Gov. McDonnell Signs Mandatory Ultrasound Bill

The photo is of me about 16 years ago, with three of my children and one on the way.  As you can see,  we enjoy studying and re-enacting the lifeways of the 18th & 19th centuries in America. My children know more about the experience of our forebears than most history teachers, because they've lived it.

Today, as the mother of four beautiful daughters, one son, with a delightful granddaughter and another grandchild on the way, I am extremely disappointed in the actions of the Governor and the Virginia Legislature that limit women's access to reasonable and prudent health care and place unreasonable restrictions that intrude into the confidential trust and privacy concerning procedures that are only appropriately made between a woman and her health care provider.

Modern health care made it possible for me to have children spaced reasonably apart so my body could recover. Prescription birth control helped my doctor treat ovarian cysts, critical bleeding, and endometriosis.  I am healthier because of it. Moreover, I know had I really lived in the 18th century, I would not have survived my condition. I have the option and luxury of studying the lessons of history from the vantage point of modern understanding. I'm not certain many of our legislators even know what that is.

The legislature - and certainly no MAN - has any right whatsoever to intrude into women’s private health care matters.  I chose to give birth naturally to all five of my children, and even chose to give the first up for adoption at birth because I was still in school and too young to be responsible enough for her.  She was raised by wonderful, loving parents, she found us when she became an adult, and we are grateful for her and all of our children.  However, I still defend to the utmost any woman's right to choose not to give birth, through whatever means she and her doctor deem reasonable and in her best interests, and I will not stand by and have any access to health care denied because of intrusive, invasive, and unreasonable legislation.  My choice to give a child up for adoption was the most searing, difficult decision of my life, and I would not force that decision on anybody.  Every woman must have the choices available to her that make sense for her body and her situation.

No procedure should be dictated by an uninvolved non-medical entity, most especially the Virginia Legislature and government. I am very, very disappointed in our governor, senators and representatives and will voice my dissatisfaction in the voting booth.

Thanks to Planned Parenthood of Virginia for keeping this issue before the hearts and minds of the public.  Hopefully a day of reason is not far off, in spite of legislative efforts to the contrary.

If you would like to add your photo and story, please see Planned Parenthood of Virginia's tumblr.

Autumn Vigil

The old tractor watches
Quiet waits
Until it has
Work
To do
Again.

Absurdity and Forgiveness

About this time yesterday I was in the middle of making a pretty big mistake in full view of the whole world - which is easy to do on the internet.  My counselor told me this morning that in the last 5 years she has noticed how often it happens that words that once would have been exchanged between two people in a relatively private setting - a bar, perhaps, or a hallway in passing, even in the privacy of one's own home - now end up posted on Facebook.  "It's so quick, to write your reaction, and we do it without thinking.  Then we have to live with the results." 

Another way what appears to bring us closer, in an instant can zoom us far, far away.

Here's the obvious thing that I had to (re)learn publicly:

DON'T HIT 'ENTER' WHEN YOU'RE ANGRY.

Even in the rare case that you may actually be right (I wasn't) - it still is the wrong thing to do.  Airing it publicly, even semi-publicly on friends-only posts, still includes people that really didn't want to see that.  We don't go on the internet to be unwitting witness to ugly words about people we care about.  If I had kept my thoughts to a few private emails, even, instead of a couple of very-succinctly-worded Zzzzzlams! - well, I wouldn't have had to eat crow for dinner last night.  And had to get up and look at the leftovers again this morning.  And cringe all over again at the memory of hurting someone I care deeply about, and try to believe that "I made a mistake, everyone makes mistakes, it's not worth beating yourself up over it..."

I am not an existentialist, but they did get one thing right.  Even deleting the whole post and anything afterwards that stemmed from it isn't going to make it go away.  Once it's on the internet, it's history.  Literally.  It's out there.  Damage done.  Now we live with it.

It's worse than just saying ugly words in the privacy of your own home.  It's like buying billboard space and painting it across the highways.  Everyone can see it, and be witness, judge, and jury to your idiotic moment.

So now I'm reading and re-reading a quote from a small framed picture that my mother gave to my father a long time ago, and trying to apply those wise words of Emerson to the absurdity of this particular situation.  Because even though I've apologized profusely and received forgiveness for yesterday's blunders, it is difficult to believe that it won't contribute further to an already tenuous and difficult communication problem that I've been having with the individual who graciously forgave me.  While I was writing words of fire, he was actually being a saint and helping people in need.  He was applying the rule, "Do unto others..."  He was being the better person, doing good in the world.

None of us is perfect, we all are human.  And normally I believe and live by these words:  Everyone is doing his best he can at the time. It is a reminder to have patience, and do not judge.  Why I forgot and felt justified in slamming home some long-ago, worn-out, used-up resentment that should have been thrown out with the trash years ago, is not an excuse.  I shouldn't have done it, and I am so, so sorry.

I don't yet forgive myself; I knew better and under normal circumstances would never have done it - except when I've been having a bad day, like I was yesterday.  I was sick in bed, and the plumbing in the house had developed a problem overnight and I was having to wait for that to be taken care of.  Being ill and unable to take care of what needed doing left me feeling vulnerable and on edge.  So I did what other people do when they're sick:  I got on the internet, hoping for something distracting to take my mind off of it.

You know where this is going.  Without going into detail, the first few words I read on my news page jumped at me completely out of context.  I mis-read, assumed I knew what was going on, and further mis-applied them, and felt totally justified in responding with what at the time seemed a high amount of calm and deliberate action.  Inside I was seething over a jumble of things, partially to do with the situation at hand but mostly chafing at feeling helpless and unable to do anything but wait and see when the person in question would next communicate (he'd been rather too busy lately to talk much).  I didn't want to wait; I wanted attention.

I hate the attention that resulted from that screw-up.  I hate that even if I'd been right, that people saw what I wrote.  That wasn't necessary.  Most of all, I hate that the person to whom it was delivered was bewildered and probably hurt, although he was too much of a gentleman to show it.  In the past this sort of thing would have happened behind closed doors and been completely ironed out between the two of us, but since he wasn't and hasn't been around and I was denied that opportunity, I let it out in front of co-workers, friends, and family.  How inappropriate.  How childish.  How mean and rotten and gross.

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Deep breath.  Read, and repeat.

Here's another thing:  it doesn't hurt to read and see what advice the Universe sends out first thing in the morning.  This is what it was for me today:

http://french-word-a-day.typepad.com/motdujour/2011/04/heurter.html

And immediately my mind responded, "Hier j'ai heurté la réalité. Aujourd'hui j'ai réalisé que la réalité était tous dans mon esprit."  Yesterday I crashed head on into reality.  Today I realized that reality was all in my head.


I had to share this with my counselor on the phone this morning (she's so awesome she called me when I was too sick to make the appointment!), and I tried to explain it using an analogy so she could understand how to help me, and why I was so upset.  

See, there was this movie, starring George Peppard and Ursula Andress, with James Mason.  Epic pilot movie - The Blue Max.  In it Peppard plays a military pilot - say that three times fast without tripping over your tongue if you can!  Andress plays his lover, Mason plays a superior officer.  Andress's character reveals to Mason's that the pilot has cheated on something, I forget what, in order to win the country's highest honor and to be named The Blue Max, because she was piqued over his jilting her.  She is spoiled, and manipulative, and she thinks he will just have to lose this award and she will have vengeance.  But it's worse than that.  As a result of this news the superior officer decides to let him die, rather than to let it come out that the Pilot must be stripped of this honor, and therefore embarrass the whole country.  He sends Peppard's character out to test a new plane, that he knows is unsafe, and with tears pouring down her cheeks she has to listen to the engine stall, and the resulting whine and screams as the plane crashes into the earth.  "And all because of your stupid little anger!" Mason yells at her.   


I hear those words at times like these.  Sometimes anger really is pretty stupid.  Sometimes we see ourselves entirely too easily in the weaknesses of others.  Sometimes we are our own worst enemy.


I have a constant struggle between knowing what is real and knowing what really isn't.  This has bitten me in the past, and it's going to continue to bite me as long as I react out of past hurts, without waiting to be certain of having all of the facts.  So this will be part of my homework, along with not beating myself up over things I can't change, even if they're my fault.  As my counselor said, "No one died from it.  You learned something, and it is getting better."

She reminded me about H.A.L.T. - We shouldn't give in to Action when we are Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.  I was at least 2 of those yesterday, and possibly 3.  No matter how it looks, it's just not a good idea.

Yeah, I know.

I also have to put this completely in God's hands, because until I learn these lessons, my own are not to be trusted.

Humility and a Secure Future

Reading "God Never Blinks." Regina Brett has so much to offer to a world down on its luck, seemingly running out of time, with so much to worry about. With plans scattered like so many specks of dust to places invisible, it's much too easy to forget our basis for faith, and how to reach out and hold on to what has kept us going in the past. Taking one more step forward sometimes feels too damned hard, and hardly worth it. After all, why wake up to one more day of struggle? Isn't it better to just roll over and hit the snooze button? "Forget about life for awhile"?

Why yes, actually. Sometimes that's exactly what we should do.



Life of Agony reminds us exactly what it's like to be worn out and in dire need of escape, maybe with a bit more of an edge than Billy Joel did, but the message is the same. Sometimes we do need to just get it all out in order to forget how bad it all is. And that's okay. But after that, there's something else that's the spiritual and emotional equivalent of clearing the air so we can breathe again.

It's called forgiveness.

Ms. Brett has a bumper sticker that says, "God Bless the Whole World. No Exceptions." She goes on to tell us "Forgive Everybody Everything." I can vouch for the goodness in that. There is nothing anyone's done to me that's worth the spiritual and emotional turmoil of holding a grudge. Nobody's worth eating up my liver over. Nobody gets to be that powerful over me and my life, and as far as I know, nobody really wants to be.

This is not to say nobody's mistreated me. Far from it. Like a lot of people, I'm one of the "walking wounded." But you know what? That just means I've learned a few things. It doesn't mean anyone owes me anything. That honor belongs to - you guessed it - just me.

For about five minutes, it does me good to get angry and rant and spout out all the venom and bile that some peoples' actions incite. But after that, it's good to just put all that away and move on, looking around to see the good things that are still surrounding my world and reminding me that it's never too late to put down that burden and step forward into the light. In fact, if I don't, it's just going to get heavier and heavier the longer I forget to do so.

"Forgiveness is giving up all hope of a better past. At first that sounds harsh, but once you let go of what you wanted the past to be, you can start changing the present and create a better future," Ms. Brett writes in Lesson 28. Well, duh. Why didn't I figure that out already? Sometimes we need people to point out the obvious, so we can clear the smudges from our eyes and actually see what we're looking at. You can't move beyond something, or stop being a victim, until you stop calling yourself a loser, and take back your own power over situations. Forgive, and then forget. Choose life, and remove yourself from that pain. Put it down. Let it go.

Here's a gem of real value, and I'm putting it here where I'll remember to come back and read it from time to time:

Humility is perpetual quietness of heart.
It is to have no trouble.
It is never to be fretted or vexed, irritable or sore; to wonder at nothing that is done to me, to feel nothing done against me.
It is to be at rest when nobody praises me, and when I am blamed or despised, it is to have a blessed home in myself where I can go in and shut the door and kneel to my Father in secret and be at peace, as in a deep sea of calmness, when all around and about is seeming trouble.
--Dr. Bob, co-founder of AA and the Twelve-Step Program

Well then. Today is my lucky day. Yours, too! Go out there and forgive somebody. And then treat yourself to a big slice of that pie called Life. There's very little you can do that will more strongly ensure control of your own destiny. And what's more secure than that?

Traveling Light

I find myself sick of traveling, frankly. All I want to do now is curl up with a book, stare outside, look at the window, ponder a bit. Listen to loved ones, think about what they've said, listen some more. This is a major change from past propensities, which was to pick up and go at the merest wisp of a suggestion. Travel meant going beyond the place that I was, seeing new things as much as re-connecting with old ones.

Reading this piece at Salon brought this home recently. This is a wonderful article, well-crafted and superbly worded, the author has the grasp of language that slips into your mind easily. The second-person point of view is difficult to do well, but she does it with single-minded aplomb, leaving no question of her genius. It is taken from a larger work, Stranger Things Happen: Stories, and when I saw this I stopped reading long enough to add to my "To Read" list at Goodreads. It was that good. She was speaking to me, I was sure, or at least someone who had shared my experiences - we were kindred and I followed her down the rabbit-hole with faith that was quite blind. I was expecting a swirling, satisfying finish, where all is right in the end.

Silly me.

As I wrote to my sister when I sent her the article, dear Ms. Link had it right at the outset, she took you along a steep, winding and bloody difficult path, but surely she stopped just short of where the journey really reached its final destination. She knows the fairy-tale path so well! How could she have missed the whole point?

Read the article, mind you, before you travel further, or you're not going to believe me. You'll think I'm making this all up. And read this interview with Kelly Link by Laura Miller, Romance and Other Myths, which is right as rain throughout except for those needling little thrusts both of them make at the insanity that is "true love." Ms. Link and I share some similarities, we have both lived a "peripatetic life," but for pity's sake at some point we all have to settle down sometime. Maybe it's just the propensity of some people to joust at windmills, but it would be a sad world indeed for those of us who crave the warmth of quiet home fires to think that all this patient belief in love is all for naught. Phooey. Inside a voice whispers, "She missed the point."

Yet I still want to read her work, if only just for the repeated satisfaction of re-discovering that this belief in love is really just belief in myself. She's right, of course - the too-hard, misbegotten journey where you press on until your feet are cut to ribbons from all the miss-steps you've made is a bit much. When you get to the end of that trial how do you even know you're there? You're too busy picking glass out of your feet and re-applying eyeliner, wetting your lips, rehearsing what you're going to say so he doesn't get the wrong idea, and trying to remember where you left the keys. It's all drama at that point, and who has the energy for that?

So you clear the air and start over. Throw out the dirty dishes, add to the archaeological treasures in the backyard. Sweep up the shards from the broken mirror, apologize. Let a brief, beautiful memory or a shared glance make you smile. Back up, turn the wheel. Don't go down that path. Refresh your mind in shared laughter, challenge yourself to swallow pride over what was lost through ridiculous circumstances and look how simple things become once you've forgiven him. Forgiven yourself for being so blind and wicked.

There are two, no three, other fictional heroines, very different and yet similar enough to make the comparison in this instance, because their epiphanies are more - shall we say, agreeable. Theirs are stories I can relate to, be satisfied with, because these women and men forgave, and forgot, and in so doing reaped the benefits of what I believe is a more fulfilled existence, because it is shared. I don't have words to say just why this is, but it's true. No man is an island. No woman, either. Jane went back to Rochester. Elizabeth married Darcy. Luke and Lorelai figured it out in spite of everything. I know of a few real-life couples who did this, too. Sara and Richard. Gwen and Gavin. Joan and Robin, whose story in An Unfinished Marriage is remarkably simple, which makes it all the more interesting and applicable.

Truce. Because every day with your partner is practice for how you'll succeed in the real world, and how you treat those closest to you mirrors how you treat yourself.

Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not keep a record of wrongs. Love never ends. Faith, hope, and love - these three, but the greatest of these is Love.

moonset over the pee dee

We woke this morning in the dark, gathering our things and venturing out into the world to find that frost limned the windows with silver lace. I spent a cozy night in a grain silo converted into a dollhouse, or rather a hunting lodge; four floors of airy living that the longer I stayed the harder I knew it would be to leave.

But I was only a momentary visitor to the Great Pee Dee Heritage Preserve, a once-a-year enticement that gives me fodder for ruminations and prose for long months afterwards. Like any foray into the wild, either modern or anachronistic, here is where I re-learn that my connection to the land is temporal and severe.

Image courtesy Johannes Kolb Archaeological Site Public Outreach

Last evening I drove up from Stateburg, entering the Darlington Historic District just as the sun dropped below the horizon, so that the last few miles of the trip were cloaked in gilded splendor, tracing the tender branches of the newly-budding willows that lined the corridor of the river, silhouetting the great Black Angus cattle as they lumbered toward dinner, the glow of new green grass behind them shouting the advent of spring as much as the fecund scent of orchard blossoms.

The Silo

Husband, the archaeologist, has a valid excuse to stay the entire ten days that the annual event is open: he's working. From all over the southeast dozens of volunteers, students, and faculty descend on the property once inhabited by one Johannes Kolb, a farmer of some success in this community that still derives the bulk of its income from agriculture. The site has been studied for over ten years, and has yielded a wealth of information about its former occupants.


But I do not come to study in any official capacity, I come to absorb and wallow in the good company and newly unearthed information. Archaeologists live simply, but believe in epicurean comforts. And there is always music. They incorporate what they have learned into their evening relaxations, as they turn a warm fire into the means by which reproduction earthen pots are kilned, as close as possible to that used by the makers of the shards dug up during the week. The bits are studied as to form, structure, and composition, and copies are attempted.

Some of them are marvelously useful. Others for some reason or other do not make it through the firing, coming from the ashes with deep cracks or scars, but these are still considered useful for what they yield about the process.


So we sat in the dark after dinner, imbibing our choice of refreshment, and laughed and talked and sang to the two guitars that appeared to accompany the evening's quiet melodies from the tree frogs and waterfowl. As I said, they live simple but rich, and anyone who wanted to suggested a song and whomever knew the words would sing. The musicians created fantastical accompaniment, and the frogs provided rhythmic backnotes.


There is a lesson here: everything we have is all we need. They discussed the pits they'd dug, and assessed their uses as aboriginal refrigerators. They showed me how the pots were formed for differing purposes - some for boiling, some for storage, some for carrying. Some of them know how to make cordage from fibers found in the eastern woodlands, they know what mushrooms to eat and what leaves will treat wounds.

One of them can make fire in his hands. I didn't say with his hands, I said in his hands. That deserves its own post, for now I will leave that to your imagination, so you may feel the wonder of the phenomenon in the same mystery as the children for whom it was created millenia ago, and you may think about from whence come magical legends of such things. They weren't as magical, or as mythical, as you may believe. But I'll give you a hint: the aboriginal was a chemist.

The promethean in me laughs up her sleeve at that.

This is how I know humanity will be fine, no matter what. This is how I can bury my nose in my books, tend to my children, live my life, with only half an ear to the wind, listening to the wails that beset much of the world obsessed with oil and finance and danger. You tend to that if it pleases you. I'll be as far away from that as I can possibly be, heart dancing in accompaniment to the wind that breathes through my soul.

How can you live like that? I ask you.


Today is Good Friday. Let me tell you why it is ALL good: because everything we have is all we need. And there is only so much we can accomplish if we are listening to angry voices, trying to make up for sadness in which we had no hand, and for which the only answer is to pick up and walk away. And be the beacon. It only took me about 3/4 of my life so far to figure that out - Good God, do you think I want to dwell on how much time I wasted? Wouldn't you rather concentrate on what you've learned and may put to good use, enriching your everyday life and that of those you love?

I believe you would. And so would I.


The definition of wealth contines to evolve, and I am today as wealthy as I've ever been, even though dollar-wise I bring in less than 1/4 of what I did five years ago. I measure my wealth in smiles, and laughter, in peaceful moments around a campfire, in viewing miles of lovely arching trees, old oaks, willows, and pine; in quilted pastures through which creeks tumble in tranquil paths, neat farmhouses set back from the road, brick stores, lumber roads, and a deepest-blue veiled purple morn. And I measure it in better health, and seeing less stress in the eyes of my children. My world is a succinct registry of all that matters.


This morning I had a perfect sky of cerulean blue edged in a silken swath of apricot. Last night I took part in community harmony of the happiest sort, and watched artists at work making useful, beautiful things out of river mud. I was warmed by a red-hot purple-gold fire of wood gathered not fifty feet from where it was built, that served a dual purpose both in beauty and utility. I slept in a building that gives new meaning to the words "adaptive reuse."

PeeDee River at flood stage

It cost me exactly $14.43 in gas money. Everything else was free.

If that isn't your definition of a bargain, I'd really like to know it.

But there is more. Tomorrow I'll tell you all about it. But first, go out and greet the sunrise, say good-night to the moon. That is where it begins.

Note: You can read more about the Johannes Kolb site in this article originally published in South Carolina Wildlife Magazine, Life on a Sandy Knoll, by Christopher Judge.

Archaeologists Chris Judge and Jason Smith

Celebratory Voices

It's Jensen Ackles' 30th birthday. This man inspires So Much Love. Just look:

at the CW Source
at JA_Fanwoman
from awhile back, at lemmealone's LJ

Surely, you get the idea. I haven't even looked over at Jensen Ackles' Fans, or TwoP, or the CW boards, but am certain it's the topic of the past 24 hours, worldwide.
Have some birthday cake, dude. It's the least you deserve.

Adding mine to the din: Happiest of Birthdays, Jensen, and many, many more. You deserve every good thing that life can bring. Thank you so much for just being yourself.

The boy who went to Hollywood, right out of high school, landed the first role he tried out for, and became an instant heartthrob --also winning his first acting award, a Daytime Emmy for Best Male Newcomer. Smart people, those casting folks at Days.
A few years later... intense as ever. Still killing fangirls.
I was still clueless, had no idea he existed. My loss.
Honestly, anything else i could add would be de trop... besides, I've said it so many times. This man changed my life, in so many good ways. Breeze thru back entries in this blog and it will be obvious how I went from a depressed, cynical government employee trying desperately to find something good to write about to a happy fangirl in the past several months. And yeah, That Is A GOOD THING.


The shot that changed my life. In the Pilot when Dean body-slammed Jared against the bridge like an infuriated pugilist, and then said quietly, "Don't talk about her like that," in a voice evoking love and respect for his dead mother, filial and parental love for the brother he'd raised, and respect for Sam's feelings all at the same time, he effectively communicated the fact that Sam had stepped over a line that would not be allowed. A typically Jensen multi-layered moment, as I've come to understand since then.
And when I saw it, I was done. Done, I tell you. Two days later, I'd watched the entire Season 1 DVD set, and was frantically looking all over the internet to find out
WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY.
I blame Jensen Ackles wholeheartedly for the fact that I am finally what I should have been all along: a full-time writer, which was my first career choice, but because of second-guessing myself in high school, I subverted this to other, supposedly more creative and/or lucrative choices that ended up being what some people euphemistically describe as "learning experiences." Why do I blame, or more accurately, credit Mr. Ackles? Good God. If you have to ask, you have not been paying attention. I spout out about how he inspires me so much, it would be ridiculous to say it again. Besides, he's trying so hard to ignore all the congratulations and the fact that everyone he knows, and everyone who knows him, or of him, is wishing him well this morning.
From the body language to the look on his face, it's obvious he'd rather be just about anywhere than here, where people are LOOKING AT HIM... but he's such a good sport, he'll smile for the camera anyway.

When it comes down to it, I'm unapologetic about the fact that I don't believe there is a more perfect, more fully evolved human being out there who is even somewhat well-known. His genuine bewilderment at all the fuss is probably his most endearing trait, but it's closely followed by his talent, his dedication, and the care he takes in letting co-workers and fans alike know how much he appreciates them. And how it's obvious that he gives with everything he's got, every single day.

Hey, Jensen. It's appreciated. No, really. We notice things like that.
It's pretty rare in your field, dude.


Here's a link to the latest interview (Scroll to Jensen Ackles 2), released by Australian TV from during his visit a few weeks ago, where he's asked about his plans to celebrate this milestone. In typical fashion, his answer bleeds humility. He'd really rather not talk about himself, he deflects any question neatly and politely that veers toward the personal, yet leaves us still feeling like he appreciates the thought that we asked.
This shot from Supernatural 2nd season episode Crossroads Blues is one of my favorites. Look at the earnestness, and the freckles.

From the inspiration of the Ackting, I re-learned how to look beyond the moment, and stop obsessing about body image and fitness and not eating food, and followed his example of giving the best you can every single moment. I reached down inside myself and pulled my soul back away from the oblivion, where I'd pushed it to keep from staring at the pain. I started writing again, about the basis of what matters. He showed me a side of modern maleness that I really didn't believe existed, and so I was able to finish an 18-year old project that had run out of steam, and then was further inspired to continue exploring all the possibilities my mind could conjure. My writing sings with love, and hope, and cherished seasons of belief. It makes me happy.

It goes beyond his obvious physical beauty, because without the soul behind it, he'd be just another pretty Hollywood face. The man has depth, kindness, and even a quirky sense of humor. So many people say, you just won't find a nicer guy, a better friend, or a more talented actor.


But it all boils down to this: I just enjoy watching him So Damned Much.

The versatility and layering he brings to the character of Dean on Supernatural leaves me breathless. I find now I actually have to space out this input now in doses - too much Jensen now leaves me feeling as if I've been mainlining supernatural drugs. And it isn't just me: the word "roofied" is becoming synonymous with the TV Show, Supernatural, because so many of us are just blown away at this point.
Cap courtesty of Screencap Paradise, from Supernatural episode 3.10, Dream a Little Dream of Me. Dean confronts his worst nightmare: himself. It isn't pretty, but it's damned awesome. I still can't speak coherently about this episode, and it aired over three weeks ago.

Perhaps best of all, his intensity is catching: compare Jared's pretty-damn-good characterization of Sam in Season One with his latest episodes in Season Three. Jared's Sam now blows us away, just like Jensen as Dean.


graphic by titheniel, clip from Supernatural episode 3.07, Fresh Blood
Jared is coming into his own, and not to take anything away from him, but some of it has to be due to the encouragement and feedback he gets from his co-star. Jensen sets up an environment where everybody, including the cast and crew, feel comfortable with giving their all, putting on their best selves. Why? Because it's what he does, every damned day he goes to work. It's like he doesn't know how to do it any other way. How many people live their lives like that? That takes courage, and conviction. And it's something to emulate, and by God, I'm doing it, too.



So, a shout out to Alan and Donna Ackles: you did good. So damned good. And thank you, Jensen, for being true to yourself, and doing so much with what you were given.

We look forward to at least 90 more good years like the past 30. Amen, dearest.

Happiest of birthdays.


Set photos and all otherwise uncredited photos courtesy SPN Media and the CW/WB Network.

Veritas

Men hate passion, any great passion. Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

I defy the tyranny of precedent. Clara Barton.

I am faced with an exposition of the most ridiculous kind. It is almost as if, by turning round and round upon myself, within myself, I am finding out the true nature of the world at large. Fie! It is an old shoe, a bastard, losing daily whatever dignity it has gained at its own behest. I am well to be rid of it.

The world itself is an oasis that draws us out of ourselves, to interact and play nicely with our neighbors. I am all about community, of course. Enjoying friends and family is one of the greatest joys on earth. And here is the rub, see. An oasis is only that which stands out in the middle of the wasteland, providing nourishment and the opportunity for rest for weary travelers. An oasis! Yes, there I’ll be bound.

And miss the boat entirely, of course.

Why linger at an oasis? Why settle, why drink, why sleep? If life is a journey, hadn’t we better get on with it? Saddle up the camels, do something, for heaven’s sake. Or if life is a banquet, should we at least find a place that has good food? God. Get me away from these mongrels, who do nothing more than clasp and smile and make us all feel so damned good.

Take me somewhere I can hear myself think. I have work to do.

I am a promethean, which means I take my work seriously not as art, but of the fact of its usefulness, probably more so than many. It is the work itself that is the point, and nothing that comes after. And I have no opinion at all on whether or not the work is successful, only that it is good, and says what I want it to say. Otherwise, why do it? Why produce, unless to express oneself? If I were going to express another’s opinion, or mimic another’s work, what reason would I have to exist? I do honor by the fact of my existence in bringing my own view to the forefront. Which, I realize, is basically what Ayn Rand said, in billions and billions of words.

That being said, too often the world itself gets in the way. Why? Because I am shy, introspective, and withdrawn by nature. I listen too often to others and quiet my voice. I write what people want to hear, I know pleasant turns of phrase, am witty, clever, and so I am quite repugnant to myself. I mimic so well the acclaimed voices. Eventually I must stop, it will be my undoing. The roar in my ears does not go away when I lift my hands from the keyboard to cover them. I shout at those nearby; I am shouting at myself. Only when I write does my real voice speak. You will almost never hear it from my lips. That is the way of things, perhaps it makes me who I am. I no longer apologize for being several things at once, I am who I am. That cannot change, or who would be me? What of worth would I have to offer; again, why else should I exist?

I know things, things that I left out of the most recent work. I am a miner of the soul; I will go and put them back in. It was wrong to take them out –I am happy now that someone pointed it out to me. As if to say, “Why did you not –“ and “It would have been better if you had –“ when all along I truly believed no one would have understood had I done so. I am glad to put them back. They will complete the work as I originally envisioned. I sigh a deep sigh of completion, and gratitude.

This past week was a vacation for me and the children. We went home to the mountains, to the blue sky and clear air of Virginia. We visited post-card towns and had tea & cakes with the vicar –okay, he was imaginary, but we had them outside on the lawn behind the library not fifteen feet from where I first made out with the father of one of them when I was about thirteen years old –and no I did not mention it! That would have been gross. To continue painting the pastoral scene, we shopped and walked and took miles of pictures. We bought fabric at Schoolhouse Fabrics to make new fall dresses for the girls & me, and a cool grey shirt for my son. We lived and breathed and sang and tromped down to Asheville to take in Biltmore and the highlands in all their pre-fall glory. And about halfway through it, while walking along atop a century-old rock wall in Rocky Mount, Virginia, my youngest said to me, “Mommy, it feels like we are in a movie.”

And I said to her, “That is passion, dearest.”

“What’s passion? I thought what happened to Christ was The Passion.”

“Yeah, that’s passion, too. Passion is when you love something so hard it becomes real.”
She giggled, skipping ahead. “Oh, I get it. Like how I love my turtles when I talk to them.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Get me down, Mommy.”

I held out my arms to her and she jumped, landing neatly on the cracked sidewalk. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” And hugged her tight.

She walked on ahead of me, and eventually climbed back up to walk along the top of the wall. “It still feels like we are in a movie,” she said presently.

“That is good, I’m glad.”

“I like it.”

“You should. In fact, that is the best. You should feel that way every single day. Don’t ever lose that feeling, OK? Don’t settle for anything less.”

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t feel this way hardly ever.”

“You hold onto it. It makes you strong. Don’t ever lose it.” And I laughed with her.


The work will be a beacon, when it is finished. Again. This I know. And yes, it is all about me. I am the only one left to tell. It is my mind, my entrance upon the world’s stage. I gather up the bits of straw from the threshing floor – the fleeting bits that fall from my fingers in the times when I must compulsively be writing something about passion, for the voices will not stop – and toss them skyward. They fall on happy faces who lick their lips and feed upon them, devouring the little bits of my heart I’d sewn in so carefully. I am happy to do that, their happiness makes me smile.

But there will be more in the morning. So watch, and see. It is practicum for the larger work, it flexes my working muscles and makes me concentrate on plot and character and making something totally imagined real.

Soon I must leave the oasis. It is discipline, yet it is too much in the world. When I have completed it, it will be time for surgery on the original work. The one that has followed me around for the better part of two decades. That has received two lovely long letters of encouragement from now two editors who press me to add voices to it, find an agent, and submit to, as one put it, “a larger publisher with a more literary (quieter, less pop-fiction-readership-oriented) audience.” This is the work that defines my vision of experience and reality between the perfectly imperfect man and woman. That rocks my boat. That frustrates me no end because I just don’t want to give up and feel all the things working in this mine field makes me feel. And so I take the coward’s way out, and try to make it a popular read. I got what I deserved.

I received the go-ahead to basically be true to myself, my vision, and write what I know. What good does it do within me, when it is obvious that the work would be so much better with it out?
And so I will do. That accomplishment will give me the peace I affirm is the only true peace, in the end. That is the point of my existence.

For nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere
--John Donne, Aire and Angels

venus in retrograde

funny little thing happened on the way to virginia.

some background: years ago, i married my best friend. it didn't last. we had 2 lovely girls together. he doesn't acknowledge them or speak to any of us. it's for the best, believe me. after all the lies and the hurt and unbelievable unfairness, it's been relegated to the "scope for a novel" file and bedded down.

dollars spent on therapy are sometimes very well spent. because of him, i developed a shell thick enough to have survived some pretty horrible things, even afterward. in retrospect, i could almost say i'm grateful for the lesson. almost.

never let it be said that the gods do not possess a divine sense of humor.

said ex and i have not spoken much in the impending decades... i wish i could say exactly why, but it just boils down to awkwardness, broken dreams, maybe a little too much honesty, but i don't regret it. the quiet has been peaceful, even blissful at times. it is hard to be married to someone who knows you better than god himself.

but getting back to the funny thing on the way to virginia.

karma is a wonderful thing: you never know when you will have to rely on help from those whom you've screwed.

my oldest daughter and i --the one he fathered and i gave up for adoption when i was much too young to be a mother and he has to this day never acknowledged, even tho' she is a full sister to our other daughter who was born while we were married --and is a dead ringer for him --were driving up the interstate as it began to rain. the clouds had been gathering for some time but thankfully traffic was unusually light. as we neared an overpass i noticed a truck, with a flat-bed trailer, on the side of the road. it was somewhat near a landmark truck stop but absolutely nothing else. the truck caught my eye for just a moment, and i started to look away when i noticed a tall, thin, blond-headed male walking up the steep hill away from the truck toward the overpass. as we passed he raised his cell phone to his ear.

"that's p******," i said to my daughter, who turned to look.

she sniffed. "no way," she answered, shaking her head in her sensible way. "that's impossible. you can't see who that is from this distance."

i shrugged. it was several thousand feet, to be sure. and it was raining. "no, i can't. but it's him."

we hadn't seen him in several years, except i had glimpsed him momentarily at his mother's funeral several months back, which we'd attended with my daughter, who was particularly close to her grandmother and was pretty broken up about it.

but i knew it was him. you see, i have known that person since the sixth grade. and we were close, at one time. we --well, suffice it to say i was certain.

i said, "i'm going back. it's him."

r****** said, "well, ok, like, you could do like in the messin' with sasquatch commercial, you know, make him run a little bit. that would be amusing." we laughed.

"yes, it would," i agreed. and we laughed again. but i knew that i wouldn't do that. no, the opposite would be far more adventurous.

it was a ways to the next exit, so i had to drive a bit before i could turn around. but about 10 minutes later we pulled off the exit near the truck stop. i knew he'd be headed for that. but would he let us help him? would he even acknowledge us? i had to know. it was raining harder now. r. still wasn't convinced it would be him, she was going on the fact that he lives four states away now and what were the chances, really, that he and i would be on the same road at the same time in the rain and his truck would break down at almost the exact minute i'd be passing by? it was highly unlikely. i agreed with her. still, i knew it was him.

we pulled to the top of the exit, which turns out on an old, unimproved gravel road down to the truck stop. he was walking down that road, having gone up the hill, over the overpass, and turned right. walking. hurriedly. phone to ear. he turned to look as we pulled up, just across the road. i blinked my lights at him and he raised his hand politely, nodding and pointing down the road to the truck stop, motioning me on and indicating he was fine. i waved and rolled down my window.

"don't you want a ride?" i laughed at him.

he said, "i'll call you back," and clicked the phone shut. grinned. i pulled across the road and opened the door. before i could change my mind i just went on old times, the times that should be preserved. the good memories. before it got ugly.

i said, "you need some help, don't you? we are nice people, you should let us help you."

part of the problem always was his ridiculously suspicious nature. once i had known how to break through that. like i was nineteen again i held out my arms and said, "no one is watching. no one will know. only her," i gestured over my shoulder at our daughter, the one he wouldn't acknowledge, although i know that at one time he'd drawn a broken heart with her birth date and time in the middle of it. i held that image in my mind and hugged him, quickly, before he could back away.

he needed it. and so did i. it is more blessed to give than to receive. it is.

one thing i had learned over the years is to grab things and then let them go, quick, before they can bite you. to do the right thing before you think about it too much and chicken out. he was alone, and god only knew how many years it had been since he'd been hugged by someone he could trust. he lives in a walled-off fortress among situations of his own making. his mother had died convulsing in his arms, not too long ago. his shell is thick --but he knows me. and deep down, he knows i only want the best for him --when i remember the little boy i knew in sixth grade, and the awesome young man he grew into. i loved that young man. i always will.... even though he left him behind and became someone else, long ago. as did i.

i turned to him and said, "i finished my book. the one i started in alabama."

he looked confused. "book?"

"you don't remember. i was writing a book --several books --and i began in alabama. in enterprise, when we were there."

"oh. well, that's great. congratulations."

"one of them is about fred."

"fred? that book needs to be written. i always said that."

"yes. me, too. you do remember."

he was grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head. remembering the good times.

"but you know," i continued. "most of what i know about fred is hearsay. i wasn't there for most of it. it was before my time."

"well, you know what happened."

"only because someone told me. i do remember hanging outside a window, upside down and not knowing if it was you or fred holding me by my ankles." he laughed, nodding at the memory.

i looked at him. "it was fred, wasn't it?"

he nodded again, still laughing. "you made him stop," i finished. "you saved me. i could have broken my head."

"yes," he said, barely audibly, still grinning down at me. he is so tall.

we laughed and chatted and i introduced him to r******. he leaned into the car, hand extended in a friendly, courteous manner. "hi, I'm p******," he said. she smiled and shook her head in wonder, thinking, "i know who you are, you a******. and you know who i am, too." but she smiled, and played along as courteously as he.

i don't know why he kept up the charade but at least we could laugh at it. we gave him a ride down to the truck stop and stayed with him while he figured out what to do. at one point he even considered going up to the ville with us, since we were all headed that way. but later he decided he needed to stay with his truck, since he was on a "tight schedule," and he didn't know how long it would take to fix the truck. he was always on a tight schedule. indeed, i don't think he knows how to live any other way.

he's a curious combination of laid-back and uptight, sensible and full of shit, observant and blind. he didn't seem to have changed much, if at all. but it didn't creep me out - i knew exactly what to expect. somehow that can be comforting, when you know there are no surprises.

r & i laughed all the way up the road after we left him, after taking him back to his truck to get a few things, and then back to the truck stop to wait for the towing vehicle. he laughed too, a bit. he was incomparably polite, even affable.

i looked at him from the rear-view mirror. "you know, we are nice. you should talk to us."

"i can see that," he replied, nodding and smiling. i pulled into the parking space. we were back at the truck stop, and it was time for him to get out and go about his business. i shook my head. the present was back, palpable, in the car with us. camaraderie was fading back into the dimness, and i struggled to make it real, to catch at the threads of time that were dwindling away, breathless, like smoke escaping thru the open window.

"here. write down my phone number. you can contact me anytime," he shuffled through the calendar he carried, wrote the number down carefully, bending his head to the task. i saw him again in math class, diligently writing numbers on a page. he looked up. smiled, and shut the book. opened the door, and was gone.

i know that the past rises up before us whenever we are there to re-create it. it is still as tangible as it was every hour that we lived it.

but i also know, just as certainly, that i'll never hear from him. that as soon as we were gone one of two things happened: either he forgot us completely, or his paranoia kicked in and he worried all night long about repercussions from talking to me, which in his mind could range anywhere from the wrong people (who? i wonder) finding out he actually accepted my help (like he had any choice? he was in the middle of nowhere without transportation and it was raining!) to my running my mouth to godknowswhat. and that, my friends, is not my problem.

it's his.

the nice thing about divorce is, their problems are no longer your problems. their craziness is no longer your craziness. their issues are not your issues.

but you can still give them a hand up when they need it --and then move on.

that day our daughter got to meet her biological father for the first time, and that has to be some closure for both of them. only the three of us know just what that meant, and i'm not going to share that here. the point is, as i said: karma is a really cool thing. you never know just when you'll get the chance to kill the one person with kindness who was unforgiveably bad to you once --and that it will make you giddy with joy, and laughter. and for just one minute, time stops, rolls back, and people are alive again all around who have been dead for years.

that's a pretty cool occurrence, all in all. i'd recommend it to anyone.

midsummer finds

these were taken by my hubby atop a mountain in my home state of virginia, at the cumberland gap, specifically. will be traveling this week for a visit with relatives and to be revitalized by all the old familiar places. it'll be cooler there, a welcome respite from the heat.

here in sc, the air is still and hot as we await yet another afternoon thunderstorm. there is a hum in the air, a quickening that heightens the senses, hovers, and yet refuses to alight. it spears the calm. in the garden the bees advance like gleaners gathering beads of tranquility, spiriting into hidden pockets and disappearing under limp, curling leaves. they beg for the storm to bring its cooling effervescence, life-giving sweetness to the packed bare earth.

i move about between the buildings from early morning to late afternoon, attending to various duties, weaving wishes together to make something artful. if only for myself. as i wait, the summer beckons: don't stay in, come out, come out, the winter will be here before you know it, and you hate cold weather. i stand still, letting the countless archaic souls of this place wind throughout my heart and mind, encompassing all manner of thieving rhythms and timeless nightmares etched in rhymes down the winding paths, white with dust, my brow wrinkled to heaven. the place is timeless. it whispers platitudes in my ear, telling me "all in good time, my dear. all in good time."

checking on an old friend

My husband has an interesting habit of falling in love with trees. More than once he has phoned me to say, "Sorry, honey, you're being replaced. I've found the love of my life. Her name is Lucille (Martha, Diana et al). She's a fifty-foot tall Loblolly (Live Oak, Water Chestnut..). You get the picture.
Here is what he said when I showed him this:
"I have to see that Tree." (Click on the link to see the full view and then zoom in under the trunk. Those are people. One lady has a dog on a leash).




Yeah, he does. I miss Alabama. The Tree (note capitalization, no other name needed) is, depending upon what report you read, over 350 - 450 years old, perhaps older. It is the size of your average strip-mall shopping center, and vastly to be preferred in company. Here is what I wrote about it in my journal, c. 1986:

"I remember when I first met the Tree. ...it is one of the lasting friendships I have made in [Alabama] that I will never forsake.I remember being amazed at its girth. I had never seen, had never imagined a living thing so huge, stretching upwards to heaven, it seemed. I had the almost uncontrollable urge to climb it --to scamper up into its vastness like a child. On one side a great old branch leans down almost to the ground, like a cradle, the ends fanning out with lush foliage. The bark on this natural perch is rubbed smooth by innumerable humans who have seated themselves in this most perfect swing in the world and rocked gently. I think we need reminders like this on earth of the greatness of all creation that literally point the way to humility in ways that even the densest and most jaded among us cannot miss. It speaks of His love for us, that He plants signs here in His garden that are so strong that careworn adults feel safe in their presence."

It eventually made its way into a work in progress. I had to check and find out if it was still alive, still there, nearly twenty years later. It is. How life-affirming, how wonderful.

elloree

this weekend i was honored to be asked to help out at the annual archaeology society of south carolina field day, held at santee state park, near the I-95 exit. this is an assemblage of archaeologists (duh), scientists, researchers, and modern-day practioners who demonstrate the very lifeskills the scientists write about, the researchers explore, and evidence of which the archaeologists dig up & catalogue. it is a unique event where children & their parents & other visitors can literally help to dig up, screen and examine point flakes and bits of pottery on one side of the park, and a short distance away, actually view and take part in the making of such objects along with a skilled demonstrator. there were also stations with crayons & coloring books, a video tent (showing excavations around the state & interviews with those involved), as well as opportunities to buy books, tee shirts, mugs, research papers, and also to sign up to attend one of the excellent university programs, volunteer opportunities, and other events this state has to offer in the field of self-examination of our own origins. the organization is duly supported and populated by its share of wealthy patrons predominantly residing on the coast, whose agenda of course includes environmental activism and historic preservation, worthy causes all. fascinating, especially when you consider the outsider's view of our measly existence, as evidenced by stereotypical presentations of the southern lifestyle on television and in the news media. i'll refrain from posting links to such uneducated, ethnocentric idiocy (i'm sure you can find plenty yourself, should you really need to), but i am actually a bit grateful for a recent slap in the face from someone i'd otherwise considered pretty knowledgeable on the subject of the downsliding of development trends into the murky waters of greed, deceit and overall tackiness.

sometimes we all need a wake-up call.

last year i felt inclined to start this blog, but without a clear focus as to what i would write about. up to now a bit of earth has had the expressed desire to talk about land use, but no clear purpose or direction as to how to talk about it. howsomever, after the aforementioned slap, and the run of yesterday’s experiences, i think i’ve figured it out.

as a planner, it has been my habit for the past 15 years at least to mentally analyze every settlement, small town, or rural habitat i’ve come across. as i approach such an area, i look for evidence of the inhabitants in such visible cues as signage, pedestrian paths, and architecture. sometimes i can see obvious caretaking such as fresh paint, colorfully vegetated vistas, and numerous happy, or at least contentedly pre-occupied, people. sometimes the evidence is not so obvious.

on the way home last evening my husband, the archaeologist, took me thru a by-way he said he’d long wanted to show me. it was the tiny town of elloree, “where agriculture is alive and well in south carolina, thank you.” according to him the downtown used to be a desolate, angry place with only one claim to fame: duke’s barbecue. he was devastated to discover that duke’s has been replaced by a chinese take-out place. i was delighted to discover that the visual evidence supports the conclusion that it is recently a recipient of main street funding. a planted median divides main street, and sidewalks and seating follow either side. there were plenty of people out, all walking about with apparent errands on their minds. from the visual evidence, the predominant income level seemed to be less than 20K per year, and probably averaged about half of that. also, i saw few white faces. several folks hung about the doorways of this or that eatery or bar, talking together or not, but none of the angry desolation he’d described from driving thru in former years was at all visible. we drove up and down the main quarter, and then retraced our steps back to the intersection with our homeward road. my husband seemed to be holding some happy bit of news to himself –and then he pointed out his secret: there, around the corner about a block off of main street, was a small converted wooden livery stable, the words, “elloree farm museum” painted neatly beside the door in big red letters. hah –so the people were smart, too, and proud of who and what they are. how very cool.

we drove north the short distance out of town, the landscaped yards bordering graceful, slightly shabby early 19th century edifices of the old money-wealth now occupied by silent, single daughters or perhaps a similarly small remnant of the family. none seemed empty yet. here and there were a very few new brick homes in the populist architecture that claims its roots in sprawlivisions. at least here they didn’t seem quite so ugly, but maybe that was the fault of the waning light. as i looked ahead and beyond the yards, there seemed to be a ghostly glow surrounding this north end of town. hubby started pointing, “look, look…” and lo and behold, i then beheld the source of this town’s continued existence: fields of cotton. the scent of defoliant teased our nostrils and we slowed to watch the harvester crawling among the plants, to count the truckloads of what had already been baled, to smile at the workers waving and directing each other there under the rising moon.

a field of mature cotton in moonlight is an awesome thing; its beauty literally takes your breath away. it looks like a coverlet of snowy ermine interspersed with intricate blackwork and bordered and interlaced with the tracery of thick rows of dark trees. the plants follow the curvature of the earth, and are rimmed and intersected by undisturbed areas which follow the local hydrography. while the rows can stretch for what seems like miles, they are carefully planted only in the adaptable soils, common sense prevailing and avoiding the myriad streams and wetlands that embroider and criss-cross like unto a quilt. while we can regret the fact that the fields are not planted (yet) organically, the fact is that it is still quite labour-intensive, although not nearly so much as even twenty years ago. many south Carolinians –black and white –even my age (mid-forties) have told me that they remember earning money in their teenage years picking cotton. we are grateful for the fact that crop rotation and no-till methods prevail, and we know that after the harvest, the dross will be sown in peanuts or soybeans, followed by corn or perhaps rye or winter wheat, and the cycle will continue at least into the foreseeable future, as long as people wear clothes, use hospitals, and write on paper.

so. what will we do when the oil runs out? we will adapt, and move on. as humans, that is what we do –best, i might add. here in the hinterlands, far from the rot and waste of the urban landscape, little will change. it is what is, and will be. as i said, not too long ago harvesting & planting was done by hand. it is still in recent memory.

work, in the end, is a prayer, or so says baha’u’llah. i think this is an apt observation. prayer goes a long way in negating the need for therapy. work negates the need for expensive exercise programs. books, conversation, handwork, and games all negate the need for television and other forms of electronic stimulation. the occupations of our minds and hands from previous days indicate that we already know this. we look forward to celebrating the fruits of honest labors: the candles that our friends made of deer tallow and beeswax light our path, we keep clean with the soap that we barter for sewing with other friends & neighbors, woolen garments ranging from the decades-old lovelies Jason brought back from ireland to the scarves, shawls & caps amazingly crafted by Rachael from her own drop-spindle & knitting needles. too, the doe in the freezer will be (among other things) Christmas dinner, through the winter we will dine on the turkeys from our woods and the chickens from the lower pasture, the pecans from the grove, jam from the grapes from the arbor, fat carolina road-stand peaches canned along with sweet memories from warmer days, sauce from the tomatoes that still abound in the greenhouse. rosemary, oregano, mint, and thyme hang drying in the herbary. from our field-roving hens we still collect at least a few eggs every other day, even as the days grow shorter and darker. winter sets in, and our activities lessen. it is time for rest, relaxation, contemplation, the enjoyment of the fruits of warm weather labors, and we will reflect and write about whatever comes to mind, as we await the turning of the seasons and the arrival of spring, when the cycle begins all over again.

so i think henceforth, this blog will catalog evidence of the fact that we are already ready for the future. in fact, we welcome it. we are thankful for what federal and private funds enable small localities to spruce up their appearance, but by and large, i see no evidence that any of these places are dependent upon the hand-outs, or upon the oil economy. they have a vitality complete unto themselves. many are too poor to have partaken of the glut of wealth from the past two decades. and still they flourish, in the simple, honest, and steadfast ways evidenced by time to be most enduring. fruit of the earth and the work of human hands. i see it much too often, and so instead of bemoaning the twilight of a bloated existence, i am singing and dancing. i am praising it to the skies, and my children and friends with me. amen.

even so come, lord jesus.

a 21 year reunion....

Go to the Image Gallery



has it been 21 years... really? since i rushed home after the store closed at hancocks fabrics in tampa to see the show that was to transform everything from network tv to crime dramas as we knew them?

well don... you haven't aged a bit. tonite was the airing of the first episode of miami vice. you looked like such a ***baby***!!! so young, so fresh, so immoral!!
when i remember my innocence of the years when miami vice first hit the screen --it makes my eyes tear up a bit. i remember how gratified i was that my favorite actor from "the rebel" had actually been rewarded with the type of fame due his talent. unbelievable, yet so gratified.

it wasn't the armani suits, the deep tans, or the testarossa. i promise you. it was the green eyes.... and the doubt, the betrayals, the agony that kept us tuning in week after week. it was watching you deal with things that made our miserable lives seem human again. it was seeing you come out of it and go on... again, and again. it was like nothing we'd seen before... how lovely to see you'd aged well. my 14-year old son could not believe this was the world before cell phones, before the internet... and it looked cool, and splendid. and i wanted it back, i did.

last night i watched "hot spot," "long hot summer," AND "word of honor," just to refresh my memory. you are just as fascinating as you always were. i don't care what anyone else says.... we'll see the new re-make as it appears to be a must-see, but nothing can change the fact that you were always my muse, my hero, and the one that caused me to take up my pen to write in the first place. it's high time i finished the novel i started way back then, don't you think?

keeping wildness

In Wildness is the preservation of the world... Our village life would stagnate if it were not for the unexplored forests and meadows which surround it. We need the tonic of wildness." --Thoreau, Walden, 1847

One doesn't normally think of Thoreau as a planner, but oh, he was. In his earnest adaptation and spiritual connection with the countryside surrounding the community in which he lived, he gave us the blueprint for interweaving the urban/suburban fabric with that of the rural. i submit here an image of the yard i had two houses ago, near greensboro, nc... it is still in a rural area, thanks to the non-availability of water & sewer service. it was a 4-acre 'old city lot,' in the downtown section of a town that was founded before the revolution. several of us kept farm animals in ancient barns and the slow timbre of life there was affected by its proximity to metropolitia only during the 5 p.m. traffic centipede that crawled down the main street, disappearing shortly after 6. to protect the habits of wildlife, it is against the law in that little burg to burn more than 160 watts of light after dark, cumulatively on any one property. Many of us used candles in the window so as to be able to view the night sky, the constellations, and the velvet blackness, virtually unchanged since the turn of the last century.

Small communities and rural towns comprise the bulk of the local community in the southern United States. Here it is a cultural reality that people live with spaces between them.... piling in cheek by jowl is anathema to us. Hence, there is an anxiety as we go forth in time that the future will be something so different that we will not recognize ourselves. What happened up North is now happening here, and none of us want to duplicate the mistakes that were made as the more populated areas of the country developed. And yet, few are willing to conserve, to protect, to eschew the monetary gain --sometimes much needed --in order to preserve the southern countryside. Those who are are usually not the ones with the land. And so it goes.... will we return to Walden a century from now and wonder what it was like, instead of going out of our own doors as we do today, and experience it?