bobby i godda code

translation : i'm sick in bed.

so i been sick for like 3 days and decided to stay in bed today.

i've been thinking an awful lot about things and decided maybe i should try to organize these thoughts on  my blog dog.

as i lay in my bed looking out at the snow falling on cedars and barn and garden, i find myself thinking about being a mother of sons.

i never envied my friends who raised girls.

girls were so vulnerable but cunning. sensitive and prone to hating their mothers with a seething contempt.

but i see things differently now. the tables have turned.

now i see the wonderful relationships that have risen from those adolescent ashes

and i envy those 'till death do us part friendships and confidences of mothers and daughters.

is it really as it seems? the shopping and lunch and dinners and grandchildren?

sons are men.
they think like men.
they think of one thing at a time.
so if a thought of 'mom' enters their minds, it is a rare occasion, and even rarer to be followed up by a phone call.
i, being the mother on the other hand, think of my sons nearly night and day.
(it's a curse.) and when i call them, it seems awkward.
i am their mother.
my questions become mother questions, my comments become mother comments.
i have no personality. i am the order of bedrooms and appointments. i am the guard, the magistrate, the cop. i am old fashioned and judgemental.

so i thought i'd just take this  moment to say-
'no. i'm not. not really'.

i've gotten old and set in my ways. but i was an adventurous spirit in my day. and a darn good looker.
i danced and ran and sang and was romantic. i traveled and worked hard and loved and got hurt.
i want so bad to be a friend to my sons now that the raising is over.
but they avoid me.
is it because? i wrestle with my mistakes and wrongdoings day after day.

is it because? my morals are walls that they can't climb over?

is it because? i'm wrinkled and slow and eat too early in the evening?

is it because? i'm just their mom?

i know there are probably answers to these questions with those compassionate momentary phrases to try to apease my guilt and fears, to give advice about how to be a friend to my sons, but in reality- this is what it is.

s i g h

thankyou for letting me say it. now i can try to accept, and detach

and get on with being a bobby wid a code. sneeze/cough

p.s. i am so blessed to have and love and adore my sons. just venting on a stuffed up day.

age rhymes with sage . . .

and cage, and rage, and gauge, and page, and wage.

is it just me, or do these words resemble possible attributes of aging?

"when i look in the mirror i still only see, the kid i thought i all ways would be"

those are words to a song i wrote about turning 30. now i'm 56.

when it's just me in the bathroom, (in the perfect color and light) i see the person i've always known. but when i walk by a window, or a mirror from a distance or see a recent photo of myself, i shudder. that's so sad.

i have actually been many people in this life. most of them sad. i don't want this person to be sad anymore. i don't want to have to concern myself with how i look.

i want a light to come from me. the light of my love. my eternal gratefulness. a joy unceasing. with open arms and a smile or a tear to share with a neighbor.

can i be past my hair and my wrinkles now ? can i be past  my weight  and my figure now?

can i be past my teeth whitener and pedicures and matching nails to my lipstick?

even saying it outloud seems silly. don't get me wrong. i love feeling good in a new frock just as much as the next person, but i think you know what i mean. and i'm speaking to ME. when it becomes so important that i can't have joy without it, where will i end up? a bitter old woman, alone, and worst of all, self centered.

i don't want to be in a cage filled with rage. i want to soberly and positively gauge the page i'm on in life. with the right attitude my wage will be riches beyond my years.

'choose wisdom instead of silver, knowledge rather than fine gold , for wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her'

my sister's birthday made me consider these things today.

God bless you dear donna. you're more beautiful than you've ever been.

mud

i got some really great gloves. they're warm and sweatery on the top and rubber on the work part.
today me and the hens got busy. i ripped at the strawberries and the hens scratched at the weeds.
i pulled out those pretty little heads of weeds. the kind that mutate to one solid mass if you don't get the very littlest last part of the root. i always get spiritual about it. but i won't right now. 
so anyway, these gloves kept my fingers warm and dry so i could dig deep in the mud, to get those roots

and harvest tiny nantes and parsnips that i planted last fall. the nantes were too delicate for wintering over.

i'll remember that. but the parsnips are lovely. it 's in the low 40's with a breeze. i been sitting on my laurels for the last couple a months so i didn't have quite the energy i wish i had.

i thank God for my other two hands that came to my rescue.

side by side, with the hens looking on, joe and i tackled those garden beds.

the mud smells sweet and it's all clean and ready for seeds come spring- which is JuST ARoUND THe CoRNER! woohoo!

soliloquy

l o n g  s i g h  l o n g  f e b r u a r y . . .

there are stars behind the clouds, blue skies behind the rain

there are sprouts beneath the mud and clean

beneath the stain of dead leaves and roses,

dry thorns and posies.

remember -

those smiles beyond these tears

and joy beyond the fears of forever gray.

there is,
right there!

bright hope on the tip of every branch
just waiting
waiting for the earth to turn ever, slowly, toward the sun.


gigi 2/16

i gotta swing in my pocket

swing, (swung, swang, swinging)- to sway backward and forward as a freely hanging object. to move with a sweeping motion; flourish. to play music in the style of swing. a relaxed motion, as in walking. rhythm, as of poetry or music.

last night, we watched a video called 'jazz on a summers day'. a docu/movie made in 1958 of the newport jazz festival which was on the same weekend as the americas cup (sailboat races.) what a work of art. i highly recommend it.

i write this as i look out at my swing hanging from the walnut tree.

when i get on that swing, it seems the world just kinda floats away for a little while.

feeling the motion in my stomach and the breeze on my face; breathing comes easier.

dancing is the same. even if it's just a piggle wiggle down the grocery aisle. some kinda smile emerges from within.

so this is a loving reminder daddy-o. when you're feeling  uptight,  just swing it.

and you can take that swing wherever you go.

singing

the first time i ever really heard my voice, was in the back cow pastures of a ranch in eureka montana.

it was beneath the big sky and at the foot of the rockies leading on into canada, that i first opened my wings with the ravens.

my voice came out. no one to hear but the cattle by the creek.
i cried the first time i heard it. i wept the first time i felt it springing forth out of the depths of my belly.
i was addicted.

every day i went out into the field and at the top of my voice, i sang all the songs i knew to the cows.

from that time on, singing is what i did.

it was who i was and what i carried with me.

through all the rest of my life -up until about 10 yrs. ago.

trials and sickness came.

they silenced me.

2 yrs. ago i told my youngest son, he may as well take my guitar home.

he wouldn't do it.

sunday, i sang. God put the fire in my belly once again.

my voice is scarred and husky, but the soul is there

and i will give praise to Him as long as i live.

catalpa

this isn't him .
 he was more handsome
but kinda like this.

when my sisters and i were little girls, we lived next door to an elderly gentleman who's name was  Mr. Blackburn.
he was a very slender man and walked with a cane. he wore a felt stetson and under it his hair was snow white. he wore a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, suspenders that held up his creased black pants and a bow tie- unless it was hot. then he would take his tie off and unbutton his collar, which exposed the curve of his ribbed sleeveless undershirt.

he had a dark brown shingled house with two catalpa trees in his front yard.
in the shade of the catalpa trees sat two folding lawnchairs. always available for someone to come sit next to him for a visit or a chaw.
he chewed tobbaco. he could spit without you hardly even noticing.
one of my favorite things to do was to go sit in the extra lawn chair. he had white hair on his brown wrinkled arms. his fingernails were clean and flat with creases over the white half moons.

his eyes were light water blue. he'd rub his fingers tips with his thumb while he sat in the shade.
i remember his voice though he didn't talk all that much.
gentle gravely with a quiet cough of a laugh.
he asked little girl questions to strike up a conversation.

he would let us all go in his backyard on summer mornings and pick blackcap berries to put on our cereal or we would climb his apple trees or play tootsie toys around his maple tree roots.

one day he invited us into his house to show us a surprise.
his house was dark and smelled pungent with tobacco and maybe cookies.
he took us in the living room and showed us a wind up doll.
it was a man sitting in a chair.
i probably don't remember this right but i think when he turned the key on the man's back, the man stood up from his chair , put his hand with a cigar to his mouth, the cigar lit up, and as his arm went down again, he blew smoke out his mouth and he sat back down.
is that possible? all i know is that i was little and i was frightened and amazed! gasps and giggles and 'do it again'!s
i loved Mr. Blackburn. i have thought of him many many times in my life. God bless you Mr. Blackburn for being such a sweet memory.

The Watson Family - "Ground Hog"

chief dan george



my heart soars like a hawk



i saw this quote from chief dan george the other day and felt a need to post it.

he really speaks my language.

'When Christ said that man does not live by bread alone, he spoke of a hunger. This hunger was not the hunger of the body. It was not the hunger for bread. He spoke of a hunger that begins deep down in the very depths of our being. He spoke of a need as vital as breath. He spoke of our hunger for love.

Love is something you and I must have. We must have it because our spirit feeds upon it. We must have it because without it we become weak and faint. Without love our self-esteem weakens. Without it our courage fails. Without love we can no longer look out confidently at the world...

But with love, we are creative. With it, we march tirelessly. With it, and with it alone, we are able to sacrifice for others.'

blog dog

my sister has a blog. my friend has a blog. my husband has a blog. my dog has a blog.
i don't have a blog.
i don't have a dog either.
now i have a blog.
i still don't have a dog. . .
but who knows?