More proof that I’m okay.

***********

More importantly, Sarah’s spending next semester in Fiji and needs a domain name for her blog which she promises to update. Got ideas? I like Jen’s – southseasarah – but Sarah, though she believes her life at Union too boring to write about, might continue her musings after she returns. Then there’s Goose’s offering, Tardiffstravels.

More photos.

Emma and Matt chose the paint, and Jen and Emma slapped it on, and in one day I had a new downstairs bathroom. Oughta do something about the floor, the top, the sink and the cabinets, but now there’s no hurry. It looks terrrific.

Her: The blog’s old and tired.

Me: I don’t have the heart to keep them both going.

Her: People still check it. You need to add something.

Me: Why?

Her: Because friends that don’t get to see you worry about you.

Me: They should.

Her: No they shouldn’t. You’re okay.

Me: Oh, yeah, I forgot.

Her: But You need to tell people you’re okay. Add something. Add those photos
of Emma and Kate. How about the pictures you took of your bathroom being
painted?

Me: Good idea. Emma liked her photo, Kate thought she looked too
fat. We’ll see what the people think.

Jane Hirshfield

I want to give myself

utterly

as the maple

that burned and burned

for three days without stinting

and then in two more

dropped off every leaf;

as this lake that,

no matter what comes

to its green-blue depths,

both takes and returns it.

In the still heart,

that refuses nothing,

the world is twice-born—

two earths wheeling,

two heavens,

two egrets reaching

down into subtraction;

even the fish

for an instant doubled,

before it is gone.

I want the fish.

I want the losing it all

when it rains and I want

the returning transparence.

I want the place

by the edge-flowers where

the shallow sand is deceptive,

where whatever

steps in must plunge,

and I want that plunging.

I want the ones

who come in secret to drink

only in early darkness,’

and I want the ones

who are swallowed.

I want the way

the water sees without eyes,

hears without ears,

shivers without will or fear

at the gentlest touch.

I want the way it

accepts the cold moonlight

and its it pass,

the way it lets

all of it pass

without judgment or comment.

There is a lake,

Lalla Ded sang, no larger

than one seed of mustard,

that all things return to.

O Heart, if you

will not, cannot, give me the lake,

then give me the song.

Thank god someone out there is updating their blog.

Kathy just returned from China, Kenzie’s going to Africa, Sarah to Fiji, and  Pesky godson’s in Syria while Goose is still enjoying his life out west.  

“Honey, smell my nightgown.”

“It smells like vomit.”

“It’s the clean one you just washed. And my other two smell like this one.”

“You think I left them in the basement too long?”

“Did you vomit on them in the basement?”

“No, and I don’t know why they smell like that. It reminds me of my shirts that one of Matt’s friend’s threw-up on. It, too, was on the laundry table and I assumed I wasn’t smelling what I was smelling. Convinced myself until I stopped for lunch and found little chunks in the pocket.”

“Would you mind washing them again, on gentle, using Ivory soap. And, please, don’t let them sit in the basement.”

**********

In memory of George Carlin from Jen.

And this from her friend.

**********

The boys have been landscaping our yard, and adding fresh lattice under the porch. . Today they edged and weeded and contoured around the Rhododendrons.

Hilary Burgin, aka La Chica, turns twenty. (I know, I could be wrong and I really should check this out with her mom.)