My Phoebe

I have a new visitor, a winter muse, outside my kitchen window.
The lizards, who prefer basking in the sun and skittering along the patio and backyard walkway, have gone for the winter. (See 9/22/09 post)
In their stead, a Black Phoebe has arrived. It has come for several days in a row.
I relied on the knowledge of my dear friend, Gloria, an avid birder, for identification. When I noticed this new creature hopping around outside, I tried to take its picture. Apparently skittish by nature, or at least wary of humans, she flew away as soon as she heard the door open. When she returned a few minutes later, I jotted down the best description of her that I could -- small, mostly black, white belly and striped wings --and sent it off to Gloria. She responded within less than an hour, making her best guess based on the information I sent her. She also included a link to some photographs, which confirmed her answer to my query.
The bird has aroused my curiosity. I know she has a purpose here, an Advent angel of sorts. I'll keep watching.

View from the penthouse

"Trump Tower," my friend dubbed my four-story cat condo when she saw it.
Perhaps, I thought, it does look a bit ostentatious. Its residents, however, enjoy the luxury of cat resort living. At least someone in the household can wallow in the penthouse life.
In reality, Ginger and Willow don't visit the top floor all that often. They prefer, instead, the third level, where they cuddle together on a comfy, warm bed. Never mind that each one has her own bed; they choose to share. I often find them napping together in the afternoon. In typical feline manner, they explore the remainder of the condo, particularly its scratching posts, in their noctural journeys when I am trying to sleep.
Today, however, I noticed Ginger and Willow solidly entrenched in the penthouse. Instead of fully napping, they looked about the room with half-open eyes as if on alert. Their expressions showed a cross between disdain and apprehension. The reason? They have discovered that the world does not necessarily revolve around them. They have sensed that someone has infringed on what they perceive as their territory.
Indeed, someone has. Kona, mostly miniature poodle with a hint of Bichon, has joined the family.
Ginger and Willow have yet to decide if they should deign to fully acknowledge this young man, though he has done little except look adorable and bounce around the backyard like Tigger since he arrived last Friday night. Thus far, he has shown as much caution as they have, and no one has resorted to attack mode. They have figured out that they have to share "Good morning!" hugs, and they have dutifully ignored each other's food.
The girls, however, have decided to enjoy the view from the top, at least for the present.

Loving October

I am in love with October.
Finally a hint of fall has arrived in Vista, California. This morning's brisk air, last night's few raindrops, today's warm sun and the promise of gold-rimmed clouds at sunset tonight bring me a sense of peace unmatched at any other time of year. Winds blow more gustily this month, so the chimes outside my kitchen window dance more heartily as if they, too, celebrate October. Tonight's full moon will beckon to my sense of romance and mystery, as it always does.
If I decide to take a morning drive up the mountain this month, the smell of Julian apples will scent the breeze, and leaves beginning to turn color will provide a muted version of the vivid splash that East Coast residents enjoy.
This month is a cosmic present from God, a reminder to harvest all that the Earth provides and store it up. For me, since I'm not a farm girl who literally will harvest fruits of the earth, I will fill up on fruits of the spirit. I will draw on this spiritual storehouse during the emotional maelstrom that the holiday season often can become.

Nest of lizards

I'm not quite sure if lizards "nest," but if they do, a family of them has chosen to do so right beside my kitchen door. I notice them regularly as they scamper about, sometimes on the brick path to the backyard, sometimes along the short retaining wall at the foot of my bank.
Right now, as the morning sun begins to break through the fog in its first torch-like efforts toward what promises to be a blistering day, one glances this way as if it knows I am writing about it. It -- I don't know how to determine the gender of lizards, and I'm not much interesting in finding out -- has started doing push-ups, as they often do. This amuses me at the same time that it prompts a whisper of guilt, for it is I who should be doing a fitness regimen.
On a recent day, I noticed a mother and baby -- at least that is how I want to think of the pair, one larger and one smaller -- doing their push-ups in tandem. They provided one of my moments of joy for the day as I observed them. Was it a generational lesson in lizard behavior? Was the baby just doing what comes naturally? Was mother showing a "See what my child can do!" attitude? Were they dancing together to some internal lizard rhythm?
I have begun to regard them as my writing muses. In my imagination, I have thought that a muse would sit on my shoulder and whisper encouragement, wisdom and a stellar command of vocabulary in my ear. For now, however, my inspiration apparently has come in the form of a family of four-legged reptiles.
So be it.

What I Learned at Starbuck's

This morning, in using up the last of my Starbuck's gift card stash (the only way I usually visit this mecca of coffee delight), I stood in line behind a heavyset man waiting as the clerk stuffed a blueberry muffin into a bag to accompany his coffee order.
"They're taxing us to death," he said. "We can barely exist as it is."
He continued on an Obama rant as he informed the clerk about an upcoming speech by our President and disparaged his economic and health care policies.
As he stepped aside, I thought about the irony of his comments. Does "bare existence" include your morning Starbuck's and pastry? Is your visit just this once for a treat to distract you from your "bare existence," or are you a Starbuck's junkie? Maybe you should visit Operation Hope, our local homeless shelter for families, to learn something about "bare existence". And, oh yeah, aren't you wearing a badge that identifies you as an employee at this grocery store? That must mean you have a job.
Before I wallowed too long in this self-righteous mental huff, I realized that he made me abundantly aware of something I am trying to do of late. I am making a conscious effort to pay attention to a line I read in a book: "I have everything I need for joy." I'm focusing on finding and acknowledging that which brings me joy, like my beautiful, sweet cat curled up here by my laptop. She is luxuriating in the machine's warmth and the morning sun coming through the kitchen door.
This precious moment brings me out of my judgment. It makes me aware of having everything I need for right now. I can thank the "barely existing" Starbuck's customer for assisting me in my spiritual quest. I can dismiss my worries about my own financial insecurity and do the footwork I need to do, leaving the outcomes to faith.

Collette: the short version

Collette and my 96-year-old mother have developed a friendship that sustains both of them.

As a beautiful yellow-eyed sable Burmese who knows her job description well, Collette attached herself to Mom in the summer of 2002 after a six-hour drive from California to Arizona in which she vocalized her fear and protest in clear cat language. I had taken her as a gift to Mom, who still mourned the loss of her second husband to cancer and the loss of her Yorkshire terrier, which she had given reluctantly to another owner. Despite the travel trauma, Collette quickly made herself comfortable in her new surroundings, making sure that Mom understood the distinctive Burmese qualities of playfulness, intelligence and undeniable loyalty.

Fast-forwarding seven years, Mom has some decisions to make. As a victim of emphysema and the subsequent susceptibility to pneumonia and bronchitis, she has experienced health complications in recent months. She has refused the option of moving into assisted living because she cannot take Collette, her best friend, with her. Instead, we have arranged for nurses and aides to come into her retirement center home to assist with health care, hygiene and other needs.
She and Collette will continue their daily routines, both depending on one another.

(Note: Collette is the product of Bon Marche' Burmese Cattery in Escondido, CA.)

What? It's mid-May?

I could (and do) beat myself up about lack of commitment and energy. How have five months passed without a visit to this project, which I intended to be a daily (or at least weekly) acknowledgment, reflection, observation, metaphor?

On the other hand, I can (and do) celebrate today and how I can spend it.

I have trouble saying this sentence: "I used to be a teacher."

When I mentioned this to a friend, she said, "You are a teacher; you're just not working at a school right now."

Yes, she speaks a truth. I am a teacher. I often find myself thinking about how I would work a current event into a lesson, how I might compare today's world to the classic literature of yesteryear, how I might reach today's students. I miss that part of my teaching, yet find tremendous relief from the day-to-day tedium and stress I had experienced in the most recent job. Still recovering from the sudden and unjust dismissal curtly handed to me on April 10 (Good Friday), I drift from doldrums to relief to righteous indignation.

Then I receive the gift of vindication. I spend an evening with former students I groomed in the Interact Club and treasure their hugs and appreciation. I read a Facebook message from a young woman who says that she has wanted for 20 years to find a way to thank me for my kindness and my inspiring the love of reading in her. I see a photograph online that I had sent to a young woman I taught in peer counseling, and I smile at her gratitude. I remember that I have saved "thank yous" over the years for a time like this, a time when I wonder what I will do next, a time when I wonder just what I have accomplished.

I know I have made a difference. That gift can fill me with gratitude and acceptance if I allow it.

New Year's Day 2009

I wondered, after I spoke to my mother on the telephone last night and wished her "Happy New Year," how many more annual turns of the calendar she will experience. I felt a twinge of guilt that I and my youngest son, who has been visiting from Houston for two weeks, could not easily make the time to visit her during the holiday season. She understood, she said, just as I understand that he has cut his visit home short by a few days for several logical reasons. I will cry, as I always do but try not to do, at his departure this afternoon, and I wonder if my mother has shed a tear or two of loneliness during the holiday hoopla.
Tricky, these emotions, as they conduct battle inside one's heart and mind, thus holding a certain power. They struggle for expression, and they will find it, one way or another, perhaps healthfully, perhaps not.
Instead of diving into this pool of vulnerability, my mother and I both chuckled when she said her friends and neighbors at Grandview Terrace in Sun City West, Arizona, had planned to ring in the New Year at 8:30 p.m., but "half of the crowd had already left."
Such is the life at a retirement home where I, at the age of . . . let's just say past 50, am often the baby in the crowd. Nonetheless, these residents keep busy with daily exercise, games and interest groups and as many trips and excursions as one cares to take. Even she, at 95 and finally having to carry a supply of oxygen to counteract her emphysema, plays bridge twice a week, takes the bus to the grocery store, walks to the dining room for her meals, and knits afghans for everyone she knows while her Burmese cat, Collette, snoozes in her lap. Safe subjects for discussion, all.
As I wonder about the rest, the subcutaneous whisperings, I keep coming back to the realization that today -- this first day of 2009, this moment -- as I write this blog, this is all I have.