Every year I wished for snow on this day.
Today there was frost.
And sunshine.

I wonder sometimes why survival is my paradigm. It was a miracle too.

Yesterday's tears were disconcerting, until he reminded me what day it was.

Cling? Or fly? It's the perpetual question.

It was fun to be able to say, "Take as much as you'd like."

My evening list hadn't accounted for sun. I reacquainted myself with the camera anyway.

If he were human, I'd have been scrambling to explain my tardiness. Instead he got extra cuddles and chin scratches.

Rose has this little, staccato meow she uses to call Nahum to snuggle with her. Most days it works like a charm. When it doesn't, she has to take matters into her own paws.

Every year as the local peaches begin to arrive in the markets and groceries, I wonder, will this be the year? The year that I find the peaches of my childhood?

I haven't yet, but I hope to. Someday.

Summer entertainment, house cat style.

I needed a bit of sparkle this morning.

The napkin basket used to be for napkins. 

I wonder what she's thinking.

Plans

I'd prepared well for my day: map, bus timetable, list of places to visit, notebook, pen, water bottle, book wishlist.

This was not on the list,

but I had to open it. I just had to.

And then *sigh* I read it, cover to cover.

Rain. Snow. Bright sunshine. Blossoms floating on the wind.
Spring is about the only time I enjoy such contradictions.

I've never met a library that didn't feel like home.  

A day to myself, bookended by someone else's schedule, but all mine, nonetheless. I can't remember the last time that happened.

Spring. Finally.

Perspective, view point, paradigm, world view. Does it always take seismic activity to change it?

There's nothing like a slip on the ice to remind a girl that a) she's mortal, hence b) she's not invincible, and c) she's learning how to fall.

More later.

Maybe.

P.S. Yesterday morning the scene above was completely covered in snow. If that hadn't been the case, I assume I could have managed to avoid that icy strip. Probably.

A sweet compliment both surprised and delighted me today.

It feels like I've been running full out for the past six months or so. The deadlines have been unrelenting, the task list over-long, and the only way I know to get through it is to focus solely on what has to get done, one task after another no matter how long it takes or how tired I might be or what someone else might need. There isn't much give in this kind of schedule, and there certainly isn't much room for humanity or grace or connecting with another. Not exactly the way I want to live and not even remotely how I'd imagined my life might unfold.

This is not an uncommon experience for me, this running until I drop. The uncommon thing about right now is that I'm sitting here knowing that, once again, I've allowed someone else's deadlines to call the shots for my life and I'm not trying to fix it this very instant. I'm just noticing. It doesn't feel very productive, but being present isn't about productivity. It's about mindfulness and compassion that will hopefully lead to insight and wisdom.

In the year my mom ran away, she learned to make stars. Even after my siblings and I entered her life, she still remembered how. These stars, borne of her story, continue to shine.

Eye contact builds fortitude and courage. I try to practice whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Lured by what seems like the easy route, I sometimes find myself out of my element and unable to find my way home.

In the midst of life and all it brings, we pull our hair back to get things done without it obscuring our sight or becoming entangled. Though it gets in our way, we keep it. It's an interesting commitment.

Yesterday we buried my grandfather and remembered him in the company of friends and family. I wish I'd shared the few words that came to me then, but I did not, or could not, I'm not certain which. But I will speak them here.

Father, Grandfather, Great Grandpa
a different man for each of us
and wholly himself, never more,
never less, just who he decided to be
and who he was.

We stand at the edge of his body's grave
and celebrate his soul's home going,
each of us one generation closer to our own.

Grandpa

My maternal grandfather passed away last week and his family is gathering in Darke County, Ohio, to remember him. His obituary is below, but this is how I remember him.

Carl E. Carey, 98, of Bradford, Ohio died January 23, 2011 at Wayne Health Care. He resided at Brethren Retirement Community his last two years. Carl was born in the Pleasant Hill (Miami County) area on August 28, 1912, the son of the (late) John and Clara (Cissner) Carey. His childhood years were near Hardin in Shelby County. He was a former member of Pleasant Valley Church of the Brethren at Union City, Ohio and a current member of Oakland Church of the Brethren, Bradford, and Tipp City Church of Christ, Tipp City. Carl was a farmer his entire life: in Miami County, 1937-1949, and Darke County 1949-1977. Upon their retirement Carl and Bessie spent their winters primarily in Yuma, Arizona and their summers in their home outside of New Harrison. Carl took great pride in his garden and the produce they preserved. He was preceded in death by his wife, Bessie (Karnehm) Carey, who died September 11, 1995; eight brothers, Vernon Carey, Earl Carey, Gene Carey, all of Sidney, Benjamin Carey, an infant, Judd Carey of DeGraff, Ohio, George Carey of Troy, Clyde Carey of Bradford, Russell Carey of Hardin; and one sister Faye Pence, of Rock Island, Texas. Carl is survived by two daughters, Maxine (Merlin) Miller of Bradford and Rachel (Curtis) Eikenberry of Flora, Indiana; one son, Marvin (Patricia) Carey of Sylvania, Ohio; 9 grandchildren; and 11 great-grandchildren. Graveside services Saturday at 10:00 a.m. at Harris Creek Cemetery with Memorial Service following at 11:00 a.m at Oakland Church of the Brethren with Pastor Pete Kontra and Chaplain Robert "Bob" Bitner officiating. In desired, contributions may be made to Oakland Church of the Brethren or Oakland Youth Group. Family will receive friends Friday 4-7 p.m. at Stocker-Fraley Funeral Home, Bradford.

What? I have a blog? You're kidding, aren't you?

The to-do list got so much shorter today. I can't even remember the last time that happened.

"...[W]hat we do is not what destroys us. Rather, our fate rests on how we describe what we do."                 Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah's Child

I began writing to record. I continue writing to remember and, hopefully, to reframe.

My first workday of 2011 began and ended with missing my bus and noticing the astoundingly thick frost sparkling in the light of the street lamps. It is likely the entire year will bring similar annoyances and delights. May I meet each one with equanimity.