Pretending

The pile of end cut two by fours tempted me. It was fire wood for camping, but playing with it wouldn't hurt it any, would it?

As I stacked two north and south on one layer, then two east and west the next ~ it grew quickly. The kids gravitated to the tower making. Soon they branched off with their own creative plans leaving me with a tiny midget of almost three years.

When I had to start lifting her to put one more layer on, we decided to started another small tower just her size. She promptly stuck her legs in using one side for a seat, the other for a table. With me squatting on the ground outside her 'house', we had a tea party. Sticks were scones, dirt was sugar, leaves were saucers and cups. The cream had to be poured out of thin air.

After a bit, she became concerned with the lopsided hospitality and insisted that I join her inside her 'house'. At first she had trouble understanding that my large body simply would not, could not fit. Puzzled, she looked around trying to solve the problem. Her eyes hit upon a wooden crate not far away. Leading me by the hand, she showed me my 'house'. She lit up with delight as we both took our places at the table and set out another, fresher tea party. It was very refined, and delicious. It felt like I had taken a turn into Neverland for a few moments. Tea parties with my girls were quite some time ago ~ mixing the memories from then into now ~ was sweet. It was a relief that I still remembered how to have a proper tea.

An older and wiser little girl of six or seven came over to see what we were doing. She didn't understand the laughter. She didn't see the tea party accoutrements, the steam from our cups, or the lemon curd drizzling down the scones.

She asked us what we were doing. A puzzled look scrunched her face as I told her, showed her, invited her. She shook her head no. I asked her if she ever played pretend. Again, she shook her head no, saying it was weird. As the grown up little girl walked away, I wanted to catch her up in my arms, and beg her to stay and play.

The shortest sentence in scripture is: Jesus wept. So did I.

Passion Play

Need Fire was one of the Celtic bands playing at the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw this weekend.  They took turns sharing one of the stages with The Wicked Tinkers.  

Little Michael Purser plays the didgeridoo and the fiddle for Need Fire. At the end of the day, I noticed his fiddle bow was nearly shredded. I asked him if this was a common occurence. He shyly hung his head and admitted that it was. If a fiddle bow could look happy, that one did. Completely tired and happy.

Since I was without a camera or phone to record the evidence, I asked Lauren Madison if she had any pictures of it. Turns out she is a photographer and gave me permission to dig up and use any she had taken of Michael.

Both of these celtic bands have pipers and drummers who send primal shivers down your spine and entice you to shed your inhibitions while you listen. What happens the Highland Games stays at the Highland Games......

At the end of life, I want to be shredded from being passionately used. Used long and hard and joyously.

Shredded passion ~ unstrung ~ then restrung only to be shredded once again by the music maker.

Play me.

Coupling

This is how trains do it. 

Loving Family Food

Overweight and morbidly obese are defining words for me. My 76 year old mother came to visit last week along with Lisa, my baby sister, and two of her youngest.

One afternoon it was so warm that the batch of sourdough bread I was making for supper had to be baked early. The neighbor kid smelled it, as did Loverby as he arrived home from work.

Hot bread doesn't have a chance. We all hovered in the kitchen where we demolished a large pan of buns slathered with butter and peach freezer jam. Appetizer course before supper. We were breadless for supper, no apologies.

The next night, mom was delighted to discover the freezer full of blackberries. She is famous for her pie.

She baked two lovely, flaky berry pies. Dessert was a french vanilla ice cream dollop on the side melting away from the warmth of the crust.......

Food feels like eating love. Swallowing, chewing, drooling love.

Fast food, prepackaged food, Costco crap, processed and refined foods don't tempt me.

Real food made with loving hands and passionate hearts, plated and served with joy; irresistable.

Family, friends and food just go together fantastically. Right? The last 'f' word is FAT. Unfortunately.

My chin has tripled and my stomach is splayed out across my thighs as I sit. I have no lap at the moment.

I am unable to walk, jog, or bend over, but perhaps I can waddle out to the garden and water?

Driftwood Day

The heat was nearly turned on today. Once again, I reclaimed my practical nature and put on socks and a cozy sweater instead. One more sunless day.

Our lawn looks like a pasture that needs cut and baled. The peas are leggy. Two rows of spinach bolted before they became edible. A rhubarb bed collapsed in on itself with rotten pithy stalks. A bed of peppers and basil haven't grown an inch since I planted them long ago. Pretty midget garden.

We have a generous crop of fungus popping up everywhere. It is equivalent to cancer for the garden and yard. I have no ideas for chemo or radiation treatments. They don't resemble anything you buy in the store, so I believe they are poisonous. Why can't they be $15.00 a lb portablellos?

All of our walls inside are either red, dark green, or a rich butter yellow. As I sat cross legged on the couch feeling like I was in a dark cave, I considered painting everything white before next winter. A crying jag erupted at the thought of sterile walls. White walls make me itch.

Craig came home during this breakdown. When he figured out there weren't any hopeful dinner smells  coming from the kitchen, he quickly went to plan Q. Plan B, C, or D weren't even considered.

Plan Q includes many things. First, he dries my tears as he leads me to the bedroom. The door is locked. I get tucked gently under warm down quilts. We snuggle skin on skin until life starts flowing in. Endorphins start flooding. Love blooms. Relief and release of real and imagined worries fly away.

The afternoon seemed brighter somehow, even though the sky was dripping still.

We got a wild hair to go out to a local beach and look for driftwood for a project we're working on. Maggie and I climbed around on heaped up, beached driftwood of all shapes and sizes. I filled a few bags and the back of the pick-up bed with treasures.

I recovered my equilibrium somewhere between the sheets of our marriage bed, balancing on piles of castaway wood, and take out pizza. Grey is never nice, but it does sometimes have delicious texture.

Spent

After blossom is gone, 

  delicate bones remain. 

Evergreen clematis blooms early. 

Empty pods reminding

me at a glance ~

 what once was 

 might be possible again. 

Fragile skeleton memory.

Mother Things

Here is a valuable piece sifted from Ruth Riechl's book, Not Becoming My Mother...and Other Things She Taught Me.  

She is the editor of 'Gourmet' cookbook.

The following excerpt from the book is a letter from a man who wrote to the author's mother after spending time with her one evening. It seems like he was older and wiser, nothing romantic. He saw so much potential in her that he couldn't help but write her a note and encourage her.

Go ahead into life, full-blooded, courageous and leap for the adventure. But you must do it soon---before the summer of your youth has cooled into caution. You are magnificently charming--and you come like a torrent. But you will be spent on the futility of little things. You are not a watercolor. you are carved out of life--and there can be no petty hesitancies about you. 

(This was passed on to me via my friend Emily. She reads cookbooks for fun. Marcella Hazan easily trumps Jamie Oliver and Julia Child both; when Emily has her apron on.)