Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

I've begun moving into the new place. My method is to fill a laundry basket with things to take over, and since I've only done one full basket once a day for the last two days, the move is going to be slow. So far, I've taken over a few towels, some books, my favorite quilt, and a picture of Lovely Beautiful Daughter when she was three or four. Oh, and I also took an old oak dining chair I'd found on the curb a couple of years ago and spray painted black. It has a leather seat and is just kind of fun. I had decided I want sheer curtains for the windows in my bedroom. I've not had curtains at any windows for the last thirteen years. Shades, but no curtains. The desire to do something different spurred me to try and find some lovely panels to add a soft touch to the room. I went thrifting yesterday and found two pairs of lace panels. I couldn't believe my luck. When I'd been looking at panels online, I had resigned myself to paying upwards of $30 for a pair....

For many years now, I've not had a desk of my own at home. When I was using a laptop, I would simply sit on the couch or at the dining room table or in the hammock swing and work. Once I switched over to a desktop, I needed a space, especially with having two monitors (which I love, love, love!). Since December, I've been using the part of the desk my husband fashioned, taking what was the L-shape piece from his desk and moving it to create one long piece against the wall of the office. The space works though it is very cramped. The space works though it means I have to be in the same room with my husband at times since his computer is at the other end of the desk. The space works. But . . .. Sunday, I bought my own desk. A mammoth, bit beat up wood desk. Seven drawers. A pull-out shelf on each side. Lots of space. For my computer. For my drafts. For my books. Lots of space. To doodle. To sketch. To jot down ideas when they strike. To create. The desk is nestled...

As promised, here's a short clip of the birdsong by which I meditated. Can you hear the mourning dove in the background?

Conference meditation. Thursday, April 20, 2017: My cell phone alarm went off at 5:30 am. I swiped it off, rolled over, and went back to sleep. An hour later, I awoke. This time I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to take my mat and find a spot on the park grounds to get in a morning meditation. I quickly dressed in my comfy black sweatpants, light gray sweatshirt, then headed out. I decided to go to the Fu Dogs garden, a wide expanse of grassy area guarded on both sides by cobalt blue ceramic Fu Dogs, statues whose features are a blend of a Pekingese pug dog and the long-haired lion dog. I’ve always loved the whimsy of the Fu Dogs. The ground was wet from a heavy dew, and the cold against my bare feet helped wake me up. The sun was still low behind the trees. I found a spot between two cedar trees just before reaching the Fu Dogs. It felt private, and if others were up and about, walking the Fu Dogs garden, they wouldn’t feel as...

Though my sabbatical doesn't officially begin until August, I've already been jotting down notes when an idea occurs to me, and writing poems and short essays--very rough first drafts of both--to not lose the germ when it strikes. For the first time in my life, I'm taking the desire to be a writer seriously. I'm being protective of my writing time. I write. This is the most recent poem. It came about after an intense, overpowering need to sketch what was swirling in my head. That sketch has been right in front of me on my desk for weeks, helping me get to this: I dreamed of you during the night, again, the fourth night in a row,   and you were walking, again, as if you’d never not walked. I remember awakening in the darkness, smiling at the notion of you showing me where you are now, your legs working fine, no MS keeping you prisoner on the burgundy leather love seat, where you sat through your days then through your nights, as if roots had somehow spr...

For over a month now I've been ignoring the call of my yoga mat. At least when I'm not attending the eight week long yoga 102 class I signed up for. I go to the classes, but at home, the mat has stayed rolled up nice and neat in its carrier. I heard it whispering to me to unroll it, to take some time to move away from that which seems determined to seep into my my soul and keep me from finding and practicing what is positive, loving, good. I just feel frozen. I've never felt unable to act, to trudge forward though my feet seemed encased in mud, like I have over the last month. I find myself standing in the kitchen, staring at the stove but not really seeing it. Or in the bedroom, staring at the bed but not moving to lie down. The other day I realized I had driven through an intersection with a four-way stop, but I couldn't recall if I had actually stopped then proceeded through. I remember passing a few houses just before the intersection, but several seconds from those...

For the past two years, I've laughingly and lovingly said we have a toddler in the house. A four-legged, furry, 100 pound toddler. His mischievous nature, the way he fairly ran to the stairs every morning as I descended from upstairs, his wrapping his lanky body around my legs as if saying, "Hey, notice me. Pet me" brought to mind a child utterly happy with the world. When the young woman we refer to as "Ado's Girlfriend" visits, he would jump on her as if he wants her to hold him like she did when he was just a ten-pound puppy. He would lavish her with sloppy dog kisses and be sure her clothes were covered with his hair. Since last Monday, since returning home without Max, my toddler has been nowhere in sight. It was like overnight Ado shed his childish ways and became an adult. No longer does he run to the stairs as I come down for breakfast. Instead, he and I meet in the middle of the dining room, him treading softly, slowly from the living room where...