Lord Help Us *

Every- 

thing

and

Every- 

body

Lies

Except maybe our garbage –

So much stuff to stop our scents, tubes to 

whiten and brighten but not 

save and protect, bottles as

evidence of how many ways there are to die, tubs of Trader Joe’s – 

dips we could easily make ourselves 

But don’t. 

Every trashed container containing

maybe a couple more days worth which – if 

added up -- would be enough to 

last us many years

*Not sure if it’s a petition or a confession, but I know it’s a prayer

Gardening contains all the Stages of Grief

The initial elation of DENIAL is in the planting, 

scientifically believing that something will sprout

from a seed.   It's experimental magic.

It isn't even time to pray yet.

Outside, I plant straight rows of peas and gently scatter carrots.

Inside, he sets seeds he's saved into tiny black pots 

he has also saved.  They take up space in the dining room, 

while we watch them grow into tomatoes and peppers.

ANGER is reserved for the animals

even though it's not their fault.

Did we build the fence high enough to keep out the damn deer?  

Don't forget to close the gate!  

How many little black flea beetles did he crush

between his fingers today?  It's the tiniest of battles

in a world wide war, but still,

it's ours to fight.  And it's better than fighting each other.

In July, the BARGAINING begins.

What is the one thing you'd sell your soul for?

Hail netting that holds?  A mild mid-summer? 

At least the devil listens.

There's an abundance ready to cut and clean and cook and eat

and I realize I'd sell my soul

for time to go backwards (just for a little while)

and for one single red beet to pull out of the ground.

When you're down to seeds and stems —

that's DEPRESSION.

When the zinnias turn brown and hang their dead heads 

and the tomatoes go to mush on the vine

and we wonder if it's worth it to water.

He says this is the last salad 

I say these are the final flowers

It's October. The hummingbirds have left.

ACCEPTANCE is noticing the purple hues

of what might be the last morning glory, 

not caring if it is the last morning glory.

There are seeds to save.  Maybe

we'll try for some more lettuce,

or clone some tomatoes and peppers.

I'll put dead flowers in the vase he gave me.

He won't forget to put roses on my grave.

the broadmoor is a bully

So I went to the last Public Strawberry Hill Master Plan meeting tonight. It was an open house, lots of pretty pictures around, very few people. I was honestly doing ok with the aerial photographs of trails and such, but when I got to the conceptual plan for the picnic area, my heart broke. Not one picnic pavilion for 100, but what appears to be three picnic pavilions, room for at least 250. And a paved road right up into the meadow for their shuttles, with a loopy turnaround.

I had taken some half page flyers with me, simple bullet points outlining where we are in the court case, along with info on the Parks Department's North Cheyenne Cañon Master Plan and its effects on South Cheyenne Cañon. I put them out on the tables, a little pile on each side of their comment boxes, and then proceeded to walk around and talk to folks. The flyers were purple, so they stood out against the white tabletops.

About five or ten minutes later, I noticed they were gone. I scanned the room and saw a woman (one of several standing at the entry table) holding them behind her back. Some of them had been torn in half, and some of them were folded over in her hands.

I approached her and said, "Can I have my papers back please?" At this point, I really didn't think anything of it, and fully expected her to just hand them over. As I reached out my hands for the papers, she pulled away and said that I would have to ask Jack about it. That's Jack Damioli, President and CEO of the Broadmoor. You can't miss him in the room: he's the tall one with the cashmere pullover sweater and loafers. So I walked over to him and asked, "Could I get my papers back please?" Slowly, he stuck his hands into his front pockets, pulled the insides out, looked down at me, and said,"I don't have your papers."

And yeah, it really was in that tone you just imagined: full of power and sarcasm, and it was condescending and patronizing as heck.

Miraculously, somehow, I was still calm at that point, and replied:
"I know you don't have my papers, she has my papers." (gesturing to the woman across the room).
Jack: "Then why are you talking to me?"
Me: "Because she told me that I had to come and ask you."
Jack: "Well, I don't know where your papers are."
Me: "She has them, I told you that already, and I would like them back."

Again, I point out the woman who had them, but she doesn't have them in her hands anymore, which gives him even more license to repeat the line that he doesn't know where they are. This went on for several more crazy-making rounds of me asking/demanding and him lying/deflecting.

Then finally Jack said I couldn't get them back, because it was their meeting. I even told him I would put them in my purse and take them home, if they would just gave them back. He still refused.

I'm not sure where it went from there... me wandering around the room, visibly shaken now, close to tears, a Colorado Springs police officer standing by the door on duty for them (?!), watching me.

I decided to approach the woman one more time and ask her if I could have my papers. She just shrugged and gave me a look that said it was out of her control. I saw a glimmer of pity in her eyes, and I know that if it were just her and me, she might have given them back. She did see me getting one of the chocolate chip cookies from the tray at the end of the meeting, and she told me to take as many as I wanted; I kinda think it was her way of saying she was sorry. I also know if it were just Chris Lieber (used to work for Parks, now works for NES) and me, he might have helped. We had had a good conversation earlier in the meeting -- spirited yet respectful. But their hands are tied, I get it.

I suppose it was at that point that I became the crying crazy woman in the room.

"Just give me back my papers. It's not that hard. They're mine. My paper, my ink. I want them back."

I sat down at a table and just decided to wait. I waited until they were packed up and getting ready to leave, which happened to be about 45 minutes before the meeting was actually scheduled to end, because there was no one there. I waited until Jack Damioli had left. I waited until I thought it was safe to ask one more time. But by then I knew it was hopeless. I simply said to the half dozen or so workers, "I guess I'm not getting my papers back, am I?" Without looking me in the eyes and without really saying anything, I had my answer.

I'm still shook. Not because they took my papers, destroyed them, and infringed upon my First Amendment right, but because one powerful man reduced that whole room to subservience, and me to tears.

The Broadmoor is a bully. Go to brunch with your friends, spend the night with your spouse, ride the cog railway (oh, wait, you can't!) if you want, but please know this: if you do, your money helps pay that man to humiliate me.

My Master Plan

I sit with my notebook and write at a wobbly,
splintery picnic table, one of many under
this public pavilion.  At least some underpaid
city employee was told to paint them brown.

Through the scrub oaks, I see:  four
old ladies with hiking poles and sun hats,
three hardcore mountain bikers, a snake
of multi-generational hikers, two deer grazing,

a young couple from Palmer Park stringing
up a hammock, an elder couple with binoculars,
a mother and teenage daughter looking for a trash
can in which to place their pooch's poop.

I scramble up a short social trail to the mesa
above the pavilion, and there it is: a spectacular
view of Strawberry Fields, where King Philip
plots his Broadmooresque stable and bbq party venue.

Up here, I watch a hawk hover, hear a bluebird
call, and discover a decomposing coyote.
Below, in the south canyon, I watch white whales shuttle
up and down, as a blaring ambulance struggles

upstream towards Seven Falls. The trails
on this wild and unnamed mesa below Mt. Cutler
are slated to be closed in the new Master Plan --
a plan meant to deflect from the city's neglect.

What should a Master Plan have?  What does a City Park need?
Closed public roads? More trailheads and parking lots for tourists?
Private-public partnerships where somebody profits?
Ideas that will never be funded because we can't even afford to take care of what we've got?

Nah.  What we really need is simple and more cost-effective than that:

places that cater not only to our tourists, but to anyone seeking respite from the city

picnic tables made from those newfangled-recycled-weather-resistant materials

small parking areas that make the creek and its coolth easily accessible to all

trail systems that respect and reflect the needs of the locals who use them

a limited number of cars, but only during peak summer weekends

a regular maintenance crew to keep the picnic areas beautiful

friendly city park rangers to enforce the rules

a budget that reflects our values

trash cans near picnic sites

clean, open restrooms

and above all else...

that playground

you promised

the children

in 2003,

but never

built.

Strawberry Fields Forever

I am sitting on the bench that overlooks the Strawberry Fields meadow. I say the bench, because there is only one, and I'm fairly certain the city didn't put it there.

It looks pretty bleak now on this 29th day of February.  The dry grasses are resting parallel to the ground, and the scrub oaks are gray.  But the sky is blue and the breeze is light and new life is waiting patiently below the surface.

The city, however, does not appear to be waiting patiently. Everything is happening way too fast.  Final City Council vote may be in April, they say.  April?!  Why, in April around here we have only yet just begun to see new buds, flowers, and grasses!  How can our city council vote to give away something they've most likely never seen up close in midsummer?! This decision will be HISTORIC, will affect the citizens of this city for centuries, and must be carefully and thoroughly dissected.  That takes time.

Do you know this land?  I do.  I know how sound travels in the canyon, and how I can presently hear a lone hammer working on a deck on the other side, and the chimes from Will Rogers above. Imagine the noises of a wedding pavilion/picnic area and horse stable, echoing in the Canyon.  The Broadmoor is trying to sell us on the idea of public access on the 180 acres they are not using, but I'm here to tell you: there will be horses on trails throughout that 189 acres, and that 8.5 acres that is only accessible by Broadmoor guests will include the loveliest meadow, the one where people can just meander up the hill and find, accidentally.

Last summer, I did just that. While exploring the area for the first time, I came of the woods into the meadow unexpectedly.  Upon seeing the tall grass undulating in the breeze and the mountains surrounding me, I instinctively opened my arms and did a couple of 360's.

In summer, the area of South Cheyenne Canyon around the Starsmore Discovery Center  is a cool haven from the heat of the city for many. I understand that Barr Trail and the Incline are also used by many, but they are athletes and outdoor enthusiasts, not families and toddlers.  It is still a scant few of our population who are able to or desire to do the incline, yet almost everyone is able to access Strawberry Fields.  To have this meadow off limits to everyone who can't pay is immoral.

I am especially angry at how this deal seems to be a "divide and conquer" strategy, pitting the trails people against the open space people.  We should all be on the same side.  That's why it's called TOSC:  Trails and Open Space Coalition, but it seems the almighty "T" is taking precedence.

Two men arrived down in the meadow while I was sitting on the bench.  I wondered whether they were city men, business men, or Sierra Club men.  Turns out, they were sort of all three, and were still undecided. They were there, hiking the land, even the steep terrain that I've never done, to check it out. They noted its appeal, and observed that not many people seemed to use it.  They wanted to see for themselves what the fuss was all about. I applauded them for their curiosity.

That's what I think we all need, a hike in the woods and some curiosity.

And now, a chill wind has come up, reminding me to put my down vest back on. A hawk soars.  The sun has traveled farther to the west, yet still warms the left side of my face, and I have to squint a little to write. My greatest hope is that this proposed land swap will turn out to be a good thing, simply because it has put Strawberry Fields on the public's radar.  Curiosity can lead to other possible solutions. Like purchasing parcels the city wants with TOPS money. No master city parks plan should ever include trading away a parcel it already owns, even if that parcel is largely unknown. Perhaps, since one of the major complaints is that it is not well taken care of,  part of a new master plan could be for Parks and Rec. to improve the trail markings and maintenance of Strawberry Fields. That's their job.  And ours.  There is no reason that the public couldn't raise thousands of dollars to help the city with maintenance.

This swap proposal is the product of a private corporation's greed, and the public's failure of imagination.

(no wonder the Broadmoor wants this land- just look at that gorgeous view of the hotel from up here)

Finally, an invitation.   Mayor and City Council: come walk Strawberry Fields with me.  Name the date, I'll meet you in the South Cheyenne Canyon Parking Lot.  Bring your layers and hiking boots;  it's still winter and the snow/ice patches are slippery. Or perhaps you'd prefer to wait until May, when you can wear a t-shirt and tennis shoes, and I can show you my land, our land - green and growing. You might even be inspired to do your own Julie Andrews impression.

sorry, not today

dear deadwood,
     it was a nice attempt at a bridge.
thank you for trying.

dear god,
     you'll want the blue eyeshadow, right?
and cochineal lips?  i can't wait to help you with your makeup.

dear devil,
     i might take up running with you in
garden of the gods someday.


dear deer,
     fleeing on four legs like you would be faster.
and quieter.

dear underworld,
      the fences have fallen.
guarded by sad monsters with patient eyes, you beckon.

dear cloud dragons,
     i'd like to lift my eyes to your breath.
but prickly micky mouse pears threaten
my chacoed toes.

dear dyc,
      i will resist the urge to pick you.
we won't bleed.
our hearts beat too cleverly.

a penny for your thoughts

I poured 18,953 pennies out of six different containers into the counting machine at Air Academy Federal Credit Union today. Ok, so there were a few nickels and dimes, but for the most part, people did as my students asked and only put in pennies.

Back in September, my students and I began reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Journey to Change the World...One Child at a Time, the Young Readers edition of Greg Mortenson's bestseller. It has everything a Pre-GED diverse adult education class could ever want: perfect reading level (6/7th grade), the power of persistence, a hero, family, the value of education, religion, current events, foreign lands, guns, war, hope. We have had some amazing class discussions this semester. There were many times when I just let them go and listened....

After watching some videos, my students became ever more interested and inspired to do something. So I let them.

Pennies for Peace is deceptively simple: collect pennies and donate them to help build more schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan. But the lessons learned by those who plan and carry out and participate in the penny collecting go deep. My students range in age from 17-54, and they are either immigrants for whom English is their second language, or native speakers for whom the system simply never worked. For most of them, philanthropic giving is the absolute last thing on their minds. Some of the other teachers were even leery of the idea of a penny drive at first, because they didn't want to impose upon the already economically fragile lives of many of our students.

What I found, however, is that having the opportunity to be the GIVER is so very empowering! Remembering that someone is struggling even more than you can be a great motivator to not give up yourself. Alone, we can't do much, but together, we can. I know it sounds cheesy, and it is, but it's REAL. Just like the Velveteen Rabbit.

And organizing a campaign is a way to learn all kinds of real-life, valuable skills (NONE of which I wrote an objective on the board for, mind you).

Tomorrow, the "Pennies for Peace Committee" will make an on-line donation to the Central Asia Institute for $189.53. A drop in the ocean. Their drop. Who knows how far the ripples will travel.

a free grocery store without any meat

School has begun in earnest. For all of us. The mornings are chilly, the afternoons warm. Camping requires every piece of clothing. I have had a hard time in 2009 accepting the onset of autumn. Most years, it is a welcome change; this year, not so much.

I am no longer free to get on my pink Cruiser at any time of the day, and pedal to the garden. Now, the garden has become an errand, a location that we "stop by" on our way to someplace else.

Nevertheless, yesterday, on our way home from Up (an absolute DELIGHT!), we dropped in on the Old Colorado City Community Garden to inspect our plot. The first thing to catch my eye were the pumpkins! In July, they were nearly invisible, green-striped globes hidden by monster-sized leaves; now, they were bursts of orange through withering brown. Next - the Brussels sprouts! Petite little adorable things.... they make such a satisfying *snap* when removed from the stalk. Finally - the tomatoes. Now... that whole idea about pulling a ripe tomato off the vine and simply biting into it has no appeal to me whatsoever. But leaning over our six tomato bushes, inhaling, and reaching in for the prize, is like some kinda magic.

As my sons and I were harvesting (yellow beans, purple beans, onions, beets, broccoli, carrots, several varieties of peppers, Brussels sprouts, tomatoes, basil, thyme):

Me: This is better than the grocery store.
Bennett: Yeah, it's like a free grocery store without any meat.

Tonight, I turned this....


into this.

happy frickin' anniversary

June 23, 2009
Last day of a 30-day course of radiation. No Problem! Piece o' cake compared to chemo! Feel great! Garden sprouts! Hair and a Tan! New pink bicycle! Summer! Dancing!

REWIND (cue scratchy backwards record sound)

July 24, 2008
Husband informs me (as soon as I am all happy-dreamy-post-orgasmic) that he felt an abnormal lump in my breast while we were having sex. He shows concern. I choose to go into instant denial, and don't even dare look at or touch myself until the next day.

July 25, 2008
Leave for a two-night camping trip near Princeton Hot Springs for the weekend. Spend the time soaking and hiking and trying not to touch it or to worry. It's the weekend, and figure can't get in to see the doc 'til Monday anyway. Still in denial.

July 27, 2008 - late Sunday night in my own bed after two nights of camping
Cry. Because I know.

July 28th - early Monday morn
Call to make an appointment with Dr. Zirkle, my young and handsome PCP. He's not there, so I see a woman NP who fondles my right breast with a questioning look on her face. Don't remember her name, but she makes an appointment straight away for a diagnostic ultrasound the next day. Call Sara on the way home. Cry. Pick up boys at the Burkles for what they thought was a playdate.

July 29, 2008
Diagnostic ultrasound. Suzanne shows up. I thought I wouldn't need anyone. It's just a little test, after all. Glad she's there, after all.

"Right breast diagnostic ultrasound dated July 29, 2008, shows a dense breast parenchymal pattern with an abnormality corresponding to a 2.1 cm cm in greatest dimension, hypoechoic lesion with irregular margins." Oh crap, a whole new vocabulary to learn; the exact one I never ever wanted to learn. They want to schedule a needle biopsy next week... the only way to know for sure if it is cancerous or not.

Hysterically, tearfully, tell whoever will listen that I DON'T HAVE TIME! BY THE TIME MY MOTHER WAS DIAGNOSED, SHE WAS AT STAGE 4! DON'T YOU GET IT PEOPLE?! I DON'T. HAVE. TIME! Get biopsy scheduled for 31st.

Dammit, I think to myself, here we go...

July 30, 2008
Wait.

I decide to tell no one else until I get the biopsy results...no sense worrying others about something that may turn out to be nothing. There's a pretty good chance, I keep telling myself, that it might be, you know, like a cyst or something.

Get mad at husband for telling his mother, because I don't want her to worry about me. Then quickly realize that he needs someone to tell as well.

July 31, 2008
I return for an "uncomplicated" ultrasound-guided needle biopsy. John comes with me this time. I learn another new vocabulary word: Axilla. Think it would make a great name for a Sci-Fi badass female character or a Derby Dame. Learn it's really just a complicated word for "armpit". Still think it would make a great name.

July 31-August 5th
Wait.

Try to do the laundry and talk with friends and read to the boys before bed. Every day is an eternity. I remember a band called 'Til Tuesday. I just have to make it 'til Tuesday. Because that's the day I'll get the results.

Spend my waiting days with a 2 cm secret, a stoic smile, a welcoming kitchen table and an even-keeled telephone voice. I am not one for holding in anything, so this is a particularly difficult time for me. For once, I ask more questions of others, instead of talking about myself. Lying in bed at night, I barely hold on to my sanity. Give me chemotherapy any day over this hell of not-knowing!

Saturday, August 2nd, 2008
The second anniversary of my mother's death from breast cancer. I'm invited to what sounds like a lovely garden party, but I just can't make myself go. I can't believe that the world keeps spinning, that people keep going to work and making love and having parties. It just doesn't seem right.

Morning of August 5th, 2008. Tuesday.
I know the moment the nurse opens that door into the waiting room and calls my name. I can see it in her face, hear it in her voice. John and I stumble through the door, take a thousand steps down the hall, and are ushered into a tiny conference room on the right. The wonderful, motherly, optimistic ("this doesn't really look like cancer") radiologist who performed the biopsy all those years (6 days!?) ago isn't in the office today, so a man who knows absolutely nothing about me presents me with a huge white binder and these words: "You have invasive ductal carcinoma." Just like that. They don't even say cancer. Bastards.

Afternoon of August 5th, 2008
In order to occupy my mind, I try and accomplish some menial household tasks. I empty the dishwasher, slowly, dish by dish, taking note of each one, how it feels in the hand, how it shines in the light. After that, I simply end up pacing the house or lying on my bed. Doing "normal" things takes on a surreal edge. A hyper awareness permeates my every move, every step, every breath, every word. I am restless, and in shock, and don't know what to do with myself.

Evening of August 5th, 2008
I call Mike Carsten to see if he is working. He is. I ask him to make me a Cosmo and tell him I will be there soon. John stays home with the boys. I predict this will be the first time I ever sit at a bar alone and tell the bartender my problems. When I walk in to 15C, I am somewhat relieved to see Bettina and Aaron sitting at the bar. I sit down in front of my drink, and ask Bettina for a cigarette. After a slow sip and a deep inhale, I look at Mike across the bar and utter, matter-of-factly, "I have breast cancer." That singular moment will be etched in my brain forever.

Sara shows up. I drink another pink Cosmo. Bettina tells me I have a "pass", so I smoke one more, or maybe several more, of her pink Camels.

August 6, 2008
My first day of school. I am hungover and miserable and sitting in a meeting at 8 am. At least my boss knows, as Sara had the forethought to call her from the bar last night and tell her.

I want to drink and throw beer bottles out into the street and hear them crash.

July 31, 2009
So you see, here we are now, exactly a year later. From the end of radiation until about a week ago, I felt like a million bucks. Reborn. Then last week, emotions (but not necessarily memories) began surfacing, unbidden, and at inopportune and unexpected times.

Perhaps I felt them more because we were on vacation, relaxed, and I was more in tune with myself and not engaged in the daily duties of home.

In the "tummy of the Earth" (as Grant called it-otherwise known as Wind Cave), my body went into shock, and I cried for the stillness and the darkness of it all, yet happy in the knowledge that our complex planet has no concern for our trivial human problems.

My anger resurfaced for no apparent reason one morning at the Coach House (John's childhood vacation home in Wisconsin). In the process of making scrambled eggs, I went out onto the porch and threw an egg at a tree with every bit of strength I had. To hear it splat gave me great satisfaction!

While riding on country roads, I felt again that hyper awareness, that surreal edge. I felt as if I could ride forever among the cornfields and silos and old cemeteries.

Now I'm home. The summer is coming to a close, and another school year is about to begin. My mind and body are sorting out the events of the past year.

Welcome to Year 2.

The Color Pink

I have reconciled myself to the color pink. This pink. My new bike pink. The color my hair might be in a few weeks, if I can find the right shade of pink. The color of Olwyn's pink tiara I wore at my Done With Chemo Party. The Pink Brick Box my boys bought me for Mothers Day.

The bike is a new cruiser, fashioned to look like an old one. I drove past it every day on my way from school to radiation at the end of May. Finally, one day, I stopped. Test rode (this pic). Bought. No deliberation necessary.

It makes me happy to ride it. Happy to go at the speed of one speed. Happy to be a Rose Parade, with myself as the only entry. Happy to throw everything into the front basket (purchased later) and just go.

Today, I filled my basket and headed out to do some errands at about 4:00 pm. First stop, the post office, where I mailed my husband's 12-inch braid to Locks of Love. Two nights ago he let me cut it, and shave his head with the 1/2 inch attachment. Wow. He's had that hair for 20 years. Now he has hair that looks like mine.

While at the post office, I left the bike unlocked, but it was out of sight. A real lesson in trust. I only got out of line once to check on it. But I refuse to lock it up everywhere I stop, because it's impractical! Especially if I've got four or five places to get to before dinner.

Next stop: The Medicine Shoppe on Colorado Ave. I parked my bike out front (it has a kickstand!), and carried in my wallet and new scrip for Tamoxifen I had gotten from my oncologist earlier that day. While waiting, I decided to browse The Bookman. The pharmacist said the bike would be safer in front of his store, and he could watch it for me. When I came out of the bookstore and looked towards the pharmacy, my bike was nowhere to be seen! For a brief nano-second, I feared the worst. But when I looked in, there it was, parked in the middle of the pharmacy. The pharmacist had brought it in! I love my neighborhood.

I placed the bottle of pills in my basket, as well as the book I had picked up for Bennett for two bucks, and rode off towards the garden. We have a small but useful plot in the new Old Colorado City Community Garden, which is about six blocks from our house.

At the garden, I discovered new locks on the gates, and it just didn't feel quite right. They were definitely not Locks of Love. They felt like locks of exclusion. Even though we've got a deranged crazy lady roaming through, picking onions, and calling people names, that still didn't seem like reason enough to put locks on all three of the gates. Anyway, after calling Elise and getting the combo, I went in and picked some spinach and some greens, which I placed in a plastic container I had brought with me. Again, in the front basket of my unlocked bicycle. Needless to say, the salad I made for dinner, with some boiled eggs on top for protein, was second to none.

Baskets on bikes are not "cute"; they are PRACTICAL! It's so easy to just throw in what I need, and pedal out the driveway. No special shoes or dorky neon shirts with pockets in the back. I prefer skirts.

At some point in our recent history, "biking" became a sport, and not a way of life. I hate exercising, but going to the post office, the pharmacy, and the garden (I was also going to return a book to the library, but my neighbor I stopped to talk to was on her way there and said she would drop it off for me) on my new pink cruiser is just fun. I look for a reason to ride it every day.

I have a lock for it, but I lost the directions on how to set the combo. At some point, I will call the bike shop and have them help me figure it out. I will most likely use it if I park downtown and have to leave the bike for a few hours (yoga, for example). Until then, I will continue to roam the Westside lockless. With love. Like my husband.

earth hour

inhaling apricot

vernal equinox

For some reason, it just doesn't seem right that the first day of spring should coincide with the 6th anniversary of the Iraq War. But that's how it is. Perhaps that's why, after so many days of sunshine, today finally feels like rain.

it's about time

It makes me feel a bit more hopeful about our future when I read articles like this one.

ask dr. science

My house is a fucking wreck. The kind of wreck that happens when you sat through chemo on Monday, had an activity or two every night of the week, and before that you decided to get out all umpteen green and red plastic tubs from storage late last Sunday afternoon so they're still all half-unpacked in the middle of the living room.

My life on this beautifully snowy morning has been reduced to moving things from one place to another, in the hopes of some semblance of order.

During my shuffling, I very nearly threw away something rather valuable. It's a note written on the back of a "Student Pass" (more affectionately known at my child's school as a "purple slip"):

Dear Mr. Jon Spengler,
I have a questchon. If the world fliped all at once woud we feel it?
Please let me know. I am one of bennett's frends. Thank you.

Following this, there is a crude drawing of the earth with "Antarctica" labeled at the top.

I imagine he (or she) asked the question in class, and Bennett eagerly proclaimed, "Ask my dad. He'll know." Trusting my son, the child very respectfully wrote out the question, Bennett put it carefully in his backpack, and then it entered the chaos of my house, where it could have been lost forever.

All I know is that there's a first, second, or third grader (Montessori classrooms are multi-age) out there somewhere wondering (worried?) about what will happen if (when?) the earth flips over.

I'm going to make sure he gets his answer next week. I want to know, too. But what I really want to know is: If the world flips over, will the contents of my living room magically shift into place?

a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted

Sunday, Oct 5th

My hands ache.



I have been busting up heads of garlic all day, and my hands ache.

It is a pleasure.

It's a sit-down-pull-up-a-chair-have-a-beer-and-a-brat kind of day, down here on Dan and Allison's garlic farm.




Look what Bennett found growing in the compost!


October is supposedly harvest time. Time to gather in the few remaining tomatoes before the frost, and pluck the last squashes from their vines. Time to store, save, prepare for the long dark winter ahead.

The Harvest Moon just passed. This is not planting time!

And yet today, from the back of a tractor, we put garlic cloves in the ground, one by one by one.




They will have to survive a long winter filled with icy winds and snow drifts and freezing temperatures. Planting at any time is an act of faith, but planting in the fall is jumping off a cliff and believing you can fly.

To have such faith in the resurrection that you start planting its seeds when everything else is dying seems contrary and absurd. I like it.

It just doesn't seem possible for the little cloves to stay alive under there all winter, only to regale us with their perfection in the summer.


I can't wait to return in July and pluck up that which is planted.

autumnal equinox

"Today, we wake up in the Summer, and go to bed in the Fall."

-Grant, at the dinner table, during a discussion of the equinox. I thought it was another one of those brilliant insights from one of my children, but it turns out that's what their music teacher told them today in school. I like her!

colorado river trip 2008

Out of the 365 days in the calendar year (this year 366), these are my favorite three. Every July for the past four years now, we have rafted the Colorado River through Ruby and Horsethief Canyons. No cell phones. No computers. No laundry. Nothing to do but float, eat, drink, hike, and play. It's always good to remember that the Milky Way still exists. For those of us who live in a light-polluted city, we often forget that we are just an infinitesimally small planet in the arm of an equally small galaxy.

It's only my third attempt at an imovie creation, so don't judge it too harshly. I just wanted a way to put all the photos in one place.

Re: The Mooning....... on this particular stretch of the Colorado River, there are no roads, but there are train tracks just across the river. Freight trains rumble through at all hours, including about three times a night. Nothing like being awakened from pleasant dreams by what sounds like a tornado. Every once in a while, however, Amtrak comes around the corner. When it does, shouts of "Amtrak! Amtrak!" echo through the canyon, and everyone runs to the water's edge to moon the passengers. Ah.... tradition!

P.S. I don't know why, but when I play it on my blog, I don't get the music. If you don't either, just click in the middle of the movie, and that will take you straight to youtube. If I play it there, then I get the music. If anyone knows why this is happening, please let me know.... thx