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for now. I speak of the mother moose and her two baby calves who I spied from my study room window a little over a half hour ago. I recognized her from seeing her on the side road several days ago. She has a silvery sheen to her brown fur and a scar on her left side. I questioned my recognition of her this evening as there were no babies to be seen as she munched down on tree leaves. but then, lo and behold seemingly out of nowhere appeared the two calves, one noticeably larger than the other but both still small. There the trio were, right outside my window.
Right after this viewing I said to the SO, I don’t want to go back and he knew I meant back to California.
and then.
reality socked me between the eyes. I have committed to a 12 month postdoctoral fellowship. The high temp here today barely made it to the low 50’s, the wind (cold) has picked up, and rain is slated for the coming next few days. While in California it is warmer. But there are wildfires breaking out everywhere. These are components of the conundrum which stare me straight in the face.
Where is home?
For now, home is here. Be safe mama moose and babies. for another night, sleep well. be warm. be together.
4-H, 1942, the number 3, and the month of March ~ none hold a special meaning to me. However, my first mother and my adoptive mother do. As does my Minnesotan partner and writing. Heart pain I know a little something or two about. and the oft included past royalty lineage, understandable standard fare.
These words and subject topics were included in my 10 minute reading by a psychic medium at Saturday’s solstice fare. I would say I received 20 dollars worth of Take Aways as I am still pondering and percolating on the information provided. Some of the words and messages from beyond could eventually be Throw Aways but it is too soon to start tossing stuff into the psychic trash compactor.
Grain of salt. grains. of love. of death. of passing over. return me to the grain of salt.
This morning the skies have opened and rain drops are pummeling the three skylights above my desk and over my head. From the large window directly in front of me, I watch the leaves dance about, up and down, to and fro, as the big fat droplets hit them on their destination to earth. Out of the window to my right, I survey the rain gush from the porch overhang. The sound of the rain on the skylights join with the cascading rain cadence and together they make a symphony of rain and sky. It is sheer music to my ears and senses.
It is so green here this month. The fact that the green-ness is astounding me is remarkable since I have arrived from an area where there is virtually something in bloom or active growth year round, including the North Land’s winter months (October – April). But just as I have discovered the distinct and nuanced smells of each geographical area, the warmed soil of Berkeley is different from the warmed earth of a hiking trail in Alaska, there are also hue variations and combinations of green. or so it seems to me this summer. The greens here are popping as a make-up artist might tell a Hollywood starlet.
As much as I am enjoying my rainy morning view from the comfort and warmth of my abode, I am also thinking of all the vendors at the summer solstice fair downtown on what this city fondly calls the Park Strip (aka the Strip). The women and children’s domestic violence shelter sponsors an annual solstice craft fair and it is typically held in what is dubbed the Town Square area (Alaskans creativity when it comes to naming things is simply astounding) but too much construction in that spot required a change of venue. Also, happening on the Strip today are the Gay Pride festivities. There is also the staging and running of the Mayor’s Midnight Marathon by the more hearty and health-full folk.
My daughter and I are participants in a craft fair today and yesterday we were lamenting the fact that it was not part of the outdoors Park Strip affair as a lot of solstice celebrators parade through this particular fair. However the rainy skies and damp conditions this morning have me singing a different tune (similar to Singing in the Rain but different) as we are slated to sell our wares indoors in the atrium area of a popular downtown restaurant and beer pub.
So part of me wants the skies to clear and the sun to warm us all, after all it is the Sun’s Party of the Year, and the other part of me (the vendor part) wants the skies to stay wide open so that folks will seek comfort and shelter at our craft booth. Included in this partial wish is that those same comfort seeking folk will open their wallets even wider to help console their damp soggy selves.
Oh yes, just in case you were wondering ~ we will be selling my daughter’s Gorgeous handmade blankets and what she terms her sassy (and they are) keychains. She is an artist with a rich imagination and many talents. I love her. I am looking forward to my day.
in Alaska is awesome. The longest daylight filled 24 hours of the year. For us here in this part of Alaska it means we could potentially have over 18 hours of sunshine. I love the long long days of summer. Summer solstice also marks the beginning of the end of the long days of daylight as we begin to lose, first relatively slowly, seconds and then rapidly minutes of daylight each day from here until Winter Solstice in late December. But for today, the hours are long and one can even be lulled into believing we have all the time in the world, or at the very least a very lengthy day, to do whatever is on our agenda, including a little goofing off.
I guess Summer Solstice is sort of like our youth when we think anything is possible and that mortality belongs to everyone else but ourselves. Luckily for us mere mortals, the reality of our own eventual demise creeps into our psyche relatively slowly and stealthily. At least for the ones of us who do not experience death up close and personal at tender ages. I know for myself, that life and its possibilties, look different from the perspective of 50 years of age than it did at 20. That is not to say by any means that I am boo-hoo’ing about being a Wise Woman.
But back to what goes on here in the oft times Frozen North Land on Summer Solstice ~ you name the activity, and we Alaskans are most likely doing it, or at least giving it a good go. All day and all night. This Land of the Midnight Sun is definitely the place to be when the lights don’t ever need to go on, much less be turned out.
Worry.
I am a worrier. I think I may have grown up that way as I definitely have memories of childhood worries. fullblown worries. justifiable worries or maybe they were justifiable woes. Whichever, worrying has definitely worn a well trod path through my body and psyche.
I am not sure what benefit(s) worrying provides. Motivator? Problem solving, brain storming technique? Worse case scenario provider to help provide reality perspective? Entertainment? The answer may be all of the above when worrying is minimally applied and motivation is kick started quickly or the worst case scenario game brings rapid relief. For me though, I seem to use the maxim of if a little is good, then lots will be better and/or apply maximum pressure.
As a result of overuse, worrying has become a habit. an established state of being which organically invites anxiety ~ but today, anxiety is a separate discussion topic. I firmly believe that people have an innate drive to move toward wholeness and health. As a result, we do something more than once, only if it works in some fashion that seems helpful (i.e., helps us self soothe, removes us from a painful situation).
Sometimes things fall off the tracks later by the repetitive use of a coping strategy but the strategy initially was introduced to help ourselves and that must be acknowledged and an internal dialogue of sorts initiated. Otherwise, our interior self(ves) will simply yank the strategy, in my case worry, right back repeatedly. and the worrying will increase because my inner self is striving to help me deal with my life and does not yet know that I want to employ a different strategy.
Therein lies the current rub. I have not come up with an alternative method of coping with my life’s worries and without the new plan, I cannot realistically ask my core self to let go of the worry. Now I know I am Dr. junemoon now and I know lots of techniques that I encourage clients to consider. But there is another saying that says something like this a doctor who has themself as a patient has a fool for a patient (or no maybe that was an attorney and a fool for a client…). Maybe mine is more like, shrinking oneself out seldom works.
What has me going down this path of worrying dissection is this ~ how many of my worries earlier this month have come to a conclusion and of those, how many were helped by my worrying. Interesting. at least to this worrier who is looking to reform my worrying vice.
These recent days have offered up abundant reminders of the importance of place, our place my place, on this planet. I awoke this morning with sun dappling through the lush green leaves of the birch and cottonwood trees outside my bedroom window. The shades of green were married with those of the evergreen trees that stand trunk to trunk alongside their more summer showy neighbors. I listen to an evergreen murmur to a birch, yeah go ahead and undulate your shiny jewels now cuz soon you’ll be bare, again, and I’ll still be green. I swear I heard a tee hee hee at the end.
Summers are fleeting here in the Frozen North Land. no argument there. and winters bring their very own beauty. no argument there either. but here today, this morning, I cannot think of a lovelier more gentling waking view.
The lyrics of that song Come Saturday Morning are rolling around in my head. and I guess that’s appropriate since it is, indeed, an Alaskan Saturday morning and my plans include hanging out with my family and friends. Garage Sale-ing, or as it is known in my family, GS’ing, is on the roster for this morning’s entertainment. My limit is 5 bucks. I hope I can find a mid-size refrigerator for that amount. Let me clarify that. I hope I can find a working mid-size refrigerator for that amount.
This afternoon, it’s off to the Build A Bear store with my middle grandson and daughter to bring to life another member of the famdamily. And this evening, the SO and I are hosting a bbq for a couple of friends up at the Compound. Just everyday happenings. Minutia to some. Bland news to another. But on this Saturday morning, these plans shine like a brilliant star to this particular woman. Let me clarify that. Woman. Vacationing. Everyday stuff. Nirvana.
it would be to go to a movie, sit down, recline in the fancy reclinable seat, pop food into my mouth, slurp a soda, watch a movie (or boovie as my grandkiddos used to call them) and relax, as in suspend my disbelief, judgments and most importantly, my hidden message or what does this mean in the bigger social context antennae.
Has anyone seen Kung Fu Panda? Did you like it? Did it entertain you? make you laugh? I watched it with my daughter and three grandkiddos this week. I liked it. I was entertained. I laughed. and I have been thinking about snippets from the movie on and off since the viewing. There was something about my liking the movie, the effort it took to relax and sink into my seat to simply enjoy the show that has me pondering. Pondering the ever present issues of culture, race, media, racism, stereotypes, mainstream America, our weird relationships with animals – both domesticated and wild, size-ism, and adoption.
I haven’t come to any conclusions, yet. I am, however, wishing that I could either locate or create an on/off switch for my social issues musings because sometimes it seems that a movie is just a movie. or is that just a convenient excuse for not being socially aware. I keep returning to the saying ~ either you/I are part of the solution or I/you are part of the problem. A head scratcher, indeed, for a woman still on her two week vacation.
Seriously though, I am wondering what the meanings were for Po being a panda and his dad and his ancestors (based on photos on the kitchen wall) being geese. Oh what the curious, dissertation-less unfettered mind conjures up to marinate on…
dadgumit, doggone it, and dog farts does my SO ever get on my everliving last nerve. Some times. Take yesterday for a prime example. Oh my living god (not meant as a curse against the almighty or the universe ~ just a saying). Note to self, do not and I mean do not ever again, not even once, go used car shopping door-to-door, or in this case parking lot to parking lot, with the SO. Unless I am really ready to end it and by ‘it’ I mean either the SO’s or my own life giving force. Am I exaggerating? kidding? joshing? Well maybe just a little. Today that is. from a distance. in hindsight. looking back over my shoulder while I’m running as fast as my short legs can carry me. But (and there’s the word again) yesterday, I was a hatin’ on my SO. and truth be told, I think his last nerve was being stomped all over by yours truly.
It goes like this, the SO is a very very smart man. on an intellectual basis. but (again with that word) I definitely win the commonsensical contest. We arrive at a task and make a game plan and it is almost a given that our plans are as different as night and day, day and night, divergent. polar opposites. It’s not even that we think the other person’s plan is crap. No. It’s more like we can’t fathom how any human being, individual, or person, much less our very own SO, could come up with such a plan, as in the plan makes no sense to the other one.
Spend all day with that scenario being played, re-wound, played again, ejected numerous times, with the tape player eventually being ripped out with its wires dangling and thrown, violently, out of the car window and you have the picture of the SO’s and my yesterday. (The tape player scene is a metaphor but you got that, right)?
The upshot of this whole dang story is two-fold. One, when faced with such mind boggling irritation (all day) it is not an excuse to murder or maim the source of the irritation. No. Not under any circumstances. I withstood it. The SO withstood it. So anyone else has to dig down deep and allow their “I love you, but…” loved one to live one more day too. Second, we have a new-to-us member of our family and her name is Lady. She is a 1987 Fleetwood Cadillac. I love her. She is beautiful. A little stinky from cig smoke and perfumey stuff used to cover up her cig smoke and she has a little problem with the power windows (on again off again stuff) but other than that she is in tip top condition. She is our summer car here in the Great North Land. Welcome to our famdamily, Lady.
Once in a while I get sucked into the late night infomercials. And once in a while I make a purchase. And there has been an occasion, or two, when I have experienced the proverbial buyer’s remorse, meaning that I realize I have bought a big/small piece of worthless crap that doesn’t look like or do whatever miraculous function the smiling TV liars, urrrr I mean marketers, guaranteed it would. But before any buyer’s remorse sets in, I have a period of excited-ness and anticipation of the purchase that is sure to make my life easier or my food taste juicier or my food cook faster or my food less greasy or my food digest better or…
As you might have noticed, I am a sucker for the cooking of food infomercials. Hey, it’s late at night and thoughts either turn to food or sex and for some reason my seem to turn to sex, urrr I mean food more often. No, that doesn’t sound right. I think it’s more that the regular network television stations only air “G” rated infomercials. In fact, since I am not a cable television subscriber, I do not know if there are “R” or “X” or “XXX” infomercials. But I digress.
Right before I departed California, I tuned into the last half of a cooking food infomercial and try as I might, I was not able to disuade myself from believing that the two liars/marketers were truly enjoying (with genuine gusto) each bite of their extra flavor packed, exceedingly juicy, most delicious food that was being cooked in the touted miracle machine. I ordered one. I had it sent to Alaska. It arrived before I did. It is sitting beside me right now. I am still pretty excited about being its new owner. But I have not named it yet. So far I have saved the shipping box (just in case there has been some lying and misrepresentation involved) and read the two recipe booklets (more like pamphlets) and its care instructions. I have not unpacked the actual miracle machine from its styrofoam appendages.
But when I do and if my roasted chicken is as delicious and moist and juicy as the TV folks swore it will be, I will tell you the name of the product so that you, too, can be awed and thrilled and well fed.
