work and voting. The first year I went, we had to design an article of clothing. We had a marketing executive and a former model on our team. We won. Another year, we had to come up with an invention. Our solar-powered hooter-booster/thigh-master took first place. Last year, we designed hats. This year, we were challenged to create a piece of art. An array of supplies and various reclaimed items had been set out for our use. We created MerLois, painting our mermaid on two new canvases and an existing painted one and adding wine corks, yarn, raffia, STYROFOAM balls and little sparkly pom poms with a whole lotta glue gun sticks. We were pretty happy with the results, but MerLois came in second - a close second, we hear.

3. Recycled gift exchange (hence, the party name)
For this, each guest is supposed to bring a gift that "just wasn't you." Our host gets really upset when people bring nice gifts. The point is to be able to hoot and holler at really awful, tacky things. But the first couple of years, I got gifts that I really liked - a sparkly, gaudy fish ornament that hangs in my bathroom year-round and a kooky Patience Brewster reindeer ornament that I put out every year. Last year, my sister got an awesome giant pig watering can. This year, I got an neon owl birdhouse.

New this year was an ugly sweater contest, but I missed that on the invitation and did not participate. I was not the only one. There was a nice selection of traditional, truly ugly sweaters; however, this one from my office ugly sweater contest remains my all-time favorite:

So that was Saturday. Sunday was filled with laundry and yard work and general house activities. I made soup. Did some of my book club reading. And then the work week started and proceeded with all of the basic work week stuff.

On Tuesday, I got a text message from my great nephew out of the blue.

And then there was this:

I've been passing this sign for a couple of weeks now, puzzling over the "with goat" part. I wondered ... lambs and bunnies and chicks not available? What is the First Communion connection? The biblical references I recalled are not so um, flattering to goats. I know some people EAT goats at Easter. I really want to call for info, but sadly no number is provided on the sign. One of life's unanswerables.

A week full of good, happy, mundane, sweet, curious ...

And then today was sad. I had to say goodbye to my faithful feline companion, Claudette.

Claudette
2/02/2000 - 4/12/2014

The decision to take her to the vet for a final visit was one of the hardest things I've had to do as an adult. Even though most of Claudette's 14 years had been healthy and seemingly happy ones, I was feeling like a bad pet parent. But the doctor was wonderful. So gentle and kind. (And not our regular vet.) Instead of the usual bare metal table, the attendant had put a soft blanket there to lay her on. She mewed softly. The doctor looked at Claudette and gently checked her over. He said I was right to bring her in - that it was time. Said she must have been very pretty. It wasn't until then that I cried as I thought of how pretty and playful and kittenish she had been for more than a dozen years. Five years ago, she was plump. Today she was a fragile bit of fur in my arms.

He gently told me what to expect: that he would shave some fur off her leg to expose a vein and then would inject her. He said she would be gone before he was finished.

The fluid in the syringe was pale pink. Claudette relaxed as I stroked her and said goodbye. It was quiet. And quick. And then she was still. I stayed to kiss her ears and the top of her head and picked up the bits of fur from the table. Those I wrapped in a tissue and took home to bury in the back yard with her brother Pierre, who died in 2008 after eating ribbons from Lizz's graduation presents.

Other than a few weeks in 2000, I have not been without a cat for 28 years - starting from the nanosecond my childhood allergy disappeared. That first cat, Masha, developed a mysterious illness at 14 and died within a couple of days. As Claudette's "issues" have advanced over the past year, I was beginning to learn what it was like to deal with a geriatric cat. Still, I had hoped we would have many more years together.

This afternoon, I went for a long walk. It was good to see people walking their dogs and raking up dead leaves and puttering in their yards, getting ready for new growth and new life. Later, my sister whisked me off for dinner in a noisy sports bar with the family. I got lots of hugs. When I came home, there was no insistent meow to greet me. The overhead light in the kitchen burned out. I'll need to fix that in the morning. Tomorrow will begin a new rhythm, but there will be laundry and various house things. I will finish my taxes. Maybe make soup.

Phew. Sure is dusty up in here.

It's been such a long time since I've posted that I don't know where to start. It's not that I've had nothing to write about over the past 15+ months ... I just haven't taken the time to sit down and let the words flow out of my brain onto the keyboard. Here.

But I'd better start letting some of it out.

I must warn you. It will likely not be in an orderly fashion. But so many sweet, happy and shiny moments will flutter away if I don't attempt to capture them.

Like this one, which just happened tonight, when I was innocently napping on the sofa (and should have been working on taxes or doing something other than napping at 9 p.m.):

Merry - from Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends. 

Every now and then my soon-to-be-10-years-old great nephew texts me out of the blue. I love that I can scroll back and read his texts and relive touching and funny moments. Like this one from last year:

Yeah. Amused at self here.

This right here is why I love text messaging.

I shoulda taken a picture

But to those who weren’t here in the moment, the gooey marshmallow plops on the mirror over the fireplace would just look – sticky.  The crusty bits on the floor – a little grody and icky.

Perhaps we should have bottled up the full-on belly laughs to pull them out on days that could use a little extra chuckle. Wouldn’t that be awesome? On a too-quiet, oh-so-lonely mid-winter day, just open up a jar of musicplayingsilverwareondishesclinkingeveryonetalkingatoncepunctuatedwithashtonsammymollypinchedmeletsplayelfontheshelfnowthisiswhatialwayswanted!

Of course, that would be a poor substitute for the actual experience of being surrounded by the warmth and noise and love of family at our traditional Christmas brunch.

Today is my morning-after-Christmas-day since I had to work on Dec. 26. This is the day I get to sleep in and spend a morning in my monkey pants, lingering over coffee and ginger cookies as I survey the situation in the living room … it’s not at the too-quiet stage yet. I hear muffled chatter and giggles upstairs of someone Google-chatting. Ornaments are jingling and tinkling oh, so gently as Claudette stealthily strategizes how to remove one from the middle of the tree.

The mirror is clean now. The smooshed marshmallows mostly scraped off the floor. I may still find a stray bit of ammo a few months down the road but recovered all I could find. I’m looking forward to four days moving at a slower pace than the past six weeks or so. Getting caught up on gifts and cards and connecting with long-distance loved ones. Reading my new books, trying out recipes, games of Bananagrams, enjoying family time and napping … all necessary fortification to tackle a new year.

We've been making snowflakes at work to send to
Newtown. Since schools and others across the nation have
 been responding to the PTA's appeal with such abundance,
it's easy to imagine that they would run out of places to put
them. But I like to believe that where love is concerned,
there's always room for more. And when it overflows,
it just touches the next person and the next and the next ...

thirtyONE

Wonderful, whimsical and a wee bit wacky --
hand-torched beads from Fire Goddess Bead Studio.

I may not have written all 31 days this month, but I did write 31 posts. Technically. Since I created two new pages up there - for the Nicaragua journal and FOOD. Right up there at the top. Did you notice? Does that count?

This month did not go quite as planned - blog-wise and otherwise. I still need to finish writing about my Nicaragua trip. I have many other incomplete projects that I'll need to attend to in August. What did John Lennon say? Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans? A lot of life happened this month.

Today didn't exactly go according to plan either. But after a rather frustrating day at work that left my brain feeling quite depleted, I decided to accept an invitation to a "Thirty-One" (how appropriate on July 31)-slash-"Fire Goddess Bead Studio" cocktail party. I think it was just what my spirit needed. To reconnect with some old friends from high school. To enjoy a glass (or two) of wine. And maybe engage in a little retail therapy. I really had a delightful time. A lovely way to finish out the month.

I am glad my co-blogger-in-crime challenged me to get back into blogging this month, even though it was tough to come up with something to say (most) every day. I hope I can continue on a semi-regular routine - perhaps once a week. And perhaps we'll look into re-convening our writing group to stretch those muscles in other directions. Goodbye, July ... hello, August adventures?

It's just a flesh wound

You can get your own Black Knight action figure
at thinkgeek.com

It's all Deb's fault. After reading her post tonight, I spent the last 45 minutes watching Monty Python clips on YouTube.

The Black Knight is one of my favorite segments in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I remember when Lizz (then still Lizzie around age 9 or so) had not quite graduated from cartoon movies ... and I convinced her to watch this with me. As I giggled and chortled and recited all my favorite lines, she played the bored tween part perfectly. But BOY did she get angry when blood started spurting out of the Black Knight's bloody stumps. She stomped out of the room as I squealed, "but it's just a flesh wound!"

Ensalada de repollo

This is a salad we enjoyed several of the evenings we ate dinner at La Quinta Havilah in Nicaragua. And no, "repollo" does not mean recycled chicken. It's cabbage! Who knew?! I loved that it was such a simple, crisp and refreshing counterpoint to the ubiquitous (but differently prepared) chicken and savory beans that comprised most of our dinners - and it even went well with macaroni and cheese and spaghetti.

The first time, I thought the salad was dressed with a light vinaigrette. But then I determined that the mild briny taste was from the salt. Every day, we were greeted with an enormous bowl of the stuff. By the end of the week I thought I had it figured out and couldn't wait to share it with friends and family back home. What a great use of cabbage (since I love to buy foofy, flouncy cabbages but then don't quite know what to do with them) and a terrific salad on a hot day. 

The first time I prepared it was for our 4th of July picnic. I researched a bit online and couldn't find any recipes that quite sounded like what we'd eaten in Nicaragua. Most of the recipes had many extraneous (as far as I was concerned) ingredients. Some version of this salad is apparently common in many parts of Central America. So I experimented. The result I'm sharing here is pretty close to what I remembered. Enjoy!

Ensalada de repollo

(This makes quite a bit - I usually do half a cabbage at a time)

1 medium head of cabbage, thinly sliced/shredded

1 small onion (red or other type), thinly sliced

1 large or two small cucumbers, thinly sliced

6 Roma tomatoes, thinly sliced

1 lime

Sea salt

Freshly ground peppercorns

Cumin
Olive oil

Extras:

Shredded carrot

Cilantro

Chopped bell peppers

Diced jalapeño

Jicama

Etc.!

Into a large non-metal bowl, add cabbage. Make sure bowl is large enough to accommodate all ingredients and mixing at the end. I add the cabbage in layers, sprinkling a bit of salt, pepper and cumin on each layer so it can start working on and softening the cabbage. Toss in other veggies. Squeeze lime over top, drizzle on some olive oil (1-2 tsps max.) and mix all components. Cover lightly (with plastic wrap or a tea towel) and set aside for at least an hour before serving. (On countertop or in fridge if you prefer.) Mix now and then if you think of it. Season to taste. 

A marvelously foofy, flouncy cabbage from
the Farmers Market!

Oceans of prayers

Yesterday morning I decided I needed to knit a prayer shawl. I was going to try to purchase something of that nature (wanted to send a loving hug to someone dear who lives far away) and then started reading up on prayer shawl ministries and learned about the significance of actually knitting or crocheting it oneself. The point is to pray for the individual who will receive the shawl as you are creating it. For far too long I have wondered what to do, and now I finally had an answer. But how to start? Faced with a mind-bending myriad of patterns for various skill levels, I consulted a friend who is an expert at this sort of thing. I needed a pattern for a relative novice (I've previously only knitted scarves out of Pomp-a-Doodle yarn). 

I'm rather excited about the progress I made yesterday. I debated in my head about sharing it on Shiny Things and potentially ruining a surprise. But perhaps the recipient will see this and know that I have been thinking and praying for her ... 

This color - ocean - speaks of sun and sand and salty air and crab cakes ...
cold beer and laughter. Dorie telling stories and lovingly sewing
soft and colorful blankets for nieces and nephews.
Healing and happy thoughts.

The stitching has not proceeded without hitch. I had to contact my consultant a few times in the process. I completely mis-read the pattern and had to pull my misshapen creation apart and start over after several rows of doing exactly the wrong thing. In between logistical issues of that sort and dog-sitting, I found myself reflecting on lovely memories. Praying for healing and comfort and peace - for a dear aunt and other loved ones who have had health challenges. Also for my community, which has been experiencing a rash of violence. But mostly I have focused my prayers and thoughts on one person. 

When you're knitting you can't do anything else with your hands. Like write. Or paint. Or pull weeds, fix the toilet flapper or vacuum behind the fridge. But your mind can wander ... and mine sure does. My thoughts linger on those undone tasks a little bit. They're not going anywhere. And I pull my attention back. The experience reminds me that the blending of the mundane with memories and faith and hope in miracles is all wrapped into the complicated essence of prayer. Prayer at its simplest is talking to God - to the One who knit us together in our mothers' wombs. It is inviting God into every stitch of our lives - and putting at His feet the situations that seem quite impossible to our human understanding. I'll admit that God and I have watched a few movies together while we knitted away and contemplated all of these things. It never ceases to amaze me that God is present in every moment and at the same time is able to be within the oceans of prayers that flow his way. 

Triage

The certified arborist told me this Colorado Spruce was acting like
a big baby. Outgrown its space. Trimming would have been
almost as much as removing it and would only delay the
inevitable.

Get it? TREEage? 

Even before this thing with the trees happened a couple of weeks ago, that's been my strategy for managing stuff. Like on M*A*S*H (I loved that show - was in love with Hawkeye and his wacky sense of humor). Focus on the most critical cases or situations first. Then moved on to the next. And so on.

So this year, that's meant dealing with each event in turn. The big events this spring and summer have been Lizz's graduation, then my trip to Nicaragua. Painting the back of the garage. Dealing with the trees. Next the roof.

Sigh.

I was feeling a little sentimental about the ginormous tree in the front yard. I love trees and thought it just needed a trim. But apparently it was exhibiting signs of fungal growth. And it really had way outgrown its space. It was clearly a menace to anyone on the sidewalk. I decided to suck it up and have it removed, partly so I could space out some of the shrubberies a bit better. Perhaps I'll get another small tree for that space at some point. 

When I got home tonight, this was all that remained. Goodbye, Christmas tree.

The view from the road has changed quite a bit.

Here it is before ...

And after.

I discovered a small shrubbery had been growing underneath that crazy tree! 

Now I can get in to trim a little more easily. Yay.

Here's the naughty Ash tree that caused me to triage the tree stuff ahead of 

a few other things on the list -- before ... 

And after.

The back yard looks wayyyyyy different now. It feels larger. Also much less shady.

I think I really need that trompe l'oeil mural I've been wanting to paint on the back of the house now.

But that creative endeavor will likely be triaged after replacing the flapper in the downstairs toilet, having the A/C serviced, fixing the malfunctioning light above the kitchen sink, the never-ending painting projects, getting new tires, Claudette's teeth-cleaning ...

T.G.I.F. 

I'll think about all that tomorrow. Or Monday. Soon.

A new page

I just learned a new skill! Created a separate page on Shiny Things! See - it's right up there underneath the Shiny Things header: Nicaragua Journal. All of my Nicaragua posts are gathered there. Oh my. That is just too spiffy.

Well, I think that is all the excitement I can handle for today. I'm very sleepy and the tree man is coming tomorrow to significantly change the landscape over here. I'll post before and after pics tomorrow.

I must be leafing now. Bah.

Things that make you go ¿qué?

This whimsical little figure riding on a tiny origami - what is that? -  and clinging to a palm tree was on a little shelf in the courtyard of the café where we lunched in Granada our last full day in Nicaragua.

Phew. 

He amused me. He still does. I think he's smiling at someone over his left shoulder there. Funny because he must have an awful wedgie.

El pelota ... BOOM!

Each day, on our way to the school in La Chureca, we stopped to get ice. One day, we stopped at a convenience store with this lovely tile design in front.

Jordan - just before giving his hat to Tito outside the school.

I jumped out of the van to take a photo and then went in with a couple of others to look around. It wasn't our usual ice stop. The first thing I noticed was a bin with several balls, including a really enormous one - maybe 36 inches in diameter? I wriggled the ball out of the bin and gleefully bounced it up to the counter. We'd noticed that the soccer ball the kids normally played with was a little flat and had wanted to repair it or find another to take its place. I thought they'd enjoy the ginormous ball for at least a few months ... or weeks maybe. I was realistic enough to know the playground hazards and handling by more than 100 kids would shorten its life. This was a really cool ball - el pelota.

Back in the van, we all signed the colorful ball with a permanent marker as we went the rest of the way to the dump and the school within. After several days, we were getting into a bit of a routine, knowing the stops along the way, the toothless ancient woman begging at the intersection near the gas station, the quivering and quaking veteran with Parkinson's lying on the grass near our turn toward La Chureca ... the children greeting us outside the entrance to the school ... including Tito with his wild hair the telltale reddish color that indicated severe malnutrition. 

When we got to the school, Jordan made a beeline to Tito and gave him his hat. Some days, there wasn't enough room in the school for all of the children who gathered outside the gates. We'd discovered that we saw different children each day, though we did get to know many of the regular attenders. Jordan got to know Tito one of the other days and had brought the hat that day hoping to give it to him. 

Inside, it was play time and the new ball was a big hit. Jordan took off with the kids and I headed to the play yard in the back to finish our Big Painting Project. A short while later, Jordan came out and told me the ball hit the razor wire on top of one of the walls. He said one of the kids ran up to him, held his arms wide and said, "El pelota - BOOM!"

Fancy that. BOOM translates the same in English. So the memory will last much longer than the ball itself. I suppose that's the way these things go.

Putt. Putt. Pfftt.

Two boys, full of energy. Two rounds of putt putt. One pizza. Three ice cream cones. A dip in the pool. Two snacks A few rounds of catch in the yard. Two baths. Two more snacks. Stories and prayers and back scratching and finally... two sleepy boys. An infinity of priceless moments. One pooped aunty.

who needs punctuation

left work at 7 on a sunshiny Friday in time to enjoy a few minutes catching up with my daughter on the drive home before putting on some hot pink nail polish and going for peppermint ice cream with my big sister and molly pants in silly glasses and settling in with a glass of chilled wine and a furry purry cat and a book in my pjs because i dont have to go back to work for another 58 ish hours and its the weekend and im so thankful amen

When life gives you lemons...

Lemons from Kelly's lemon tree all the way in California. A refreshing treat!

I've been having those I'm-not-really-a-writer thoughts a lot lately. Those "wouldn't it be nice to be outside trimming trees instead of sitting at this desk" thoughts. Of course that could be because of all of the tree people I met with yesterday. The first one I met with is a certified arborist. He seemed to truly love his work. He admitted he was a tree hugger. He had me feeling quite emotional about all of the trees on my property. I now know all of their names. They're family now. Especially the one connected to my roof.

We're past the half way mark of the month and while I have been posting every day, I'm quite behind on the posts I wanted to do. There's still plenty of time, though. 

Tonight I asked my friend Deb what I should write about. She gave me a prompt: "His skin smelled of fresh lemons ..."

Well.

That gave me pause. I think perhaps the best thing for me to do is sleep on that one. Yes, indeed. I believe that's an important part of the writing process ...

9 Junio

9 Junio (June 9). 5:30 a.m. My last full day in Nicaragua. I awoke to the er er ér er of the roosters. After lying there for a few moments, I pulled on my shorts, brushed my teeth and headed up to the third floor. Even though I awakened most days around the same time, I had made it up here only few early mornings during my 10 days. It was a much-coveted and sacred space - for the beauty, the solitude, the breeze - and also for the clearer WiFi signal.

I wanted to capture just a portion of my experience of this place, so jotted down some of my observations ...

The raw beauty surrounding me ...

The medley of birds and other wildlife sounds blending with the muted but unmistakable sounds of traffic in the near distance ...

Punctuated now and then by one particularly loud rooster ...

Below, already so many more human voices than earlier in the week ...

People are everywhere now - perched at every available cluster of tables, swinging in every hammock ... reading, journaling, praying - alone and in small groups ...

Across from me - a woman reading the biography of Steve Jobs - so different from the students and chaperones with their bibles and "devo" journals I typically saw up here ...

Several others scattered about with computers, tapping into that precious signal ...

Oh look! Momotombo in the distance!

A soft breeze blowing ... the palms gently swaying and swooshing, quietly whispering goodbye ...

One mango tree heavy with fruit, just there ...

Tree People

I'm meeting with tree people this morning. No, not that kind. 

Tree man on Las Ramblas, Barcelona 2005.

Not this kind, either.

Tree lady in Parc Güell, Barcelona 2005.

The kind that remove trees that have fallen on houses. I wish they were one of these other kinds, though. That would be cool. And less expensive.