What's eating the Hibiscus

This little guy managed to eat a hole through the hibiscus bloom, I watched him eat from the flower off and on for nearly an hour as I was weeding. Weeding a job that never seems to get done, one I will be doing non-stop when I get back from Chicago. I tried on Saturday afternoon, but the heat was brutal after about an hour, I felt I had heat stroke. Yesterday was the Vans Warped Tour Concert, which surprisingly was okay. My daughter divorced me once she and her friends were inside the gate, but at her age that is to be expected. My favorite part of the event is waiting in line, where the young band members walk along the line with headphones, and ipods, talking one on one with the kids, sharing their music and trying to sell a few CD's. I love that this venue makes music accessible, and everyone there is their for the music. Music is universal, I also love to watch people, I spent hours watching the kids, from the teased mohawks, to the girl with the angel wings tattooed on her back, to the parents ( which are pretty easy to spot in this crowd) like pack mules for the kids, carrying blankets and water. I also heard some great music and some not so great music and I bought one CD from a band called Therefore I Am, a bit what I would call heavy metal, hard rock, ( which my 80s hearts loves) and the band signed it to The Rad Mom. My daughter is chopping on the bit to be allowed to go to these events without me, I am unsure when that will be. Some days it is close, other days I believe she will never have the maturity, but I keep hoping. Maybe next year. I however will miss the music.

So Whats Bugging You?

A locust shell from my garden, three different photos processed a bit differently, original, B & W, and two with artistic filters applied, an evening of fun playing around with photo shop. I found myself amazed at the outer skin, its perfect mimicry of life, how at a glance it seemed alive. I have been mostly hibernating again, and it feels good, my garden is almost back in order, and I am feeling more and more like myself of late. This week my daughter has been gone and my husband and I spent the week just enjoying the company of each other, practicing couplehood and it was wonderful. It took from Saturday through Thursday to begin missing my daughter ( don't tell her that). I am excited that she will be coming home today.

So whats bugging me is that I can not say no to my daughter when it comes to music concerts. Tomorrow we spend a day at an all day outside concert Vans Warped Tour, and honestly I can not get the least bit excited, I have been thinking about faking sickness, but truthfully I believe faking illness is simply bad karma ( though I have done it a time or two or more). We will be going to Vans Warped Tour, an all day multi-band venue, at Fair Park in 100 degree weather with 4 teenage girls ( just shoot me now), thankfully my sister-in-law Kim is coming with us, so I will have good company. Monday I go to Chicago to teach a class and to give a presentation at a conference. I am excited, I am going to go the Art Institute of Chicago on Thursday night and see the Monets. I would love to write like Monet painted. I am taking my camera.

Garden Postcards

Postcards

Windows

I love the blue of the sky as seen through the broke panes. I imagined the windows fully glassed, how blue the sky must of looked to everyone inside, how hard it must of been to stay inside, with the promise of that sky, always calling you to come outside, tempting you with a case of spring fever. I am still struggling at the edge of the what if twilight zone, but with God's grace I am gaining ground and mostly groovy.

Salt Publishing

The mailman brought me a couple of presents on Wednesday, The Opposite of Cabbage by Rob. A. Mackenzie ( which I haven't read yet) from Salt Publishing, inside my package was a hand written thank-you from the sunny UK, from the editors. Once I get a chance to read the book, I will post my thoughts here, the book came recommended from several friends, so I am anxious to read it. I also received a care package from my friend Nicole, a CD of songs, a framed print of a poem she wrote for me, home made soap and a beautiful letter of warm and caring thoughts. A care package that was needed and came at exactly the right time. Thank-you my friend.

This week has been tough for me, physically I have not been 100%, and emotionally I have been a soppy wet dishrag. I have been undergoing physical therapy for some degeneration of a couple of vertebrae, that in itself is no big deal, I am closer to 50 than 40 ( that looks awful does it not-50) and my body has had its share of bumps and bruises along the way, and luckily no surgery is needed. The cure however may be worse than the disease, as all of the nerves in my hands and legs are wide awake and speaking in tongues.

I can not decipher what they are saying and why, only that they are noisy and fully awake. I am a diabetic, and have been for 16 years, and honestly have not always done exactly what I should of been doing and have apportioned a generous share of self loathing and guilt to my psyche for diabetic n0n-compliance. I have been lucky, knock wood that I have no serious diabetic side effects, no nerve or tissue damage, fully functioning kidneys and during the last twenty years have really only had a few times when the disease was kicking my ass. I know I could of done better, and when I start serving myself a slice of guilt pie, all of my fears float to the surface ( both fear and hope float) and I struggle. Two years ago I had an episode of angina and a massive panic attack ( my first of three-thankfully the last two years mostly panic free) triggered by arthritis in my left shoulder, following the episode, I had every heart test known to man, the result being I had a 42 year old body. Considering I was 42, I was okay with this. This episode however was the first time I tasted fully my own mortality, and I realized that I was not ready to move on, that I wanted a full measure of life, to see my daughter married, to hold my first grandchild and to drive that handsome man I married crazy another 20 to 40 years.

These weird rumblings that have been echoing through this body of mine, resurrected my fears, and I spent a few days in fear's twilight zone. A place I wish on no one. I went to my doctor ( who's name is Gabrielle and might be my guardian angel) who listened to my fears and ordered a test that would rule out most of the worse that had hold of my imagination. I also asked my friends for prayer, I am a spiritual person, I believe in a God of Grace, and that all living things are connected, that there is reason, purpose and a pattern to all life. That the force of life that spark that defines us, comes from God. I am a Christian, and have always struggled a bit with my own faith, I am the proverbial Doubting Thomas, but I am still here, still believing, and still trying to live my life in a way that honors the gift that Jesus gave me. This week a trial for me, but also an experience of love, as several of my friends shared with me their own experiences and taught me how to pray in a way that frees the heart from fear, and for that I want to say a heartfelt thanks. With God's Grace, I am mostly groovy.

The Last Trufula Tree ?


My brain is an odd and random place, I thought of the Lorax and Sneeds when I saw this tree, and of course the last Trufula Seed. As a child I read the book, watched the TV program, and always wondered if the seed grew into a tree. I believe it did, and here perhaps is my proof.

Flitter: Poetic Innie or Outie

The last several days I have been thinking about the pursuit of creative endeavors, my creativity expresses itself through words and images. Creativity is personal and in many ways it makes us vulnerable, we open up ourselves for others to read, to view the world through our filters. I have asked myself the last several years.

What makes a writer?

What makes one write?

Is there a artist or poet gene?

Why do I write?

What compels me to lay open my thoughts and images?

A friend relayed a conversation with another poet about writers either writing to get in or get out--I likened it in my abby normal way to having a innie or an outie writers navel. Writing for me is a conversation, sometimes it is a conversation with myself, sometimes with others, sometimes with God, it is simply how I process. The words flow easy for me, they are for me a song that accompanies everything I do, even when I am not writing, they are there--they are never still or quiet. I believe that as humans we have an innate desire to create, perhaps because God created us in his image, and that each person creativity manifests itself differently. Me, I am a curious talker and a visual listener. I am an amateur. I am good with that, I'd like to think perhaps a time or two a photo or a few lines of prose or poetry approaches what I like to call "the more", something that might transcend and reach out to others. I struggle with time restraints and commitments, contiously. My creative time often comes in fit and spurts, and I sandwich it between the other roles in my life, still I make a concerted effort to fit it in. I went through a large period of discontent wanting to spend every available minute in the pursuit of the creative; either writing or taking photos, yet I found I began to miss my own life, my friends, my family, these things I had pushed to the back burner temporarily to make more time for being creative. Over the last couple of years I strived to find balance between the roles in my life. I am not always successful but I have reached a good place in my life, I know who I am and I am comfortable in being me, the good, the bad and the in between and every day I make a few minutes to feed the creative me. I challenge us all to feed their creative sides, in whatever way it manifests itself. I believe in the process of being creative we often reach beyond ourselves to others to create a bridge, to allow for compassion and respect of others. It unites us in our global humanity. The photos some of my earliest, with my first camera a Kodak, I love them for thier imperfection, for my inability to capture the butterfly in flight, so that the wings are merely a suggestion, a blur of color, a flitter of movement. For the record, my poetic belly button is an innie.

So let me know are you a poetic innie or outie?

Amateur


With my lens I tried to beguile poetry's
living form; the colors of the desert
subtle hues of gold and amber; the sudden
flash of brilliant blue, how the wind transforms
jagged rock into river stones. Here the earth
absorbs all color. Life is resilient in the respite
of mans shadow. These simple stones become runes,
desert talisman that practice the mimicry
of stream. One day the sky will darken bursting
forth with ferocity; the desert spirit
long practiced in the art of denial,
is graced with the presence of water
and a river, transitory as man's fragile
breath on glass flows. Sepia images curl
into song and I only hazard a guess.

Picture Story


What shall cast the shadow on the mountain? In this unbroken terrain, I found that I was lost in the world of subtle darkness, I had abandoned my shadow to the mine, I freed it to bleed into the dark heart of the desert, the quickening of the lands breath as clouds covered the mesa, the halo of dark that surrounds the cactus flower, the taint of my shadow on untamed land, I held in my hand a shard of pottery, in another millennium a woman pressed clay into a basket of stray, and placed the clay lined basket into fire, and from the purification of flame a vessel was formed.


These shards spoke to me of a simple life, in my hand they felt warm to my touch, as if I had an affinity to the potter that a millenia ago crafted them from straw and clay. A people of hunters and gatherers, moving from location following the streams, the promise of water, these vessels were broke on purpose, each pot smashed as to not allow bad spirits to follow them from place to place. I arranged them on a tableau of stone, and I photographed their beauty, I tempered my urge for possession, and following the custom of their creator I scattered them to the earth. No evil spirits followed me from that sacred place.

Black and White Studies

Dog and Garden

This weekend I worked in the yard, played in the pool and spent some time with the creature who loves me the most, my dog Blondie. We have always had a dog, in the 23 years we have been married Blondie is only our second dog, both dogs have been Chow mixes and surprisingly both have been really good people dogs. I believe we are a family of cat people, we have 4 cats right now and at one time we had 6, I think that cat people should have cats and dog people should have dogs. My husband and daughter bring home puppies, with full expectation of us becoming dog people, who play fetch, and Frisbee, and speak dog. That never happens, our dogs begin to metamorphosize into cat-dogs. Cats are their friends, they build survivor alliances with one or more of the cats to protect their dog food, on occasion you can find them sleeping right next to one of the cats. We are the worst of dog owners, we undog our dogs. Blondie is loved fiercely in our cat people way, and she is a happy dog, so perhaps this is okay. I always want more for my dogs, I want my dogs to have true dog people like my sister and her husband, who raise hunting dogs. We raise cat-dogs, my husband refers to her as that big blond-cat; she is however my dog and I am the center of her universe ( perhaps why I prefer cats-as I am not equipped to be the center of any living creatures universe)and she is old. She will be 14 on Christmas day, and of late she has been slowing down. When I was gone last week, she refused to come out of her crate, she sulked, some days she is stiff and spends her day sleeping at my feet , and other days she is a great big puppy bouncing around the yard. She has cataracts, but no other old-dog diseases, other than a somewhat leaking bladder, yet I feel a shift in her, a sense that we are near the end of her life, as if she is telling me it is time to go. I worry when I go out of down for two weeks in August that she will simply slip away. I am hoping that God will give her a true dog angel as her companion. The flowers some lilies I planted in the pool side garden.

the shapes of this world are not unique, there is a familiarity of pattern, a sense of rhythm in all living things, the fabric's textures change, but there are both stars above and below. And I being a simple person, find that miraculous


its beauty is transitory, fleeting and yet i find comfort in the cycle of the seasons, the promise of other springs, and its honest propagation of its species.

the sun through the leaves of my neighbors trees creates prisms. I could not capture the subtle hues of their rainbows, the way the rose bled into the afternoon sky, only these circles, halos of light to showcase the rose.

and the desert blooms

Postcards from the Edge

Office Space and Fake Families



I am on the road again, and while I often miss my family, the field work has always been my favorite part of the job. I have been an environmental scientist for 24 years. It is a job that I am well suited for, a good mix of scientific principles, many disciplines and one that is dynamic, that changes often and frequently presents to me a puzzle that I need to figure out. I believe strongly that man should be a steward for the environment, and my work affords me the luxury of doing something I believe in. I feel I have been damn fortunate to be able to do a job I love for so many years. This week I am going to New Mexico, one of my favorite places, I am taking my camera. I hope to get some good pictures, some green chillies and perhaps a sopapilla and a lot of work done. When I get back, I am going to the graduation of Ian, the son of my dear friend Bonnie-Jean, a much loved and surrogate nephew. I heard him once introduce Rachael to his friends as a fake-cousin and I smiled and said so that makes me a fake-Aunt. I have to find time when I land on Friday, to shower, change, and stop and buy an apple-pie and vanilla ice-cream, as I have been bringing Ian apple pie since he was toddler, it is both of our favorites. I am swamped in all things, but mostly groovy.