is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea
A little secret about me: I love lists. Sometimes I add an item to my to-do list just so I can cross it off. đ Yeah, I’m weird.
I figured out that if I waited for the big vacation, the dream house, or the happily ever after marriage to be happy daily life was going to pretty damn miserable. So I learned to cultivate joy and pleasure in my daily life instead. Don’t get me wrong, I’d still like to take fun vacations and have a great spouse, but until that happens I’m still going to be happy.
âClose your eyes.
Imagine you are standing barefoot in the middle of a brick road.
It is late in the afternoon.
The sky is a soft pink.
The wind is carrying flower petals in its breeze as you walk down this deserted road.
The leaves on the ground start to whisper behind you.
The breeze caresses your cheeks, and the wisps of your hair start to swirl around you.
The whistling spirits start to tug on the fabric of your clothes.
The wind is now so strong that you feel like you are being swept up by the tides.
You move one foot in front of the other, but no longer feel the uneven brick beneath you.
The wind cradles you in its arms as you float away from the stone path.
You swirl and twist in the air with ease and begin to feel sleepy.
You sigh a breath of content and the wind intertwines itself with the air from your soul.
You gently begin to melt into the breeze.
Becoming the wind that tickles the eyelashes of lovers and stirs the glassy surface of lakes.
Carrying the secrets of birds and the hopes of flowers.
You kiss the sea foam and the clouds.
The sunâs gentle fading rays wrap themselves around you until your essence drifts away;
Traveling to foreign lands where you fall upon the eyes of dreamers as they blink up at the stars.â
-anon.
âBe waiting in them,
half wrapped up in fresh white sheets,
Iâll hurry to you.ââ Daily Haiku by Tyler Knott Gregson
I love the ritual of changing over from my darker, heavier linens and duvet to crisp white sheets and a lightweight quilt.  There’s just something about pure white sheets that I love for the spring and summer.  When I saw this haiku by Tyler Knott, I knew I had to share.  Have you ever read any of his writing? Damn, he has a way with words that must make women swoon at his feet.
“Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me.” – Anne Boleyn
Another thing that says springtime to me: Lillet Blanc.  I like it with a twist of orange.  I bought a new bottle of it this week.  It’s not always easy to find because it doesn’t seem to be very popular around here.
Something made me think of this song yesterday. Â It makes me want to take off all my clothes and twirl naked on the newly green grass. Â But I didn’t. Â I don’t think my neighbors would approve. Â đ
“These Are Days”
These are the days.
These are days you’ll remember.
Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this.
And as you feel it, you’ll know it’s true that you are blessed and lucky.
It’s true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.
These are days you’ll remember.
When May is rushing over you with desire to be part of the miracles you see in
Every hour.
You’ll know it’s true that you are blessed and lucky.
It’s true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.
These are days.
These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.
And when you do you’ll know how it was meant to be.
See the signs and know their meaning.
It’s true, you’ll know how it was meant to be.
Hear the signs and know they’re speaking to you, to you.
Have you ever smelled that distinctive, sweet aroma that lingers after it rains? Petrichor. I love the way the word sounds. The word is constructed from Greek, petra, meaning stone + ichor, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.
Yesterday morning we had our first thunderstorm of the season. I was still at home getting ready for work when I heard the first claps of thunder. The morning sky darkened until it looked as though it was night again. I wanted nothing more than to lie in bed while the rain pelted the windows and the lightning lit up the sky.  There’s something about the beauty and power of a storm that I love.
The inner geek in me finds this fascinating:Â Researchers at MIT might have found where petrichor comes from. When a raindrop hits a porous surface, it traps tiny air bubbles at the point of contact, which then float to the surface in a fizz of aerosols. The researchers suspect that in natural environments, aerosols may carry aromatic elements (along with bacteria and viruses stored in soil) and release that distinctive smell.
I took this photo with my iPhone through my car window. Rainy mornings are beautiful too.
âSome people feel the rain. Others just get wet.â
â  Bob Marley
Every Day You Play
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Pablo Neruda
It’s no secret that I love Pablo Neruda’s poetry. The official start of spring is still over a month away and it certainly doesn’t feel very spring-like around here. However, my mind has been on spring. Â I’m trying to think warm. Â So far, it hasn’t worked, but I’ll keep trying. Â đ
That last line of the poem gets me every time.  I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. I have always read that line as the most extraordinary metaphor for sensuality, awakening, and the magic of transformation. It is always very dark and gray outside in the months preceding the cherry blossoms. When they finally arrive â as they do, unfailingly each year â I feel reborn, fresh, invigorated. The world is once again full of hope, magic, and promise again after a long, cold, damp, dark season.
Frost on my car window this morning. Even frost looks better to me when you add sunshine.
There’s an old Scandinavian saying that goes, âThereâs no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothesâ. No. Just no. Cold weather is bad weather. If I believed in hell, I think that it would be cold, not hot.
Oh yes, I have tis conversation every morning. When I’m in bed, I’m warm. Therefore, I spend a lot of time in bed in the wintertime. Today it was sunny and the high was around 40 degrees Farenheit. It felt like a heat wave!
I’ve had Raynaud’s disease for years. Raynaudâs affects the blood vessels in the fingers and toes. It’s characterized by episodic spasms, called vasospastic attacks, which cause the small blood vessels in the fingers and toes to constrict in response to temperature extremes. With Raynaudâs, the skin on the affected areas becomes white or bluish and cold or numb. Unfortunately, even when I’m no longer in the cold, the painful spasms continue. So cold isn’t just cold for me, it’s painful.
They are working on better treatments for Raynaud’s disease. A few winters ago it was so bad that I developed ulcerations on some of my toes. My doctor recommended that I take
sildenafil, better known as Viagra. Hey, it’s a vasodilator. I opted not to take it though. It has to be taken every 4 hours (insert joke here)and I’m not a big fan of taking pills as it is. Also, it’s expensive. Apparently, my insurance company didn’t care if my toes fell off, but they’re okay in making sure 80 year-old men in the nursing home can still get an erection. Priorities!
What I’ve found that does help: regular exercise and upping my intake of vitamin D. I’ve recently read a few medical journal articles that tout the benefits of fish oil for Raynaud’s suffers, so I’ll give it a try. I love suggestions like “stay warm”. Hey, I’d love to do that, but it’s an impossibility when the windchill is sub-zero. Remind me again why I live here? đ
Yeah, that says maximum heart rate of 218. Â I thought it was an error, so I took my pulse manually. Â Nope, it’s correct. Â Somehow, I don’t think that is within my HR limit for my age. Â When I workout, I usually max out in the upper 170 range. Â But on this day I had taken 4 puffs off of my rescue inhaler in 90 minutes and I still couldn’t breathe very well. Â Agenda for the new year: visit an allergist/pulmonologist, and maybe a cardiologist for good measure. Â I rarely use cardio equipment (boring!) but I got on some today and in the process, I freaked out the woman using the machine next to me. Â You see, my heart rate monitor automatically syncs with the machine I’m on, but it also synced with her machine. Â She couldn’t figure out how her heart rate was suddenly 180. Â I’m used to it, but I guess it might startle you if you’re not.
First of all, I want to share some Thanksgiving humor. So awful, yet so true! I’m not even going to get into the guilt trips that have been laid on me because I’m not married.  Ugh.  Another good reason to skip the huge (40-50 people) extended family Thanksgiving dinner this year.  I’m just not up to it.  So instead, I’m doing Thanksgiving my way.  So far that entails  a 45 minute workout on the spin bike this morning and volunteering to help feed Thanksgiving dinner to the less fortunate.  Later, there will be dinner and wine.  OK, there will be wine as I’m cooking, too.
I’m cooking everything for dinner and that’s fine with me because I love to cook. Â Last year I went all gourmet and my son did not approve, so this year I’m sticking to traditional…or what’s traditional to my family. Â Pumpkin pie (made the correct way, as per my son) was already made this morning. Â It’s his favorite, and he was not happy when I made pumpkin cheesecake last year instead of the pie.
I have been thinking a lot about gratitude and thankfulness lately, partly due to the season, and partly due to the wonderful caring, support, and love that I’ve received from my dear friends and loved ones. Â I’ve been blown away by all the amazing compassion and kindness that I’ve received. Â I am blessed and for that, I say a prayer of many thanks.
Recently I read a poignant article via Parabola magazine. Â It is well worth the few minutes it will take to read. Â
Five pounds of fat compared to five pounds of muscle.
This is why I’ve actually gained 20 pounds in the last 18 months. I see that as a good thing, because those pounds are hard-earned muscle. It was only recently that I allowed myself to even own a scale. At my thinnest, I weighed myself daily. Â Not healthy. At that time, I wouldn’t have been comfortable with the idea of weighing what I do now. I weigh the most I ever have, not including when I was pregnant with my son. The other day I found a photo of me when I was pregnant and I laughed. I started out at 110 pounds and gained 65 pounds, almost all of it in the last three months. I didn’t get overall fat though, it was all baby belly. HUGE baby belly. I thought I was going to fall over. Good thing I adore that kid more than anything in this world, because he almost killed me. Â As a testament to my awesome metabolism, I lost all 65 pounds in less than three weeks after giving birth.
Everyone always said to me, “Your metabolism will slow down at 30, then 35, then 40”. Â I’m knocking on the door of 45, and honestly, I’d be okay with it slowing down a bit. I sometimes find it hard to eat enough when I’m really busy. Although this week, I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night to eat. Peanutbutter straight from the jar, FTW! I don’t believe in that low-fat crap. Lots of nuts, avocados (lately just cut in half and doused in Cholula), and Greek yogurt with raw honey. I try not to eat crap, so it’s harder to calorie load. I’ve even taken to eating a spoonful of straight coconut oil. At least my hair is shiny. đ My great weakness is cheese. Gourmet cheese. Brie, goat cheese, Iberico, Manchego, blue, and Gjetost- I love them all. Do not set me loose in a Fresh Market in the cheese aisle. Â Oh, and if you really, truly love cheese, you must try la Tur from Italy. It’s made of equal parts of cow, sheep, and goat milk. I highly recommend it.
I was on the hunt for some crema for my white chicken chili that I made this week, and I passed a bodega that I figured would have it, but my son said that I shouldn’t get out the car. So I had plain sour cream on top instead. Not the same, but it had to do.
White Chicken Chili
Adjust the heat in this dish by adding the minced ribs and seeds from the jalapeño as directed in step 6. If Anaheim chiles cannot be found, add an additional poblano and jalapeño to the chili. This dish can also be successfully made by substituting chicken thighs for the chicken breasts. If using thighs, increase the cooking time in step 4 to about 40 minutes. Serve chili with sour cream, tortilla chips, and lime wedges.
Serves 6 to 8
3 pounds bone-in, skin-on chicken breast halves , trimmed of excess fat and skin
Table salt and ground black pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3 medium jalapeño chiles
3 poblano chiles (medium), stemmed, seeded, and cut into large pieces
3 Anaheim chile peppers (medium), stemmed, seeded, and cut into large pieces
2 medium onions , cut into large pieces (2 cups)
6 medium cloves garlic , minced or pressed through garlic press (about 2 tablespoons)
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons ground coriander
2 cans (15 ounces each) cannellini beans , drained and rinsed
3 cups low-sodium chicken broth
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice (from 2 to 3 limes)
1/4 cup minced fresh cilantro leaves
4 scallions , white and light green parts sliced thin
Garnishes are key components in white chili. Cilantro and scallions add freshness, while lime juice provides a welcome burst of acidity.
1. Season chicken liberally with salt and pepper. Heat oil in large Dutch oven over medium-high heat until just smoking. Add chicken, skin side down, and cook without moving until skin is golden brown, about 4 minutes. Using tongs, turn chicken and lightly brown on other side, about 2 minutes. Transfer chicken to plate; remove and discard skin.
2. While chicken is browning, remove and discard ribs and seeds from 2 jalapeños; mince flesh. In food processor, process half of poblano chiles, Anaheim chiles, and onions until consistency of chunky salsa, ten to twelve 1-second pulses, scraping down sides of workbowl halfway through. Transfer mixture to medium bowl. Repeat with remaining poblano chiles, Anaheim chiles, and onions; combine with first batch (do not wash food processor blade or workbowl).
3. Pour off all but 1 tablespoon fat from Dutch oven (adding additional vegetable oil if necessary) and reduce heat to medium. Add minced jalapeños, chile-onion mixture, garlic, cumin, coriander, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables soften, about 10 minutes. Remove pot from heat.
4. Transfer 1 cup cooked vegetable mixture to now-empty food processor workbowl. Add 1 cup beans and 1 cup broth and process until smooth, about 20 seconds. Add vegetable-bean mixture, remaining 2 cups broth, and chicken breasts to Dutch oven and bring to boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until chicken registers 160 degrees (175 degrees if using thighs) on instant-read thermometer, 15 to 20 minutes (40 minutes if using thighs).
5. Using tongs, transfer chicken to large plate. Stir in remaining beans and continue to simmer, uncovered, until beans are heated through and chili has thickened slightly, about 10 minutes.
6. Mince remaining jalapeño, reserving and mincing ribs and seeds (see note above), and set aside. When cool enough to handle, shred chicken into bite-sized pieces, discarding bones. Stir shredded chicken, lime juice, cilantro, scallions, and remaining minced jalapeño (with seeds if desired) into chili and return to simmer. Adjust seasonings with salt and pepper and serve.
“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well” â Virginia Woolf
The trees of my childhood
are not the trees of your
childhood.
Let me tell you about my
cedars; my forsythias
and honeysuckles;
the way I used to plant
cherry pits in the front lawn
because I was greedy for their
blossoming.
Lift up my skirt and Iâll show you
where the blackberry brushes had
scratched me.
Lay me down in a hammock
hung between your childhood and the
man you have become today.
And weâll kiss once, twice,
and a third time for luck
beneath the cherry blossom petals
that I had fallen asleep beneath
when I was too young to know anything
but innocence.
And the dark bark will be a darker midnight
against the spring it blossoms.
Skeletal. Moonless.
So heavy from the
rain.
And your hand will fold a flower
behind my ear.
The petals will be
so extraordinarily
pale.
– Shinji Moon
I just finished watching the first episode of Ken Burns’ The Roosevelts. I love history and I’ve always enjoyed Ken Burns’ documentaries. His Jazz, Prohibition, and The War are some of my favorites. Yeah, I’m a nerd. đ
My dear grandma was a huge fan of FDR, so I could just picture her sitting next to me on my sofa, enjoying the program tonight. I made a big bowl of popcorn ( real popcorn, not that microwave junk) just like she always made for us. Hot cocoa too, from scratch. We’d watch movies together on her big console RCA television. Or if there wasn’t a good movie on that night, we’d watch The Muppet Show. She loved that show! Oh, how she would laugh.
She was smart and kind-hearted, but she had the essence of grace and a core of unshakeable strength. She had 17 grandchildren, but always made each one of us feel special and so loved. She’s been gone 24 years now, but I still miss her every day.
On the far left is my grandfather, with his arm around my grandmother. This was taken in 1932 and they were married in 1937. I got my love of photography and cheekbones from him.
A song for you, Grandma. I still think of you every time I listen to it. Love you.
Earlier today I wrote on Facebook about the need for balance when it comes to the internet. My dear friend Tor reminded me of all the positive things that come from it. My long friendship with him and his lovely wife, Anna, is a perfect example of that. We are trusted friends and we share with one another cultures and experiences. For that, I am very grateful. We were able to spend a wonderful week together in Michigan this summer. (I swear that we weren’t always drinking wine, it just looks that way in these photos.)
It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m winding down from 4 days off work. Four nights of sleeping like a rock, four mornings of waking up when I’m ready, not when an alarm goes off. Four days of good food, good wine, and good company with a lot of books, music, and quiet time mixed in for good measure. I’m a happy camper.
(I’m a big fan of Spanish wines. Robert Parker gave this one 92 points, and I agree)
Speaking of happy, I highly recommend the documentary Happy.
“The Constitution only gives people the right to pursue happiness. You have to catch it yourself.” — Benjamin Franklin
This compelling film is for anyone who thinks they’re happy, anyone who’s ever been depressed, anyone who’s tasted happiness and then watched it slip out of their fingers, anyone who feels like they’ve spent their whole life chasing happiness, and especially for anyone who’s given up on happiness or are feeling like they want to give up. So, basically, it’s for everyone. The film makers translate subjects like positive psychology, dopamine, and hedonic adaptation into clear and understandable terms for those of us who aren’t doctors or Ph.D.s. They weave technical facts with human behavior so beautifully that it’s hard not to be moved. The relationship between happiness and exercise, connection, community, cooperation, and compassion are uniquely explored. A magnifying glass is held up to things we’ve been taught will make us happy, like success, money, and beauty.
Good things about today:
In bed, bathed, and the good rain coming down again – liquidly slopping down the shingled roof outside my window. All today it has come down, in its enclosing wetness, and at last I am in bed, propped up comfortably by pillows – listening to it spurting and drenching – and all the different timbers of tone – and syncopation. The rapping on the resonant gutters – hard, metallic. The rush of a stream down the drain pipe splattering flat on the earth, wearing away a small gully – the musical falling of itself, tinkling faintly on the tin garbage pails in a high pitched tattoo.
And it seems that always in August I am more aware of the rain. A year ago it came down on my porch and the lawn and the flat gray sea beyond at the Mayos – closing me in the great house in the day, talking to me alone in my room in the evening as I sat alone in bed writing; surveying my kingdom from my throne: the lone streetlight on the corner, hanging solitary in a nimbus of light, and beyond it the gray indistinguishable fog and the rain sound blending with the wash of the sea. It shut me in a rock cave with Dick on Marblehead beach, drenching, soaking, and we threw rocks at a rusted tin can until it stopped coming down viciously and churning the sea to a flayed whiteness.
Two years ago August rain fell on me and Ilo, walking side by side, wordless, toward the barn. And it was raining when I came out from the loft, crying, my mouth bruised where he had kissed me. Rain closed about the windows of the car Emile and I rode home in, and fell outside the kitchen where we stood, in the dark, with the smell of linoleum, and the water always falling on the leaves outside the screen.
Three years ago, the hot, sticky August rain fell big and wet as I sat listlessly on my porch at home, crying over the way summer would not come again – never the same. The first story in print” came from that “never again” refrain beat out by the rain. August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Ahh, Sylvia, thank you for these words that are just perfect for today.
A year and a half ago, I suddenly lost my sweet four-legged furry baby. Today she would have turned 12. Even though she as “just a dog” she sure as hell knew how to enjoy life. Her short time here taught me many things, and most of all that we never know how long we have. Don’t take anything for granted, and don’t put off happiness.
I still miss that nose, and I still find one of her black hairs once in a while. I’m not sure who lost more hair, her or me. đ She loved jumping on the trampoline, boat rides, stealing my son’s socks, taking naps on my bed, and oh yes, wine. She’d steal my glass in a flash, but only the good stuff. That dog had a palate on her better than most people I know.
If you haven’t yet read I Died Today. By Duke Roberts. It’s the story of a dog’s last day. But be forewarned, and have your Kleenex handy. The first time I read it, I cried so hard that I had an asthma attack and pretty much sobbed for the next hour. Â Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have read it again just now. But it’s beautiful, and it will touch your heart.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it – our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal –
Over the sky’s hot rim,
The day’s last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
As I post this I am on a holiday near the water. While it’s not the sea, it’s close enough to do my soul good. Â The photo above was taken this morning; one of the roses that was left outside in the patio table during the wonderful thunderstorm that rolled through last night. The thunder carries across Lake Michigan and rumbles in a much more dramatic way than it does in the city. Even when the storm was far out into the lake, the almost constant flash of lightning could be seen. It lit up the night sky like a Fourth of July fireworks show. In the morning, the sky was a crisp and clear cerulean blue and the world was fresh and washed clean again. A new start.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
-William Shakespeare
Today I started the paperwork to change back to my maiden name. After 26 years (to the week) I am finally getting rid of that rotten son-of-a-bitch’s name. It’s going to be a hassle to go to court, then get a new driver’s license, passport, etc., but I think that it will be so worth it.
My son asked me why I didn’t change my name when I got divorced. Somehow,  thought it was important that my son and I had the same last name as he was growing up. I felt like it avoided confusion. Although I did cringe  each time one of his schoolteachers would call me Mrs. —-.  I kept a smile on my face the whole time, but inside I was thinking, the hell I am Mrs. —-.
The light was so beautiful this evening. Storms strong enough to spawn a tornado passed through town today, but late in the evening the clouds broke and the quality of the light became rich and golden. Earlier today the tornado sirens blared and we moved to a safe area of the office. I could tell that one of my co-workers was afraid. I thought about what it was that she’s afraid of. Death? I’ve looked death in the eyes before and it looked nothing like a tornado.
I had worked late and when I came home I kicked off my heels and sat cross-legged on my bed, still in my dress. My bedroom window faces west and I watched as the light faded from this day.
