Oh, Love

Here is a picture of Owen and Lis upon their first meeting which took place today in a recording studio where Lis's CD is being mixed. This is a CD of her own songs and one I have been waiting for her to record forever.

I got to listen to two of the tracks while I was there and all I can say is- don't be wearing your mascara when you hear this recording. And if you're smart you WILL hear this recording when it comes out and I WILL have a link to the website where you can order it. Shameless promotion- that is going to be what I am all about when the CD is ready for release which is scheduled for December 31.

Lis sings like an angel and when she's singing her songs that she has written from the depths of her soul and heart and experience and love, well- I described the songs I heard today to May this way: Like kisses from God.
And the CD has been recorded with so much love and respect and such great musicians. One moment you're soaring to the heavens with your eyes closed and the next you're in a cabaret and you want to be dancing in the arms of someone you love, you want to throw back your head and laugh with the joy of it.

Too much? Shit. Just wait 'til you hear it.
You are going to love it. I promise.

And there she is, holding my grandson and I feel so full of love right now that I can hardly stand it.

Lis and I don't live close enough to each other to see each other as much as we want to and sometimes I think I have to close the door on the part of my heart she lives in because I could not bear it otherwise. And then, when I see her, that door gets ripped off the hinges and I am so happy. Lon, her husband, makes me feel that way too. They are good as gold right down to their souls.

And today I heard Lis's songs and she got to meet Owen.
A special day for me.

A very, very special day. And really, that's all I have to say. That and start saving your pennies to buy the CD. I'd buy a thousand of them and give them away if I could. I promise. But I can't.

I really feel that if you like what you find here at blessourhearts, you will love what you hear on that CD because it comes from the same place my writing does. Different words, different form, different women.
Same heart, though. Somehow it's the same heart.

Plus. You can dance to what Lis does.

And when you hear this CD, you will dance.

I've Got Nothing To Say But It's Okay

Good morning.

There is ALWAYS a line from a Beatles song that will say it all, isn't there?

So I got three hours sleep last night, got up at an ungodly hour this morning and took Mr. Moon to the airport. Tropical Storm Ida has brought us nothing but a bit of rain and so there were no flight delays or cancellations but they say we will get more rain today. Fine with me. The sky has a crazy color and texture to it. I know I posted a picture of branches yesterday but I like this one I just took even better.


I listened to a bit of what our preternaturally tanned governor had to say about the storm yesterday which was something along the lines of that the main things we should be concerned with about this storm are heavy rains, winds, high tides and the possibility of tornadoes.

Yep, Guv, that about sums it up.

The only thing I liked about Jeb Bush was how he'd do his hurricane speeches in both English and Spanish. His brother, our former president, could barely speak English so it was highly surprising and refreshing to hear Jeb speaking the Espanol although he was married to a Mexican woman so I suppose I shouldn't have been too impressed. I doubt G.W. could have learned Spanish if he'd been put in jail in Tijuana for ten years. But perhaps he, too, can speak Spanish. I'll bet if he can, it's not very good Spanish.

Anyway, here I am. My first morning alone and I feel fine. I'm about to go back to bed, to tell you the truth. I just had to get over the worst (best?) of my coffee buzz before I could attempt sleep. When Mr. Moon woke me up at four-thirty I immediately drank a cup of coffee as inky as the sky. Then I had another. It must have worked because I drove home without incident.

I'm a bit excited about having eight days to myself. I wish I could wiggle my nose like Samantha and my entire house would be clean and sparkly. Why did that crazy witch continually try to prove she could live like a regular mortal? That was insane. If I had witchy powers, I'd be twitching my nose all day long and my house would be pristine and so would my chicken coop. As it is, the spiders have taken over again and there is dust everywhere and the floors need mopping. Which reminds me that before I had that first cup of coffee I realized Zeke had peed in my bathroom so I better go clean that up before I go back to bed.

Which I better do now because I might get to see Lis today who is in town to mix her CD and yes, I do have rehearsal tonight. We had rehearsal last night, too, and it was fun. Kathleen and I are a good team as the sound effects gals and besides that, when our pianist was playing and singing "Sentimental Journey," Colin said to me, "Let's dance," and we did, poorly and awkwardly but sweetly, nonetheless, across the stage as the poor musician tried to ignore us.

"They will not be dancing during the performance," said Jan, our director, when the song ended.

"Maybe," I said. And we all laughed. I love the Opera House. I do.

So. Good morning. Good morning, good morning.

I am hoping my husband gets to Canada safely. When he was leaving I said, "Come home to me." He promised he would. He called the house to make sure I'd gotten home safely before his plane boarded.
I'm going to miss him but I'm going to be happy, knowing he's doing something he loves so much.

And there's a rose for you. It's a crap picture but we all deserve flowers.

Good morning.

Horse Racing. Yes. Horse Racing

So was it Saturday? I think it was. Mr. Moon told me about this horse race coming up and it was another blah-blah-blah moment for me. The Breeders Cup. A filly running. She'd never lost a race. She runs a very strange race- always stays at the back of the pack until the last moment when she turns into a rocket and then wins. He planned to watch it.
He called me in from the kitchen where I was cooking when the race began and since I knew it was only going to last about two and a half moments, I watched. She stayed at the very back for so long that I kept saying, "No way, no way, no way..."
And then, even though I have never been to a real horse race, would never in my life choose to watch one on TV, I found myself wanting that filly to show up those boy horses. I did. I have no idea why. And suddenly, she started breaking through and the announcer got more and more excited and so did the crowd and so did Mr. Moon and I and before I knew it, we were yelling her name and then....

Well. Here's the YouTube. I know, I know, TWO AND A HALF MOMENTS! But it's a beautiful two and a half moments and a beautiful animal and if you ever spent even one day of your young life loving horses, reading Black Beauty, yearning for a horse of your own...
Watch this.
It's all about spirit and Zenyatta has a powerful amount of that.

Storms

Some people's bones or joints alert them to the fact that there's a storm somewhere.
For me, it's my mind. Not the conscious mind but the subconscious one, the underground one, the one that informs my emotions. In other words, the part of my mind which is way too developed and which suffers from the Chicken Little Syndrome and is constantly rushing up to announce breathlessly that the sky is falling! the sky is falling! the sky- PAY ATTENTION!- is falling!
It takes data like the fact that there is a hurricane in the Gulf and it insists that it will be coming here, bringing down trees on my house and head, flinging my lawn chairs about and turning them into deadly missiles and that my water and power will be off for months. Or at least weeks.
This is not completely ridiculous or without precedence. Such things have happened.
But it doesn't really look like Ida is going to be that much of a threat to my particular neck of the woods but does that stop me from worrying, fretting, and just generally feeling as if (oh! how do I say this?) THE SKY IS FALLING!?
Also, I am supposed to have Mr. Moon at the airport by something like 5:30 a.m. tomorrow morning when the storm is supposed to be giving us whatever it is going to give us and well, the mind boggles at all the problems this could create.

My mind, at least.

Mr. Moon has worked so hard to get this trip planned. He has been working on it for literally years. YEARS! And he deserves to go and I want him to go and he needs to go and dammit, this storm better not interfere with him going. I MEAN IT!
Plus- and I tremble at the thought- I HAVE REHEARSAL THAT NIGHT!
See. This is how crazy I am. I can't filter the information coming in. I can't put things in a reasonable filing system of to-do and to-process. It's all just overwhelming to me and I know I'm ridiculous and that my brain, she is not right, and that my fears are baseless.

But the sky is gray and the dark branches reach up to it and my clothes from yesterday hang on the line in complete stillness and Mr. Moon is already running around buying the last-minute things he needs for his trip and here I am, stomach churning, trying to push down one anxiety after another like trying to get ping-pong balls to stay underwater- as soon as I push one down, another pops up and I lose my grip and they all coming merrily bobbing to the surface again and the process begins again.

I tell you what- if I lived in cave man days, I'd have been pushed off a cliff by now.
But as it stands, I just take my medication and try to shuffle through my days, working through my ridiculous worries, taking note when the wind kicks up, remembering this thing I have to do or that thing and none of it amounts, as they say, to a hill of beans.

I wonder what I'd do if I had a real thing to worry about. Would I jump off that cliff myself or would I grow calm? Last night I found out that a man I have a deep affection for whom I know through the opera house has cancer of the eye and is going to have to go to Philadelphia on Thursday to have it removed. Has he shut himself up in his house to drink vodka by the quart? Is he wailing and moaning and cursing his fate?
No. He is coming to rehearsals and cracking jokes. He is keeping the stiffest of stiff upper lips and he is making us all laugh.

I wish I were like that. If it were possible to choose, I would be.
In the meantime, I feel such guilt for being such a pussy, a wussy, a silly little jerk and I think about that man and I know he's a hero of mine.

There are storms that are real threats. And he is facing one with his face to the wind, shouting out sea chanties and laughing in the rain.

Meanwhile, I look at a gray sky and crumble.

And yet, I sail on. I do, knowing deep within me that no matter how I feel about things, I am not going to change the wind one bit, or the course of the storm or the pattern of the waves and there is nothing to do but ride it out and wait for calmer weather.

They Are Home!

I just got a phone call from that boy who is definitely NOT wearing a paper scrubs outfit.
He and Shayla and Waylon are HOME!
They are about to have a celebratory beer and some supper and snuggles and just be HOME!
"How is Waylon?" I asked.
And that boy said, "I can't even tell you."
Which means he is wonderful.
And I feel so relieved.
So here's to Waylon and to Shayla and to Billy and to all the babies at home with their parents, asleep in their arms, nursing at their mother's breasts, breathing in the air of the places they live, knowing somehow that yes, now, they are HOME and there is no place on earth which is better to be because the walls are painted with love and the passion that brought them here and the floors and ceilings are barely enough to contain the joy they have brought home with them to share with the people who will always love them the most.

I'm Moving

So if you didn't think I lead the most charmed of charmed lives already here in Lloyd, let me just point out that I not only have my dream house which is one hundred and fifty years old (and for those of you who live in the "old world" let me reassure you that over here in the "new world," especially in Florida, that is old for a house which is not a fucking museum) and have oak trees which are hundreds of years old and children and grandchildren and a handsome, loving husband and a grandchild, I also have AN OFFICE all to myself.

Yes. Yes I do.

I haven't been using it that much lately because ironically, I have no need to sequester myself away as the children are grown up and have moved out (mostly) and Mr. Moon is not here a lot of the time. So. There you have it. I have an office I don't even need because the whole house is a room of my own and especially the back porch.

But this time of year the southern sun beats into the porch with great intensity due to the fact that the trees have lost their leaves and also, the sun in its mysterious journey across the sky (mysterious to me, at least) is in position all day from early morning until sunset to shine in the porch in such a way that I cannot see my computer screen. It's bright, folks. I'm telling you.

And doesn't that just make you hate me even more?

God. I hope not. Does it help if I tell you that at one point in my life I had a husband (not this one) and two children and we all lived in a very small single-wide trailer and I thought it was fabulous because I had running water? So yes, I have paid some dues.

But this, this office is a wealth of riches beyond imagination. I admit it. It was, a long, long time ago, the kitchen for the house. Back when they cooked with wood, the heat and the threat of fire danger was too great to have the kitchen in the house and so it was placed at a bit of a distance from the house. Not too far. A few steps.
And the woman who lived here two families before me used it as her art studio and the woman who lived here directly before me wrote her (very much-published) books in it and now it is mine and I barely use it.

What a sin, what a sin, what a sin.

But it's coming on winter and I can barely see my computer screen and so I am going to move my ass in here and I am going to write.

Oh sure. I write every day. And I love the blog and I think it has brought me more in writing skills and abilities than almost anything I've ever done. It's given me a voice. It's given me a community. It's given me joy. And I will not stop writing it but the thing is, the blog feels more like a phone call than writing. I can sit down anywhere and do it. There is no need for a dedicated place, no need for a dedicated time. Or so I tell myself and then I realize how many hours a week I do spend on it and I know I'm fooling myself.

And I know I'm fooling myself when I call myself a writer these days because I am not keeping my ass in the seat to work on any of the novels or the memoir-with-recipes that are half-done or mostly-done or partly done and they are calling to me, they are singing to me, they are whispering to me to come and tend them and so here I am. My ass in the seat, all my favorite this-es and that-ses in this sunbright but not overpoweringly so, office. The room that every time Mr. Moon comes into he wants us to make a bedroom out of. I am stubborn about saying no to that one. I may not use it as much as I should, but I can if I want and I will. Dammit.

It is a symbolic move as well as a real one, to come in here to write because when I just sit at the table on the porch I am saying to myself that I can get up and go finish the laundry or wash the dishes or sweep the floor at any second and leave the writing because really, I'm not writing, I'm just, oh, doodling and that doesn't count because if I say it DOES count then I have to believe in myself as a writer.

Do you understand what I am saying here? I am sure that at least 99% of you do. We are all writers, we are all readers and yet we guiltily grab our pleasures and our work when we can and where we can and if we are doing housework or watching children or tending husbands or helping with homework or cooking dinner while we do it (how many of you put up a quick post while supper is simmering?) then we don't have to say we're "writing," we're just updating the blog.

I can't see the chickens from here and so they will have to spend more time unspied upon. I can't see my garden or but a tiny part of the yard while I am in here. I can only see all of the things I love and have been gifted with and so I am saying, when I am in here, that I am WRITING.

I feel a fool for saying that. I do. I feel like I'm making stuff up, like I'm giving myself credit where no credit is due, that I am being selfish and slothful and even sinful because the fact of the matter is, there is really no place on earth I'd rather be than in this room with my computer in front of me and it's a room where women have always done their work and so I want to do mine, even if it only involves the moving of the fingers.

There is a part in one of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' stories where she tells her maid that she is so tired from writing all day. The maid, who cannot even read but who has spent her day in cleaning and cooking and tending to all of the needs and wants of the author and who has watched her sit in one chair on her porch in front of her typewriter says something like, "Oh darling, I know those arms of yours must be tired." And she says this in all seriousness.

I know what Marjorie felt like and I also know damn well how the maid felt. I think I have been more in the maid's role than in the author's for my entire life and there has been nothing wrong with that and I am certainly not complaining- my work has been wonderful and it is wonderful and I have been blessed to have such work, the tending of house and yard and loved ones.

But I want to know what it feels like to sit and write for five, six, seven hours at a time. Maybe eight! And here comes the wedding and Thanksgiving and Christmas and the floors will still need sweeping and the laundry will still need doing and the meals will all need to be prepared but it's time to allow myself to sit here and try. To try and see what is inside of me. I am not sure how this is going to work. But I'm starting by moving my base of operations.

The Church of the Batshit Crazy has reopened a new/old office where strange rituals can now be practiced.

Will be practiced.

So help me Gnomes. So help me Mermaids. So help me Johnny Weismuller. So help me Frida Kahlo, so help me Virgin of Guadalupe, angels and maps of Cozumel and all the wonderful things I surrounding me as I sit here.

But mostly- so help me ME. Because in the end, at the bottom, in very definition of it all, it's all up to me and what I believe of myself, how I believe or don't believe in myself, and what sort of possibilities I allow myself to dream of.

This is a good room for dreaming and a great room for working.

Let the dreams begin, let the work begin, let the stories spin, let the fingers fly, the days go by.

Let the guilt be gone, let me sing my song, let me know my place, let me bless this space.

And there you have it- the hymn for today, this Sunday at the Church of this particular Batshit Crazy. What's going on in your church today? I hope it's good and that you take a few moments at least to dedicate it to yourself and your own dreams, whatever they may be.

Babies

When I got my hands on Owen today I breathed easy. There he was, alive and well and fussing and I took him and told him crazy chicken stories. He especially likes the chickens stories, I think. I told him that in four months or so I will scramble one of Miss Betty's eggs for him because they are tiny like he is and I will strap him into my old wooden high chair and let him eat the egg with his fingers. He seemed to like this idea and gave me a smile or two while his mama was putting on some make-up.

Then Lily settled him into his car seat which always makes him scream and we drove to the Junior Museum to hear Aunt Jessie play mandolin- his first live music. There were quite a few babies and children there, some of them dancing and I fell in love with one child after another- the little Chinese girl, the girl who looked worried, the babies who had a black father and a white mother and that soft beautiful hair which floats like an electric cloud around their faces. And the moon-faced baby who was nursing and the little boy eating grapes. So many babies.
One of the midwives from the Birth Cottage where Lily had wanted to deliver was there, pointing out which babies were "hers." She admired Owen and she and Lily chatted for awhile.

While we were there, I got a call from Billy. They are still in the hospital. Waylon is jaundiced, he has lost weight. He needs to be under the lights and Shayla is sad. They want to go home where she can nurse without someone coming to take someone's vitals as soon as the baby has latched on. It's so frustrating, being in the hospital. It seems like everything that happens there leads to another problem.

Lily and I went and got Shayla a milkshake and we went up to the hospital. Shayla IS sad. She wants to take her baby home where she can cuddle with him and feed him more than once every three hours and get in a bed with her baby, her husband. These first few days of new life are so difficult. It seems impossible to think that the dream you've had of how it will be with your infant at your breast will ever come true.

And yet, it does. It will.

Lily and I both were so sad for her. Billy was up with Waylon where he lay under the lights, holding his hand and comforting him. Shayla went up to nurse him on his schedule and we waited for Billy to come down to say hello, to kiss him, tell him everything would be okay but before we knew it, all three were back. They had "given permission" for Shayla to take Waylon to their room to nurse in private. So much performance anxiety in first nursings- is the baby's lip pulled out enough? Has he got enough of the nipple in his mouth? Is Mama holding him correctly?

And so Lily and I stayed a second and then took off, leaving this family to themselves.
They are so beautiful. They are worried. They want to go HOME. And I know that if they could, Shayla's milk could make Waylon's jaundice disappear and he would gain weight and everyone would be happy. Everyone would be fine.

On the way home, Owen as is his wont, began to cry and I told him that he was fine- he's a big boy and he knows how to nurse. Funny how much older a six-week old child is than a brand new one. He looked at me as if to say, "What do you know?" and he's right. I don't know how he feels.

But I do know how lucky I am that I was able to have my babies at home and stay there with no nurses or lactation consultants breathing down my neck, just plain old hippie mamas who watched what I did and beamed in approval as my babies rooted and sucked, swallowed and were nourished.

Waylon will be fine and he will grow up to bring his parents so much joy and so much worry- just the way all children do. He just has to figure all of this out, get his body systems working properly. But oh- it's hard until things start going smoothly. It's really hard until you can get home and snuggle down in your own bed with your baby.

I hope that day comes tomorrow for Billy and Shayla and Waylon.
That chunk of a boy, that monkey of a little man who, like Owen, has stolen my heart.
I need to learn his smell too. I need to let him hold my finger in his strong hands.
I need to see Shayla smile and Billy relax.

I hope it's soon.

Saturday Morning

I am still swimming in that pool of darkness this morning. Haven't been up long enough to scatter the shroud and shards of whatever it is that always descends upon me in the night time.
I apologize for writing from that place. It's no good for you and it's no good for me but maybe, as I write, things will brighten.

Mr. Moon and Jason went hunting again this morning and were getting back just as I was getting up and they told me the tale of their hunt which ended in a perfect chance at a perfect shot and then...a misfire of the old muzzle loader (it's muzzle loader season- no- I don't understand either) while I stood there with a coffee cup and my brain fogged up. Then Mr. Moon proceeded to go over today's plan which involves a relative coming in, a trip across town to see HoneyLuna play music at what we call the Jr. Museum, me going with Lily, him going to sight a gun.....
And I said, "Whoa. You're full of adrenalin and I'm not even awake. That's enough information for right now."
And I went and fed the cats who were very much up and very much ready for their bowl of friskees.

Feed the cats, feed the dogs. Send Jessie home with a plate of last night's supper: stuffed grape leaves, pita bread, tabuli, hummus. All of it made by me, none of it quite right. I am not Greek and just because I can squeeze lemons and chop parsley, drizzle olive oil and peel garlic does not make me so. I have no muscle memory of wrapping grape leaves, no Ya-Ya in my brain, instructing me on how thinly to roll the pita before baking.

Check on the chickens. Miss Betty is still hiding on the nest. Every chance he gets, Sam jumps on her and rakes her back with his talons, pecks her head with a cruel beak. I think she is not so much hurt as traumatized. She hasn't left the hen house in days. What to do? What to do? I leave her water and feed her grapes as she sits on the nest. Why does Sam do this? Miss Betty was his first true love. Is it because she's so little? I don't know. I hate cruelty but this is the way of the chicken flock and I can't change that with my prissy little all-you-need-is-love attitude.

Saturday morning, Saturday morning. The camera is fucked again, putting in lines and making a weird yellow light upon the pictures. Again- what to do? Do we know how long Lazarus lived after Jesus commanded him to rise from his cooling board, to take his shroud and walk again? What did Lazarus think, to find himself suddenly back among the living and what did his wife say? His children? Did he eat again, like the living, did he worry about how to pay the bills, and then, did he suddenly die again, this time for real, while bending to a jug of sweet living water?
My camera. Oh well.

Jessie is gone back to town to rehearse. Mr. Moon and Jason have gone back to town to go somewhere else to sight the guns. I don't understand this process. Hunting for me is like blah, blah, blah....
Yes. I can wash the camo clothes, yes, I can cook the venison. Yes. I can even listen to the stories. The rest, I don't need to know. Forgive me but in my mind, that is man-stuff.

Saturday morning. I need to eat, get dressed, drive to town. I will go to the Jr. with Lily and Owen and meet up with all the others. This is the plan. There will be calls- where are you? How do we find you? It's molasses-making day at the museum. Oh boy. I used to love to take the children there to see the old farm, the goats, the cows, the old houses, the cracker garden. Now I live in a house older than those they have at the museum, I have my own chickens, my own garden. But Jessie is playing music there and I love to see that girl standing on a stage, her mandolin in her hand, her fingers flying, that smile she wears when she plays.

We will have Owen with us and that makes it all wonderful. Owen. I haven't seen him in two days. I want to get my hands on him. I want to hold him to my chest. I want to cradle his head. I want to smell of him- he already smells like no one on earth but himself.
Maybe we will stop by and see Waylon. I haven't seen him for two days either. They are home now, I think. I have been leaving Billy and Shayla alone with their baby and their other visitors. But I want to see them again.

Saturday morning. The sun is shining so brightly. It's the perfect time of year here. Except. There's a tropical storm dancing around down near Nicaragua. It could come here. It could slide by Cozumel, shredding palm trees, disturbing the perfect blue/green/indigo violet water.

I don't know. They don't know.

Is that why I feel this way today? As if I was a tightrope walker, holding on to the wire with my toes, a wind springing up to send me tumbling, tumbling, tumbling across the chasm?

A possible storm, Mr. Moon leaving for a week to go so very far away. Saturday morning and I need to go hold my grandchild. I need to feel his little hands grasping my finger. I need to look into his dark wise eyes and see my story there.

My story. This is it.

Today.

He's Large

Mr. Moon is getting ready to go hunting in Canada. He leaves on Tuesday. It's cold in Canada. That's what I hear, anyway.

So he's been getting his outfits (costumes? wardrobe?) ready for the trip. This means that I have a clothesline full of camo Polartec. And thermal underwear. And socks. Heavy, woolen socks. And hats and gloves. Camo of course.

Now Mr. Moon is a large man. He's upwards in the six-foot-ten-or-so-inch range and he has long arms and long legs and very, very large feet. One pair of his quilted overall camos and two pairs of his socks is about one load for my very large washing machine. I think I did six loads of laundry so far today, all of it for him to pack and take to Canada. I don't mind because it's a beautiful day and as I noted yesterday, hanging the clothes on the line in beautiful weather is a joy of mine.

Last time he went to Canada Mr. Moon got a pair of boots to wear in the sub-freezing weather while he was hunting. These boots are so fucking big and so fucking heavy that even Mr. Moon has a hard time walking in them. Oh, they fit him but they are HEAVY! So heavy that his original plan was to WEAR the boots on the plane so he wouldn't have to pack them.

Bear with me here.

So last night he tries on the boots. First off, these boots are so huge that every time I see them I fall out of my chair laughing. These boots would be too big for Hagrid. They would dwarf Frankenstein. And Mr. Moon can hardly walk in them. So he puts them on and he gets this look on his face like maybe this is not the best idea in the world, to wear the boots on the plane.

By this point I am about to toss a lung because I'm laughing so hard.

"Honey! You can NOT wear those boots on the plane! For one thing, everyone will hate you for holding up the security line while you try to take them off and get them back on. For another thing," (and here I'm laughing again while I write this), "Those boots just SCREAM 'I have a bomb in my shoe!'"

They do. Because why in the God's name would an almost seven-foot tall man wear a boot that adds four inches to his height? Really. They would strip search his ass so thoroughly if he wore those boots that he wouldn't get to Canada until hunting season was well over.

So anyway, HoneyLuna is here today, studying, and we've been having fun just making silly jokes about things and practicing our cursing and also, we took a walk and a few minutes ago I was finally ready to sit down and write out a post for this blog of mine because GOD KNOWS I can't go a whole day without posting at least once (you'd think I was getting paid for this font of fun and wisdom here at blessourhearts) and I said, "Jessie, I need to take your picture with those boots."

All day I've known it would be wrong to do a blog post about those boots. Mr. Moon can't help it that he has very, very large feet (and there will be no joking here about large feet and their meanings- I'm serious- this is the man I am married to in holy matrimony, or at least legally and have been for 25 years so NO JOKES!!) and he'd look ridiculous if he didn't. And he'd fall over a lot, too. So all day, through yoga and through my walk and through mucking out the chicken shit and hanging camo on the line I've been fighting with my better judgment and finally I just gave in because if these boots were in your house, you'd blog about them too. I swear.

So here's Jessie demonstrating the largeness of the boots:

And Jessie's feet are not tiny. She's almost six feet tall.

And here she is trying with all her might to kick her foot up into the air like a kung-fu master with the enormous weight of the boot on her foot.

She begs of you not to click on the picture to enlarge it.
Don't listen to her.
(Please note that Jessie is not only wearing her father's boot, she is also wearing her mother's clothes.)

I told her that she should wear those boots on campus with entire sheepskins tucked down in the tops to make a point about all those girls who walk around wearing Uggs in 70 degree weather. We agreed it's just too damn bad that Halloween is over.

And to finish the story, let me say that Mr. Moon realized the folly of his plan and has ordered some different, lighter boots to take to Canada to prevent frostbite and which will allow him to walk normally and which will not get him kicked off a plane.

And because I'm having a relaxing day and still haven't washed the breakfast dishes I will end this with no philosophical discussions, no metaphorical meanings and no ranting, raving or pontificating although there is much in the news which could bring on any of those reactions from me.

No. It's Friday. Let's all just laugh. Not AT Mr. Moon's boots. Please no. But WITH his boots.

Have a good one.

Love....Ms. Moon

Ay-Yi-Yi

Phew. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I feel like I'm losing it here, y'all. My days are so full and I know that my definition of full is completely different from most other people's definitions of full and that's because they live in the "real" world and I do not. I live in the Magical Kingdom of My Mind which is yes, situated in Lloyd, Florida and I'm happy about that. I look at other people I know who get about fifteen thousand things a day done while I get about two things done and they travel and go kayaking and hiking and oh hell, to art museums and India and I? Well, I go to the chicken coop a lot. Four or five times a day, at least.

One of my friends, a woman who is way beyond productive, gets up with insomnia and cleans her house at two in the morning. Or four. Or six. Whatever. This woman travels more than anyone I know both with work and for pleasure, has at least two parties a month, has more friends that she does things with than she can shake a stick at, has moved an old house onto a piece of property she owns next door and is restoring it, has a beautiful yard and house that have her mark of quirk and charm about them, and is ready at the drop of a hat to help someone move, decorate for a wedding, throw a genuine English high tea or a redneck Christmas party, or take you on a road trip if that's what you need. She has a long-time, full-time boyfriend, a job and two sons. They're grown, but still. Also, she goes to the gym regularly.

I just look at her and go, "Whaaaaa?"

If I get up with insomnia I certainly do not clean my house. I eat Chex Mix or something equally nasty and read with my book up to my nose because I don't have my glasses on until I'm falling asleep in my chair in the kitchen and then I go back to bed.

Then I complain all the next day because I am TIRED and I am FAT.

See what I'm saying?

I suck.

I suck at the things normal people seem to be able to do.

In two weeks we're supposed to go to a wedding up in Alabama and it's going to be a big one. We've been invited to the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the day-following-the-wedding brunch and I've been invited to a luncheon honoring the bride and her bridesmaids. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine how much they do NOT want Ms. Moon at a luncheon in Alabama with nice young Alabama girls and their nice young mamas? Oh Lord. This could be a fiasco. Let's not even mention the fact that I do not have four different outfits proper to the occasion of any of these events. I am already in deep depression about this and don't begin to know how to get ready. I think I'm in denial and am hoping, once again, that a comet hits the earth, destroying all forms of life as we know it, especially those forms which would require me to wear something "nice." Help me, Jesus.

I would so much rather spend a weekend cleaning up chicken shit and weeding the garden. I'm being honest here. But I suppose I'll have to go. I'll have to be nice. This is family. I'll have to pretend to be civilized. I'll have to be wearing appropriate shoes. At all times. I'll have to try and not shame Mr. Moon in any way. I'll have to wear a bra, remember not to say words like "cocksucker" (especially to the bride) or get drunk and dance the hootchie-mama dance.

In other words, I will have to pretend to be someone I am not.

Pray for me.

Meanwhile, I'm just hoping for a day soon where I have the time to hang my clothes on the line in this beautiful weather. A day where I can take a walk and sweep the floors and talk to Lis on the phone. A day where I can write.

A day where I can breathe. A day to spend in the Magical Kingdom of My Mind, right here in Lloyd wearing overalls and NO BRA.

A day to breathe. In and out. Consciously and without worrying that I'm about to be late for something.
Because I don't operate in normal time. I know that. I know I'm not normal. And that's okay with me.

I just wish the rest of the world understood.

This Morning In Lloyd

Lily and Jason and Owen spent the night last night so that Jason could get up early and go hunting with Mr. Moon this morning.

They hunted but didn't kill and when they got back I made everyone a big breakfast of eggs and bacon and biscuits and then I took Owen outside so every one could eat in peace. Mr. O. enjoyed being outdoors and we went to see the chickens and rocked in the porch swing. He was happy for quite awhile until he suddenly realized he was AWAKE and THERE WAS NO BOOB IN HIS MOUTH! so I took him in to Lily who was through with her breakfast and he got his. Breakfast, that is.

And of course we had to take his picture, dressed in his camo with his father and grandfather. And there you have it. Don't I have darling men?

Much to do today and so I need to go. I have to go do data entry for Mr. Moon and go see Mr. Waylon and I also have a chicken who needs tending. Sam keeps attacking Miss Betty and she is not well and I am worried sick. So I'm going to go give her the elixir of Centrum Silver and sugar water.

I would hate to lose Miss Betty. She's so dear.

Anyway, here I go. It's a beautiful day, Lily and Jason and Owen are on my front porch and what could be better than that? Owen is getting his fifth or sixth serving of breakfast and is beautiful and content at his mother's breast.

And there it is- life in Lloyd this morning.
Thanks for stopping by.

Love....Ms. Moon

Oh Lord. I Have Spelled It Wrong

Waylon. I knew that did not look right.

I'm Sad. And Pissed.

Maine did not vote to allow gay marriage.

Why are we people so damn crazy about this issue?

I've written many words about what I think and if you have the slightest need to read any of them, just do a blog search with the words "gay rights" and/or "gay marriage in them."

Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here fuming, tapping my fingers and waiting for us, as a nation, to grow up and quit hiding behind fear and religion to rationalize the rights of every citizen to be legally married to the person they love.

Touch

I keep thinking about last night and Shayla's birth. It was so different, waiting for a scheduled section to occur than it is being with a woman in labor. No one was in pain, no one needed support (although Billy looked pretty anxious at times).
But it really was sort of a party. Billy's sister's children were running around and playing on the floor and we were all passing Owen around and it just seemed such a happy time.
At one point, in the middle of the chaos, I sat down on the bed with Shayla and held her hand and said, "Are you okay?" And she very much was. I looked around at all the craziness and said, "Do you want us to leave? Is this too much?"

She said, "No. I think it's helping me."

And then I teared up because all of that craziness, all of that chaos (Eli, get back here! Adda, please be quiet! Can I hold Owen? Did you text Hank?, etc., etc.) was just part of the chorus of the song of the family. Grandmothers, sisters, daughters, sons, grandchildren, all happy and excited and in the still, quiet center, a baby waiting to be born. Family is all. Family is everything. Family is messy and loud and always there to help. Or at least that's what family should be.

We're a touchy family. Not touchy like you can't say anything for fear of hurting some one's feelings, but touchy in the sense that we touch each other. A lot. We all do it. We all reach for each other's shoulders, we all pull each other into hugs. We hold hands. My kids never ever reached a point in their teenaged years when they wouldn't hold my hand in the mall. I find that remarkably strange and miraculous and wonderful. And we still do it. We walk around holding hands. And Billy and Shayla are like that, too. Just arms-wide-open people. And not everyone is. I understand that.
I'm just glad all of us are.

When Mr. Moon came into the room he was wearing his Levis and a nice plaid shirt. That man's Levi's have an acre of denim in them. Not because he's fat- Lord, he's anything but fat. But because he's so long. And when he walked in with all this kid and baby and excitement stuff going on, he did a little dance and his eyes were twinkling and my heart just leapt up. He is so handsome, that man, and I love him so much and never more than when he is handing his own heart out on a plate with a little dance and a hug and a gathering in and a patting of a ripe belly. Never more than that. He went right to Shayla, as well he should have, and kissed her.

One of the first things I noticed about his daddy was how physical he was. Now because of the sexual abuse I suffered as a child, I have always been extremely sensitive to good touch and bad touch and I was completely sure that Mr. Moon's daddy was so full of the good touch that I relaxed right away and started to love him and never quit. Mr. Moon is like that, too. Full of good touch. And I know some men who hug A LOT but I notice they always hug women, never men and that bothers me because in not hugging people of the same sex, it adds an element of something weird. If you're going to be a hugger, fucking hug everyone! Men as well as women. And Mr. Moon does that. After he hugged Shayla, he hugged Billy. Again, as it should have been.

Touch. It is magical and we all need it. And there was a lot of it going on last night. May kept pulling me towards her and every time she did, I felt so loved. Like she just loves me so much she can't keep her hands off me. I feel the same about her. And all my kids. I just want to hold them. And Owen- oh, who can resist holding Owen? And when Billy picked up Whalon out of his box with all the little monitors on him and held him so close, I was cheering inside. "Yes! Pick him up! Hold him to you!"

When it was time for us to leave the aquarium window and go back to the room where they were bringing Shayla, I asked Adda, Billy's niece, if she wanted to ride on my back like a horse. She is shy around me. She doesn't know me well and I respect that and am very careful not to grab on to kids who don't want to be grabbed by me but she said she would like to ride on my back and I carried her back down the hall to the room and she was making little riding-horsie noises and gently tugging at my hair as it were a mane. I loved those few moments, feeling her weight on my back. It was lovely. I can't wait to carry Owen that way.

When it was time for us to go, there were a million hugs and kisses.
I wish I could go see the new family right now and hug and kiss them again but I am trying to be respectful of their need to bond together. I know I'll get the chance soon. I will. Because Billy and Shayla and Waylon and their family are part of mine too. We got to be at their birth-day party! We were invited! Oh the honor!

I said the words that married Billy and Shayla when they stood up together in my back yard in front of friends and family and I thought that was as big an honor as I ever could have gotten but last night's was even bigger. The honor to be there, touching and smiling and holding and kissing and patting and giving a horsie ride and oh- more kissing.

I was touched.
I am touched.
Don't forget to touch.

Love each other so much you can't keep your hands off each other. Pass the babies around, hold hands. Kiss. Rub cheeks. Reach out and blur the lines between you. See how insignificant they are, those lines. Between families, between friends who are family. Share warmth. Spill love out through your fingers and hands. Hold your heart out on a platter.

Offer it gladly with a kiss. It will only come back to you bigger. I swear it will.