silly goose

You knew you'd be tired, after a big family gathering at your home Saturday (around 50 people came to wish Mom well). You know it's nearly always a delayed reaction to your system, the way the fibromyalgia "strikes" between one and three days later. Then doing things feels, more than usual, like trying to swim in Jello.

Still, you went for a short swim this morning (in water) and accomplished bits of stuff this afternoon, and now here you are posting on your blog, even. But this feels pretty okay, with sunshine on the maple leaves, on artichokes by the driveway, on the deck umbrella Tim raised Saturday for people to visit under (it got almost hot out). Wonderful conversations buzzed that day, indoors and out. Mom beamed. The yard brought a peaceful joy to some, sneezes and congestion to others. All in all, it was worth it.

Monday you helped your parents greet people at the pioneer cemetery. A man stopped to visit whose great-grandfather owned the land your house and yard now occupy. Back at home, you read in the best spot, on the tool shed's warm step. Then you rode with Tim's dad and sister to the other cemetery, toting flowers and water bottles, and at last all the grave markers were found.

Tuesday you found your essay, "Our House Finches," newly published at Ruminate. And you were happy. Then you ran errands and stopped for a whole family making to swim in Delta Pond. Then James gave two yard tours, one for relatives who missed the party Saturday, and one for neighbors also actively working on permaculture-type yards. Twice people came inside and visited around the table, Westley meowing a greeting, the tea-kettle sighing on a cooler evening, no less beauty-lit, gathering ribbons of stories.

sunshine in the humbled life

Recently I've twice noticed the statement "I am humbled" and have pondered its usual context, perhaps a context most sought-after.

First, Tim and I went out on my birthday to see the remake of Overboard. We liked it a lot. (Rotten Tomatoes only gives one good review, by Amanda Mazzillo, but I agree with her: "Nothing will top the chemistry of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn, but Anna Faris and Eugenio Derbez did a wonderful job of creating a sweet and thoughtful romance.") I noticed that whenever one of the more evil characters in the movie thinks she is getting her way, she says words like, "I am deeply humbled by this." Um, sure. While you take over your dad's company at others' expense. Right.

Next, in real life, I read someone's statement regarding an honor they'd received, and they used the same "deeply humbled" phrase. This person is, I'm pretty sure, pursuing goodness and continually trying to help others, but still I think their words didn't accurately fit what was going on. In truth they might have said, "I am being exalted right now." Being honored lifted them. Almost certainly they were in a humble state along the way, before the honor arrived. But at the moment of receiving the honor, no one put them down. Nothing appeared to be humiliating or humbling them.

I think generally, in everyday life, "I am humbled" means something has wowed me; this is incredible; there are no words; I kinda don't think I deserve it. And this is a humble attitude. This is, really, expected by those looking on. It's just not often true in the moment. Speaking for myself, anyway, I know that a compliment, an award, an acceptance from an editor, or even a random gift, brings forth a quiet reaction akin to "whoa; I'm good." Life has shown me that such a moment will soon be followed by another, different sort, highlighting my anger, unkindness, vanity, and so forth. Bleh.

I ponder this uncomfortable recognition on a clear May evening, in my spotless dining room (our friend Laura came and cleaned-!- before my mom's big birthday party Saturday), the sun lowering out back and casting irresistible light and shadows between leaves and stems, lupine and camas and mint and sage and grape and borage, while baby figs sway over the deck, gaining pudgy sweetness for July. I'm far from despairing. I don't feel the need to dig a hole and live there--although in the past such thoughts have brought such feelings.

My view these days is that those times of exaltation never happen in a void, or even very often, because this way of things is healthy for those struggling along the road toward true humanity. Some people are humbled seemingly all the time, but not, by any means, because they're substandard or deserve worse than other people. If this were so, then it would apply to Jesus at the end of his earthly life: misunderstood, arrested, jailed, condemned, executed. Besides, Jesus wouldn't have taught that the "blessed" are those who, at one time or continually, get humbled.

The sunshine along this way, for me, is recognition. It highlights and encourages truthfulness--may I come to see my secret self-exaltations! and admit them in the humble times, in moments waiting for figs to ripen. Barefoot on the shadowed deck with no one watching, a bumblebee's adieu and remembered prayers.

joy and flowers

Last year, at James's suggestion I planted white clover to cover a circle where grass had died, due to a wood chip pile's acquisition. Above is what the patch looks like this year. Yes, there were joiners: California poppies, lupin, and others. I have come to look upon this as my flower patch. (That would be my first ever patch of garden flowers.)

Around the day I took the photo, I received an email from Ruminate Magazine, saying they'd like to publish on their blog the essay I'd submitted to them. The piece will come out sometime in the next few weeks. I'll be sure and mention and link to it when it does.

In the meantime, I needed an updated headshot for my bio on their blog. My next-door neighbor Penny, who photographs weddings and such, offered to do a "shoot." And she wouldn't let me pay her, except for a hug.

Penny liked my flower patch, so here we are together! (This isn't the headshot, of course; it was just for fun. That's usually what I run around wearing this time of year.)

How nice to know kind, talented people while getting to share creative things.

sips of an evening

When spring is at midpoint, when mid-Pentecost arrives on beams of evening, I gaze and linger and meander over recent doings, as merlot swirls in the cute little glass our Russian friend gave us. Should I taste the orange vodka she also prepared last autumn? Just a sip.

I have been juicing. Tim bought a Jack LaLanne Power Juicer at Goodwill. (Did you know Jack LaLanne's wife's first name is Elaine? What a trooper.) My juice is for my kombucha--mostly ginger, but also some lemons and limes. After boiling water in the large pot, I steep six tea bags. I decant eight bottles worth of "booch" while listening to Fr. John Behr talk about St. Athanasius.

Last week, after juicing and booching and before sipping merlot, I walked along the river and found two surprises. Surprising because both the eagle and the bunny posed for me and my camera.

The world of blossoms has opened. Pink petals cover our street as well as Tim's truck, now dubbed Ol' Blue. I have ridden on Blue's bench seat while Tim drove. I've inhaled scents from ages past of dust and foam and oil and adventure, bouncing along the boulevard, deciding I would really like to take a refresher course in manual shifting. So one afternoon I grabbed the truck key, stuffed a couple pillows behind my back at the steering wheel, and fired up Blue (breathing sips of prayers while putting in the clutch). We made it around the neighborhood, Blue and I. Only at a Maxwell Street stop sign did I kill the engine, twice, before remembering I'd stopped in second and needed to begin again in first. We warbled to a standstill atop the pink petals.

I'm hosting a birthday party for my mom. Her 85th. On Memorial Weekend. I'm chatting with relatives, letting Facebook connect us with old friends, breathing thanks for my dear friend Laura who comes when I call her, to clean. Especially our floors, she'll be cleaning. The cat may or may not be party invited, depending on how his 18-year-old digestion is behaving. I can leave him out to bask in sunshine, I hope, if need be. The best part of weather past midpoint in spring is that after nighttime there is much light time for warming out back near the fig tree, in the blossoms, under leaves purely emerald, slightly chlorophyll-intoxicated, newly adventuring.