Sweet Dog

My sweet doggie dog, lying on the balcony, head up, sniffing the wind.
What captures your imagination,
what goes through your mind
as the particles of All float by?

Do you remember your youth, escaping into the wooded spaces near our home,
running, chasing, searching, always for more food I’m sure;
coming home hours later, not a bit contrite.
You were beta to your older sister who passed last year,
who wanted to be alpha even to me.
With your sister’s passing, your deepest qualities of unconditional love,
steady companionship,and fun now shine fully,
or maybe I’m now just able to see.

My sweet doggie dog, Reilley, I love that you have your routines, your rhythms, your needs.
If I don’t feed you within your perceived timeframe of need,
you whimper ever so slightly, almost inaudibly, at first;
and if I continue with my perceived timeframe of need,
your whimpers become clearer, louder, seeking
my attention, the food, the walk which always follows.

I love that you continue to lie in the morning sun, head up smelling the air,
here on our Ventura balcony; just as you did on our Mendocino deck.

Persimmon Surprise

There’s a season to eating persimmons, November and December months, when they are abundant, and newly harvested from local trees, local Ventura county ranches. When these bright orange orbs dominate my counter top fruit bowls.
Presently, they’re available for 50 cents a pound. A steal, when the only waste is truly their beautiful, dry, flowered calyx. They make the perfect snack food with either tea or coffee. They have just the right amount of lusciousness without being messy. (Now a mango is truly luscious, but unless it is served, peeled and cut, on a plate, it’s a messy fruit; best consumed over the kitchen sink while waiting for something to cook or water to boil. )

Persimmons are far from messy; their beautiful flame orange skin and flesh, have just the right amount of firmness, texture, and perfectly sweet taste.
I love both the heart shaped hachiya and the flat fuyu. They’re both loaded with unpronounceable carotenoids: cryptoxanthin, lutein, zeaxanthin, which keep inflammation, thus cancer, at bay. The fuyu are more popular and cheaper here, so I eat more of these. They are eaten as you would eat an apple, in hand, just bite for delicious bite. Very satisfying, crunchy, sweet, easy to eat. Occasionally a small, flat, dime sized, dark brown seed appears. These are always a wonderful tongue treat and beg to have the bit of clinging soft flesh removed prior to discarding. An uncomplicated fruit, the fuyu become the perfect package of satisfying sweetness.

The hachiya, on the other hand, must sit for several days to become totally soft, not quite mushy, but very, very soft before eating. This takes patience and occasional gentle squeezes, then more patience. Once ready, you are in for an amazing experience of joy and delight. If you think you’re going to fool The Creator and bite into the hachiya prior to the very, very soft stage, ha! you’ll get a puckered mouth of astringent flavorless mass clinging to your teeth. So wait.

Once ready, take the soft hachiya gently in hand, and take a tiny bite from the tippy top of the fruit. The pointiest part. Take a wee bite, and slowly begin to suck. You will naturally bite back more of the skin as you continue to suck; same as you would bite back little pieces of an ice cream cone, going all around.

So you’re sucking out the amazingly delicious, sweet gelatinous hachiya ooze and lo! the real surprise! You encounter a piece of sturdy, yet supple membrane which you would swear feels just like a woman’s _____ (this is left blank purposely, for you to fill in) on your tongue.

Ah, now you understand why it was so worth the wait! It is quite a wonderful tongue and mouth feel from a piece of fruit; quite a wonderful mixture of sensations. Quite a surprise!

Complex, like good wine, like good people.

Goddess is smiling and loving us love Her.

Again

Trying to love again.
Oh...the trepidation.
The uncertainty.
The total unease of not knowing.
Is she the one?

"It's so Gay"

I just heard a young woman use the word "gay" with the intention of saying, "bad/wrong/stupid." I'd never heard gay used this way before, though I'd read about such use by our youth.
Upon hearing this, it felt wrong/bad/stupid to hear it come out of her mouth.

Will the hatred never end?

Joy

Not happiness.
Better.
An All Encompassing Happiness/Glee
Open….
Full….
Total….
Wonder….
Gratitude….

May you feel it daily.

….eldermuse.net….


Joy is returning to my soul, my Being. I can feel her creep back in…. slowly,
yet surely.

One way she manifests is through music.
For months my world was silence, broken by the news, Bill Moyers, Ellen, Mad Men, Rachel Maddow; and regular sister phone calls. For months I was in a pit of limbo. The walking dead.

Slowly, slowly, I began to listen to music: at the computer, in the car. Only a little at a time, cause each song, each piece would remind me of Margaret. I’d cry. Especially when driving, and of course at home. Then I wouldn’t listen to music for awhile again. I knew it would cause me to remember.

But I discovered that I could find NEW music (duh! – I know, why didn’t I think of it sooner?....but... I wasn’t ready, truly) and just listen and enjoy this music which has no intrinsic associations with Margaret. So I found Annie Lennox’s new album and fell in love with her voice; and fell in love again with Tina Turner’s voice; and now Beyonce. She is the new Tina, she sizzles.

I’m now not just listening, but enjoying it too.
I am loving the sound of good music. I was unhearing before.

I was sleeping before, sleeping the Deep Sleep of Renewal,
the pullback, the necessary solitude of the soul.
I was sleeping to the world, to the beauty of Joy.

Daily Thanking

Extend the Thanksgiving holiday daily into your lives.
Give Thanks to the Divine, to the Divine Mystery, to your Higher Self,
for as much as you can.

Certainly for major events: you caught your child as she was about to fall badly;
you missed the two car collision on the freeway by seconds; you passed your enterance exam.

But more so, for the daily, hour by hour things
which work, which go as intended:
the keys found in a pocket; the bread with jam
which doesn't fall jam side down;
the computer which works smoothly
most of the time;
music;
clouds; cell phones.
And all, any people, when they do something good.

These things, large and small, make up our lives.

Be conscious, as often as you're able.

You'll notice, that when we're conscious of the here and now
(taking a nano second to notice),
only then, when we're conscious of what we have,
can we give Thanks.

Create Thanks as part of the consciousness of the good in your life, in the world.

This is what I try to do. I wish this for you. Daily Thanking.

Sister, The One Left

Sister, let’s not fight.
Let not words of bitterness, anger
pass between us.
Know that we love each other and always will.

We meet with friends of our most beloved,
departed middle sister.
We meet monthly, two remaining sisters,
two remaining dear friends, to honor her life.
She brings us together, these four who knew
her best.

Sharing a monthly meal, remembering her smile,
her wit, her politics.
In our monthly gather we see
each others’ near imperceptible changes
and comment on hair, health, a scarf, a pin,
some acknowledgement of love, of being seen.

We ask about the loved ones in our lives, spouses, brothers,
sisters, children. We ask about work, travel, the food.
We toast our lives, her life.
“Happy Birthday!” as glasses tinkle with touch.
“Happy Birthday!” has become our all purpose toast,
coined by a brother whose wit is used to confound others:
Someone always has a birthday, everyday!

The talk always turns to politics, and our sister is
watching and smiling from her place on the other side.
We all agree that things must change,
the insanity of their pay and benefits
while others suffer;
the hatefulness of their words meant to harm.
This is the worst it has ever been, even worse than
the nightmares of 1963 and 1968 and Nixon and Reagan.
This time is worse and God save us from their ignorance.

As we bullet fire our words across the table, my sister, my
sister’s friends, I, interrupt each other;
interject thoughts which can’t wait,
rapid words bursting into the packed din of shared ideas.

And it is always here, at this point, at this apex of our purposeful politicking
that you my sister feels slighted, left behind, unheard,
disrespected; by each, but especially by me.

Our banter winds down, our meal is ended, the next patrons eye our table.
We set another date to meet, next month again,
same time and place.

My sister has something to give me, so we walk to her car and she extracts a bag of her love.
A gift to her youngest sister, her flesh her blood
walking, talking in a separate body.
Always something extra from her home:
some fruit, dish soap, dog treats, a handy container;
something to share, to give, to extend the time, to extend her love.

And always at this time, the other two have long gone,
my sister tells me her hurt;
how she is not heard, not honored, interrupted, by each,
but especially by me.

And always I protest; not true, in fact she is the one who interrupts,
doesn’t let the others, but especially me, finish a sentence.
She vows to stop coming to our monthly meetings to honor our deceased sister.
She vents her hurt at her flesh, her blood, walking, talking in a separate body.
Her words fly, rapid fire, meant to show her hurt, her slight.

We must leave, we are loud in the California parking lot, someone might hear.
We say goodbye, “I’ll see you next week”.
We even kiss, give a slight hug; knowing we would always regret not doing so,
if the worst happens.
She always ends with:
But know that I love you.

And our sister is watching, smiling, silent, from her place on the other side.