Waiting for Rain

I hear two frogs speaking to one another, one with a deep somber bass, the other a flippity alto.
I think they are flirting.

I hear Leaves whispering and quiet jingling that tells me of a breeze; a breath.
I hear buzzing or humming and I cannot tell if it is the vapor lights thrumming, or a preview of the expected cicadas.
I hear voices from other porches and sidewalks.
Sounds are low tonight, and very near.

I smell the early perfumes of flowers, and the clean scent of overturned dirt, and a hint of a freshly mown lawn. I smell rain.

Rain is coming to a place near me.

Meditating on Meditation

 Meditation is supposed to be a method for many things, Goal setting, stress reducing, creating mindfulness, just plain creating. As I said, Many things.

I once took a class in college about meditation. 

It was a strange experience for me. 

I followed the same directions as the rest of the class. 

Relax. Concentrate on your breathing, not thinking. Do not think.

As I did these things, I became aware of many things.

The swoosh-swoosh of my heart beating.

The whoosh whoosh of my breathing.

The scritch of my hair on my shirt when it moved.

The way my sleeves felt on my arms, and the marvel of the difference in the feel of material in my pants against my thighs.

And the swoosh and whoosh and scritch and the caresses were somehow without me-- outside of me. All part of an enormity. The wind was breath, the heartbeat was water constantly moving, and I was a cloud, being caressed by the sun and tickled by the wind.

And then the instructor recalled us all to ourselves and began a discussion about what had happened in our minds.

The other students spoke of doors opening and closing, of distant phones ringing, of people talking in other parts of the building, of classmates coughing, and someone whose breathing whistled , and someone else who kept clearing their throat.

They marveled over how clearly they heard these things, and I was sitting there thinking "But all you have to do for that stuff is to listen. That's not a special talent. Or is it?"

No wonder meditation wasn't working for me. I must have been doing it wrong.

Now, I know that there are different types of meditations,

I have learned that there are different paths of meditation that can take the participants to the same Place.

I have learned that the same meditation path can take people to different Places.

But then, I thought I was doing it wrong. 

I thought that meant there was no value for me in it. 

Even now, it is difficult for me to freely do it, without feeling or fearing wrong.

I have to take my own advice sometimes. 

Just listen.

Pay attention to what you hear.

And feel.

And see.

And while others may be stuck in the classroom in the world, I can be a cloud, a part of Nature's water cycle, whispered to and tickled, and caressed by the many factors of a Bigger Place.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

Unbaring the Walls

 I surely do understand why children draw on walls.  All that white space is so inspiring.  That short wall needs a waterfall surrounded by autumn trees.  The long wall cries out for magnificent mural.  Trees and a stream,  rocks and a muddy embankment,  children and a bridge, filtered sunlight.

The wall behind the door begs for a bare tree outlined against a silver moon.  Maybe some snow-capped or icicles. 

The rest of that wall,  to the window could be the milky way,  spilling stars from its spiraling bucket.

Chalk or pastels.  Crayons or watercolors.

Muted but vibrant colors,  blending peacefully.

It's really a good thing that I know I can't draw.

The Lure of That Light

The light lured me out that night.

The moonlight coming through my ceiling.  

Sometimes silver, sometimes white.

Promising.

Hopeful.

A reminder of beauty, and receding darkness, and tomorrows.

Yes. it was cold out there, but that light was so intriguing.

 I had to see it, look at it, feel it on my skin, breathe it into my body.

So I wrapped up in a blanket, slipped on some shoes, and went to sit on my porch while the coffee brewed.

It was everything that has ever been said about moonlight. All the clichés come to life. Silver, gold, pure, clear, white, magic, mystic, omnipresent. 

Wise.

Every reality, every dream

I had thought to return to my shelter when the coffee was done, but instead I found myself dragging a chair off the porch, into the yard, to settle myself, my blanket, and my hot drink out in the yard beside my fence. 

I looked up and up into the purity of a winters night, with the beacon moon tangled and bouncing in the bare black branches of the stripped trees. 

Black clouds gathered around the light, and crowded it, trying to overtake it.

But it would not be doused. 

It serenely shone on, as the branches danced and painted themselves with the colors of the light.  So much light so that when the darkness of the ominous clouds did succeed in dimming the light, the trees were able to return the light to its source, so that the darkness never blotted it out completely.

Such symbiosis!

Such love.

Such faith in the intangibles. 

I don't know how long I sat out there. Or how short. Time did not exist while the moon glowed, the wind made music, and the trees danced. 

I don't know.

 And I do not care.

The time thatwasn't, that I was just another part of. A twig. A dust mote. A breath of wind. 

A breath of life.

Yes, the magic of moonlight, cliched as it is, was tall and strong and all inclusive that night.

And I was humbled and exalted to be a part of it.

.

sunshine in my ceiling -- 2/11/2020

 I'm waiting for a sunny blue sky white cloud day to see what I can see looking through my ceiling window. One evening just before sundown I saw little cottonball clouds tumbling across the gray.

Once.

Mostly I see gray sky and/or white light. I don't know if that's filters or tinting or what. It will take the forementioned blue sky white cloud day for me to know.

Or there could be something technical with the oblique and direct angles of light.

It would be really neat to look up from doing the dishes and seeing the moon looking in on me, or a couple stars winking.

Will I see that?

I don't know.

One day I'll find out. It may not be until April, May or June, but one day -- or night -- it will happen.

8Rita O'Toole, Mary Dietz and 6 others

New Year; Same OLD Me

There's really not much difference between December 31 and January 1, but just the changing of the calendar gives off a feeling of freshness. Of new starts, new chances, and Things Changing. 

It's a bit of silly, feeling that way, but most of us feel it anyway.

I think it has more to do with the returning daylight than anything else. 10 days or so, from the longest night and perhaps darkest day, the difference is already discernible. 

It is the return of hope. The promise of new life.

Usually, the coldest weather is yet to come. The snows, the ice, the blustering, freezing winds. 

But despite those disheartening events, there is daylight. A little more each day, and by the time a week or 10 days has elapsed, we can and will marvel how much longer the light is lingering.

This year past has brought almost every person some form of disease or disaster. The loss of someone or something; and the loss of individual freedoms for the greater good. (More shibboleths, I know, but the best way to repeat concepts as old as humankind.)

Let us try to remember this: That we have all lost something, even if it's "only" the world as we knew it. 

Scientists and politicians, so recently at odds, all forgot to reckon with the forces of Nature, or maybe the Wrath of God, if your beliefs lead you that way. When too much of any species occupies and consumes, in various ways, an area, then there comes a dying-off. You can blame the "smaller globe" syndrome. You can blame the Chineses people, who were just as disastrously dying as anyone else. You can blame spaceships, UFOs, aliens, angels, disturbed spirits, diseased factories, diseased morals. 

When there is so much disease, there will be a dying-off. 

This is one of the immutable rules of physical existence.

It is one of the rules of science.

It is also one of the rules of religions. That the diseased will be destroyed in great numbers whether in judgement and condemnation, or inertia.

Whatever the cause, it IS how things are. We start this New Year with the hope of brighter days coming and new life growing. We do not want to forget the loves we've lost or the lessons learned.

Let us fix what we can, instead of arguing over who to blame or how to avoid the inevitable.

Let us grow into better brighter tomorrows, worthy of those we cherish, whether they survive the struggle or not. We can bring something of them into the Fresh Tomorrow.

Let "us" be "us."

There is no them.

Only us.

Quarantine: What Does it Mean?

 I've been reading a lot of information, and seeing results on social media. Information about how the Spanish flu epidemic (as it was called in those days) was handled.

The most popular social "call to arms" concerns wearing masks.

They didnt legislate masks back in those days. People weren't forced to wear them.

While it is true that the federal and state governments weren't creating mandates on the issues, most towns and cities did make laws.

Rather, they enforced existing laws.

Back in those days, there were laws called Quarantine laws. 

If your household had a contagious illness (measles, diptheria, whooping cough, smallpox) public health officials came and posted a great big, very red sign on your door.

QUARANTINE by order of...

With that sign on the door, no one left the home. No one entered the home, or if they did, they had to remain throughout the quarantine period.

Doctors, nurses, and police were the only people allowed access, and even then had to follow strict routines, which included sanitizing. Sanitizing sometimes included complete changes of clothing.

Groceries and medicines were delivered to the doorstep. Neighbors could drop off gifts on the porch. 

Once they left, the subjects of the quarantine could bring in the deliveries.

There was no question of going to work.

There was no thought of going out to eat.

No one went to the park or the playground. In some cases, even the back yard was off limits.

People didn't protest this, although they grumbled and had the same worries we do today. Keeping job, paying rent, nor having machinery repossessed.

They didn't protest because they knew.

Infectious diseases were frequent, common, and deadly if the protocols were not followed. There were fatalities any time one of these visited a neighborhood, or a town, or a city. 

But the quick imposing of a quarantine could lower the deaths and limit any lingering impairment. Centuries of experience had proven this many times. And if it could be stopped in the neighborhood before it reached into the town, there would be even fewer deaths and disabilities. Everyine wins.

No one questioned it.

If anyone thought of their constitutional rights, they tended to focus on the one first mentioned. The right to Life. They knew the quarantine laws were the most effective defense of the right to life.

After the Spanish flu, we became more educated. 

We made new discoveries.

We discovered bacteria, viruses, antibiotics, and vaccinations.

We learned surgeries and therapies. Epidemics, renamed pandemics, were a thing of the past.

And

We forgot.

Time was proving out how much better off we were, overall. There were outbreaks of things, usually in strictly limited geographic areas. These were handled by the combination of better medicines and the routines of the quarantine programs.

We were smug.

We could handle it.

Until the day and the disease came and there was no controlled access. Everyone was going everywhere. With everything.

And the virus spread around the world. 

It's still spreading. 

So.

Do not share information without understanding it, if you can help it. 

Before you condemn proven effective actions, consider the history behind them and ask yourself in what ways things have changed and what changes we should keep and which are not working as we have hoped.

Above all else, remember that the right to life comes before the right to liberty.

Names for All

 I read a lot of advice columns -- or I did before the internet decided everybody needed to pay everyone every day for the privilege. I miss them, and no one is eating in restaurants and leaving their papers for the next guy. 

Anyway, people can write to advice columns about some pretty silly things. Which way to hang your toilet paper roll comes up semi-regularly. 

Lately, a popular topic has been names.

Did you know people are stealing names? If you've been named after someone, your parents were unoriginal name thieves. If you've been named a common name, your parents are name thieves and unoriginal.

Did these people really never go to school with classmates bearing the same name? No reason to know Chris C is not Chris S. That Jennifer H is not Jennifer G?

How did that not happen?

Someone wrote in crying that his sibling stole the name Nola from him. He thought it would be cute to name her after the Big Easy, when he saw it written that way, once upon a time. 

Sorry, bud, it's not a new name, nor a newly invented one. It's been around a few hundred years in one language or another. Probably several. 

I do have more respect for those trying for something original. (As long as it isn't bulky, awkward, or too weird.) Jayken and a middle name, for grandpas James and Kenny and Uncle Mark (middle name). Little girl's names can be pretty if one wants to go for the feminine or the flowing. (Sometimes dangerous in today's belligerent society.)

Nobody owns a name. Even if you put together a unique portmanteau name, someone will see it on a birth announcement, or on social media, or hear you say it in a store, and think, oh that sounds so (adjective they like) and will remember it, and within a few weeks everyone will be naming their child your unique name. 

They may be the first with it (unlikely, but possible) but tell that to a high school sophomore with a lot of freshmen with the same name. 

Even copyright laws acknowledge that names are void from being owned. The main we reason we all can't write Gone With the Wind is because one novel with that title so impressed itself upon the public that any others will look like pale copies, even if it's a completely different subject matter.

It's not illegal.

Names cannot be owned. 

I have to admit, though, I did feel a pang of ~ something ~ with/for the woman who wrote in that her aunt stole her planned baby name and gave it to her dog. I don't have a lot of patience for dogs with kids' names, although 1) it's none of my business and 2) it's okay in honor of someone or 3) named after the giver or other VIP. 

And imagine if it's a kid with a dog's name? Rover Fido Smith, you come back here right now. 

And that is why I don't know if I feel sympathy or mockery for that woman. Because I don't know if she was giving her child a dog name, or if the dog was getting a human name.

I just wish she had used an example in her letter!

Strange New World

 I think everyone can agree, at least here in the US, that this year has changed the world. Changed the norms. "They" keep talking about the "New Normal" -- which is a long way from normal, and isn't even all the new. It's just never affected so much population at the same time, largely because there has never been so much population at the same time before. 

The big thing for us all -- the world -- has been the pandemic; the covid; the coronavirus; the new plague; the new SARS. Whatever you want to call it. 

But it wasn't the only thing. The year started off wrong before then. Schools were already closing because people were getting sick, but this sickness in these great numbers has absolutely noithing to do with the one that came along later.

Australia was on fire. 

There have been eclipses and earthquakes. There have been floods and even more fires. (Last I knew, Colorado was still burning.) There have been killer hornets and hurricanes. There have been Supermoons and Micromoons and blue moons. Wearing -- or not wearing -- a face mask became a civil right, while people are still being denied housing or help or work and being waited on. 

I'm forgetting a lot. 

No doubt come the end of the year, everyone will have lists and stories and who-knows-what. 

The scary thing is there's still seven weeks for even more fun to be had. 

This week alone we've had elections and reactions and Boston was shaken.  Who knows what the future still has for us?

Many people have died.

Some have been born, yes. 

Births and Deaths, the most universal of human experiences were, for a while, legislated to be done alone, with no family near; with no loved ones attending. 

Imagine having ONLY strangers to share your most intimate, most human moments with no one of your own. You may not even know their names, and because of masks, you definitely don't know their faces.

Too many of these deaths were NOT caused by Covid. 

Too many of these had nothing to do with the Great Illness.

They were dying of normla things. Flu, and emphysema, and liver failure, and kidney failure. Aneurysms and strokes and hemorrhages murders and suicides. 

Accidents and terminal diseases. 

My oldest daughter died of a cancer of unknown origin. 

In approximately six weeks, she went from having achy legs to be dead. 

And I couldn't be there for her, in person. In myself. 

I couldn't talk with her -- she lost her voice. 

I couldn't hold her hand.

I couldn't say good-bye, let alone sit with her as she left us all forever.

This is unforgettable.

This is unforgiveable.

First? Frost of Fall

 Tonight's the night!

Put on the socks, wrap a quilt around my head and shoulders, wrap my hands around a hot cuppa (for me, coffee) and sit on the porch.

It rained today, so the light is shimmering.

The lowering temperature has the air smelling so clean.

The clean smell of falling leaves and fading greens; of pollen-heavy goldenrod and foxtails, and all those plants. Not so heavy, tonight, the pollen, because of the earlier, settling rain.

of long darkened evenings and darkening days and long nights ahead when warmth is the best aroma and even in our electric or gas or other technology age, the scent of warmth calls to mind woodfires and cooked food and family.

Too soon the coming cold will be tiresome.

Too soon,the wet, dark evenings will be an annoyance.

We'll be over it.

the plants will die, the greens will brown, and the trees will be bare.

But for now, for tonight, we can enjoy the changes in the air.

We can cherish the passing of the seasons.

We can await the coming hours of darkness knowing that, one way or another, the light will come again.

Eventually.

And the cuppa warms the hands, the nose, and the heart as surely as the socks and quilts warm the body