Details

The sun is sliding down the blue blue sky, coastal mountains seem to be growing to meet it.  Soon, this bright day will move into chilly evening.  Just now I was thinking of returning to the garden, as I have more tomato cages to uproot and clean, but the temperature in the room dropped about 10 degrees.  I looked up to see that the sun is setting!

And, I don't think I'll go back out there!  Hehee!  Took 4 o'clock coffee out to the Tree Trimmer.  Took photos, and drank the coffee.

Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, we had 4 O'Clock Snack every day.  Visitors to our farm said that we had four meals a day.  "No we don't.  4 o'clock snack is a snack." was our stock reply.  Looking back I realize that that snack was probably 1200 calories, since it included milk, cream, pie or cake or cookies, warm and fresh from the oven.  Left-overs from the "snack" were the evening meals' dessert, maybe served with lemon sauce or whipped cream to spruce it up.

Omg.  Well, we were farm kids.  Recently my brother shared that he and Dad had a similar morning "snack" before they left the house for the milk-barn at 5:30 in the morning!  Dang.  Had I known, I might have gotten up earlier.  We, my brothers expecially, burned those calories.

Here are Lucy and Stripe helping with the gardening.  They are stealth-bug-catchers.  Stripe (the brown one) found a cut worm and dashed off with it so as to not have to share.  Lucy gave chase, but in the end, let Stripe have her fat worm.  I wish that they would go after gophers.  I need help in that area.

My friend, Rev. Joyce Duffala, has told me a number of times, "God is in the details."  Once again, she is right.

Every phase of gardening has its timely details.  Not unlike Life, hmmmm.  I procrastinate.  Not really wanting to go out and get dirty, or stickers in my delicate fingers, or bugs in my hair.  Every time though, those details draw me into the tasks, into the golden afternoon light.  Today was no different.  A bed for the greens is prepared.  Most of the tomato cages removed, cleaned and in a row.

I am plotting.  There has to be a way to thwart this colony of gophers which has moved into my sacred gardening area.  This is a detail that I am finding difficult.

Valentine's Day approaches.  This one will be Wayne and I's 31st anniversary.  That, is amazing.  I am not one to go on and on (hahaha!  guess that isn't true!), you know, all mushy & stuff.  I will say, though, we are doing well!  Growing well!

Yes.  I do love you.
xoxo
LPC

Freedom Is An Empty Box

All this cleaning-out going on, everywhere!  Not a room untouched, a box unopened, not a paper unread, or a dust-bunny undisturbed.  This is unsettling.

The Blue Bird box is cleaned.  The back porch swept.  The ashes out.  The studio tidied, dusted, re-arranged somewhat.  A box from the storage unit emptied, right down to the layer of pretty rocks on the bottom.

Rejuvenating.  Restorative.  Transformational.

Of the many gifts in living in N. California:  February is the month of ripening citrus.  Oh!  Afternoon light dancing through the orange tree highlighting the fruit, a blatant invitation to indulge in juicy tart sweetness.

Daffodil spears are pushing up through the leaf mulch.  It is late January, after all, the Paper Whites are almost done!  Black lambs are racing around in the tender green grass!  The sky today, regardless of that strong cold breeze, is as blue as possible.

I have been turning the mulch.  Having ordered and received my new panels (5' X 5' made of Balkan plywood for strength and lightness) there is work to be done in the studio.  Surfaces to clear, paintings to move, shelves to tidy.  In the midst of this process I lost it.  Haha.  To be expected, perhaps, with breathing in the dust and stories of "stuff"and sunlight muted by winter-spotted windows.  Yesterday it hit me that actually, I am not an artist, nor am I a writer.  I have no career, education or accomplishments.  Life is meaningless.  Yesterday I did not see this as a gift.  I fell face-first into the mulchy hole.

Later in the evening, when I settled into my chair to watch the Dog Whisperer, I noticed the agreed-upon-box-from-the-storage-unit perched upon the dog crate in front of the damm TV.  No choice (haha) but to go through it, like I've agreed to do.

That Box:  OMyGod.  What a box, even though deceptively small.  Yes, it was a box of destiny.  Past.  Passed.  It contained letters, journals, sketch books.  It contained misery, destruction, heartbreak and failures.  It contained frustration, rage, disappointment and fear.  It contained my worst fears.  Every one of them.

I sorted the contents one by one.  I read the letters.  I looked at the sketches.  I made decisions:  I keep this drawing and throw away the rest.  I put books into another box for Goodwill.  I put 10 pounds of Court Papers into the recycle bin.   I burned the letters.  Something wonderful started to happen, but I didn't know what it was. 

I felt a feeling of emptiness filling me up.

The Mule Got Drunk and Lost In Heaven

The

Mind is ever a tourist

Wanting to touch and buy new things

Then toss them into an already

Filled closet.

So I craft my words into those guides

That will offer you something fresh

From the Hidden's Tavern.

Few things are stronger than

The mind's need for diverse

Experience.

I am glad

Not many men or women can remain

Faithful lovers to the unreal.

There is a kind of adultery

That God encourages:

Your spirit needs to leave the bed

Of fear.

The gross, the subtle, the mental worlds

Become as a worthless husband.

Women need

To utilize their superior intelligence

About love

So that their hour's legacy

Can make us all stronger and more clement.

Sometimes a poem happens like this one:

The mule I sit on while I recite

Starts off in one direction

But then gets drunk

And lost in

Heaven.

Hafiz

For months I have not been able to find my friend Hafiz!  The Gift was in plain sight, I just could not see it.  Home again, next to my laptop, my all time favorite book smiles.  We are back in business!

All is possible.  Hafiz says "Hidden's Tavern,"  Emily Dickinson calls them "possibles."  Each day presents them, each breath enlivens them.  Each word represents them.  Each action fulfills them.

All is possible.  All is well.

I love you.
xoxo
LPC

New Territory

Not a square in sight.  So far.

Having grown up on the Northern Coast of California, the roar of the surf was the soundtrack of my days, 24/7.  When I reached the incredible freedom of my driver's license, "the beach" would call me with its distant conversation.  My young dreams of future life were of a house on the Coast, with animals and a studio, and bookshelves lined with Leo Tolstoy and Zane Grey.

Of course, life has carried me far, beyond my wildest dreams in many ways, though short of living day by day on the Coast.  I am not disappointed.  I am satisfied.

My studio is a humble bedroom-converted, with windows that encourage sunlight to splash into the room.  On a fairly regular basis I am driven to clean out and re-organize, because my obsessive-compulsive housekeeper raises her critical head and delclares my sanctuary a mess.  Geez, I say.  Must you be so harsh?  Don't most artists have all their stuff, their material, all around them?  O. K.  I see:  Do we need all ((ALL)) of this?

To be fair, I do admit that I have been cleaning-out.  Have made my lists, and checked them off.  I do enjoy a more open space within which to work, as meditation often begins with my eyes landing gently in a corner, on the window sill, or top shelf.  Inspiration is only a breath away, or a stepping aside to allow its entry.  It comes forward, not unlike the winter sunlight dancing with the Madonna and Lady Guadalupe and the Blue Birds.

Fifteen years (or so) ago, the forces of nature which govern and pummel the Northern Coast created a never-before Sea Ball.  High tides, high winds and the January surf created them from sea grass, twigs and roots.  My nieces, nephews, kids and I collected them out the the wild water.  They still inhabit my space.  No.  I will never throw them out.  I have given a few of them away, re-homed them.  Periodically I give them the once over with the vacuum cleaner.  After all this time and cleaning, they still pour forth sand.

It is human nature to be creative.  It is our nature to create and hold beliefs, ritual, and meaning about our lives.  These become our stories, what we hold to be true.

So often, what we hold to be true isn't.  This is the space, once cleaned out of untruth, becomes the source of our renewed and rediscovered creativity.

Hey.  I love you.
xoxo
LPC

Looking Back, and Forward

Several moons have travelled across the sky since I've written.  Now, faced with how to catch up, I say, just jump in and do it!  Isn't it odd how liquid time is?  Moments pile up like sandstone, memories wash away details, monkey-mind elaborates and exaggerates!  What is one to do?

Smile and go with it?  Realize that what I put here is just my story, or all my story.  Let go, my Dear, of making it good or excellent or rotton or complicated.  Let it flow!

We have been at the Coast for a week.  It has been wonderful.  In fact, we are still here, though packing and leaving tomorrow by noon.  Yeah.  Going home.  Picking up the dogs!  Checking back in to my Life!  Renewed.  Resolved.  Inspired.  Quieter.  Maybe a little more solid.  

The past year has been full of growth.  Apparently my personal growth was needing some updating, as from here it seems that is all that I've been doing.  I tend to forget in any given moment, that Life has been very very very full.  My partners and I ran our Phantom IV Gallery for a year and a half, and closed it October 1.  By itself, that was an adventure!  for which I am grateful of every moment.  The Gallery experience moved me deeper into my own artwork, and also delighted with meeting and getting to know other artists.

The coming year excites me.  I look forward to renewed energy which emerges with the light.  This dark time of year is incubation, where seeds/ideas planted in dreams or conversation or writing swell and germinate.  Minutes of light extend each day moment by moment.  I can feel it!

Oh, and my new planner awaits me!  It's arrived!  And I cannot wait to crack it open!

My little secret:  I like the discipline of planning and doing.  For so long, spontaneous was very important to my way.  Let whatever happens lead.  Oh Lordy.  I cannot believe I did that for so long, not realizing the suffering I caused my own self.

Two and a half years ago I joined a 12 Step group to "try" and lose weight.  My weight has bugged me for as long as I have been spontaneous, I kid you not.  So, after watching my dear friend melting away, and asking her, "What the...???" she invited me to come to a meeting with her.  That was August 17, 2010.  Wow.  And what does Program do for one?  Let me tell you:  Following the Steps, using the tools, giving back to the Fellowship has brought the spiritual into my life, completely.  Yes.  Every morning I read my literature, I write in my journal, I pray, I meditate.  I call my sponsor, and my sponsee calls me.  I walk, I meditate.  I prepare and eat an abstinate breakfast.  I go to work, or take the dogs out, or do yardwork.  I prepare and eat an abstinate lunch.  I go to work, or to the studio.  I prepare and eat an abstinate dinner.  I make calls to Fellows.

And I have lost 58 pounds.  They are gone.  Don't even threaten to return.

Of course, Life is interwoven in this schedule.  Life with family, friends, spiritual community.  Interwoven is the key.  No longer tangled, knotted or torn.  A calm has enveloped my life.  No, not boring, or resigned, but a beautiful order.

The coming year promises more: art, fellowship, deepening relations, Love, writing, giving, growing.  I look forward to an incredible year.

For you I see good fortune, community, shared work, solidarity, faith, trust,  and love.  I see this for us all.  I celebrate.

I love you.
xoxo
LPC

Home Less: Without Home

A knock on our front door sends dogs into frenzy barking.  All activity stops, though the television seems to gain volume while we wrestle the dogs out the back door.  They grumble muffled last words.

The neighbor is sorry to disturb us.  Wants to share something, no, no need to come inside.  Wayne stays in his chair with dinner in his lap, I go out onto the porch.

Something is that there is a homeless person, a drunk homeless person, a drunk homeless woman loose on our lane.  She was sitting on the grass talking to herself when the neighbor noticed her.  He was watering, sprinkling with the hose by hand where the main sprinkler had missed.  When he went over to turn the water off, she disappeared, though she’d seen him and run off, swerving side to side down the lane, he saw that much.

Look over here, he motions with his hand, and I follow him.  There, in the grass of Sandy’s lawn, under the mulberry tree, is the woman’s kit.  Homeless issue blue sleeping bag, black bag for whatever, and a white plastic bag with her wine in it, a forlorn little abandoned heap.  She was nowhere in sight.  I could smell sprinklings of wine, but it wasn’t hers.

I don’t want to get her in trouble, you know, by calling the cops.  She’s not hurting anything.  I just wanted you to know, so, you know, you’d lock your door.  Course, you have the dogs, so don’t have to worry.

Ok, I say.  I’ll be watchful.  Thank you.

Inside the house, I go back to my writing room, cluttered with paper stacked and toppling over the printer.  Books piled on one another, towers grown and dusty.  The windows are open to catch the harvest breezes, though I may close them tonight because it is getting colder these evenings.

A rock rough voice tumbles through the screen, a voice without language, hoarse, concerned, urging speed and caution, fugitive tense.  I know it is her, come back to reclaim her belongings.

Our house is small, rusty red with white trim. Oriole and hummingbird feeders hang from the eves, feeders for the seed eaters, green edged pink petunias in the blue ceramic planter, decorate the tattered lawn.  It is a remnant of a house for me. I have been cleaning it out, room by room.  Vacuuming the ghosts of motherhood, of romance and longing, of college papers, ancient ledgers, and photographs of a childhood on a dairy.  Making room for my dreams, though now and then despair creeps in and knocks over a pile of magazines.

I have been frightened of homeless people.  They are too raw for me, wearing their sadness, their fear, want, end-of-the-road weariness in stench and rags.  Muttering and grumbling and sometimes swearing aloud as though they are in an argument with a ghost, I have just steered away, look away, stay away, run my fright away.

It was a surprise to note that I recognized the woman’s belongings.  She has been on our lane before, been surprised before, to disappear quickly.  Her things have been in the ditch a little further down, beyond where the water goes over the road in the winter after too much rain has fallen in a short time.  There is a culvert there.  A double culvert.  My Labrador, Emerson, has barked at the dark hole when we are walking, barked at shadows and spiders and fast lizards.  I have shushed him, raced up the embankment like there are weird energies chasing me, hurried home.

This past spring my neighbor and I found a litter of five fat kittens in her pump house.  I called the people who rescue and trap feral cats and they came out and picked them up.  Raised them for adoption, for their forever homes.

One dark winter morning I was loading the car for work, when a cold nose pushed into my leg.  Of course I jumped, to find a stocky wet Labrador and his partner, a Great Dane mix, hanging back behind him.  They looked at me like, “she can do it!  She’ll take us home!” and I said, ok, load up, and they did.  I checked collars and found phone numbers and called their people who left work and hurried right over to pick up their wanderers, cried on my porch because they love them so, and were afraid of losing them.

About a year ago I came home from work to find a young, red-shouldered hawk in the house.  The bird rescue people explained to me how to get it out safely.  After following their multi-stepped process, I simply opened the back door and shooed it outside.  It flew low over the yard, swooped up and over the gate, didn’t even flap its wings to gain speed and elevation.

I want to know, who do you call for a lost, feral woman?  How would one catch her?

Often late at night I hear coyote calls echo over the vineyards.  Once fire truck sirens woke me, and I lay in my bed afraid to inhale, for fear of bringing attention to myself while dreams crumbled into corners.  The siren wailed out of hearing and in the silence suspended over the valley a chuckle burbled, yapped, barked into a high howl.  Other voices joined the choir, carrying the call up and over the hills and stopped abruptly as it began.  I haven’t heard them for a while, feel a missing for them, hope all is well with their tribe.

Obviously the homeless woman does not belong to anyone. 

No one brings her a cup of coffee in the morning, provides shelter or solace.  I wonder how she manages to get up in the morning, does she wait for the sun to warm her limbs and joints into rising?  Would she like a cup of coffee?

Is anyone searching for her?  Missing her?

Well, you know, Laura.  Some people want to be homeless. 

Is she an incurable homeless person? 

I don’t know.  I have written myself down to resignation.  There is a woman outside my window.  She is alone.  Untended, wild.

Perhaps right here, in this moment of empty silence, guidance will emerge.  There are places to call to inquire as to possible actions.  For the time being, I may put out coffee for her.

And a prayer for us all.

xoxoLPC

Garden of Eden, Sonoma Style

Someone Who Can Kiss God

by my friend, Hafiz

Come to my house late at night---

Do not be shy.

Hafiz will be barefoot and dancing.

I will be

In such a grand and generous mood!

  

Come to my door at any hour,

Even if your eyes

Are frightened by my light.

My heart and arms are open

And need no rest---

They will always welcome you.

Come in, my dear,

From that harsh world

That has rained elements of stone

Upon your tender face.

Every soul

Should receive a toast from us

For bravery!

Bring all the bottles of wine you own

To this divine table---the earth

We share.

If your cellar is empty,

This whole Universe

Could drink forever

From mine!

***

There may be no other place on the planet quite as beautiful as this Sonoma County!  The grape harvest has begun.  Days are hot, nights cool, colors exquisite.  Hafiz probably wanders the countryside, maybe drives my car, throws my camera on the floor, dogs in the back, directs me.  And I thank him for his insistence.  I love September.

xoxoLPC

Bloo Luna

Long ago, when I first started my blog, this girl was a pup.  A wascally chicken-chasing pup.  She still is, for the most part, though now that she is 6 years old(!!!) she has mellowed somewhat.  There are those who might take issue with that statement.  Har har.  

I for one, would not leave her unattended with a chicken.  That is for sure.

She shows me daily that life is for living.  Don't, she says, let the small stuff bother you.  Be real.  Show your feelings as the temporary things they are.  Be happy, there is no reason under the sun not to be.  Love your Mama.  She takes you for rides and walks and accepts kisses.  Well, except for certain times, and we won't go into that here.

Run hard and fast.  Play chase and tug-o-war daily.  Sneak cat food.  Wrassle Emerson into the dust.  Steal avocado pits out of the compost bucket, throw them for Emerson to fetch.  Sit, wait, lay down and walk nice.

And yes, she still remembers who Meat Pie is.  Say the name and she looks at the front door.  I kid you not. 

I love you Luna.

And I love being your person.

xoxoLPC