Gratitude

With thanks to Duff Axsom, who inspired me to try this almost-but-not-quite-once-a-day-blog-except-when-I-got-totally-overwhelmed-there-for-a-week blog. He contacted me after a random posting on facebook, where I commented on my desire to try to notice things more, to be "in the moment" as they say, and not always rushing on to the next moment, and he suggested the small stones project of daily short observations. I didn't quite make it as a daily habit, but it is almost a habit. I may well try to continue. In the meantime, thank you Duff for suggesting this, and it has been a pleasure to read your musings

and poems as well!

This is what wildlife in the city do while we're asleep. The other day, some sharp-toothed critter started gnawing at one of our pumpkins on the front porch (still there since Halloween). Every day when I leave I marvel at seeing the little tooth marks and more of the pumpkin eaten away. They must like it, though some days none it eaten, and I wonder how they let the other critters know that there are pumpkin goodies nearby?

Kapok, kapok, kapok, kapok!

I love saying the word kapok. My husband and I got new pillows last weekend, made of kapok, after trying out organic wool (too flat) and organic cotton (too fluffy), and the organic kapok (just right).

Kapok. The word sounds artificial, like something from the Jetsons I remember from my childhood. We had kapok pillows then, and I guess I always thought they were synthetic, like so many other new and improved things of the 50s and 60s. But no, the tropical kapok tree (Ceiba pentandra) has large seed pods whose fluffy white covering has been used in pillows and mattresses for decades, as well as in life jackets and other flotation devices.

Kapok, kapok. It also sounds like a great dog name. Here, kapok kapok.

Breathing normally at last.

After six weeks of congestion, sniffling, coughing and more, I realized this morning when I woke up that I could actually breathe normally through my nose. I laid there, just enjoying the breathing for a while, remember how long it had been since I could breathe without taking in air through my mouth. It almost felt strange. It was nice to take a moment to sink into the bed, enjoy the breathing, and feel grateful that I'm actually well.

It's so sad about leeks. Virtually every recipe I've ever read says "use the white parts only" or at best, "use the white and pale green parts only." What's wrong with the darker green parts? I realize I've never actually eaten the green part. Is there something wrong with it in terms of taste, or it is simply a matter of aesthetics? And why should dark green be any less attractive than the pale green?

About to cut some leeks for salmon with leeks and mustard sauce, so will have to try the dark green and find out.

I try to learn something new every day, no matter how small. I look forward to the moment when it clicks for me, when the puzzle is solved, "aha, now I know how to do this", or "now I understand that issue better." When a day goes by without something new, its feels a bit odd.

The click, the moment of recognition, is so wonderful. Perhaps it stimulates serotonin or endorphins or some other good brain chemical. Do other people feel this way too?

This evening I listened to a wonderful piece of traditional American music, "Calling My Children Home, recorded by the True Life Trio, three women who sang with Kitka. A few short weeks ago, two days after the Newtown massacre, the trio sang this live at our pre-performance Revels circle, as we were all struggling with how to understand the horror of the event. Hearing their sweet voices sing those lyrics brought almost all 60 members of the cast to tears, releasing the sorrow and anguish we had felt in the midst of working hard to present what needed to be a joyous series of performances. It was a moment I will never forget, when music expresses what words alone cannot. When I listened to the piece again this evening, with my daughter, her best friend and my husband, we cried. It all came back, the sadness, the anger, the desire to do something, the hope that somehow the parents and families of those children and their teachers will find a way to heal. But this time at the end, as their voices sang into the quietness: I'm lonesome for my precious children they live so far away oh, maybe hear my callin', callin', callin', and come back home someday. I thought about Gabrielle Giffords and Mark Kelly, bravely standing up for doing the right thing, creating a new organization to channel all that "we need to do something" energy into specific, practical action, and feeling grateful for their bravery and drive. And thinking that maybe there is a way to stop the terror of guns killing innocent people. And the tears of sadness will become tears of relief. Just listen: http://www.truelifetrio.com/listen/

Breathing heavily after I nearly ran to BART last night after work to make my train, a short Bart delay gave me the chance to reflect on virtually an entire day spent indoors. Walking back and forth to Bart was my outside time, something I need to change. I went directly to a 2 hour rehearsal at my house and exhausted to bed without writing. So today, I started off with a solid one mile run in the morning dark which felt really good, and got to enjoy the rosy fingers of dawn creeping over the rooftops on College Avenue.

Walking home from the grocery store at dusk, I decide to walk on the north side of Shafter. We live on the south side, so for 26 years, I've walked on the south side, which is closest to Bart and Market Hall. Walking on the north side, every looks just a bit different ... the small across-the-street houses look much larger. I see into living rooms I'm not used to seeing. In our neighborhood of old houses, the small living rooms filled with wood trim and wainscoting are often visible from the street. I hear children yelling as they play in one house, loud music in another. Trees, shrubs, flowers, everything is a bit different. How we can get into a well-worn path over the years, without even realizing it. It's good to shake things up once in a while, even in small ways.

One small stone begins. Standing on the front porch, closing my eyes to listen to the rain. I've always loved listening to the rain, it is calming and peaceful yet magnifies every other sound, it seems ... cars and bikes on the street, voices of pedestrians walking by. I can almost hear the drops hitting the leaves.