Blessing #27: Longtime Friends

I got back early this morning from a week in Victoria, B.C. It's just as shockingly beautiful as I remembered (especially for those of us in the flatlands of Central Texas). Great weather ... cool and funky shops, restaurants, and coffee houses ... a fun Canada Day fireworks display ...

... but the best part was the company.

I can't remember the last time my friends Laura (who now lives in Victoria), Diane, and I were all together for more than coffee or dinner. We've been friends for over 30 years ... through high school, college, moving to other cities ... other states ... now other countries. Through boyfriends good and bad, marriage (good and bad), kids (little and grown), divorces ... remarriages ... jobs. You know, life.

So a week together in a beautiful locale? That was, as Diane would say, awesome. ;-)

There's something genuinely comforting about friends who've known you practically forever. Especially in times of trouble, which our little group hasn't been immune from of late. Sure, we don't participate in the day-to-day of our lives as much as our in-town friends, but there's a texture to our friendship that even the best of new acquaintances can't build without putting in the years.

We change ... we grow ... we hardly recognize ourselves at times ... but we've also been there, actual on-location shots, during the good, the bad, the angst, the triumph.

All I have to say is "Tom ... sit down ..." and Diane can finish the rest of the phrase as we laughingly remember our high school chemistry teacher. A few notes on Laura's piano, and I'm transported to her living room in Richardson, with her toddler dancing around in a little tutu. Her now-grown-up toddler, that is, expecting a child of her own.

Old friends are the keepers of our memories. Instead of retelling the stories of our lives, piecing together the narratives that explain who we are, we remember them ... together. Sure, sure, we don't often recall the exact same words or actions, and sometimes we even fiercely argue about what really happened.

But that's just the point, isn't it?

We were there. Together. And we're together still.

Blessing #26: Travel

Zephyr Cove, Lake Tahoe

June '08

"There is no frigate like a book," the lovely Ms Em tells us, "to take us lands away."

Aside from actually going there, I might add.

How wonderful it is to travel this summer. Berkeley, Lake Tahoe, Victoria (B.C.) tomorrow, soon St. Louis, and perhaps Berkeley again. Or ... ? Shoot, I even enjoyed the little jaunt to Edom, TX, in May.

How lucky I am to have the means, the time, the energy ... and friends in far-away places.

Blessing 25: Unexpected Vistas

Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, May 2008

viewed from the UC Berkeley Botanical Gardens

Sometimes, in the midst of traipsing about a wonderful garden, we turn around and--WHAM!--a view like the Golden Gate Bridge hits us unexpectedly. What option do we have other than embracing the serendipity of that moment?

I wonder, though, what unexpected vistas go by unnoticed every day. What is there that I don't see--blinded by what I expected to be there? Or by internal conversations that cloud the view? Or familiarity? Or prejudices that linger beyond rational knowledge.

When I was an undergrad, the brother-in-law of a friend said that if we didn't know the meaning of the word diarrhea, it would be a beautiful word. I laughed, but as I said the word out loud, feeling it roll smoothly off my tongue, I heard the music in its lilt. He was right.

But still. One man's new vista is another's trip to the john, I guess.

Perhaps it's up to me to find my own new vistas every day. To open my eyes. To scout out my surroundings--at home or afield--and see what I can learn. "The world offers itself to your imagination," Mary Oliver tells us.

We just have to open our minds.

Blessing #24: Wildlife in the City

Even though my big-city daughter tells me deer are so yesterday, I still get excited when I see them. So imagine my reaction when I visit my friend Jane in Dallas and see the peacocks that live in her neighborhood sauntering around as if they own the place.

They're apparently so used to human interaction that a drive-by photo-op doesn't even phase them, as is witnessed by the albino pair here (note the side mirror).

Many of the peacocks roost in the neighborhood trees at night, and one of them has even developed a crush on the daily newspaper. Believe me, I feel his disappointment when the dang thing gets opened and is just, well, a paper. And not even a very good one.

I'm even thankful for the raccoons who've taken to foraging the bird feeders at night. I just have to remember to put the seed away each evening to leave a bit for my favorite cuties.

Let's hope the snakes keep their distance, though.

Blessing #23: Bike Helmets

I'm not sure who invented bike helmets, but if the person is living, I owe her/him a thank-you letter.

Not that I've personally ever worn one, mind you. Especially now that I don't actually own a bike (you'll be glad to know). And not that I ever wore one in the years I did ride a bike--even as a kid, racing down suburban streets without a care in the world--as if I would live forever.

Which is just how my Sweet E rode during her college years in Austin, even on New Year's Eve, much to my fear and dismay. Once she called to tell me how a car had run a red light and almost crashed into her. "Yikes!" I found myself thinking, "Don't tell your mother these things!"

No amount of information or imploring, even from my uber-cyclist friend Patrick could convince E to wear a helmet. They were hot. Or uncomfortable. Or, I suspect, uncool.

Then she got a research internship in the Extreme Trauma Unit of San Francisco General Hospital, and within months she'd bought a helmet for herself as well as her much-beloved David. I guess seeing the actual results of the impact between the thin sheath that surrounds our brain and a couple thousand pounds of steel and glass is a pretty good motivator.

I'm just glad there were helmets to be had. Especially cool skateboarder helmets that fit just right on E's sweet sweet head. And David's too, of course.

Blessing #22: Wildernesses (and good friends to take photos)

Floating Island Lake, Mount Tallac Trailhead, CA

photo by Phil Poulter, June 2008

What is it about a wilderness? Especially a wilderness at 7228 feet, with patches of snow in June?

Is it the fresh, crisp air? The sudden burst of brilliantly yellow wildflowers? The twittering of unseen birds? Perhaps the curiosity of what will be around the curve or up the next slope?

I don't know why, but life seems just a little bit lighter on the trail.

This icy-cold little lake is not much beyond the boundary of the Desolation Wilderness of the Lake Tahoe Basin (that's Mount Tallac in the background), but it might as well be on the moon for how different it feels than the daily grind of the city.

How lucky I am to have been able to go there in person. To have the health to get up the little 2-mile trail on my own (and back down, a bit more harrowing in places). To have kind, funny, and loving friends along for the journey. And to have a yummy sweet potato knish baked by my own sweet E for sustenance along the way.

I'm not sure what I'm looking at in this photo (yep, that's me, hat hair and all), but my bet is that I'm counting my blessings.

Blessing #21: Orange

I've gotten behind on my blessings. Publicly announcing them, that is. They are with me always, though, in silent prayers of thanks. Hopefully, I'll catch up on outward thanks this week.



Here's a brief start:

Blessing #21: Orange. Specifically orange in nature. Like these flowers from the University of California Botanical Garden at Berkeley. Aren't they splendid? I am in absolute awe of these colors.

I can't remember when my family didn't visit gardens. Some families head off to local sports venues on vacation, some to theme parks, others to the beach. Mine hit the local museums and the gardens. I've continued this trend with my own small family, even dragging my daughter to visit Brno's mostly-under-snow botanical garden in the Czech Republic one chilly March.

So why would Berkeley be any different? Last year was the San Francisco discovery adventure, so Golden Gate Park was high on the agenda. This year I spent a week in Berkeley, so a 2.5 mile hike up hill to what ended up being the most splendid botanical garden I have ever seen was absolutely required.

I highly recommend it, if you get a chance, not just for flowers, but for the arrangement (by geographical region of the world), too. And the vistas, of course.

When you get back downhill to Cal, be sure to get a falafel with avocado at a little shop across the street from the campus. Yum.

Blessing 19 & 20: Waco Lake

Waco Lake: A blessing every day

I never heard of Lake Waco until I moved here 15 years ago. It soon became almost a weekly habit, a respite of beauty in an often hum-drum day.

When my daughter was young, we’d sometimes pull into a park by the lake for a picnic, just fast-food or home-made sandwiches, walks along the rocky shore with flat stones to skip across smooth water. A few times we sat under table shelters in a soft rain, watching water meet water, waiting for a dry moment to rush back to the car.

Now I live close enough to the lake to see it every day without even having to drive by. Maybe someday I’ll grow immune to its beauty, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Most days end while I watch the fiery sun slip beneath the darkening sky. Steaks of orange, lemon, fuchsia and aqua give way to blackness, and all that can be seen are the constellations above, lights twinkling on the ridge across the lake, and the strobe of the airport tower.

In the morning the fog creeps in. Snowy wisps of clouds, the last remains of dreamland as I linger over my cup of joe.

Soon, though, the day begins. First with the outline of tree trunks, then branches, then Carolina Chickadees brazenly darting from their misty cover. As the fog thins, I catch a glimpse of crimson when a daddy Cardinal flits by; somewhere in the distance an owl hoots his hello.

Another day by the lake. Waiting for another sunset. And, if I’m lucky, another day to follow.

Blessing #18: A Painted Bunting

Last week, while reading on the deck in my friend Diane's backyard, I heard a loud flapping of wings. There was something about it that sounded cumbersome and unusual, so I looked up and tried to find the bird.

And there it was--some type of heron, I thought, large and completely out of place in a backyard in Georgetown, Texas.

Soon another flapped by with its impossibly large wings and landed on a tree nearby. Crazy.

When we got to our sewing class in Austin, we were talking about all kinds of things and somehow the birds came up.

"Oh, those are Yellow Crowned Night Herons," Kari said. "They hang around Austin in wet springs."

With the mystery solved (and oohed and ahhed over), we moved on to discussing other birds, favorites we'd seen--or not. The painted bunting was everyone's favorite. I'd only seen one once in person--in passing when driving in a rural area just beside a nearby lake. But what a sight it was.

And then ... my very own painted bunting appeared, as if by magic, the next afternoon. I tried to get photos of it the first day, but it flew too fast for me. I was more stealthy the next day, but the glare from the sun and the window made photographing difficult.

Still. A painted bunting. In the feeder on my patio. Every day this week.

With a good mix of house finches, Carolina Chickadees, cardinals, titmice, and wrens to boot. And even a raccoon and a squirrel to keep everyone on their toes. And a sudden, massive swarm of gnats.

Diversity in action.

Blessing #17: Leslie Bonnell

Two weeks ago, when my friend Diane and I turned onto S. 3rd Street, we were a little nervous about our first sewing lesson. But the second we pulled into the driveway to find the apple green studio with a metal roof, our anxiety drained away, and we knew were in for an adventure.

Welcome to Glitzkrieg, Leslie Bonnell's fabulous Austin, TX, studio and teaching space.

We've spent the last two Saturday afternoons with Leslie (and have one more to go) learning the 5 unbreakable rules of sewing, an intro to warp and weft and the trials of cutting on the bias, and even what all those levers and do-dads mean on our sewing machines. So far we've made a drawstring bag, a little square pillow, and a round pillow with a zipper on the back.

It's been a blast.

Leslie's an amazing teacher. She's funny, generous, and mind-bogglingly patient, and her class (we're in Beginning I) offers the perfect mix of theory and practice. The sessions are limited to four students, so there's plenty of time for hands-on instruction and personalized assistance.

Each lesson begins with an overview of the big picture, then a mini-lesson on the next step, including watching Leslie sew what we'll be sewing, and then we're off to our own machines while she watches us. If we need help, we get it, but, best of all, after Leslie shows us how to do something, she takes us back to the first step (by, say, unthreading the machine or taking out the pins), so we have to try it again ourselves.

I know she must have taught these same steps 8,000 times, but you'd never know it from her unflagging enthusiasm for our small triumphs.

I can't wait until next week. And I have a feeling Beginning II is in my future. And maybe the handbag class. Ribbon flowers? Oh, and there's an open studio, too ...

Blessing #16: Sunday Excursions

My friend Phil took me on an out-of-town excursion yesterday, to see some falls in Falls County, about 30 minutes east of us.

I was expecting to rough it to the Brazos, but it turns out the falls were at the end of a well-traveled park, complete with RVs and satellite dishes.

But no matter.

It was a beautiful day, slightly cool and breezy, perfect for walking along the river bank. There were several signs warning us of snakes, and I even saw one, which definitely dampened my spirits toward tramping off the literally beaten path.

While I was taking photos, my camera battery went out, so I walked back to Phil's car to get more. On the way, I noticed a group of elderly women posing and laughing. I offered to take their photos so that the 5th one could be in the shots, and that's when all the other cameras came out.

I love it that one of the smallest, oldest women had a Nikon CoolPix.

Turns out they were the four remaining sisters out of eight (and a family friend). They had married and scattered about Texas and one in Kansas but had grown up in Marlin, the town near the falls, and hadn't been back to that spot for 50 years.

They were posing this way and that, giggling, generally being cute, coquettish, girly sisters. I loved it.

When we were about to leave, one of them came over to us and told Phil the story, laughingly adding the age range--78-93, I believe. "They're the old ones," she laughed. "Oh . . . just kidding!"

We should all be so lucky.

Blessing #1, 2, 3, 14, 15 (and all the days of the year)

~* * * E.L.I.S.A.B.E.T.H.* * *~

My sweet E turns 24 tonight--at 11 p.m., to be exact.

Twenty four years have flown by in the wink of an eye, as they say, and I've been lucky enough to watch her grow from this adorable, smart, headstrong, fun-loving, serious, and truly present little four year old . . .

to the adorable, smart, headstrong, fun-loving, serious, and truly present young woman she is today.

In her 4th year, we lived in a little townhouse in Dallas, near the college where I worked at the time. We had a tiny patio out front with a fence around it to separate us from the parking lot and a busy street not far away.

In the afternoons, she'd ride her trike around and around the patio, then burst through the front door, running up to her room for books and dolls and stuffed animals, then back down to play house outside or on the coffee table in the living room.

"Fire-ball brand baby," her dad used to call her.

She was a slow starter in the mornings, the opposite of me, but once she got going, she kept going. Until she crashed for the night, that is. And crashed hard.

I've always admired that about her: Her zest for life. Her willingness to dive in. Her drive to be Here. Now. Fully.

Two decades later, I still admire her.

And love her with all my heart.

Blessing #13: Texas Sunsets

Yesterday evening I was lying on the sofa reading, when I looked up and saw this through my living room windows:

Blessing #12: Springtime at the Home Improvement Store

Ah spring. That blessed time when every gardener's thoughts turn to days and weeks of digging in the dirt.

So what's a girl to do after she moves to a condo with just the barest patch of ground to plant, and her large, glorious flower garden of a yard is a thing of the past?

She heads off to the home improvement store, of course.

It's not my favorite nursery, and these aren't my favorite plants, but on a sunny morning, after 1.5" of rain and a whole day of grey skies, there was no keeping me inside. So when my friend called to see if I wanted to ride along to the store, I didn't hesitate.

The outdoor gardening area was a riot of color. Part of the parking lot had been partitioned off and filled with geraniums, begonias, and other bedding plants, and the nursery area inside was an extravaganza of Easter glory with lilies, about a kerchillion Knock Out roses, and row after row of pink, yellow, red, and orange--impatiens, hydrangeas, gerbera daisies, begonias, phlox, dianthus ... it was a sight to see.

I wanted to hug them all and say thank you. Thank you my little friends, for bringing me such joy.

Blessing #11: Nandinas

Nandina berries, March 2008

My blessing this week is a bit bittersweet, I suppose. I love nandinas, especially in the winter and early spring when their berries are unbelievably red and pendulous, heralding the arrival of spring bulbs, flowering trees, and hordes of birds to eat the fruit.

Which brings me to the bitter, since this plant is considered invasive by some states and by most gardeners interested in native species.

Nandina is one of those "heirloom," grandmother-variety shrubs that sprouts up everywhere (see "hordes of birds" above) grows easily, spreads naturally, and ... well ... takes over weaker, but indigenous, species.

Hmmm ... that sounds sort of like the history of humanity, doesn't it?

Still, it's so lovely to have them right outside my front door, sheltering the sparrows and finches that flit about the feeder, nestling our little dusting of snow, providing a bit of color on drab winter days.

I won't plant them, but I enjoy the ones that are already here.

Blessing #10: A Dusting of Snow

My back yard, March 7, 2008

We woke up to a dusting of snow this morning. It's not much, but, for Central Texas in March, it's a winter wonderland.

In fact, I can't remember getting snow since last Easter, when we had a freakish but utterly lovely snow storm. We had a few crusts of ice in January, but no snow this winter at all.

Which is a good thing, given how everyone here reacts when snow is predicted.

First, there's a run on the grocery stores. Once I dropped by the store on my way home from work, forgetting that snow and ice had been predicted. You would have thought Reagan's Star Wars program was back in action and the Soviet missiles were headed our way. Forget the day after, those people were stocking up for the promised land.

Second, everyone lines up at the gas station. Never mind that no one's going to leave their house after the first snow flake has been spotted. Never mind that--at best--the snow might--might--stay on the streets for a day. Never mind that there's plenty of gas to be had. You just never know, so you'd better fill the tank. Even if it means lines out into the street.

Third, every school in the county closes as soon as there's a smidgen of white on the streets. "Sadly," as the local NPR station said this morning, it's business as usual today. But, hey, there's not even any snow on the streets and no ice anywhere. Now that the sun is rising, the white stuff will be gone in no time. No sweet sparrow chirps outside my study window this morning--just the drip-drip-drip of quickly transforming snow.

I'd best get outside to enjoy it while I can.

Blessing #9

Blessing #9: The Promise of Spring

The weather's been eratic lately: 80 degrees for a high one day, a blustery 38 at night, and only 59 the next afternoon. The clouds threaten rain, and next thing we know, a firey sun erupts across the sky and practically blinds us.

There's only one explanation, really: Spring is on its way.

I bought these bulbs from the home improvement store last weekend. They were potted in packs and on sale for 50 cents each. What gardener could resist their charms? Each day this week, as I've gone up and down the stairs to my car, I've watched their progress--the lovely little grape hyacinths blooming first, then the daffodils. The larger, fragrant hyacinths will follow next week it seems.

More for me to enjoy.

And right in time to lead up to the larkspur.

Rebirth is upon us. I can feel it in the wind.

Blessing #8: Nature right outside my door

I know, I know ... I've become a Johnny-one-note. But I can't help it.

I feel so lucky to be able to look out the back windows and see ... nature. Here I am, in a condo, sharing walls and a ceiling with strangers, but outside I've got trees, the meadow, sweet little birds, and ... turkey buzzards.

Turkey buzzards?

Yes. They're wonderful, too. After all, from a distance, they almost look like hawks, soaring, wafting, sailing on the breeze. I try not to think about what they're soaring and wafting above, though.

I can't imagine ever getting tired of it: The nuthatches, chickadees, cardinals, goldfinches. The nightly racoon. The hawks and buzzards. Watching the shadows of clouds passing rapidly over the meadow. The sky at sunset. The mist in the morning.

Yep. I'm blessed.

Blessing #7

#7: Watching the sunset from my patio.

I've always loved twilight. It's a time of new beginnings. Of familial hope. A nether world of incandescent light and open curtains.

But since moving to this new home, my affections have been shifting to later hours. To the deepening sunset. The darkening valley. The twinkling of lights across the dam.

I've been here, what, almost 4 months now (4 months!) and each time I look outside at sunset, I just can't believe how lucky I am. Some days it's misty, almost dreary. Some days it's pink and lavender. Some days so orange it takes my breath away.

Always beautiful.

Blessing #6: The Breath of Life

A cold, early morning in late January, standing on the patio, glad to be alive.

I suppose I should have started with this blessing: Life. Breath. Breath that comes easily without disability or impaired lungs.

There have, of course, been those dark nights of the soul when I've not felt this way. But they passed, as those nights do for most of us. The sun comes up and somehow we make it through to happier times.

Life has a way of pulling us along, like survivors of some great sea crash, whether we participate or not. Sometimes all we can do is lie on the raft and wait. Other times we paddle frantically. If we're lucky, we find other survivors, lash our boats together and weather the coming storms.

Because--if we're lucky--the storms will come. It's better than the alternative, as Maurice Chevalier once said.

What's that line? Just breathe. For as long as you can.