this is why we live here

oh the things we find when all the windows are open for the first time in 7 months. the dirty snow finally gave up and disappeared into the march mud just like the wicked witch of the west. hey there is my other garden clog! that dirty wet candle reminds me of a warm night long ago and i hear us laughing and smell the fire. oh and a broken and trampled string of lights, but weren't those pretty on the fence last Christmas?

in minnesota we live for this. we know that the shortest season of our growing up and old is only a few months long, and when the first day dawns we go a little crazy. we see how big the kids up and down the street have grown, we raise our faces to the sun and think about what to grill and where are our shorts? it's 55 degrees ladies! time for a pedicure.

dear today, thank you so much for being the most perfect day, even though it is one hour short. i am so loving the way you look today.

great job, linda

dear heart

a friend suggested i might enjoy a website she found, because of the whimsical writing. the website is thxthxthx.com and it is filled with tiny thank you notes that a woman writes to somethign she is thankful for every day. today she thanked a yellow highlighter for keeping her focused in her reading and she also commented on the pretty color. once she thanked her pounding headache for reminding her that whiskey before bed is not such a good idea. and once she thanked london for being easier to fly into than paris.

gratefulness was trendy a few years ago, wasn't it? books like simple abundance encouraged us to keep a "gratefulness journal" and add to it every day. oprah swore to us that it would improve the quality of our lives. it would give us a way to call attention to the good fortune we have through friends and loved ones and good food fresh air and clean water. and i used to do that, either in writing or before falling asleep, and the gratefulness experts are right, it does focus one's perspective for the better.

and yet i really think Leah, in thxthxthx is on to something much smaller and much bigger and grander. she points out the little things that play a role in her day, things that tease her or test her or help her or hate her, and she finds something that each thing or experience pointed out to her or taught her or reminded her of.

here i sit in bed on a fragrant march saturday, waiting for my heart to settle down after a long, long time of it being steady and dependable. i can't blame it for feeling confused because i have done a great job lately of confusing myself.

and so my thank you note today is this

dear heart, thanks for reminding me that letting things get to me the way i have is not moving me towards anyone i hope to someday be, and i must work on that. so you just go ahead and flip around a little longer and that is ok with me.

you are terrific! xox, linda

silence is blue

why do they say silence is golden? day 2 of my retreat and i am finding silence to be much more than golden. silence is blue like the lake and the astonishing peaceful sky above it. silence is crackly maple logs popping in the fireplace, tiptoe-y like the little drips of coffee making their way into the pot, silence is a smile from a stranger, a hot cup of soup, a long night's rest.

yesterday at the lemon wolf restaurant in beaver bay, i sipped my soup wine and watched three old best lady friends celebrating something or nothing over lunch. "she'll have a chardonnay and i'll have a cabernet and she'll have coffee cause she is driving - haw haw haw!" she instructed the waitress to put the wine on one bill, the food on another, and the dessert on a third, as that is how they decided to split things up.

they had on pretty pantsuits and bright lipstick and they talked about wi fi and someone's neice in colorado and how if anyone calls you up and you don't know them and they ask for your credit card information, why that is a scam and you better run!

it feels so good to be quiet and observe, take notes in my brain and just rest rest and rest.

today's adventure includes a long walk at gooseberry falls, a hot bath, long nap, and more observations

about silence.

dreaming north

i wonder where the words have gone, i think i know but i still miss them, and i am spending some time up north trying to get them back. they used to tumble around like puppies and eventually straighten themselves into pretty patterns of thought, and sometimes they even meant something.

snuggled in bed on a gorgeous morning, smelling coffee and looking out on lake superior, wondering if the quiet i am finding here will stir something up and bring me back to earth, or to home, or at least to some place normal and familiar so that i can get on with things. there has been no getting on of late, only getting by, getting sad, getting tired.

today i am going to try again for the millionth time to ice skate - a simple thing but something i am bad at, and have always wanted to be able to do. i took lessons once (what a disaster), but i have never been able to relax enough to glide. sometimes i can scoot a little, but no gliding. so many things i want to do but i don't believe i can so i give up and put my head down and forget about it.

i think all of that is about to change, and very soon, and i think it will start with a nice skate.

or a broken hip,

we'll see.

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?