Pollution

expectations: a dirty word,
heaped upon my shoulders like coal,
blackened soot charring the inside of the stove,
forcing oily clouds to the sky -- polluting
everything.

Self-Inflicted Wounds

Lungs Soggy.
Heaviness under the ribs,
Sorrowful with whatifs.

Heartbeats like bullet points.
Words like drops of blood on the page,
Dripping from self-inflicted wounds.

Waiting for Dreams

The trees are silver in the moonlight and

The chimes sing in the wind.

It speaks a different language -- the wind.

One of breaths and sighs and longings.

It exhales cleansing caresses

With sweet release.

I dance on my toes

Feeling the patio underfoot,

Still warm from the earlier sun.

But only on the inside.

Now in my room, I remove my adornments:

Bracelets of shells and crystals on chains,

And then each piece of clothing –

Some dropping to the floor and

Others placed on hangers.

The sheets drag across the skin of my calves and

With curiosity and expectancy

I wait for dreams.

Awareness

Some things I noticed as I left the yoga studio the other morning:

crisp air
small puffs of air from people exhaling
low clouds blanket the city but not low enought to oppress or smother -- just to hold, in breathless anticipation.

Don't you just love that word?
And all the promise it holds.

a red and white house
a hidden park
a motorcycle with painted flames for sale
high rises and daffodils on the same block
a yellow flag flapping
drooping prayer flags
tall feathery plants with no names -- or maybe one like astilbe.

The walk sign is on.

I saw a tree stubborn and clinging to masticated remains of leaves on the cusp of spring! What must he be thinking? What had him holding those leaves for so long? Fear? Grief? Anger?

My lungs feel different after yoga.

lists

I'm struggling. As does everyone else from time to time.
I really hate "whining" to people or page, so it is often held in.
And I'm sure this entry is better suited to my journal.

Words and ideas and to do lists are swirling in my brain.
Some are exciting, some are exhausting and some just make me want to cry.
Or eat chocolate.

And that's another thing! People keep bringing me chocolate when they visit!
And I keep buying it! AAAAH!
Chocolate goes against one of the things on my swirling to do list.
Which is eat less sugar and lose body fat.


It seems often that my blog posts turn into lists of things we've done in the weeks since I've posted last. My journal entries have lots of lists in them. My essays even sport an occasional list. And I've been writing -- gasp -- poetry (*said with a shameful shake in my voice*) lately. Which are mostly in list form, as well.

What's up with that?
Where do the lists come from?
I never thought of myself as analytical or linear in any way.
My house is in constant natural disaster mode and my art and writing is spread all over my office. Nothing else in my life is in lines. Why on the page?

Is it because I crave order amidst my chaos?
Makes sense.

But sometimes I wish for no lists. Sometimes I wish for a time when there is nothing to put on my lists. For there not to be a need for lists.

So many things swirling in my head create a desire for the lists, I think. To make sense and order out of the spaghetti up there.

And I crave the open-ness to express all those swirling thoughts and descordant dreams ... but I think it would be shocking to see for some, so out of deference to them, out of fear of rejection and non-acceptance, and out of sheer discomfort from being in a vulnerable position ... I don't write it down here.

Let the judging commence.

Hope

Tightness behind my sternum, waiting.

Lungs not full -- yet. And heart beating fast.

Skin on my cheekbones tingle, opening its pores with emerging antennae picking up

Frequencies of hope.

Lips parched, thirsty for memories, wanting more than offered.

Do I accept the whatinsinfrontofme?

Or wait expectantly, hoping for whatifs and ifonlys?

Do I name this "Hopefulness"?

Or "Waiting for the Neverwillbe?"

And who's to say that those who wait are ones that are to be pitied, sitting dry like

Corn husks after the harvest?

A closed door, painted red, with pots of white geraniums clustering the entryway.

It's soundly closed, not a crack of light or air may pass through, but ---

It has a doorknob.

And is not locked.

In fact ... there is no locking mechanism at all.

And that, my friend, is hope.

A New Chicken Fence

It took me awhile to remember to pull out the camera. As you can see, my friend Jesse and I were already on to the concrete by the time I whipped it out.

But FIRST ....

1) we removed the old standing- though-rotting-but-still-had character fence and any garbage in the area and dug our little trench.
2) we used a post-holer (which proved not so necessary) in the areas we wanted a metal t-bar post.

3) my roommate, Steve, ran to a non-profit garden down the street to borrow their "donk" to pound the t-bars in.
4) we pounded the t-bars in without a tape measure to determine the exact locations for the posts (this is important later.)
5) we attached chicken wire to the t-bar with baling wire.

6) we realized that we couldn't attach the screen door for the run to the metal t-bars. uhhhh. so we improvised by attaching 2x4's to the metal t-bars with .... more baling wire!

7) we mixed up concrete and gravel and added it around the metal posts and along the trench, burying the chicken wire so nothing (especially my adventurous and annoying puppy) could dig under the fence.


8) and then we tried to screw the door to the wooden boards ...


oops.

9) so my roommate Steve came out and the men put their heads together (snort) and came up with a plan. A very successful one, I might add.


(my son got in the way of the finished shot ... but you can see the end result of Steve and Jesse's tinkering. Mighty fine.)


Aubrey, Steve, Robert and Jesse standing proud.
And Emma and Hazel are in the back scratching at a new area. We expanded the length of the chicken run, so this was new ground to cover!


Me and the kids posing with Jesse.

I Know We Say This Every Year ...

... but I think Spring has come early this year!



My Comice Pear tree sprouting a top-knot of a bud!



Our lapins cherry tree.



New growth on the blueberries! Maybe I'll get to eat them this year!
(the chickens snarfed them before I could get to them last year..)



Hydrangea



Raspberries



... and loads more potential for the coming months!



In addition to the new trees I planted, I added some rosebushes to the front garden along the street. A peace offering for the neighbors that don't like our front yard garden.



Here's a wee apple tree I planted this year to match the other columnar apple in the front. Maybe we'll get apples off the bigger one this year?



I laid some straw in the chicken run to cut down on Spring's mud.




Now I just need to get to the weeding.

"There's a Purple Door on my Street"

lacy evergreens, squishy mud, cerulean blue ceiling and almost-gray clouds;

yet the sun warms my right ear.

purple and yellow newness share their joy with a springish day and

gravel squeaks under my feet.

ripples in rain puddles and swirls of silt billow to the surface.

dogs bark

four cars drive by

a smoker coughs.

spring is purple

and scented of mystery.

a neighbor with a mustard yellow shirt speaks

and baby trees stand tall with green stakes and canvas strips.

No Parking At Any Time.

the different heights of arborvitae remind me of notes on a musical scale

and i love to see trees reflected in puddles,

upside down.

one lone dandelion bloom

peeks from a sea of unmowed green.

a walker with a curious gait pumps his arms out of sync with his legs.

pink blooms float and crows call.

garden beds wait for growth,

a smattering of miniature daisies strew thru grass

and chain link fences at the base of tennis courts bulge out from voracious serves and slamming bodies trying to get behind a play.

a birdhouse

a rusty basketball hoop

and telephone poles with numbers -- like names -- 2188

stand in aloofish sentry.

even the doors are purple on my street.

Oh Yeah! NaBloPoMo.

pshh.

i forgot again.

:)

it's the 2nd of march already and i didn't post anything yesterday.

i'm deciding this isn't an omen or a portent of doom. i have not already failed at National Blog Posting Month.

i injured my neck on friday. i stretched in bed and it cracked. (*shudder*) yeah. i laid there for awhile not moving. i hobbled out of bed to call my chiropractor and he couldn't fit me in for 2 1/2 hours!

i was adjusted two different times that day, iced it and biofreezed it. i totally laid low for the weekend and it managed to stop spasming by the end of sunday.

monday was ok, just stiff and sore. but it felt good enough that i could maybe consider having someone massage it ... later.

i went to yoga this morning (bikram yoga rocks) and just laid in the heat and did a few poses and didn't do a whole lot more. i modified a chunk of them and by the end, i felt a little less stiff and like there was a whole lot more oxygenated blood pushing through there. (*relief*)

a couple more days of modified hot yoga and another chiro appointment tomorrow and a light massage on thursday, and maybe i'll be ok.

friday i help dig a trench, use a post-holer, and staple chicken wire. also screw hinges and latches.

but maybe i'll just let my friend do all the work and buy him beer and pizza instead of risking it.

yeah. that'd be good.

i could shake pom-poms, too.

or maybe it'll rain on friday, and we (read: he) won't do it at all.

or maybe he'll get the job in CA and move and i'll never see him again.