think inside the box

it's a business term, "think outside the box". we all know what it means - be open to new ideas, be fearless, creative, daring. it is a metaphor i understand, and try to honor, but i am weary of it.

a ride across the river today made me think of a big box, a great big box that always came down from the attic or up from the basement soon after thanksgiving. and when it was dragged dusty into the living room, the christmas season had arrived. everything necessary for a festive season was inside - lights and ornaments, garland and bubble lights, the sparkly green rotating tree that spun on a tall needle with the help of a 25 watt green bulb. there was a creche and some stockings, and tinsel and old fashioned reflectors.

my sister and i loved that box and everything it in it. at the end of the season when it came time for a new year, we would pack christmas back in there, carefully very carefully. sometimes we would write a note to ourselves and leave it on top, so that when the box was opened the following year we would find a piece of paper wishing merry christmas to us, with love, from us.

that particular box was one to think inside of, not outside. the box held tradition and memories and always hope, all disguised in purples and greens and reds. it smelled like dried pine and ancient cardboard and it reminded us that no matter what else was happening christmas would come and it would go and it would come again. the box held hope, old surprises ever new,

and promise.

i feel short on those things just now, short on hope, and short on promises. short on patience, short on sleep, short on energy, fascination and perserverence.

and so as i remember that box, i am also reminded that thinking inside could be just the tonic i need.

remember that no matter how the world is spinning out of control, sometimes crashing like a an agry wave on a frozen shore, that there is always hope and always promise, all tucked in and waiting for whenever the time comes that i am ready to receive them again.

so a wish and a hope

for happy new year,

and several of them.

thanks for visiting come back soon

i hadn't traveled for a holiday in a long time. in the past few years the places i used to go were not there any more. there were new places but i was too sick or overwhelmed to go there, so plans were cancelled at the last minute or never made at all.

a crisp blue sky had been shaken out like a bedspread over scenic highway US 31 today. resorts and gingerbread houses, shops and docks and supperclubs and bandshells. sweet summer homes with a view of lake michigan buttoned up for the winter, tinsel lollipops and wreathes and candles fastened on the light poles, up high. in one small town there was a balsam in the square in the middle of town. it was 60 feet tall and covered from tip to its' final bough in shiny paper plates - hundreds of them. it looked like an activity the whole town had been on, as some were ornately decorated with patterns and textiles and ribbons, and others had simple smiley faces or crayon scrapes. they all swayed in the thanksgiving breeze, each dangling in their places by a length of red yarn.

people must be happy here. look at all those families wandering around with smiles and coffee and bags. and a couple dressed exactly alike, in black paints and orange jackets with black stripes, laughing arm in arm as they walked their two black labs.

people must be happy here.

a few miles down the road afther the miles had flown fast under the truck, the scenic highway changed it's mind. every half mile or so, another small broken house with its' eyes shut tight. torn shades and sheets in the windows, plastic over most of one side, no front step and a few beaters in the yard. the houses were not worth much, nor did the lots they were on, i imagined. and i wondered what kind of a holiday unfolds in those kitchens and living rooms?

and whether or not people are happy in there.

something hit me in the grocery store today, something sad. i was reaching for a bottle of capers and it was like an emotional hot flash. suddenly i felt quieter and kinder and like i was missing something or someone, missing badly.

this is my favorite season, this beautiful fall, and it is also a season of loss for me. mom and martha died in september, dad in october, jim in december. i lost forever the freedom of never having to think about my heart in november. the weather is blessedly cool, even cold - which i adore, the colors are crazy spilled paints on even the most depressing canvas, everything that is dying is beautiful.

i went to an art show yesterday. my darling cyndi was showing her mosaics and 3d collages at a place called the casket arts builing in northeast minneapolis. they used to make caskets - for people, not for wine) there years ago, and now it is 4 floors of warm stone walls, planed and polished wood floors, skylights and comfortable cushions, and 4 stories of artists.

cyndi's art was the best of course, and how pretty she was in her blazer and black skirt! she fixed a round of vodka pomegranite cocktails on the rocks, and, after visiting with her, i went off to explore.

the artists, all siting in studio, seemed very far away from me, even if they were happy to have visitors, which most were. there were a few that seemed to be slathered in their own pain, so as to have a greater impact on the viewer. after all, if you want to be an artist you have to be afraid of something.

i felt out of place. even the pieces i loved the most could only hold me for a minute, because it hurt to look at them. where does this come from? the ideas for the color, texture, content, medium? how do they think this stuff up? it makes me feel like i am missing something. i gues this is the appropriate season to feel that.

i want something. i want to be something like they are, do something like they do. i don't understand any of it, and it scares me.

on the other hand, like i said, you have to be afraid of something, right?

that guy's not amish

on a perfect, perfect, early fall afternoon, i noticed an ad in a magazine about Amish mantles. it is a two page spread and it talks about the miracle heaters that slash bills and look so real it's amazing. the portable "Roll-n-Glow Fireplaces" are a home decorating sensation, it says. Good Housekeeping has given them a thumbs up. you will save money: each unit only uses about 8 cents an hour; so turn down your thermostat and never be cold again~!

these babies are handmade in the heart of Amish country USA, and there is a limit of two per household. you know those amish handcrafters, they would hate to overpromise.

my eyes wander back to the photo of the Amish factory where these are made and i say to myself, hey, that guy's not Amish!

the "Amish guy" in the photo has nice cheekbones, a fake beard, and a belly. everyone knows Amish men don't have bellies.

a lass behind him has on a crisp green frock and a pastry cap nesting on her neat coif as she lovingly massages oiled cloth into the swirled wood surface of a handmade mantel.

she's fake too.

i feel like i know more about what is real and not real today, this luscious fall afternoon. because last night i went back home and found my real.

i played comedysportz from 1990 - 2002. i was an orginal member, i was funny, and i could sing. after my first 10 years there i realized that in the past decade everything about my life had changed...my job, my career, my marriage, my circle of friends, my family...so much evolution! the one thing that remained a constant through all those changes was comedysportz. a troupe with a big heart and a lot of determination and we had 6 opening nights because when we got kicked, we got up. and sometimes we were kicked pretty hard.

i left 7 years ago because i felt too old, too fat, too unfunny, and too unwelcome. perhaps those things were not true, but that was how i felt when i walked out for the last time. it was after an 8 o'clock show on a Friday evening in October, 2002.

last night i cashed in my invitation to play again, after 7 years, to celebrate the 20th. nervous, so nervous!!!!

i had the time of my life.

my friends and i have all grown up and we have all turned out so well! we felt honored to see each other, we each wanted every other each to have a great time and that happened, that did happen because of us!

for so long i have worn myself out thinking about how i should be, just how should i be?

Like this!

just like i was with my friends on stage last night. i felt more real in the imgaination of the evening than i have for a very long tie. art imitates life after all!

and they say you can't go home again.

i've died and gone to dayton's

the name has changed three times in the last several years but it will always be daytons to me. thirty years ago when i was new to minnesota i had heard about this department store temple, mecca, icon...i had no money back then and my college debt was mounting, but i could share a cup of wild rice soup with a girlfriend in the skyroom. it came with a free popover, cold ice water in thick glass goblets and service that made us both feel fabulously wealthy. all for under ten bucks.

in my early 30's my best friend, frank and i would go to daytons and breathe the perfume, play with cosmetics and browse the sale racks. we would usually end up in the men's department where my darling frank would buy smoothe new packages of white polo briefs (easier than doing laundry). we would look at the jewelry and choose a new scent for him so he would smell good for his new boyfriend. and on our way out, even though i was still strapped for cash, he would pull me to the clinique counter and insist i purchase something because it was give-away-time.

and then we would walk down the center aisle, flanked by lancome and estee and chanel and we would feel so rich under those magnificent fairy tale chandeliers. his boots and my flipflops slapping on the white marble, with beautiful people in pastel smocks behind glittering counters smiling at us; have a great day!

frank and i thought we should design a logo that said

i've died and gone to dayton's

dayton's!



no one did christmas like dayton's. decades ago, the window displays were temporarily given over to puppets and holiday scenes. shiny dollmaker elves tapping a smile onto a doll in one motion, and placing it in a box the next. mrs santa taking cookies out of the oven, then winking and putting them back in. fluffy snow and tiny brass bands -- a wonderland of windows at 8th and nicollet.



i bought my first pair of contacts at dayton's. and pair of faux snake pumps when i could wear that kind of thing. a pink silk suit for a keynote presentation in front of an international audience; and the best little black dress that ever was.



it was a thick jersery material, off the shoulder with a belt and circle skirt -- i looked at it and looked at it and looked at it and it was finally 40% off and in my closet shortly thereafter. we went to the theater together, that dress and i, and out to dinner, and to weddings, and it was that kind of dress that fit me no matter what and looked almighty every time.



it was a sleepy at dayton's today, when i stopped in to pick up a few things for vacation. i wandered all over the 4th floor (lingerie, women/children's apparel, better dresses, bridal salon, beauty shop), choosing items here and there. as i packed up my things in the third or eight dressing room i noticed something was missing.



my purse.



the sales associates who caught me as i blasted from the fitting room went into immediate action.

where were you? which department? did you use any other fitting rooms? let the other sales associates on 4 know that a purse is down! for the love of god, call security!

and most importantly

OMG it was a COACH - we have to find it!

we found it. a very nice woman in one of the fitting rooms picked it up and told me she was going to bring it out to the desk after she finished trying on this one blouse, but she heard me so "OH SHIT". she peeked out the door and said "lose your purse?"

i was so relieved, i thanked her profusely and told her that color looked great on her (which it did).

walking out of daytons up the center aisle i smelled citrus and musk, lilacs and roses, clean linen and pineapple. i had my purse, i had some new shorts and a new bra.

but i can't remember what ever happened with the little black dress.

the devil is in the details

i have long envied those people you see sitting at coffee shops in the middle of the day. they sit there with iced lattes and italian sodas and chat or read or facebook or write or just sit. how can those people be so lucky to be sitting at an outdoor cafe on a gorgeous august day in shorts and straw hats? don't they work? maybe this is their day off or maybe they are on vacation or unemployed or rich.

i was one of those people today. after several weeks of thinking i would be one of them sooner, i finally felt well enough to take my place at the neighborhood coffee shack, order up a tall cold one with lots of ice and put my feet up in the shade. ah, this is living!

there were plenty of tables next to mine but the two friends who were there to catch up with each other chose the one right next to mine, and it was RIGHT next to mine. there was plenty of room for me to slide my table over or for them to, but i did not want to appear rude so kept on sipping and faking a good read.

they were in there early 4o's and a bit hippie-ish, maybe i felt that way because i spent 4 hours watching woodstock this weekend, but he did have a very long ponytail and she, a mass of long curls. they wore simple t-shirts and shorts and rugged sandals and her toenails were too long and painted mauve. he sipped a hot beverage and nibbled on cheesecake, she had a root beer and they both smoked marlboro lights.

being a sometimes smoker myself, i would not have expected to be annoyed by their puffs but i was. it wasn't just the cigarettes, she was loud and i mean loud and did i say loud. they talked about being unemployed and possible job opportunities, they shared bar gossip and then he talked about the new book he was starting to write. evidently it will start in a coffee shop. there didn't seem to be much to the plot but she was oo-ing and wow-ing over every phrase, leaning and and telling him how proud she was of him.

they each had cell phones and who doesn't these days, and i wondered if cell phones are partly responsible for people being so public about all of their their conversations. voices are louder and bigger than they used to be. it feels intrusive to me, and a little bit rude. no more quiet tones and private sharing, just lamplified sentences colliding over coffee.

there was a woman in the grocery store yesterday who stood within an arms reach of the spice aisle with her cart and she was having a long conversation with someone about this and that who would be at the party and did she really say that? she was standing solidly and did not react to an excuse me as i tried to get in front of her in search of a good rib rub. spice i mean, i was not interesed in rubbing her ribs although i suppose we were close enough.

last week it was a jewish man with long grey curls cascading from his yamaka, standing so close to the dvd's at half-price books i could not see the middle of the alphabet. excuse me...no reaction. pardon me...nope. he talked about who was picking up which kids and how did that all turn out and what time whatever whatever.

i'm an observer. it is what i love and what i do best and i am still trying to figure out how to make money at it. i remember useless but sometimes interesting details -- and even so, it annoys me that i can't just ignore these people and their details and go back to my browsing or reading.

in the meantime, human beings are so much more intimiate with conversations they have in public with people they cannot see than they are involved in what is happening in their own space in each moment. what is it about being able to connect with anyone any time that washes away any self consciousness we used to feel when we called people from a phone booth? a booth! a whole tiny private room!

but here we are chatting up everything from the mundane to the most serious comparisons of the human condition, and we do it on the lightrail, or on the sidewalk, or at gate 35 on the green concourse or in the spice aisle. privacy does not seem to matter, and with that, good manners sometimes disappear, too.

oh well, like i said

this is living.

it's a johnny bravo world

you remember that episode, don't you? greg brady thinks he is getting his big break and will be a hip rock star. they give him this groovy pantsuit - elvis inspired - lots of sparklies and he thinks he is the coolest cat ever! all that talent wrapped up in polyester and sequins...what a dream come true. but after his recording session he is so confused -- "hey that doesn't sound like me at all!"

well of course kid. we don't really care how good you can sing, cuz we can make it sound however we like. point is, you fit the suit.

my new friend and i were talking on the phone the other afternoon, she 5 weeks further into her recovery than mine, so each of us trying not to laugh but making each other laugh anyway, and bonnie pointed out that people seem to get famous for no apparent reason these days -- case in point, paris hilton or the kardashians. the suit fits and it looks great on camera so AFTER that, they figure out how to move around in that suit and how to talk and what to say and how will it play on camera. in some cases it does not matter who you are or what you have to say in the first place - if the suit fits everything can be changed around to satisfy the designer.

lately i have been obsessed with the beales of grey gardens. i missed the hbo movie but got my hands on the orginial documentary, thinking it would be interesting to see how those two crazy broads justified what seemed like outrageous behavior to the rest of the world.

oh my, was i surprised.

we all are characters of one sort or another, but some of us are much better at it than others.

nothing was really crazy at grey gardens, in fact it was refreshing and touching to see two women who were so unashamedly authentic. big edith sits sunning herself naked but for a towel in one scene and later sings old songs in a strong voice from her bed. little edith wears turbans with brooches and marches to a dance number in the hall. she chose her outfits with such care and orginality that she inspired a layout in Vogue magazine. several cats and piles of piles might not be something most of us would call "homey" but these two women were as real and true to themselves and to the world than anyone who creates a persona only after finding out what it should be used for.

it is a good and valuable lesson.

edith says it much better than i....see what you think, and thanks ladies!


http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWEeJbuF3bM

where everybody knows your name

even thought they know your name, they ask you all the time anyway, and then what is your birthdate, just to make sure you are you but they all know your name. hi linda hi linda good morning linda how are you linda...

there is much to do in pre-op, lots of questions and a new outfit with vacuum cleaner hose holes and fuzzy socks with treads, a cap for later. i was uneasy and nervous when the double doors outside my cube burst open and a gigantic man with big blue jeans, a black polo shirt and a worn out canvas brief case barreled his presence into pre-op. he tried to sneak by my bed but nice nurse tammi nabbed him and there he was towering over me grabbing at my right hand. he was the pillsbury dough boy crossed with an old ray bolger with a little bit of jack nicholson attitude.

the nurse said "we were just going to find a good vein but then we saw you and you are so much better at it"... and without even saying hello he flicked the top of my right hand hard with long knockworst fingers and then smacked it again and within a second the needle was deep in my vein and i was iv ready. this big old grumpy grampa in a black polo shirt did it almost with his eyes closed, taped it all down and that was that.

off he went and nice nurse said "he just happened to be on his way in and i grabbed him, he's the best. he will be your anesthesiologist"

uh oh.

i was crying when they wheeled me into the operating room which has become my habit and it comforts me that no one notices or is bothered by it. there are so many of them and there is so much to do and they each have their special tasks. the way they took charge of every piece of me was so comforting. i had no idea what was happening, but to them, it was just a wednesday morning.

ok linda we're going to slide you over, put your bottom right above that hole. we're going to wrap you up and tuck your arms under you. now we are wrapping your legs with these these pressure cuffs to keep your blood moving nicely and we are going to put lots of stickers on you, sit up just a little honey, ok lie back down linda now you are going to start to feel relaxed...

bring it on dr b.

many hours later, in the middle of the night, a storm rolled in over downtown minneapolis and i was so glad it was all over. time for a check of vitals and a dose of an iv blood product, which of course required the nurse to ask me my name again.

what's your name honey?

mariah carey.

:)

eviction notice

i can't believe i ever called her my friend. that bitch. she showed up when i was 12 and terrified me. i didn't know who or what she was but there she was, in front of me, a part of me and i have never liked her. my sister told me who she was and how long she'd be staying and then finally gave me her copy of "growing up and liking it" which she had received when she was a girl scout. i never received my own copy, having never made it past one season of brownies.

i have had it with you, old maid. we have spent approximately 2,736 days together these past 38 years and i haven't enjoyed one of them. not one!

remember the time you showed up unexpectedly when i was just starting to teach a class on leadership in st cloud? it was my birthday and i drove through the thickest scariest fog to get there and you followed me. i wasn't ready for you but you SO didn't care. i was already so stressed but you just laughed out loud and made me feel self-conscious.

or what about when you marched your ass into the dressing room opening night of "into the woods" at theater in the round? you didn't peak around the corner this time, or give me a coy little poke and wink saying "here i come...i'll be with you soon..." no -- this time you fell from the sky in a heavy drunken thump and freaked me out because again you were not expected till next week and dammit my costume - my GOWN-- it was white and you almost ruined my evening.

so you old hag, a couple of weeks ago notice was thereby issued that i am to be rid of you once and and for all and i told you there was nothing you could do about it.

but you, in your tenacious, stubborn, SNEAKY way, decided to have one last hurrah, didn't you. you tangled yourself up at 4 this morning and then you twisted and punched at the tangles and woke me up to torture me one last time. bonus for you -- i can't take ibuprofen for the next few days because of you know why, and you are delighted! listen ragsucker, that is a super mean trick.

i'm trying to think of something nice to say about you, and about the time we have spent together but, sorry aunt flo, nothing is striking me. instead i am remembering the days before over-the-counter medication that actually worked was available. those days of lying in agony with a hot pad on my stomache and the only thing that that did was burn my skin and make my hair sweat. you made me cry and you made me ache and i have hated you and you need to GO!

wait a sec -- there might be something. give me a minute.

ok, here's one: whenever you visited in the seventh grade, you were my "no questions asked" excuse not to have to take a shower after gym class. i hated that ritual and i was never sweaty anyway but those mean old coaches with pleated skirts and tanned varicose veins insisted we get nude and rinse off. god i was glad when you were there!

and you know what? nobody craves a better feast than you. today, in preparation for our parting, you drove me to porters for a gigantic cheeseburger and fries and two cold beers. midafternoon you lured me into the bedroom, presented me with a pile of fresh pillows, a glass of wine and a great chick flick, and you gave me permission -- no! a directive -- to lounge for a couple of hours even though so many things needed doing.

and what about those times that i paced the floor waiting for you - sometimes for days, and i worried i might not see you -- not for several months! those were crushingly tense days and nights. but you always did arrive, and when you did i cried my eyes out, so relieved that you decided to come and only sorry about the pain after my joy had subsided.

OK OK, we've been through a lot together. but listen cousin, time for you to go. we are getting along worse than ever these days and it isn't good for either one of us.

wednesday is the day, so be sure and say everything you need to say before 7am on the 29th. go ahead, say what you need to say.

by the way, thanks for ordering up spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner, my friend,

and brownies for dessert.

if there is anything else, i am listening.

edna's dreams

to eliminate any confusion, "edna lizard" is an annagram (spelling?) for my real name. some of you know that....

even still -- she is a real someone, that edna - a switched up mixed up, more enlightend me, and i adore her. and her lessons.

in the entries here, i typically try very hard to make sense out of an observation, a thought, a conversation, a fear...

but on edna's blog, she just describes what she sees and smells and feels when she is dreaming.

love that about her. edna says

"things don't need to make sense right now. patience child! just keep observing. the meaning will come if you don't try to make sense of it, so stop trying".

ednadreaming.blogspot.com

madonna in the poop

a young hispanic man went outside to wash his truck yesterday and noticed some bird poop on one of the mirrors. miraculously, the poop had drizzled itself into a perfect vision of the virgin mary (they super-imposed mary over the poop spot on the news and i mean i totally saw the holy mother in that poop!!!!!).

it has become quite the spectacle! people are stopping by and kneeling in front of the rearview mirror shrine and praying and crying. one woman who was interviewed at the scene said "when i first saw it, i started shaking. it is such a miracle!"

i'm fascinated in learning about what people believe in. in the book "the magic of believing" claude bristol talks about his studies of various religions, cults, and spiritual practices around the world. he found one common denominator in all of them -- and that is that every person believes. some believed they would be safe and unharmed walking across fire, and for others it was commiting their souls to heaven, others still, praying for rain -- whatever it was they were believing in...

it worked.

is this an example of the power of our minds to accomplish things? the power of the connection between our hearts and the universe? the tendons stringing our mortal will to our own destinies?

belief in itself is a mystical thing. it brings comfort, assurance and quiet. in it's purest form, it eliminates all doubt from the things we hope for and dream of...all of those thingsthat we know are right and true and necessary.

the guy who owned the truck said he has removed the mirror and will preserve the stain so people can continue to stop by and look at it

and believe.

what are you trying to prove?

i had an idea last night that combines my fascination for three things i have been studying for a little time or a long time: creativity, mindfulness, and self-awareness.


i got the idea from an article in "O" magazine so of course that means once i make a pile'o dough my "product" will be one of Oprah's favorite things.


kathie helped me bat the concept around this afternoo. kathie has such a great mind for this kind of thing and maybe i see that because we think so much alike. when either of us sprouts a new idea, the other looks into her brain as if it were a mirror but we each are looking at different elements of the image.

she is brilliant.

anyway, this process, this "kit", i have created will give the bearer of it the ability to record an idea, thought, moment, or conversation instantly -- and no technology allowed.

after some time passes, we shall look back on our musings reflect on why we chose them, how we represented them, where they came from, and why they were worty of documentation...

and that will tell us a LOT!


kathie said "what? what will it tell us? what do we expect might happen or what we might find, or what might this experiment prove?"

these are very good questions. however,

hush! i don't know what will happen yet! it is just an experiment.


and it starts tomorrow.

oops!

tonight!

michael jackson

i'm watching a recap of michal jackson's funeral with barbara walters, a glass of wine and my own broken promise - "no cigarrettes allowed in the bedroom".

when michael was alive i was one of many who called him a freak, a sad case, a crazy disturbed man. what did he do to those kids and why so many surgeries? freak!

now that he is gone the world is joining in a celebration of the talent, the genius, the gift that he was, and that is what we are remembering.

turns out the bad stuff was conjecture. never proven, no factual evidence that held up in court. all hear-say from people much less rich and perhaps more vulnerable than michael. but we are not remembering that now, now that he is dead we are feeling sorry for him, and for ourselves.

true or false, it reminds me that there are so many more sides than one to each story, and how we as humans tend to latch on to the worst side -- the alleged bad behavior, the things that someone said that someone said. we forget the talent and we forget the genious and we forget the goodness and are not aware of the legacy

until someone is gone.

and then we forget all of that gossip and feel thankful for what he or she was, gave us, and aren't we better people for forgiving him. oh forget all the bad thoughts we had -- what a great loss!

as it happens, he doesn't need our forgiveness, not any more, he's dead. but we forgive and celebrate to make ourselves feel better and hopefully he will hear us now because we were silent when he was with us and now we have changed our minds. some of us anyway, others believed in him all along.

i am feeling a bit ashamed of myself, to have judged a man who had such a sad and tortured life. rather than try to understand, to believe in the gift, to just let him be in my imagination, i joined the gossip, shook my head, and muttered about the tragedy of what he had become, all the time turning my back on the greatness.

to be human, and to cling to the human response of scandal is something many of us do, and i only hope there is a lesson here.

some stories are never truly told. lies become reality and truth lives in darkness.

rest in peace michael jackson,

my profound regrets for not truly honoring your life

till now,

now that you are gone.

S & H Greenstamps

the s & h greenstamp redemption center in west barrington, rhode island was a magnificent place, a long time ago.

when i was a kid they gave out s & h greenstamps at almacs, the grocery store in downtown barrington. i don't know what the ratio was between dollars spent and stamps issued, but after the total purchase amount was determined, the cashier would tap in the dollar amount of our purchase in the fancy stamp dispenser on top of her register, spin the wheel, and like magic strings and strings of tiny green stamps would swirl around her hands and into ours (mom's).

in the very olden days the stamps came out like teeny tiny green rectangles, all in perfect sheets of perforation-- red-"s" stamped splendor. in the nearly not so olden days, an innovation resulted into larger green stamps worth 10 each. so instead of filling an entire page with tiny stamps you could lick one column of the tenners for the same value. genius!

when i was ten and less, big sister susie and i would spend rainy saturdays in front of the tv. small dishes of water with scraps of clean sponges in them...empty "books", and plastic bags filled with stamps as we sat on the couch with tv trays licking and sticking.

the monkees and hr puffenstuff and katherine hepburne entertained us as the stickly sweet smell of glue filled those pages and turned our tongues green.

you could get almost anything you needed or wanted with greenstamps. electric blankets, silver plated candleabras, tiny backyard grills, stuffed animals, tablecloths, china and flatware, an amazing array of household goods -- all for a price. 10 books, 150 books, 3 books...

just before 6th grade i turned in my books for a floppy stuffed dalmation with a bell in his ear and i named him floppy. a few weeks later i came down with an odd and scary case of bronchitus, almost died. i spilled orange soda on him during a coughing fit and stained his left hind rump. felt bad about that. not sure what happened to him.

years later, when i married the first time ,my mom turned over a basketful of greenstamp books to me and my groom and off we went, my new husband and i. we selected stoneware dishes (service for four), an electric blanket, flatware with woodgrain handles, and, of course a toaster.

all the things i thought you were supposed to have once you became a grownup.

all my work paid off, those saturdays. i had everything i needed to be a true grown up.

all from the redemption center in west barrington, rhode island.

turns out (30 years later) that s & h didn't have quite everything i needed to be a grown up.

but there might be another redemption center someplace,

i'll keep looking.

fresh clean scent

there was a woman in front of me at the target check-out this morning. she had short silver-pepper hair and a firm stocky build, supported by two artificial legs. the waistband of her black jersey sweatpants was crooked, and both of her ankles looked different. one was a metal contraption pushed into a white tennis shoe, the other was white plastic and it was also pushed into a white tennis shoe.



out the corner of her eye she saw me plop my brand new celery green garden boots on the belt, followed by a matching two gallon watering can. she cocked her head a bit to get a better look at my selections



and i said



"i've always wanted garden boots, and today is the day!"



"good for you!" she said, and then "look! they match your new watering can. since you will be so color coordinated, i guarantee everything will bloom perfectly."



"serious?"



"call me if i am wrong."



as her items were being scanned i continued to place all of the things i didn't come in here for on the counter... three new t-shirts, citronella candles, and a small box of fabric softner sheets.



i asked her



"have you heard that if you stuff a fabric softner sheet in your pocket when you are gardening, the bugs won't bother you?"



"does that work?"



"i have no idea. i'll find out this afternoon."



"in your new boots!"



i thought about her later as i poked tiny begonias into a brand new flowerbox. i had my boots on and a fabric softner sheet stuffed in my pocket. i wondered how she lost her legs. was she diabetic? had it been cancer? was she a soldier? born that way?



i wondered what her life was like and who she loved and what she knew and if she hurt and



then i noticed,



no bugs.

cash in her bra

i had lunch the other day with my new friend, joan. she told me about her recent speaking gigs, connections she is making, and books and articles she is reading. joan is always striving to power up her content as a motivational speaker. she takes excellent care of herself and goes to the gym every day to walk the track. she has now decided she needs to add weightlifting to her regime.

joan is 87.

how we met is another story entirely, but the two of us have gotten together twice for lunch, and we plan to do it every month. i give her ideas for new contacts and she gives me advice.

"what do you want to be doing in five years?" she asked me.

"i want to be a writer. well i kind of am a writer but i would like to be published."

"what are you doing about it? are you in a writing group? have you researched magazines that would carry your essays?"

"well, no."

"Action! Action! Action! Make a plan! Set a goal! It won't happen if you don't maket it happen! DO IT!"

this is a woman who has reinvented herself many times, and will never be finished. when a divorce left her needing income, she put on a skirt shorter than she was used to wearing and walzed into dayton's to apply for a job in the fashion department, which of course she got. she was thrown out of the palmer house in chicago in 1972 because she was wearing pants. not just pants, sleek trousers with a floorlenght silk vest - an outfit that would bring Mary Richards to tears in envious grief.

last weekend, joan read a book about power -- feeling power and turning that feeling into a reality. the guy who wrote it had $5000.00 in total sum for a graduation or some such thing, so he took part of it and purchased a $1000.00 suit. he put it on and tucked another $1000.00 in his pocket, and just walked around to see what it felt like.

it changed his life. he believed he could accomplish anything - and hey guess what -- he is published!

then my friend told me she is planning a trip to chicago sometime soon. she will ride the train and and enjoy the scenery and she will go alone. several people have asked to go along but she has told them

"no, i want to go alone. i want to have conversations and enjoy dinner in fine restaurants and experience all of it! i don't want any distractions."

and, while she is there, my friend joan is planning to purchase a $1000.00 suit, and pin $1000.00 in her bra

and walk the miracle mile just to see what it feels like.

how i would love to go with her, but she does not want any distractions.

never the less,

she'll tell me all about it at lunch

and i'll keep you posted.

his gentle spirit

he was taken away from us much too soon, but now he is with god, and flying with the angels. he lit up every room with his beautiful smile, and was gentle and kind to everyone. everyone wanted to be around him, and his wonderful laugh. he will be dearly missed by all who knew him.

why do all obituaries sound the same? just once i would like to see a different kind of truth.

what a selfish bum. he was a mooch and a meanie. his mind was filthy and he was always watching out for himself at the expense of everyone else. he used people, stunk, and was basically an ugly excuse for a human being. we are really glad he's dead. wish it happened sooner, took longer, and hurt more. good riddance, loser.

i mean, come on! can all dead people be that nice? there must be a bum in there somewhere.

otherwise all the wrong people are dying.

planting wishes

i planted a wish today. actually, it was a small strip of something pink and compostable that was magically filled with tiny wild flower seeds and on it, it said "wish". it was attached to a birthday card i received on my 50th from some ones dear to me. i soaked it in a clean red clay dish of water and then dug a tiny tiny trough, soaked it some more and then covered it with an inch of potting mix, then gently swept the cedar chips back in place. i don't know what kinds of flowers they are, or if they will come up, or if, when they do they will have the proper amount of sun, or if they will be too tall for the front part of the garden. i don't know anything about them except they told me to wish and that is what i am doing. what am i wishing? i am not sure but whatever my wish is, what a perfect idea to tuck it into something cool and warm and safe, and let it reach it's tiny roots down as it pokes it's tiny head up and then we shall see what we shall see. so my wish is snuggled in and i believe in it, even though i am not exactly sure what i am wishing for. when it comes up, and when i see it, then i will know.

the proper gardner

yesterday afternoon, a tiny old lady was sweeping the sidewalk of her tidy home on minnehaha parkway. i was happy for the red light so i could sit and watch her for 2.3 minutes. she must have had her hair done yesterday - little old ladies do that on saturdays, and it was silver white, puffy and perfect. she was wearing a short sleeved white blouse and light blue capri slacks, both crispy clean with neat creases where creases ought to be. sturdy sensible shoes helped her bend and balance, balance and bend as she swept some flower dust and helicopters off her front walk with her O Cedar angler broom and pale yellow (perfectly spotless) dustpan.

in line at the garden store there were three old people behind me in the long long line. one man in a nice shirt and casual pants, leather belt and walking shoes. two women with perfect hair (of course), one darker than the other, and both wore comfy pants and bright sweaters, one red and one light green. jewelry? of course. dangly chains around their necks and matching earrings.

being the curious person i am (read: snoop), i listened in on their conversation which trailed around from topic to topic -- betty's new hip and the crackpot who did the surgery, what a whack job he is! betty should sue but she won't but she should. they wondered about the plants people around them were purchasing and marveled at the money being spent...these three with their shopping cart containing three small pots of pink petunias.

next to the check out lines ther were piles and piles of every kind of dirt and soil you can imagine...topsoil, sterile garden dirt, potting mix, moisture control...all by Miracle Grow. one said

"who owns that outfit? look at all that stuff! we oughta buy stock in that outfit!"

old man answered "scott - it's a scott company"

"well we ought to buy stock. look at all those piles. people buying it up like crazy. who ever thought we would see the day when people are paying good money for dirt?"

and finally this afternoon at garden store number 2, another pretty old lady with a fresh do was carefully placing one medium sized pot of bright red geraniums in the back seat of her car, but only after being sure the towel in the back seat was in place so as not to soil the apholstery. denim jacket, black pants (the backs of which were covered with white cat hair), large shell earrings, and again, a good pair of shoes.

when i shop garden stores and when i garden, i try my best to make sure my t-shirt is not stained and my shorts aren't too tight. it's ok to be sloppy when you are considering dirt, yes?

what a shame for me, how embarrasing for me. oh dear -- what i look like!

the proper gardner cares about his or her appearance at all times. it is the respectable way to choose plants and care for them.

and don't forget

the sensible shoes.

wanting what we don't have

spring comes finally, and summer close behind. we have just begun to dig in dirt and lay our heads back on tall lawn chairs under cool night breezes and smell the lilacs and then

97 degrees. hot winds. twisty sleep.

i am resisting air conditioning with all my might this year. someone in print recently compared the hot hot summer to the cold cold winter - in either case we settle in and forbid the elements from affecting our senses and our comfort. in the frost of winter we light candles and fires and cover up toasty in blankets, watch movies and fall to sleep early.

in the drenching sweat of summer we light candles (watch out for the effect of ceiling and floor fans), cover up in blankets (we like it cold), watch movies and fall asleep while the sun is still up.

funny this minnesota proposition of how well we fare in the event of extreme temperatures, and i realize that as for me, i close myself off to very cold and very hot, so that in very cold i can feel quite warm, in the very hot i can feel quite cool. even chilly.

the grass is always greener, the snow is always whiter, and the woman in front of you at the grocery store always always has way better hair than you.

always.

wear a helmet!

i bought a new bike last weekend, a stunning and comfortable machine i hope to have forever. everyone i told said in return, "good for you, wear a helmet".

i used to think helmets were a good idea but kind of nerdy for less-than-racer types just out for a leisurely roll around the lake. but there are many who are much smarter than me who kept saying "wear a helmet".

$38 later i was delighted with my helmet, shiny, sleek and stylish. god i looked hot in that helmet. even though i'm just riding around the neighborhood...

"let's head for lake harriet, ok?" neighbor ted said with great enthusiasm as he admired my new bike and helmet. baby lucy was snuggled in the burly and i thought that sounded like an awfully long ride but i said

"ok!"

off we went. 16 miles later i am back home and loving the memory of that ride. gorgeous paths, fragrant blossoms arching overhead, and a sweet lemonade between there and here. lucy had crackers and learned the word "seagull" and we did see one unfortunate woman who crashed on the sidewalk and was taken away by lifelink.

she wasn't wearing a helmet.

ok everyone, lesson learned. enjoy the paths of this magnificent city, there is so much to see that i have never seen in my 30 years here. so much to explore.

and

wear a helmet.

the sound of silence

i spent my day today with several other people and we all were silent. the only thoughts i could hear were my own, and even some of those i pushed away in an effort to

just be.

silence is a lovely thing and we all were mindful as we slipped into various states of calm. we meditated on those we love and those we don't. we meditated on mountains and flew gently like eagles and windmills. we pushed and pulled the ocean, rowed across the big lake, and held the sun and moon in our outstretched hands.

when the silence was broken, we spoke very little. all of what is inside of us is still in residence there, but we have had a better look at it.

still, it is hard to describe.

may you have peace and love, health and strength, care and protection,

and may you live your life

with joy and ease.

namaste.

dana

a young attorney at 24, she tried cases wearing mini-skirts. she played bass guitar in a country western band. she is an accomplished chef, musician, pastor, intellectual, counselor,

and a good friend.

she worked at our place a decade ago, and when i heard she was coming back i wrote to an old friend and asked "what should i expect from this person, this leader? what advice do you have?" and my friend told me

"she will ask you hard questions, things you have never thought about. she will want you to do well. never lie to her, and most of all, appreciate every moment you can spend with her. she will amaze you."

that she did and that she does.

this afternoon amidst a throng of good people wishing good things, we sadly said farewell. eloquent tributes, funny stories, cake and flipflops - all were a part of the celebration of her. she will be truly missed but there is an organization out there so lucky, so lucky to place her at their helm. they don't know how her presence will change them,

as it changed me.

it was hard to say goodbye, it made me cry, so i gave her a hug and left her a card and hopefully i said what i needed to say but there are not enough words to tell someone who has lifted you up so many times how much they have meant to you. loss is hard.

i was poised at a stoplight on my home on this perfect spring afternoon. straight ahead and up high and out of no where, a balloon shaped like a gold star, with a sparkling curly string attached flew and blew over the cathedral of st paul. it twirled and danced and flew higher and higher and i watched it as long as i could as it flew out of sight.

beautiful things touch our lives, and then they fly away.

the best to you always, my friend

i thank you with love

for everything.

rituals

i keep wondering which way to go. a different direction is completely necessary but what happens when i find yourself lost in a new neighborhood? how do i get out? how do i find my way home?

aha! you don't get out! you make a new home! or fit differently in the one you come back to, in a warm and pleasant way.

there is a canadian tribe of indians who place the shoulder bone of a caribou over a hot fire to find out where next they should hunt. when the bone cracks, they take it off the fire and use it for a map. they may not know exactly where they will end up but their belief in the ritual brings the caribou there. if they went back to the same place where they had success the first time, eventually the herd would be gone.

in this case belief replaces convention, belief is bigger than hope, belief in something important is a means to survival and a way of life.

believing is a good ritual.

sometimes nothing is good enough

i dreamt last night of trying very hard to get someplace and never arriving. there were too many things in my way that i had to step over, so many problems that snuck up on me - like lost keys and soda that was much too warm, children toppling over store displays, and a sprained ankle.

all i wanted was to have a glass of wine on the porch, some porch, some porch that was home and there were people there who loved me. for some reason i didn't love them back but they made me feel welcome, and i finally got that glass of wine, but it was pink.

a moment or two after i awoke this morning the thunder started, then the rain, and i smiled so hard as i turned into the pillow, fluffed it, sat up, and prepared for a perfect sunday in the rain. plenty to do but nothing will get done today, because today nothing is a good enough thing to be a part of.

i watched "the three faces of eve" and i loved all of her faces. especially when they all came together. all the parts of her that didn't make sense lay quietly down to the strong part and she lived happily ever after with a hansome guy and a curly headed child. and they had ice cream cones just before the credits rolled.

in real life the real eve did not experience such a happy ending, her search for one face went on for another 18 years and i am not sure she ever found peace and wholeness and that is sad.

i wonder how many faces i have and i know that they know each other but they don't always get along. and i wonder when one of those faces will be stronger than the others, and show us all what for!

someday she will. but not today, because on this rainy sunday we are celebrating

nothing.

please sign here

we met each other head on but gently at the top of lane 3. the neighborhood grocer is one i try to avoid, but sometimes you are depsperate and just totally need a package of whole wheat tortillas and a people magazine.

we both turned into the check out lane at the same time. it seemed to startle her, but i was in no hurry, and so told her

'"no, you go ahead".

she was surprised at this kindness, almost suspicious, as i had two items and she had more than that, but when i smiled and said - please you first, she smiled back and started placing her items on the belt.

a bag of tortilla chips, a bottle of welches grape juice, some fresh celery, and a few other things. an odd assortment of flavors that don't go together but sometimes you get a ferocious craving for things you want because you have not tasted that particular thing for a very long time.

perhaps the was the case and perhaps not.

she looked familiar, so familiar.

i noticed her outfit and everything about her, there was something that asked me to look at her and so i did. a half-cowl turtleneck, long denim circle skirt with tiny zipper accents, and brown boots. her hair was full and soft red and tossled; blue eyes, silver earrings.

her total was $21.13 and when he told her that her eyes widened and she panicked for a moment - "do i sign or not?" she hovered over the card scanner and twiddled the electronic pen as if she had never done such a thing but wanted you to know she knew all about this machine. she seemed to want to do everything right.

i know her, i am sure i know her

or at least i know about her. we all do.

is it really her? thinking back to photos of a weary face deep with wrinkles, white hair and sad eyes...but who wouldn't look like that? who wouldn't look like that?!

she took her groceries outside to her van, her light brown van, and i wondered if it was pleasant or mournful to be in that van. She climbed into that brown van with her brown paper bag, and then she drove away.

i had read so much about her these past few years and weeks, easy to form an opinion when one side of the story is printed in black and white while you enjoy coffee and pajamas and freedom.

seems to me we all do our time, in one way or another.

surely she has done hers.

and on this saturday afternoon, here she was alive in front of me, vulnerable, awake, and frightened.

not a story in a newspaper.

a lovely breathing woman, just buying some stuff

and wondering how cash cards work.

the nail is up

It isn't a nail, it's a spike. A big rusty nail-like spike. It was pounded into the patio many years ago as it connected to a piece of tough vinyl that was an anchor for a screen porch. Val and Roy Engstrom lived here for 49 years before we did, and they loved their screen porch tent thing that they set up on the patio every summer. We've heard stories of excellent drinks and scandinavian jokes and great steaks and hot nights and so much to laugh about. All of this in the screen porch tent thing.

There is one spike left and every spring it pops up out of one of the pavers. It pushes it's way up from the mud underneath the patio as if it were a fern or hosta or daisy - waking up, pushing up, time to get up.

The first year I saw it in it's popped up position I panicked. That spike was flush with the stone a day or so ago, and now look at, we are sinking! Oh my god the basement will be filled with mud in no time.

The real reason the spike was above ground was explained to me but I can't explain it to you. Something about frost and cold and warmth and expansion but anyway.

It's just so me to jump to conclusions in the worst possible way. If someeone doesn't email me back they must hate me or be mad. If someone doesn't answer their cell phone when I call I wonder how bad the accident was and what hospital I should go to. The reason I get headaches is because of a tumor, it's just bound to be the truth.

In this case, nope, the house isn't sinking, not at all. The spike is up and it's telling funny stories, promising spring will be here soon, and it was a waste of time to worry about it.

so spring is coming and the patio is not sinking.

I think.

Spring fire

Ice and snow are still on the ground in the backyard but a warm fire calls me to sit close and be warm and smile at the remains of this long winter. I am looking at muddy leaves that were never collected, a still frozen pond - stinky underneath, and imagining a green and colorful spread of lawn. I know on this warm cold March Sunday that it is within reach.

On my way to the Y today I drove past a dog who had just been hit by a car. The driver pulled over and stopped, but poor pup was hit so bad that he lay in the right lane of York Avenue in Edina shuddering and convulsing. His buddy, a tiny yapper ,was beside himself, running to and from the crime scene, screaming and crying. I knew I couldn't help but I turned around anyway.

On my second pass the good dog was clearly dead on the pavement. Three kids stood by with their hands in their pockets looking at him all curled up in death. They didn't know what to do but they didn't leave. They just stood, looking at the poor dead dog.

At home this evening after a long work out I can't help thinking about the family on York Avenue, and the sadness they are feeling. Good dog ran into a busy street and then the world will never be the same for those nice people, nor for the little yapper best friend, it is such a sad thing, losing a best friend.

The days are getting longer and my patience is growing shorter. Things change in an instant but on the other hand we sit on potential changes for decades and is that good or bad? Are we wasting time or honoring it? Are we procrastinating or enjoying? Avoiding possibilities or celebrating the comfort we know?

Dear family in Edina I am sorry for your loss, good dog.

Fire needs wood in the chilly March backyard, so off I go.

I'm sure it's nothing serious

At 2 o'clock this morning I noticed an unusual pain on the left side of my chest. Breathing was uncomfortable and the more I concentrated on it to really FEEL it, the worse it got. It sneered at me and then crept over my shoulder and down my back and so of course by now I was wide awake.

By 4 AM I had pretty well determined that I was not having a heart attack. It wasn't a sharp pain, and I wasn't nauseous, no lightheadedness, no numbness or tingling. Although I admit that I did feel a momentary flash of each of those things as my eyes crossed over the words on the screen.

I've always been like this. I'm not sure I'm a hypocondriac, but I can talk myself into almost any pain or illness, quickly and with an exceptional sense of panic and urgency. Once when I was less than 12 I was watching Marcus Welby, m.d. one summer evening, and the sicker the patient got, the worse I felt. Every time a new symptom appeared, I found I had exactly the same thing. Headache, stomache cramps, heavy sweating, dizzyness...Dr. Welby was really stuck for a diagnosis, scratching his pretty grey head and tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen as his patient slowly began to expire in front of him.

By now I was sobbing, I was much too young to die but there it was in front of me, my tender young life was coming to end, probably after the next commercial. My soul was in agony.

Turned out the patient had contracted a parasite when swimming in the Nile on his last trip to Egypt.

I praised God! I had never been to Egypt! I did not have what that guy had! I would live to grow up and have a period!

This afternoon I called Dr. G's office just for reassurance, but nurse Jane must have been very busy because she never returned my call. I sat with the phone in my hand for two hours, but she never called. I thought perhaps she had seen the message and decided what I was experiencing wasn't serious, no biggie, she'd call me tomorrow. She probably had to dash off to do something totally fun with her best girlfriends as soon as her shift was over. Gotta run!

After consulting various other internet resources, I decided it was probably leukemia or something just as dire -- even WebMD sprang up an urgent message telling me to SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY when I described my symptoms. The "Ask A Doctor" website tantalized me with a promise of a quick response because 10 real doctors were waiting to talk to me NOW! After I described my symptoms and hit "submit" I got a dialoge box asking how much I was willing to pay for a response. People on a budget could get a quick anwer for $9, while those with greater means could receive a full diagnosis for $25. Will that be Visa or Master?

Finally a nice young on-call cardiologist named Dr Wang called me back when he saw he had been paged by the answering service. I was reading his bio on-line just as the phone rang.

Rest easy, it's not your heart. If it's still bugging you tomorrow, contact your primary care doc and maybe get a chest xray, but from what I was describing there was no need to head to the ER, and certainly nothing to worry about.

Took the good doctor less than 5 minutes to set my spinning mind at ease.

Took Dr. Welby a whole hour.

Lady Barbara

Barbara Louise Skinner was born on March 8, 1920, in Northwood New Hampshire to a chicken farmer and a housewife. She had a younger sister named Blanche who smoked and drank and ended up in jail after a car accident resulted in the death of the driver of other vehicle. Blanche was flat chested and had psoriasis so bad that it ate up all her fingernails. Yet, Blanche was the favorite child. Her parents were resentful instead of proud that their eldest not only graduated high school but went on to attend Gordon College of Theology, and even less interested in her unsolicited celebrity status as a radio star in Boston in the 1940’s.

Lady Barbara was the head brain behind a popular radio show, called "The Childrens’ Gospel Crusade". The three page article that was written about her in the Moody Monthly magazine described how she had been handed the task of putting a show together, and how only a short year later there were countless diners and truckstops in the Boston area that shut their grills down at 11:00 every Saturday. They turned on the radio, and turned it up loud, so that everyone could listen to Lady Barbara coax the little kids to sing. Best of all, they loved to hear Lady Barbara tell her famous stories. One year for her birthday she received over 1,200 cards from kids all over northeastern New England and Ontario.

My Mom was a star.

During the same time, there was a hansome Commander in the US Navy who fell in love with her, and who also happened to be a recent widow with two young boys. Mom always told us that the two boys approved of the marriage because she made good brownies and maybe they would get a baby sister. Which they did - two of them, my sister and me.

Dad retired from the Navy in 1962 when I was just three years old, and most of the family packed up and moved from Philadelphia to Rhode Island, where Mom had a job as Director of Christian Education waiting for her at a small Christian College. As part of the deal, Dad was offered a position as Superintendent of Buildings and Grounds.

Even though she wasn’t on the radio anymore, it still felt to me like Mom was a celebrity. She was the center of everything, a gracious hostess to countless wedding showers and receptions for the college kids, and always in charge of the many Sunday school classes at one or two churches at a time. Vacation Bible School was a big deal - hundreds of kids, most of them city kids who’s parents were grateful for a place to keep there youngsters the first two weeks of summer vacation, and it was free!

But that is not why they came. They came for Lady Barbara.

Each morning for those first two weeks of summer, she would line us up outside Woodlawn Baptist Church in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, and march us into the sanctuary to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers. We would salute the US flag and the Christian flag before enthusiastic renditions of He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands and Fairest Lord Jesus.

And then, oh and then! After several songs and a prayer, Lady Barbara would stand in front of us and speak her famous words:

“Shoulders back, deep breath. It’s time for a story.”

The last night of VBS was a spectacular event - kind of like the Baptist Oscars. All the kids and teachers would dress up and they and their parents would attend the Final Program. The festivities began with classroom tours, where parents could review the workbooks about the Bible stories we had studied. And the crafts! Two weeks worth of beautiful artwork on display! Baskets made of popsicle sticks, piggy banks made from Clorox bottles, coffee cans decorated with masking tape and brown shoe polish! It was remarkable. Then, everyone gathered in the sanctuary for THE PROGRAM. Each kid had some kind of little piece to say, and every class sang a song or two, and Lady Barbara was the beautiful MC.

She was especially glamorous the year I was seven. She had made time that afternoon to get her hair done, and wore the same beautiful mint green gown that she had worn for my big brothers wedding. It had a scoop back, with layers of wispy chiffon that shimmered when she walked, and thick ribbons of green satin around the cuffs of her sleeves. Her shoes were Cinderella meets Naturalizer - sensible silver flats that glistened when they caught the light.

A city kid sitting next to me that night asked me who whispered to me how pretty that lady was. “that lady? I said. She’s my mom.” I was swelling with pride and feeling almost as famous and as important as I knew she was. Supreme happiness. That was my Mom. She was famous and beautiful and after this we were going to Howard Johnson’s for chocolate ice cream.

Hey Mom today I am remembering the glamour of you, the celebrity of you, wishing to be only a small bit as lovely.

Happy 89th Birthday! I am missing you.

twist and shout

rosie and fletcher are my neighbors and in 27 days fletch will be 6 and rosie will be 3. they were born on the same date, 3 years apart. in spring and summer i see them most every day, in the fall just occasionally, but in the winter not much at all. we share a driveway, those dudes and me, but even so when the cold weather comes they disappear to play inside and eat noodles inside and do most everything inside.

i have been missing my buds, so when scott sent a note asking if i was busy tuesday night, i said no and agreed right away to "sit". sara was teaching, and scott had scored a night out with fleetwood mack, so at 6:00 tonight i trudged across the driveway, took off my jacket, flopped between two cute blonds on the couch and had my first lesson about doodlebops.

i learned lots of things tonight, some things i already knew but good reminders none-the-less. for instance

• nazis are bad and if you see one you should kick his butt - HARD (thank you sound of music)
• it is only ok to say bad words if you are in a private room
• don't show your privates to just anyone - and if you think you want to, you should ask them first if they would like to see them. unless the person is bad, then you should never ask and instead yell very loud and kick their butts.
• the cartoon channel is on 42

with fletcher poking at pokemon on the couch, rosie and i went upstairs to see their room. i asked rosie which bed was hers -- the bunk on top or the nest underneath? she pointed to the nest and said "that's where i sleep" then pointed to the upper bunk and said "but that's where i pee."

we three watched some videos and ate cheetos and drank cold milk and played a game that involved secret doors, bouncy balls, tiny cards, and a secret treasure. rosie calls it the coffee game because the name of it is "caribou" and we played it several times. like 50. or maybe more.

when sara came home they squealed and hugged her and fletch said goodnight and rosie said "NO" when i tried to leave.

thanks for a great evening. hope your dad can fix the dvd player.

oops.

mama mia! papa pia! baby's got diareah!

later dudes.

a note under the door

sometime in the middle of the night a white piece of paper was slipped under my hotel room door. i saw it half-in, half-out as i padded my way to the bathroom at 3:15 in the morning.

delicious! the hotel knows i am celebrating my birthday and they have given me a card! or maybe it's from those nice gals with whom i shared a giggle at check-in. i picture a note that says

"hi! we think you are super fun, can we buy you lunch or a drink tomorrow to celebrate your birthday? let us know! signed the girls in 307."

i am sleepy but smiling and can't wait to see who is writing to me!

it's a bill. it's just a bill. it has my name and address and how much it costs and it does not even say "thank you" or "we hope you enjoyed your stay" it just says "sign here".

when the front desk staff answer the phone they say "we wish you were here thank you for calling us" and i think that is corny but also kind of cute, and those nice young people are so pleasant and welcoming.

they didn't send this note. not them. no not them.

there is a creepy little man who emerges from his basement office in the middle of the night to make his rounds. he looks like Mr. Burns with a skinny hunched back, a nose nearly as pointy as his shoes, sweaty hair (what is left of it) and clothes that smell like an old closet.

he tiptoes around pushing a tiny cart that holds his files, several pieces of white paper, a pencil and pad, a calendar and a calculator. he slithers up and down the hallways folding each bill in half and sliding it half-way under the door and making a note of the amount he is assigning to the sleeping people or person on the other side of that door.

at the end of his rounds he adds up the accounts payable and turns bright red with joy as he ticks up the total. "GOD DAMN THE PUSHA MAN" he sings in an awkward tune under his breath as he dances the cabbage patch on the elevator. he goes back to his office and puts his feat up on his
gun- metal grey desk and lights up a cigarello. another good night.

but for me standing there in my donut pjs basking in the light from the bathroom looking at what i owe i feel a little intruded upon.

oh well, we all have to earn a living and after all it was a lovely stay.

and if i bet if i called them right now they would wish i was still there.

me too, a little.

Bellissimo!

i am not sure what that word means but it sounds joyful and it is italian just like the restaurent where i had dinner on friday.

it turned out to be a day with some dark spots. i almost went home, that anxious feeling biting me all morning. i tried venturing out for a time, and the morning was beautiful and bright and very cold, but soon wandered back to the hotel and had a good cry.

a good hard cry can solve so many things. for me it brought up memories of all the times i have let anxiety and the unknown ruin my vacations. like stressing about finding a camping spot every day for a week, when the 34 four foot motor home we were traveling in could have sat by the side of the road and provided all the refuge and comfort we needed. or the time the car broke down in canada and instead of thinking "we'll have breakfast and then it will be fixed" i found myself sick in the bathroom agonizing over the probabiliy that it was unfixable and we would have to dump it and then how would we get home and what about the title and we were a foreign country...

they fixed it.

and then it felt like i was looking at that ugly bundle of dust that you know is under the bed but you don't know how odd and big and horrible it is until you are down on your knees with the vacuum cleaner (which i rarely am).

this hunk of anxiety that i keep bundled up in my head and stomache seemed to be sitting there and i was looking at it and thinking it through and wondering why i keep it.

the point of this trip was to find out what i am really like and how i respond to things calling me, and so, what, i'm going to sit here in front of this fire and fear it? let it steer me back home instead of exploring and smelling and tasting and smiling?

not this time.

lunch at a lovely place on north shore drive, much walking in the kind of crisp cold that sinks it's teeth into your forehead, browsing in antique stores and chatting with artisans

and dinner at that place who's name sounds like Belisimo but it wasn't. warm and welcoming and oh so delicious.

i saw another man dining alone. he was proper and happy with his salad caprese and glass of wine. no novel nor notebook beside him. i read once that when you bring "something to do" to dinner alone it looks like you are afraid to let people know you are alone.

he was good at this.

and i am learning more and more.

anxious to be alone

after all, that was the point of this whole trip. to spend some time byself just to see what would happen.

being alone makes me feel anxious. i am not one for adventure as much as i would like to be, so this is a test. it was a restless and mostly sleepless night, in spite of a heavenly bed and comforting fire. today the sun is blinding on thick sparkling snow on lake superior, and i spy a walking path.

instead of hopping out of bed to seize the day, i kept the curtains closed till almost 1030, just wondering if i truly want to be alone today. i think my sense and desire of order and predictability have set a routine in my soul that is hard to challenge.

one of the things i did to prepare for this trip was to purchase new socks. i have given up on ever wearing matching socks again - you put 2 in the wash and only one comes out, or sometimes three. tie them together or put them in net bag and still they make a break out the back of the dryer just like andy dufresne in shawshank. lately i've felt like a big risk taker in not caring whether or not my socks match. the other day one was a christmas sock and the other brown stripes. seems to be in fashion now, but for me, it's REALLY living on the egde, baby.

off i go to see where that walking path leads. i have a brand new pair of hiking boots that were made for walking and walking's what i'll do.

with one white sock and one purple, with dots.

clear up north

the liquor store was buzzing at 10:00 this morning. mark, the owner , commented that "everyone is getting their wine before the storm comes". when i told him i was headed up north for the weekend and that i would miss the biggest storm of the season, he raised his eyebrows and said, "holy cow you're going to drive right into it. be careful."

silly mark! i had been watching the weather for days and days, and this morning the latest radar showed snow coming in from the west, headed straight for the cities and south to the iowa border, but it was clear up north.

with a bottle of cold water and a new cd, i fastened my seatbelt and headed for I35. it was cloudy but dry, and i coudn't stop smiling. i was going on retreat. all by myself!

i turned 50 a few days ago and was disappointed to find that when the clock struck midnight on february 23rd, nothing happened. no moment of clarity, no divine thoughts, nothing. i had so hoped 10 years ago that i would have everything figured out by now - what am i meant to be and how will i get there? but here i am 10 years older and a few pounds to the right of the dial and holding steady with nothing new.

a retreat! that's what i need! i found a cozy room in a lodge 50 miles north of duluth, packed up my writing and drawing things, my beautiful guild guitar, a few good books, and off i went.

the cruise was set at 70 and "miss celie's blues" was like a joyous banner swirling around my head. "sista! i' keeping my eye on you"

i noticed fog up ahead. funny that we have fog this time of year.

30 miles south of hinckley with 200 miles to go, i sliced through a thick curtain of february snow.

bummer.e

i thought about stopping at hinckely but was so sure i would outrun this storm (callback - there is no snow up north!!), but kept going. the first accident i saw involved a truck with a trailer that had jack knifed into a green suv. that reminded me -- how does 4 wheel drive work, anyway?

keep going draze, this is your adventure. you wanted to see what it would be like to be alone so here you are and you are 50 and you can do this! think for yourself bitch! yippee!

i was calm but terrified. and fascinated to learn i could feel both at the same time.

next crash was someone who had careened off the highway backwards and smashed through a chain link fence. cars were in the ditches everywhere.

the lane i was traveling in was still pretty dry, and visibility was ok most of the time. it was a very long stretch of road with few options i could see for stopping for the night, and besides, duluth was only 60 miles from here and it is NOT snowing up there! keep going. you can do this you are a grown up you can do this you are a safe driver DAMN it how does 4 x 4 work? a grown up would have thought to ask about that before leaving minneapolis.

shit.

an hour later with a bladder the size of lake superior, duluth was getting closer. and then i saw it "highway 61, exit 2 miles". that's my exit and only 50 more miles to the lodge!!!

except i couldn't see the exit. it was buried in snow.

next sign: "duluth, 13 miles".

DULUTH! i have always loved duluth the two times i've been there!

an hour later i am tucked into a huge and lovely room with a fireplace, king sized bed, a lakeview deck (yeah right), and a view of a massive snowstorm pounding the frozen great lake.

the wine is open, the internet is up, and i am writing again for the first time in so many weeks.

when the storm passes tomorrow, maybe i'll just stay put for another night instead of traveling further. the wind is howling outside which is a pretty and spooky sound. calming yet terrifying. sounds of longing, energy, and flight.

plus, the nice young man at the front desk (jake) saw my birthdate and said

"this room is normally $139 for the night but i'll let you have it for $89."

i like it here.

cheers!

take the stairs

the other night i dreamt of a staircase. it was wooden and deck-like, on the second floor of somewhere and i loved looking at it. it smelled sweet like a summer evening and each piece of wood was swirling with designs from the inside of the tree it came from.

at the bottom of the stairs and across the way there was a house i had been curious about for a very long time. it was a sweet tidy cottage shut up tight and no one was ever home. this time, the front door was wide open. i looked in and saw pretty couches and fancy lamps but i was too afraid to go inside

so i just looked.

i have since found out that dreaming of a staircase means that some sort of inner awakening is occuring - that the dreamer is coming into an as yet hidden "self-understanding" and, evidently, clarity is close behind.

turning 40 was comforting. it felt like i had 10 more years to figure everything out.

almost 10 years later i am 49 and still figuring. still trying to figure myself out . still looking for some direction.

maybe the dream was a hint. need to know which way to go?

take the stairs.

pantookas and wuzzles

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities. - Dr. Seuss

maybe that is what is wrong with me. i am looking at life through the wrong end of the telescope and up until just this moment i haven't thought any of it was very funny.



lies are told and surprises are scary instead of fun and things i can't reach are missing. important things are being scooped up and out of my control and the can of folgers is getting down there. no budget for more, though.



so is any of this funny after all? absurd certainly. i try to be the one who sees the humor in odd things so perhaps i should enjoy all this.

nothing else is working anyway.

nonsense yes! it's all nonsense!

so perhaps i am in whoville and bartholamew cubbins is my best friend and i should ask horton to listen extra close to hear all of the things i can't. might be fun to gossip with that big ol' cat over lunch sometime this week.



and of course, you know what we are having.

please hold

the woman i was sitting next to in class today apologized for the fact that the articles she was to read for homework last month were wrinkled and stiff. she explained

i take a bath every day after work.

when she was relaxing in her bath last night, reading provactive articles about the art of leading quietly, her telephone wrang.

she has a 15 year old son with downs syndrome named keith.

hello this is keith. no, she's naked in the bathtub right now.

she panicked, dropped her papers, splashed and shouted from a clenched throat but before she could get anything out...

i'll put you on speaker and take you in there.

she told me about the lecture she gave him -

what you did was NOT ok! you need to respect mom's private time! you must never embarass someone like that!

she was exasperated.

but it made me laugh. i told her

that is the most adorable story i've ever heard in my life.

she burst into a smile and said

i know, right?!

depression hurts

i'm in slump. a deep one. the country has a chance to heal, the sun is up a bit longer each day, my windshield washer system is working great and i have a perfect manicure.

what the hell.

maybe it's about turning 50, maybe it's about work, maybe i need a new dog or a fancy sweater, several days off or some cake.

i am not liking this slump. being in a slump used to conjure images of late night piles of blankets and television, justified apathy and comfortable messiness. after all who can do laundry, dust, or put stuff away when you are in a slump?

but this one feels uncomfortable and fat. like the pants that are too tight after the holidays or the depressing light in the kitchen when the bulb over the sink goes out.

something is not right about this slump all right, but the wrongness of all it brings up is worse than the not right part. i am not enjoying this slump at all. it is definitely not what they described in the flyer.

FREE SLUMP!

enjoy an undetermined amount of time feeling really sorry for yourself and wallowing in your uselessness! cradle your worthless soul in the cool flicker of late night infomercials! buy incredibly stupid products that you will never use but are too lazy to return!

• clean pajamas, sheets, and hair not required.
• join now and receive ceaselss encouragement to eat as much of anything you want all the time.
• call in the next five minutes and we will call in sick to work for you every day for as long as the slump continues.

CALL NOW!!!!

now seriously,

who could resist that?

i should've

an injured pigeon was hunkered down on the G level of my parking ramp last monday. it may have been a dove, it had a beak more like a dove, but anyway there it was. i was in a hurry to get home and had my hands full when i almost tripped on it. poor thing was trembling and terrified and in the path of a car that hadn't come yet. but a car would come soon. it would careen down the ramp and not see that pretty crying bird and that car's front right uniroyal would end things.

hopefully quickly but maybe not.

i stopped and talked to it

hey buddy, you don't feel well do you? listen you need to move or else...

at that moment a blue yukon going way too fast roared down the ramp

and missed the bird by about an inch.

ok dude that't it you have to move.

i leaned down and it panicked, which was a good thing because it started to hop and hop and hop -- it hopped out of harms way, off to the side, to a dark safe spot.

on the drive home i felt guilty. the bird was out of the way but it was going to be cold that night. oh well, i am sure she'll be fine.

and then i thought

how long would it have taken me to go back up to my office, put some shredded paper in a box, and at least place her there, if not drop her off at the raptor center which was on my home anyway.

but i didn't do that.

she froze to death over night

and she was just a bird,

but i am disappointed with myself any way.

lesson?

i am too old to be regretting things i didn't do and should have.

so if my heart tells me to do something...

well then there you have it.