It's Not About the Wreath

OK, maybe it's a little about the wreath. It's glorious.

We cobbled this together last week with some things we found around the house. It hangs in my kitchen and reminds me of all that's fabulous.

It's a little bizarre, I suppose, that we had all of this stuff just lying around the house.

We walk in glitter, we dwell with painted plumes. 
The jingling of shiny bells grace our footsteps 
and disposable cookware is always handy. 

You know it made me think. You were expecting this. You know it's not about the wreath. Although it is a glorious wreath and one, I believe, should be left up year round. We shall see about that.

In the meantime, it's not about the wreath.

We do not, in fact, leave trails of glitter like fairy dust behind us when we walk. We leave mud and leaves and sometimes mysteriously bad smells behind us around here. We also leave doll clothes and Legos and socks and crumbs and yarn and tiny bits of paper. I sat on my couch the other day, knitting. I wondered rather suddenly Why does it smell like feet in here? I wondered this because, lest you gag and never visit me, it doesn't always smell like feet in here. Of course I did what any reasonable person would do and breathed through my mouth and went back to my knitting. Later I was vacuuming the couch (it happens) and removed the cushion to find no less than six pairs of dirty, smelly little monkey socks stuffed between the cushions. There was some blustering, perhaps some roaring This is disgusting! There was some scrambling and some apologizing and some whisking away of dirty socks - probably to be stuffed behind beds.

But it's not about the socks, either. Not really. (Although I can tell you, that afternoon it was all about the socks.) It's about this: life is messy and it sometimes stinks. Really, really stinks. It's so easy to walk around the chaos and see only the work to be done, only the clutter and disaster and to smell what is rancid. Sometimes you have to bellow about it and get stuff straightened up to your liking. Sometimes you have to stop and make a wreath from a disposable pie tin.

All that beautiful glittery fantastic stuff was already in our house. It was there all along. It wasn't all put together nicely, it wasn't even in the same rooms. Some of it was hidden in cupboards, some of it we pulled off of other things. Some of it we forgot we had. If I had grabbed what was immediately at hand, our wreath would have been made of smelly socks and half-eaten sandwiches, coffee grounds and leaves tracked in on shoes.

We had to look for what was beautiful. We had to make the effort. We had to see new uses for old things, we had to alter some of the things we had, we had to think hard about where we might find things to add to our creation. It was a collaborative effort, with each adding their own ideas, bringing their own bits of treasure to share.

The act of creation.
The act of collaboration.
The act of finding what is beautiful.
The act of bringing all that together in a greater whole.
These are sacred acts. They are acts that move mountains.

They are also the acts which decorate my kitchen on a budget.

But it's not about the wreath, is it?

Crying on the Playground

It has been a while since I have stood in the middle of a playground and cried.

This is a half-truth.

I have stood in the middle of a playground and cried more often in the last 4 years than I did in probably my entire childhood. But it still catches me by surprise almost every time. I have also stood in an auditorium and cried, in a school cafeteria and cried, and in a classroom, and one time in the hallway.

It's embarrassing.

But not really.

I stood on the playground of the monkeys' new school yesterday afternoon in the brilliant, warm autumn sunlight and cried. I was wearing large sunglasses, so my tears were mostly hidden.

I watched 300 little people in lime green shirts walk in circles and I cried.

I cried because all last week I was grumbling about how our state is lame and under-funds our schools; about how the powers that be think that things like art and music and theater and classroom aides and vice principals are luxuries in education and we have to go, hat in hand, to ask for money for our schools several times a year. And yet, on this sunny Wednesday afternoon, dozens of parents took time out of their schedules to count laps, hand out stickers and pretzels and small cups of water, to cheer for little students and to dance to loud music. I cried because people who didn't have to, happily wrote checks to be given to teachers in grubby little crumpled envelopes so my kids could paint pictures and sing songs.

I cried because there were hundreds of kids walking with purpose in laps around the playground, collecting stickers for each lap as if it were the most important thing in the world. I cried because they were laughing and singing and clapping and skipping and happy to do it, full of pride for their school.

I cried because after searching the sea of constant motion, all in matching T-shirts, I saw my jBird. She's a cygnet on her way to a swan. She was walking alone with a goofy grin and an occasional shimmy to the music, her head tilted forward in determination and her little wings flapping. I missed her on her first few laps because I was looking for someone shorter, less mature, closer to the chubbiness of the baby she was than the long and lean and graceful young lady she's becoming. I cried because when she saw me, her pretense melted away and she came clopping over on suddenly larger feet and uneven teeth and breathless and said "I am having so much fun!" Because she asked me to walk with her and was still child enough to proudly hold my hand and giggle at my ridiculous jokes. Because she let go of my hand when I walked too slowly, telling me: "I need to do this."

I cried because my Hooligan cruised up with a friend in tow, their hands full of snacks and water, and told me they had 'Nilla Wafers. Because he is so very much himself, my slow and steady tortoise who stops for snacks whenever they're offered. Because he will happily participate in whatever is there and find a way to make it suit him. Because he is so small, but such a large presence there, whooping and singing and exclaiming about the food. Because he doesn't seem to care about anything but then saves important things up to tell me later. Because he wanted to sit in my lap and show me his stickers, but then realized he had to get up if he wanted to get more. Because he is still so much my baby, but goes mightily about his business.

I cried because while I watched the two of them holding hands and urging each other along, another mother, a stranger, told me they were sweet and I was lucky they were such good friends.

I cried for all of it. For the community and the generosity. For the absurdity and the silliness. For the determination and the spirit. For what is past and what is yet to come. For this fleeting moment on a weekday afternoon where I could be suspended in time for just a little while and watch them walk in circles. For the knowledge that they are really walking onward, heads tilted forward in determination, small wings flapping and growing stronger, ambling and charging and occasionally stopping for snacks.

I stood on the playground and cried.
It's embarrassing.
But not really.

An Obvious Thing

We are in flagrant disregard of Duty.
It would seem an obvious thing, the sun in summer.

There are wild fires, heat waves, people evacuating, sweating. We sit in sweatshirts in the evening and discuss whether or not to build a fire. It would seem an obvious thing, the sun in summer.

It emerges and so do we. We come out blinking, a city of moles. White like Haddocks and timid, unsure. Like shy brides we haltingly walk into the parks, the squares, the public spaces. We resist the urge to cover newly exposed flesh. We take all our business outdoors. Lunches are eaten, teeth are picked, clothes are changed, naps, definitely naps.

Siblings fight and wrestle, dump water down each other's pants. I write and practice my long range stink-eye. They lift their heads and look at me sometimes. They nod, thumbs-up, mouth O-K. They do not take this stink-eye seriously. Nor do I. It is merely for effect. A reminder. Yes, we are stripped to our underwear and playing in a public fountain, but there are decencies to observe. This stink-eye of mine remains like a vestigial tail or something from a time before them, before the sunshine and the splashing and the underwear and shrieking. Some archetypal image of The Way Things Are Done and Things We Do Not Do and I Would Never...

I forget and I ignore them while they play. This is why they love me best today. Because I ignore them. Sometimes it is best to be ignored and be left to mischief. The crows are taking advantage of these lax circumstances. And a seagull has swung by from the ship canal. The seagull is ridiculous, as big as a goose. Like that tall kid in middle school who got breasts and acne early. Awkward, gawking around, looking for a place to fit. The crows mock it and chase it with their fierce, hard beaks. They have rumbling smokers' caws and slick black feathers like greasers. They are pretty and too smart for their own good. The seagull just plods around among them, trying to find a friend.

The hobos have a box of popcorn. Like a moving-sized box. Full of popcorn. I am curious about the provenance of this popcorn. They scatter the popcorn for the birds and the seagull taunting ceases temporarily. There is more than enough for everyone. I am a little bit ashamed. I have been rabidly protecting my pizza crusts, bagel ends and fancy expensive protein bar remains from the birds. I don't want them to touch me with their lizardy feet or poop near me. I am squeamish and selfish. The hobos, they understand scavenging. They understand being misfit. They have watched the moms gather their children closer when they pass. I feel bad and want to ask them about their giant box of popcorn.

The birds are done with the popcorn for now and they have moved on in a loosely choreographed flapping and squawking. Incredibly they have reformed on the arm of a well-dressed man. Pencil thin gray trousers, neatly pressed dress shirt sleeves turned up in honor of the sudden warmth. An inky flock of birds fly from knuckles to elbow and up under his Important sleeve. He walks with purpose, buried in conversation on his phone. He has Important Things To Discuss. His birds tell a slightly different story than his phone and his clothes and I want to ask him about them. I am not on the other end of his phone, though, so I do not get the chance.

The girls in dresses from my eighth grade dances breeze past. All shoulder pads, high waists, wide belts. Geometric patterns and bold colors. They can wear these though. They are young and invincible. They are not Haddocks. They are brown and brushed and do not chase small people across public spaces. They are like burnished statues, monuments to youth and perfection and seem to say "We can wear these ugly clothes because we make them beautiful with our glow. We are young because we do not remember them from before. These are not the clothes of agonizing adolescence. These are the clothes of quirky irony and we have inherited them to show you how it's done." I let them because I don't care that much about it. I laugh that what is old is new again, and I am suddenly older. They will see pictures later and wonder who these people were who thought such things were good ideas and then they will know why we others sit in comfortable jeans and natural fibers, sensible shoes.

There are children on leashes and dogs who roam free. I wonder at this backwards world and hope the dogs don't poop near me or touch me with their tongues. I briefly hope the same of the children. But they are on leashes, so it is less likely. The children are up long past nap time and sit on the ground and cry. The mothers resist the urge to do the same. Childless grass nappers open one eye and stare. They do not understand this resistance to repose. The dogs sniff for popcorn. The hobos have moved on and left their box. A large child rides a tiny tricycle through the fountain. There is scolding and pouting and arguing. Perhaps some foot stomping, too. The sun has turned a bit in the sky.

The opalescent Haddock flesh begins to turn the iridescent pink of Salmon and the dogs get restless. Mothers check their clocks and a general rustling begins. Like the crows, they begin to flap and migrate. Disorganized and all at once, emerging into a pattern. Dripping children, blue lips with soggy pants, pink cheeks and goosebumps find bicycle helmets, a drink of water. I stand and somehow dump my coffee down the back of my shirt and pants. I am dripping, too, and smell like what I imagine is South America. Musk and sunshine, sweat and strawberries and coffee. I sit back down and laugh.

I stand again and collect my things. I sneak past the box of popcorn and take a peek. I say a silent thank you for all of this nonsense. For the birds and the fountain. The hobos and their purloined popcorn in a shipping box. For the children and the dogs and the walking, rusting tattoos. For the statuesque goddesses and the skate punks. For my Haddock flesh that will carry me home with groceries and wet monkeys on two wheels.

It is all absurd.
It is all so beautiful and in motion.
An amoebic throbbing and constant moving of in and out.
The world contracts and expands to allow another and some more as we come and go.
There is room for everyone here in the sun.
It's an obvious thing, this sun in summer.

Brighter Than The Sun

"Tonight, we are young. We can set the world on fire. We can burn brighter than the sun."

Driving home tonight in the setting sun. Full of tandoori chicken and saag paneer and sunshine and all the good things this life holds, we chatted quietly in the front seat while the monkeys thumb wrestled in the back. The radio played as a backdrop, mostly ignored.

And then we heard a steady, catchy beat. We are not the hippest of cats, not caught up on the latest of everything new. What is this? we wondered and listened on.

The song, as a whole, had little to do with our lives or our loves. But there in the hook, it carried us over its bridge and we listened. Somehow in the fading springtime light, in the center of a stranger's voice, we found a spot we've been forever. We found the space where it is us and we are together and that is all that matters.

The last few years have been hard. The last few weeks have been full of stress. It's so easy to lose the beat of things that matter. The heartbeat of your love. The rhythm of the life you've built together. And sometimes, in a moment of doing nothing much important at all, it comes back. You're in the place you vowed you'd always be. By your true love's side, holding hands while he drives, and discovering new music together.

"Tonight," we sang, "we are young."
"We can set the world on fire.
We can burn brighter
than the sun."

Date Night

Not much time to write tonight folks. I have a date. The Chief Lou is putting the monkeys to bed and I have a date. He's all the things a good tryst should be: he's dark and mysterious. He's rich and he's sweet, but just salty enough to not be boring. He sits silently and watches me write, he shares a double tall latte with me and waits patiently while I think. He's also famous. It doesn't get any better than this, folks.
Click here for his picture. Don't be jealous.

Making Minestrone with Monkeys

Warm the oil. Wait for that faint, sweet-hot smell of gently heated olive oil and then, deep breath, begin. First come the fruits from deep within the earth. The strong and the flavorful, heavily scented and full of their own magic oils - the onion and the garlic. Sizzle, stir and wait. Not too long, mere seconds... there it is. The garlic. Quickly now, the next layer. The hearty and the strong, roots and stalks - bright carrots and elusive but distinct celery. These are your work horses. They hold up to the heat, the longest simmerers, the taste of comfort. Throw in some salt to make them shine. Snipped oregano from the yard: pungent, peppery, furry little leaves to draw out the celery and make her dance. Cover and wait. Let the salt work its crystalline magic and coax the flavors, rooty and earthy, from these foundational elements.

A good minestrone is made in layers. When the corners are softened, it's time for the gentle greens of the fruits that grow from flowers: peppers, zucchini, green beans. These are more delicate bits, full of their own tears of joy. They need a warm bath to ease their company with the heartier roots. The stock, some tomato puree, a splash of red wine for its decadence and a little more salt. The pot is filling, these layers of flavor need time to mingle and sort themselves out. A gentle simmer and the lid goes on. Longer this time, leaving plenty of time for all to get acquainted. We wait. We wipe the counters, knead the bread. Tiny fingers dimple the surface to create divots that will catch melted butter and hold the crunch of sea salt. The focaccia goes in the oven and we dance a moment while we wait.

With a savory billow of steam, we lift the cover and check our soup so far. A sip of the broth and a sprinkle of black pepper, a pinch more salt, but not too much. These roots and fruits can speak for themselves and they are slowly assembling into a powerful chorus. We add the temperamental sopranos - fresh diced tomatoes and some baby spinach. The bass notes of cannellini beans and a handful of pasta. They rehearse together in the pot with burbles and a steady, thumping rhythm of a slow boil. The bread is done, fresh and steaming from the oven, wrapped in fresh white towels to keep the heat and the chewy, dense crust. My maestros of minestrone let it tend to itself after taking a tiny taste of its harmony and declaring it perfect.

Attention is turned to the sweets. Little, rich, decadent balls of batter - chocolate within chocolate - are carefully rolled in stark, white powdered sugar and carefully lined up on parchment paper. These little, gooey chocolate soldiers in ranks are cautiously directed to the oven where they will harden and crackle on the outside, while staying soft and yielding within. Tiny patient fingers and tongues wait until all the rolling and lining is done before they lick their sweet reward - remnants of sugar and chocolate dough. Again we wait. We smell and we linger, peeking in the oven's window through dish towel curtains, counting down the minutes. The raw taste of batter and sugar was only a tease and whetted our appetites for more - warm and fresh from the oven.

And now for the very best part. We fill bowls with lids, bag up loaves and cookies, write love notes, and load them in the car. One friend has been sick. Another has lost a loved one. Both said they were fine. We want to make them finer. The monkeys ring doorbells and dance from foot to foot in the excitement of a job well done and anticipation of being able to surprise.

A good minestrone is made in layers. The hearty and the homely work together with the delicate and fragile, they meet in common space and become sublime. A good minestrone is the hearty warmth of a rich soup with the light and verdant promise of brightness to come. It can warm you when the air is still chilly and speak to you quietly of summer days. When paired with the conundrum of focaccia - both light and airy and firm and substantial - it becomes complete. The warm yeasty pockets that were made to sop up the last of the broth, the crunch of salt to add the sea to the summer vegetables, the toothsome and the tender. And to round it out, a touch of sweetness. The dark excess of chocolate on chocolate, dipped in the flightiest of sugars to powder your lips and your fingers. The ending note of the grand symphony started by garlic and oil.

These layers take patience, they take time. They take a little bit of magic and a lot of love. They are the very least we can give to our friends.

Things That Made Me Smile Today

My back yard smelled like Santa Fe this morning, thanks to pine smoke from the chimney and the fresh coffee in my cup. It took me on a cold, bright vacation to the fall of what seems like a hundred years ago. The smells whisper to me of promise, of joy in the midst of uncertainty. Of presence in the midst of hoping. Of a story I will some day tell. I wanted to sop it up like honey with a bit of warm tortilla, crunchy with cinnamon and sugar and yielding soft in its interior.

My true love sent me notes today. Sent me such silliness in the midst of business, strictly business. He popped up there on my screen and said hello, I love you in a thousand different ways that made me laugh. He reminded me what's good, what's right, what's true. He told me things that only I would understand. He was a tangible presence there, like a hug from far away. He made me wonder why I thought anyone else ever mattered.

My muse visited me today. In spite of his being a wee bit battered of late, he came to say hello. Yes, my muse is male. No he isn't real. He's just visits me from time to time and brings me treats of words. Phrases and ideas that tumble around and fall out through a pen that moves so smoothly, uninterrupted. I thanked him for his time and explained I'd love to stay and chat forever, but there was this laundry to be done, food to be made, people to tend. He said it was all right, he'd just hang out in the back of my mind a while. He kept me company while I worked.

These little people in my life with their speeches and their declarations, their moods and their mischief. I looked at them through new eyes today. The eyes that say that's good, that's right, that's how it should be. They whirled themselves green on the playground; fell tumbling, laughing to a heap of suddenly longer, leaner arms and legs. Arm in arm they skipped away to find the next adventure. They have their secret language, the language of being born of the same womb in different times. The language of eyes that match each other's and barely distinguishable laughs. Their world is two halves of a whole, a yin and a yang and a hop, skip, pounce, giggle. My eyes said that's good, that's right, that's how it should be.

Photo courtesy of morguefile.com

There are things you'll never know. The things that make me cry. The things that light up the inside of my head like too many fluorescent bulbs and make me cringe and cower. The things that hurt and annoy and break. The things that seek to destroy. The things that bring me to my knees. There are things you'll never know because they aren't worth knowing.

These things that make me smile, though; I collect them like stones and carry them in my pockets. Their weight is ballast. Their clam insistence holds me to center when balance is precarious. These stones shelter me when the outside is scratching to get in - whining, niggling, insisting upon itself. These warm stones that fill up the pockets of my thoughts: the scents, the sun, the soul mate, the source, the smallness of hands and feet with great big souls. These are the things that made me smile today.

The Gift of Blank

My mind is blissfully blank.
The sort of blank that comes when I try to find words to describe the love I feel for my family.
The sort of blank that comes from being wholly and completely in the moment.
Nothing forward, nothing backward, just right now.
It also may be the sort of blank that comes from lots of espresso, Swedish meatballs, cheese and crackers and delicious homemade turtles.
It is the sort of blank that comes from being full up to the top of so many things.
Blank like a smooth, calm surface.
It is the sort of blank that floats and is fuzzy and warm and is nice.
Blank like a blanket.
A great big, happy, sated sigh.
Merry Christmas to all of you. Or Solstice, or Hanukkah, or Festivus, or Sunday, or whatever in the world you want to celebrate today. I like twinkle lights and ham, so Christmas it is for me and mine.
Blissfully blank and present.
My prayer is that everyone should at least have a taste of this at some point in their lives.
I know how fortunate I am to have such presence today and so many days of my life.
I know this blank is blessed.
I hope you have filled in your own blanks today!

The Gift of Slumber

There are two rules in this house; lo, there are three:
Thou shalt not hurt thyself.
Thou shalt not hurt anyone else.
And these three sacred things shall be conducted in peace:
eating, pooping, and slumber.

There shall not be any future disorders of eating, odd anal fixations,
 or unrested souls under this roof.

Therefore:
If the Chiefest of Lous should have the grinding of teeth, the sawing of logs
or the heinous bed farts, he shall sleep on the couch.

If the Mama should have a really good book that must needs be read
until the early hours of morn,
she shall sleep on the couch.

If the jBird or the Hooligan shall have the terrors of night,
they shall be divided and conquered
 in whatever sleeping spot may give them peace.

If there be phlegm, the afflicted must all share a room
so better to cough on each other.

If there be an affliction of the bowels,
thou shalt sleep on the floor near the bathroom.
Thou shalt not puke in my bed.
Nay, not in any bed, nor on any surface that is impossible to clean.

We shall all begin in our appointed places, at the appointed times.
We shall see upon the morrow where everyone wakes up.

There may be of some times a necessity for cuddles for any member of the household.
Cuddling is not restricted unless you kick me in the crotch too many times whilst thou sleep.

There shall be no judgement nor guilt attached to any of these things.
It shall be not the business of anyone where the night is passed,
save those who passed it themselves.

So when the Mother of Mama asks "How wilt thou find time to be man and wife with children in thy bed?"
The Mama shall answer: "That is what the living room floor is for."
And there shall be no more discussion forthwith.

Here endeth the lesson.

Who Needs Self Esteem?

Do you have one of those friends? The one who is beautiful and fit. The one with nary a hair out of place, or plumbers butt to be seen. The one who somehow manages to have time to work out, keep a spotless house, read interesting books, mentally enrich her children and cook amazing, gourmet, organic meals all without smudging her lipstick? I have that friend. And on top of all that she is so genuinely nice that I can't even be jealous, I can only hang out with her and hope some of it rubs off on me.

So, we're out to dinner with this friend and her family. My jBird is fond of making conversation with the grownups. She sits and chats about the weather, asks after people's babies and other adorable little 7-year-old-acting-like-a-grownup kinds of things. She was explaining to my friend that the Greek restaurant where we were was one of her favorites because their "avgolemono soup is to die for and you must try it." Beautiful Friend, amused, asks:
"What are some of your other favorite restaurants?"
"Well, my very favorite is the Chinese Super Buffet out by Big Lots, do you know what I'm talking about? But we don't go there very often."
"Oh really? Why not?"
[This is where I start clearing my throat, ready to change the subject.]
My darling daughter, just as sincere and sweet as can be, says: "Oh, well don't you know, it gives Mama heartburn."
Beautiful Friend smiles and glances at me. I am both a little embarrassed and extremely relieved, thinking this is the end of it, but no.
"... and terrible diarrhea."
"Ha ha ha" [forced laugh] "OK, jBird, that's enough. Shall we get the hummus?"

She was afraid my garlic breath would
embarrass her in front of this guy!

"Oh no! Remember that time we came here before we met Rick Steves [the jBird's current heartthrob] and you ate all the hummus?" Turning confidentially to Beautiful Friend, "She ate all the hummus and had such terrible garlic breath that I didn't want her to ask Rick Steves for his autograph for me."

I have never been so glad that the Hooligan knocked his drink over for the third time during a meal.

As parents, we spend so much time trying to protect fragile little egos and build up these strong, independent little people. We monitor their TV, toys, stories, and friends so that they won't be bombarded with images and ideas that will make them feel bad about themselves. We are careful in our selection of words when we correct them so we can let them know they're not bad people, just made a bad choice. I get so much stink-eye on the playground when I holler "All right knuckleheads! Five minutes!" because both hollering and affectionate nicknames might be damaging to their little psyches. But you wanna know what I think? I think they're wise to our game. I think they know that real people don't talk like that. I think they learn about how to be strong, independent people by watching their parents be strong, independent people. The thing is, my jBird wasn't trying to be hurtful or embarrassing, she was just making conversation and that was her childlike estimation of what adult conversation is like.

So what can you do? You just hold your head high and pick up your spoon and have a taste of that "to die for" avgolemono soup and hope that your Beautiful Friend doesn't picture you cramming your face with hummus and bad Chinese food or sweating and groaning on the can every time she sees you.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge and My Fridge

Good ol' Sammy-T "Cleans the Fridge" Coleridge

So, I was cleaning out my fridge today and thinking about the poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I know, it's such a cliché, but I can't help it. We were taking part in our annual day-after-Thanksgiving tradition: the Thanksgiving Purge. [I know what that sounds like, but lest you conjure images of a vomitorium, remember I am completely phobic about barf.]

Part of the Purge involves emptying the fridge of the bearded hummus of yesteryear, fetid cheese, and other varieties of organic matter in various stages of decomposition in recycled yogurt containers. Not only do we need the valuable real estate for our Thanksgiving leftovers, we also need the re-recycled yogurt containers to store them in. So, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Tom Waits [the iPod is essential for this activity for two reasons: 1. the grand hope that in engaging one of my other senses more fully, the sense of smell will take some time off and 2. the piped in music covers the squidgy noises] and I were tackling this task together. Tom Waits growled: Hoist that rag! Samuel Taylor would occasionally rouse from his laudanum stupor to intone: a thousand, thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I. And I would giggle through the gagging.

Now my fridge is nice and full again of delicious food that my monkeys and I cooked together for our big feast yesterday. It will be breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next few days until we all get sick of it and it takes its turn to dance with the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This is one of those processes that I both loathe and completely take for granted. It's one of those decidedly 21st century, middle-class, first world burdens.

Other things I had to endure today: I had to clear out the monkey hut of unwanted toys and random crap because we have all of these friends and family who send them more toys than they can ever play with; Facebook wouldn't load correctly for about an hour this morning; the website of a major retailer where I wanted to purchase my mom's birthday present and have it shipped to her door without my even having to change out of my pajamas or brush my teeth wouldn't accept the coupon code I had; some lady in a Lexus SUV missed the giant white arrow and line of cars pointing directly at her and tried to drive the wrong way down the one-way Goodwill parking lot causing me to have to sit and wait until that big hot mess righted itself; one of our Wii remotes has been MIA for about 3 weeks causing me to have to reach my hand down the back of the Easy Chair of Doom and feel around for it; the graphic for my blog stats wouldn't update this morning so I had no blue squiggly line of gratification to look at; I had gastric distress from overdoing it a little bit yesterday and then following it with fresh doughnuts for breakfast.

Can you even believe it?! It was the worst day ever.

My dear friend, Mr.Coleridge, slipped out of my consciousness for a wee tipple and left this Chinese proverb behind: A fish doesn't know he swims in water. The water we swim in is pretty singular. We swim in a churning rapids of immediate gratification, virtually unlimited goods and services at our fingertips, relative wealth and peace. Our water is full of these "burdens" of too much food, too much stuff, too much fat, too many choices. Of course we get used to it, we're the fish. Of course, when things don't go as swimmingly as we think they should, or when things are particularly vivid, or when they mess up at the DMV and issue drivers' licenses to people who are clearly blind, we get out of sorts. Sure, there are those "thousand, thousand slimy things" lurking about in the water, but every now and then, it's kind of nice to lift my head out of the primordial ooze and realize that my neck of the ooze is pretty good.

 "A thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I."

So did I.

These People

I have a snippet of poetry that hangs on my fridge. It's near a picture of Chicken (the cat) while he was in his Marlon Brando phase, lounging about in my mom's bathroom sink. I leave it there to remind me of the pleasure of indolence, the necessity for it.

Chicken in Marlon Brando phase

I meant to do my work today, but a brown bird sang in

the apple tree, and a butterfly flitted across the field, and

all the leaves were calling.

-Richard La Gallienn

These people

I was raised with a strong work ethic and I find it very hard to just do "nothing". I'm not a competitive person, but I am constantly setting goals for myself and then won't let them out of my teeth. It has only been in my mid-thirties that I'm learning to take "time off" and appreciate the value of indolence, of accomplishing nothing. And to do it without feeling guilty or like I have to make excuses for it.

It's all thanks to these people. These people that I love to distraction. These people who need so much from me, but what they need most is a mama who is rested and in her right mind. Thankful to these people today while I do a whole lot of nothing today and accomplish some of the most important things in life.