Perfectly At Home


Everyone was home yesterday. Not necessarily in the home.
Betty, get out of there.


Thank you.
Everyone was home yesterday, and for most of the day we were working and playing outside. And I think it was the combination of work and play that made the day feel pretty nearly perfect.


From the rose bed...


... where blooms are waking,


... to the orchard where the trees are taking root and giving fruit,


... I am beginning to see signs that we are settling in to our home. I see familiar touches, and I feel the comforting sense of belonging. We are claiming walls, filling drawers, spreading out, playing, making our marks. It feels so very good.


The traffic is our own, and so are the lines on the ground. Bike races, hopscotch, tic-tac-toe, plucking blossoms, running barefoot, chatting over the neighbor's fence, spotting birds, putting tools away... it's like untying knots, unraveling tension that has been building up, and letting it go. Little by little, finally letting it go.


So the day was full. Full of productive work, full of games and laughter, full of deep thoughts and other musings, and full of delightful nothingness.


Everyone did their own thing. Coming and going.










They can be elusive... the words that describe my happiness for feeling perfectly at home. The feelings are wonderful.

Bliss in the Weeds


Besides earthquakes and aftershocks, something else has been going on in So Cal... we've been blessed with amazing weather. Almost summer-like, almost late summer-like, which is when it tends to be even better than the month of gloom we have in June. We've been making mint tea, and minding the rose buds, watering our orchard, taking dinner outdoors, and soaking up the beauty in the breeze.

Even the weeds look verdant and good, although on closer inspection I can see we are going to be plagued with stickers if I don't selectively yank the offenders. Betty surveys the land, and she is glad. This is spring, she declares. This is Betty season.


Up close I notice the stickers, and closer still... I see the lady bug beetles. Loads and loads of scurrying red beetles, and black dotties on red beetles. Eating the aphids beetles. Darling and good, lady bug beetles.


And baby ladies. Baby beetles. Did you know? Some people don't recognize these reticular little bugs as ladybug larvae. Now you understand why I am delaying the weed pulling party. I love pulling weeds. Honestly. I would gladly pull weeds in my yard, than get my nails done. There are lots of things I would rather do than get my nails done. But still. I get lost in happy garden bliss when I am pulling weeds. When I get around to it, I will be very courteous of the ladies.


Betty?
Betty, are you courteous of the Lady Beetles?


Yes, Betty and the Lady Beetles are neighbors, and friends.
O, Betty, eres bellisima. Chica-chica.


So, with the children home from school, and the sun shining, I am blissfully sitting amongst the weeds. Counting hummingbirds and dreaming of figs. The lady bugs are traveling up and down the highway of stalks and leaves. Maria digs holes. Alex builds a windmill. William watches, and chats. Max reads The Hobbit, again. Geoff makes garage progress. And slowly the sun slips west.


Stickers are inevitable, as is the return of school.


Happiness can be so fragile. Fortunately it is also abundant, and easily nurtured.


I like to pause, to recognize happiness, and the pleasure it gives... before the memory flies away.

Spring, It Sprung!


Happy Spring!

Did it surprise you?
It surprised me.
I saw it coming, but then I kind of missed the spring-eve anticipation, and then this morning WhAm! It's Spring.

You'd think, with no less than three calendars hanging in just one corner of the Bird House, I would be up on these things. Our calendars mostly say : Robotics. Go to... robotics. Meet for... robotics. Take dinner to... robotics. Make reservations for... robotics.

So, signs of spring must be elsewhere... let's see...


Hmmm... we cannot get enough.
I took almost every post I ever wrote about robotics and put them all in one post, so that it is like a massive Robotics index for Chickenblog. It was pretty much a nightmare trying to make the code work, because I am pretty much an amateur when it comes to code. But I keep trying.

And Maria... she's learning code. Look at all the words she is writing. Her writing skills are springing! I love our message board.

But, spring is outdoors. Right? Nature. So, outside I went, in search of the new season.


Ah, the morning light, the glistening dew. Here is spring. In the flowers. In the air.


And I saw the calla lilies, and Chango reposing in the garden bed. I thought how idyllic and good nature is, how lovely the forms and lines, the rhythm of the new day. And I was totally getting poetic and reveling in the nature high, and this seemed like a good time to photograph Chango. He was there, still and content... what a perfect opportunity to capture the essence of spring.

But.
Nature.
Nature is brutal.
I mean, come on... poetry, and dew drops on lilies... it's real nice, but nature has all kinds of plans and devices.
I'm just saying...


Chango?
Chango, what are you... ?
Nooooo!
Don't eat nature Chango, not spring. Not the very emblem of cute, fluffy-tailed baby spring.

Okay.
Go back inside everyone.
Come on.
Spring is inside.
Let's go.


Blinded by grief, I point my camera in all directions, looking for something lovely to erase the graphic nature of events I have witnessed. Pictures of my ranchero boys. Happy memories of springs past, elotes, beseros, y sombreros. My thrift shop find, a sleek red handbag... perfect for no occasion I am likely to enjoy, but I like the possibility.

Then, salvation. Bill is sending me real life nature pictures. Action shots from Soquel-Cal, where the dear and the antelope play. The dear are my nephew and niece, Dominic and Marissa.


Ah, Nature. Here is Nature. At the lumberyard and garden center.

Thank goodness.


Bill says these reindeer are pretty wild, like buckin' reindeer. Seriously. You have to hang on for eight seconds. Don't get bucked off.

I'm telling you, Nature is brutal.
And spring, spring will spring on you.
You gotta be ready.
Just sayin'.

You're probably thinking I am trying to "look busy," just because Geoff says "Before we go to robotics, we should clean."

Spring Cleaning.
Brutal.

Never Give Up, Never Surrender


When I put those words on Chickenblog, in my profile, it wasn't because I am chronically optimistic, or whole heartedly ambitious, or even particularly perky. For me, Never give up, never surrender, is more than a great movie line... it's a great reminder of what I am striving for. I want to be resilient and daring, I want to overcome obstacles and navigate rough water. And when I lose my way, or get knocked down, I want to believe that those words will rise in my mind, and spirit, and get me on my feet again. I need support. I need encouragement. I need affirmations. Left to my own devices, I am a bit too attracted to feh and meh.


This has been a bad week. Not fatal. Not devastating. Just bad, which is not good. Know what I mean? Hmmm... just admitting this, actually makes it seems a bit better... less bad. Cool.

I was in the yard yesterday and from our bedroom upstairs, I heard Maria's rescue me now cry. I bolted in to the house and flew up the stairs. And even though I was flying, somehow I managed to tear the thingy that makes the calf muscle stick to the thing, which is in my leg... not sure if it was the gastrocnemius or the soleus. I am quite certain it was the one that lets you freely put your own weight down on your leg, which I can longer do. My leg screams at me, then goes floppy. Maria fell though a chair that broke, and scraped her back. Between my wincing and her crying, we were quite a pair.


Geoff is not working one hundred hours/week, and we are all getting reacquainted, which is good, but not as easy as it might sound. Post-crunch mode is always a bit of an adjustment, a combination of recovery and realigning. And now we have a secondary and almost equally consuming project... a little something we call Robotics!!!! Man, I love robotics. Man, do I need a robotics break. Mostly though, I love robotics. Geoff is logging some serious hours as programming mentor, and you may have noticed I have added my unique, sincere, amateur touches here and there. Anyway, our family-domestic Bird House Rhythm is kind of on hold, which is not easy. It might help if there ever was a Family-Domestic Bird House Rhythm, but whatever, it will happen. Right? It's not too late. I am really hoping it's not too late.

Okay. What was my point?


I am taking the high road. My complaints and laundry list of bad week evidence are done. I will leave the rest unsaid. I am going to accentuate the positive. I am going to make that leap of faith, and believe that if I do not give up, if I do not surrender, that we will be alright. We will find the way to heal, and to grow, to learn, to make do, to feel good, be good, and do good. Affirmations, jokes, hugs, band-aids, faith, sweat, Lexulous, and signs of spring... those blossoms of hope, love and courage... those are what I am going to focus on. Maybe especially Joe's nose. Look at it. It makes me feel better already.


Flowers are blooming, even a rose. Betty is happy. The cats are alive, and they are happy too. The children keep working, and learning, and making me proud. Geoff found the Tylenol. Delia and Ron will be in Vegas. William was offered a paying job, from his good work at his volunteer job. Alex recognized Japanese words and phrases when we watched a movie in Japanese. Max makes awesome wishes. Maria is writing and reading words (her own name, Max, Izzy, love, and more). The rainy season is mostly over and the leak in our roof didn't get too bad. Good stuff. Yup.

Our Own Mountain
The giddy bliss of living here still finds new ways to make me deeply happy.


The south side of the house is fenced around and was once a dog run. When we moved in it was the bare, dry, sun-scorched zone that I mostly avoided, except to contemplate its ultimate purpose. Well, since all the great rain we've had, the area greened up, with weeds, and it is easier on the eyes, sheltered and appealing. I figured it might be a better place to house the *farm* until the lottery coughs-up barn money, so that is where I moved Betty and Joe... the south side.


What a great decision. Rather spontaneously I tore down the messed up shelter, then dragged coop and hutch across the lawn and around the corner of the house to their new zone. I can fence in Betty, while still giving her free-range space. Now the kitchen entry does not have to be a -ahem- POOP DECK. That is progress.


I think I can muster about 42% more interest in decorating and arranging my exterior farm, than for "normal" decorating. I hung some art, and dusted. Worked on the color scheme. Pulled weeds. Watered weeds. Accessorized weeds. My dear potting table of eleventy years was put in to service again. And as we sat back to soak in the loveliness, it occurred to me that by summer the green weeds will be toasted duff, and the loveliness will have lost most of its power over our hearts. It will be too bright, too hot, too dry to be a farmy nook for our livestock.


And so I brought home trees. More trees, and a planting box and trellis. Setback from the house, but not on the fence, in line with the west heading sun, I planted a Genoa White fig and a blood orange. The fig is a new variety to me, but blood oranges are a longtime sentimental and flavorful favorite. The fig is hilarious. It's a ten foot pole. It looks like the world's worst horticultural choice ever. It is a stick in the mud. Cracks me up.


The last feature of the south side is the mountain. In fact I think this whole thing merits caps. South Side Mountain was built by all the trenching, ditching, hole digging, earth moving labors of the Fall, when we were getting control of drainage and repairing sprinklers. I love saying "we." There is more digging in our future... and Geoff was going to have all of the dirt hauled away at once. But now that we have claimed South Side Mountain for ourselves, it shall remain right where it is. It will be a pumpkin mound, or seeded for wild flowers, or we will sink a fire pit and call it our own South Side Volcano.


In the meantime it is a quarry-castle-hole digging place. This makes me happy. I love dirt, and earth, the coolness and the warmth, the wealth of opportunity. Joe, the rabbit, was digging in the soil, then throwing himself in to the the loose dirt. Betty was having a record breaking dust bath. She looked euphoric in her rapture. I have waited seven years to witness and enjoy this liberty and earthly delight.


Max and Maria played for hours. I fell asleep beside Betty. Alex took a homework break and admitted he was not too old to want to join the dig. William too recognized the attraction of dirt play. I fondly recall his tunnels to China. I was afraid Max and Maria would not have this experience... freedom and ownership, time lost to being in the dirt, making stories and games, escaping to imagination. We have played, of course, at the beach and in other gardens. But the tunnel they made is still in their garden, not washed away by the tide, or collapsed by a careless landlord. No one will object to what they make, what they explore, what they tear down. It is their own.


I do not tell them that this is "special." I am not teaching them to see it in a particular way. I like them to make of it what they will, and my pleasure is in being a witness, being beside them, planting seeds.


There are many pleasures in life, many things to desire, and places to see, but this... being in our garden, listening to their plans and watching their play... this is one of my greatest pleasures.


New seeds, likes wishes and dreams in a packet.
There is so much goodness already sprouting and taking hold. I am deeply happy.

I Wore It :: Earring Edition

This is a gratitude post, more than a fashion-faux pas episode. My mother read my post about how I look most mornings, what I am not doing to make myself presentable, and naturally she was shocked in to action by one particular tragedy. I know she loves me, but when she sees that I am going without earrings, I think it must stun and devastate her.

She ponders the forces in the universe and asks, "Why? How can my own flesh and blood, my daughter, greet the world without earrings? Why does she disrespect the lessons I have taught her? Where is her dignity?" Then she probably suspects that I am not taking vitamins, that I leave the house with wet hair, that I keep shabby panties.

And she's right. How does she know these things?

And so, not for the first time, a package arrives and it is full of her wisdom and love, her concern, and her stern warning to get my act together. She sent earrings. Lots of them.


And in honor of her beautiful art, I bought two tubes of lipstick. I brushed my hair too. She didn't run to the bedazzle kiosk at the mall. She makes these earrings. She makes many delectable jewelry pieces. With the exception of my engagement ring and wedding band, I think all of my jewelry comes from her studio, which reflects how much I like what she makes and especially how generous she is. Lucky me.


Self portraits always look like self portraits.
I like this lipstick shade :: Blushing Berry-L'Oréal.
I hope they are a decent company and don't use enslaved chickens to make this stuff.
If a person is thinking of coloring their hair, should they consider a color that complements their lipstick?
This is what I wore to pull weeds for 5 hours. Maria and I found about 42 big earthworms. We need about 900 more for our worm farm.


Thank you Mommy. I am wearing the purple ones today, and I took some vitamins this week. I also got help pruning all those roses. Yesterday I planted a third apple tree, so now we have three apples varieties, a plumcot, peach, Santa Rosa Plum, pomegranate and lots of grape vines planted. I still need to dig holes for the blackberries. Thank you for care packages and jewels, for loving me and calling me, for knowing me. I love you.

Without A Point

Some days it is so quiet, there is so little traffic in my cyber world, that I feel as though I am alone. Unseen. And then I feel as though I am at liberty to say or do whatever I please.

Quick. No one is looking. Say what you really think.

Then I think of other things, like chickens, and raised garden beds, the leaking roof, cleaning.


Before the rain, the days were like spring. There was a warmer sun. We were weeding this week, and pruning roses. We have nine roses, and now, thanks to Karen, they are all pruned and fed and ready for the real spring.

Anyway, before the rain, I was stretched out on the lawn and watching Betty have a dust bath. And I had my camera with me.


She looked left. She looked right. She looked right at me and she did not seem to mind that I was close and admiring. She did not seem to mind my big, black camera.


Oh Betty. I love you Betty.

You should see the pictures I took of Max. He's even better looking than Betty, but he won't let me show those pictures.

Geoff and Max are going to Parker's birthday party. Two years old already? Maria and I are sniffling a bit too much for public interaction. I hope people are grateful for our polite sacrifice, as we are very sad to miss the fun. *sigh* Alex is off to robotics, and maybe William is under the weather too, because he did not sleep well.

Why do we say under the weather? Are we ever above it? I wonder what it could mean if we said "I am in the weather."

Utterly pointless, which is my prerogative, and it is also my special right to include links to the dictionary, when a word strikes a chord.

I can almost suppose why we use the expression strikes a chord, but I am not sure it is a good expression; not for me. I do not play.


However I am feeling about the world, or my life, or the day, when I see Betty run, when she comes to my call, I feel happy. Truly happy. And the happiness lifts me, or heals me, or simply makes me laugh in spite of anything else hanging around my heart. And for my own gratification I would like to write this down: I love you Betty. I am so glad you live here, and that you eat grubs, take dust baths, give eggs, run around the yard, and clean my kitchen floor. You are simple, yet lovely. You are messy and silly. You are something inexplicable, which is good. I like a little mystery.


I may go for a walk. I am meaning to put things away. Kitchen things and backyard-camping things, laundry (clean and dirty), toys, papers, shoes and mud seem to have gathered, converged, and spread all over our home. Not even Betty can help me with this. I may walk, then put things away. I may skip the walk, and watch something on television. I may change the subject, because even I am getting bored with the pointlessness of this...


Isn't she fortunate? I cannot escape my deep thoughts and other musings, but she can. And she does. Run, Betty. Run!