Cambrics are delicious and so is the Tattered Cover...

"May I help whomever's next in line?" the light voice spoke cheerfully over the counter of the coffee shop, a sweet round face surrounded by dark curls appeared above the shiny rows of danish, cakes and other pastries in the large case.

"Would  you mind telling me how you make your cambric?" I asked politely, secretly hoping that I would be assured of a high quality delicate earl-gray and steamed milk tincture...

"Well, it's traditionally Earl Grey tea, but we can do whatever you like, and that's with your choice of steamed milk."

"Lovely, I'd like a cambric with soy milk, and I've brought my own cup," I replied.

The woman behind the counter, who was standing on a box so that her chin could've rested on top of the food display glass, but not much else, gave me a winning smile as she took my mug.

I adore bookstores and old libraries. I do. I love them, and often I wish that I could live in one. They're wonderful and delightful places most of them.

J and I have been building a lovely library in our house, and I wish it was bigger. As it is, we only have two real bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, a tiny office and what would be the dining room had we not recently transformed it into the library.

It is one of the three places in our house that the ceilings are slightly lower (as opposed to the 10'5' or 11' that make up the rest of our dwelling) and it is painted in gold, with scales fanning out and gleaming like a fish undulating above our heads.

We have put shelves on every wall. One is currently covering part of our intake vent: our HVAC fellow told us to move it, but we have apparently conveniently forgotten, or we're being stubborn because it's in our library. We can't mess with the library.

Back to what I was blathering about before: The Tattered Cover is an especially wonderful bookstore because of the warmth of the atmosphere and the expanse of the building.

I was supposed to do massage sessions all day for some students on J's research research team.

However, their esteemed (and really nifty and nice) professor neglected to ask his lab partner professor if such a thing would be accepted, so now I sit down the road from J's school in a delightful setting, preparing myself for a lovely day of writing instead of massage (though both are fun for me).

Mmmmm... cambric delicious cambric....

Is 8:00 AM too early for dark peppermint chocolate?

I think not.

Now, back to work.

What's the story Morning glory? What's the tale, Nightengale?

Dust. The smell of clean earth, blown in a cool wind across the shade trees of the plains.

 Mile after mile along to the horizon, the bright-blue sky highlights white fluffy clouds and open fields dancing in the breeze, bordered by rows and alcoves of shade trees.

Oak. Elm. Black Walnut. Redbud. Soapberry.

The plains are open without being desolate. The open space is vast, expansive and comfortable to the mind, soul and body.

The wind often howls and whistles on the plains: true.

Dust is blown around in swirls, the same as autumn leaves in the gusts of their season.  Mini whirlwinds twirling and spiraling; lifted up around and over the heads of the children, on the playground which smells of gravel.

Then the leaves settle again, floating down to their bright-eyed, disappointed features.

Thunderstorms that boom and rattle the shelves and the windowpanes. Lightening that crackles and splits the night sky in charcoal, gray, white and purple bruises. Sweeping rains that dance and sing their lament on the roof; drumming so loudly that one must place one's lips to a companion's ear to be heard.

The scariest of all: tornado.

Sirens screaming and blaring through the silent still before the storm.

The calm that isn't.

The richness of the shadow that builds, smelling fresh and exciting and electric.

The seemingly unnatural dark that floats over the land, which should be impossible given that the sky is lit gently from within; glowing, like a light-box covered in opaque paper, brighter shades where the cover is thin-- but we on the ground looking up are still in shadow, though our eyes are bathed in the eerie, muffled, glow.

Water is the most important on the plains.

Shade is too.

Without water the heat lightening storms that ravage the land and the people will strike fires in the tinderbox of the plains.

Drought happens almost every year, but some years are worse than others.

Here in Colorado, we're always on water conservation watch. There are whispered words of ice-flow,  snow pack...

Rain-barrels are illegal in Colorado, which even though I've lived here a number of years, still seems stupid to me. As long as the rain in the barrels is used on the lawn, it's IN the water cycle. There is no danger.

In Oklahoma and Kansas rain-barrels are an absolute.

In Colorado, wild-fires are the scariest of all things. The air is dry, the altitude is high, and the conditions are ripe.

In Oklahoma and Kansas, there is also danger of fires, but tornadoes as well, and flooding when the rains finally arrive... though some years, they don't.

In Oklahoma and Kansas, a season's crop can make or break a farmer and a family.

In Colorado, a fire can destroy too many, too quickly.

In Vermont we worry about flash-floods, washed out roads, mud-season, ice and snowstorms and the elements; freezing to death.

In the plains, we worry about surviving the summer and the storms that come with it. Also about the ice-storms that can destroy trees and ground lines and close highways.

In Colorado, we worry about FIRE.

Every place on the map has its worries. Every region has hazards of its own particular and peculiar nature.

I love these wild places I've lived, quite dearly.

Nature is fierce; and she serves to warn, comfort, ravage and release us.

Above all: We must respect where we live to survive.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
In OTHER news...


I have about 40 pages of the book written.

YAY!

I've been taking a break these last few days, because I'm not sure where I want things to go. J tells me to "keep writing and see what happens, then revise after you get it all out," but being the proofreader enthusiast I am, I go back and correct little things as I go.

Today though, I'm back letting the word flow as soon as I publish this post. :-)

The Mist Also Rises...

An Exercise in Description and Setting the Tone of the Thing to Which I Apply Myself...

Peeking through the screen door, three sets of eyes gaped out into the charcoal gray of morning.

 Four paws leaned up against the faded red carvings edging the screen.

Fresh, crisp air, smelling of rain rolled through into the house like waves in a gray, misty ocean of atmosphere.

The warm, golden glow from the kitchen seeped through the doorway into the library like a backlit honeycomb.

Shapes spoke softly inside the house, whispering to one another.

Shifting, the shadows beginning the new day were filling up the crevices, moving through every nook and cranny, chasing out the thick cloak of the evening and night.

No birds could be heard outside the house.

The barren trees surrounding the dwelling stretched upwards. Thick, corded trunks splitting into multiple armed branches tipped with spindly fingers, twisted in a pleading agony of frozen motion.

The trees held a memory of past pain.

A letter, delivered to the wrong person at the correct address, lay on a carved, footed table by the door. Its green envelope seemed to glint angrily in the beginnings of the morning light, as though it knew the folly of its outdated correspondence.

A small boy pressed his face further against the screen; his cheeks against the crisscrossed weave with his hands resting in his pockets.

The larger of the two enormous cats, standing on his hind legs and pressed up against the boy's left side, was head level with the child; as long as he was tall, like a small mountain lion leaning into the smells on the breeze. His golden head gently rubbed against the boy's ear, and a throaty purr began to fill the silence.

The other feline, dark tabby-striped with intense green eyes, dropped gracefully from the screen door and sat motionlessly, stick-straight on the boy's right. The top of his head came to the child's chin.

The boy was five years old, tall and wise for his age, though slender and handsome for a child so young. Having met him, one would assume he was perhaps a year or two older; his hazel-eyes betrayed an intelligence that some mistook for arrogance.

A soft, kind-hearted voice whispered to the child from within the depths of the house. A figure stood in the doorway of the kitchen and beckoned him, a hot cup of liquid held out.

With a sigh, he nudged the great golden cat down and fondly scratching his furry ears, the boy wondered how great a dog would be as a companion. The animal padded along beside the human, smiling to himself and half-knocking the boy over by frequently rubbing against his legs.

The huge tabby stayed at attention, facing the front door, almost part of the woodwork, his sinewy body lined up against the deep carvings.

As the boy crossed into the library toward the figure in the kitchen, he was suddenly and quickly scooped up mid-stride into the arms of a tall man who nuzzled him to his chest in a bear hug.

The two were obviously related.  Both had curly dark hair streaked with cinnamon lights, golden-green eyes that shone, and the same toned build: handsome and well-proportioned, if more slender than most men. Their bodies held a strength and flexibility that tied them together; one could not look at them but see resemblance.

A soft laugh escaped the lips of the woman standing in the kitchen holding the cup. Her eyes dark and twinkling, she beamed at them openly and grabbing her husband's arm, pulled the two into the light.

The child swung down expertly from his father's arms and wrapped his own around his mother's waist in a firm squeeze. Tousling the top of his head, she set the cup on an old, scarred kitchen table and rubbed his back.

Leaning casually against the counter, opposite the doorway, the man reached around for a mug and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot warming by the stove.

I'm not sleeping, but at least my books are being read.

I lay wrapped in the darkness of our room. The sheets and blanket were like hot, stuffy clouds trying to tangle my legs and body. They were preventing comfortable slumber. 


The moon shone brightly through the shutters of our bedroom. I flipped over and lay on my back, gazing up at the ceiling with a sigh.


"J, I'm gonna' go read for a bit, I can't sleep," I whispered to the silent, slender form on my left. His body seemed heavy, but then again he was completely relaxed, so why shouldn't he sink gently into the bed?


"Mmmmphhhhok," came the reply.


I slid out from the hot sheets and my toes hit the cool of the hardwood floor below. 


Tiptoeing to the cedar chest in the library/living room (which is right off our bedroom) I grabbed a quilt and wrapped it around me. 


Shuffling over to the shelves, I grabbed a book at random and padded over to the long couch beneath the window. 


I could most-likely read by moonlight, but my head hurt a bit, so I flicked on the reading lamp. 


I began to lose myself to the first few pages; the glossy black of the cover warming in my hands, the smell of the ink on the pages comforting like the cool quiet of a true library on a hot, busy, summer day. 


The weight of the hard-cover was grounding against my knees as I curled up to enjoy myself.


-----------------------------------


Books are a rescue for me.

They are an instant relaxation, an escape, an enjoyment, a companion and an inspiration.

Lately, I've been having trouble sleeping, but it's not of the night-terror variety (I've had my fair share of those) it's more of the mind-on-the-wheel type.

The gerbil wheel.

Sometimes at night, I simply cannot shut my brain off. I list things over and over in my head until there's a running strip-- a worried commentary of 'To Do's,' that whirls inescapable.

Lately, I've been reading a lot.

Since I was a child, I've loved books. My folks used to come into my room late at night and confiscate my flashlight because I'd promised "One more chapter," and instead was about to finish the novel.

I always had something in my bag to read during unexpected moments of waiting: for the dentist, to be picked up, in-between classes, at the bus stop.... my book was always there for me.

I remember when I broke up with my first boyfriend... and my second... and my third... I read every single book on my shelves twice. On those occasions I couldn't sleep because I could think of nothing except the giant hole that was pulsating in my chest around my heart.

Books also got me through the death of loved ones, the birth of new ones and everything in-between.

I've always wanted to write a book  and I think I may start today.

 I've no idea what I want to write about, but I'll simply begin.

Maybe someone, somewhere will want to read it.

I probably owe all the authors (past, present and future) and should thereby contribute my own pages to the aid so generously offered by others.

I think it's time I gave something back.

Something beyond poetry, short stories, play plots, bits of dialogue and description.

It's time to write a book.

If only to write instead of read on these sleepless, pleasant nights, and give my bound pages of fellows a break... and a new companion to join their stacks.

Ah, I love the smell of pavement in the morning...

Wet rain-soaked flagstones give off a particular scent. They glisten and reflect in their tiny grooves and crevices; sparkling up the sidewalk and cement that serves to frame their edges.

Something about the smell of wet rock, earth and trees is extremely attractive. Not, as it were, in the same way that chocolate chip cookies spreading thickly as they bake in the oven would, but in an open, extending universal way.

Cookies smell good in a close, bringing home, wrap you up way. Wet stone smells good in an expansive, free and let you out way.

The same way that the ocean calls to my senses, and the grass on the planes, and the balsam of the woods, and the dust of the horses.

This morning I went for my walk about 6:45 AM. There was an opalescent light glancing off the buildings trees and pavement. Something pearly and glowing - as a backdrop on a large main-stage would be if it were set for sunrise.

Everything outside had that wet smell to it that I love so much.

I remember that early mornings in Oklahoma were always Dad mornings.

No one else would be awake, (save the cats) but Dad would already be in the kitchen as I padded downstairs in my bare feet and pajamas. He'd step into the dining room and open the glass door to the back porch, his body warm as I approached, his blue robe framed in the first light of morning, a hot cup of English breakfast tea in his hand, his hair mussed from sleep.

Then, he'd turn to me and smile, while the first, fresh morning breeze blew through the trees and into the doorway where we were standing. With a wink, we'd close the back door and holding hands walk to the front, out onto the porch, our feet slapping silently on the cool flagstones. We'd pass the swing and head out along the front yard walkway, down the rough textured driveway to get the paper; waiting for us in it's plastic bag-- always with beads of water glinting like little glass jewels on the outside.

He'd chuckle and shake off the water and we'd walk in, usually with our yellow tabby female, K.C. winding between his legs.

I loved to smell the newspaper; the fresh ink was comforting and inspiring, same as the smell in books, or freshly sharpened pencils, with their gray, slippery, smudgy smell of lead.

The train went by on my walk this morning. I went a different route than I normally do; just because I felt like heading clockwise instead of counter clockwise around the block.

I walked into the coral gold backlit morning and just as I was getting to one of my favorite streets; the kind with sweet old houses, lampposts and big trees.  I happened to pause because the train was growing louder and louder on it's approach; booming in the whispery breeze of morning, competing with the birds and insects to announce it's awakening.

I reached the west side of the park, which has the tracks as a border on it's east side, just in time to hold my breath as the rumbling beneath my feet reached a climax.

The train burst through the atmosphere; lights flooding like circular fires behind glass as it came barreling through, it's hot whistle hollering loud and heavy, screaming the morning to any who could hear.

My Mimi used to live about a quarter mile from the train tracks... or if not that close or far, near enough.

I remember feeling the vibration as it went by; comforting, not far away, but not next to us either.

I love trains.

I would much rather travel by train than by plane. I also love boats. These older methods of travel have a romanticism about them; as though something exciting or magical could happen. Though I DO absolutely adore  the moment on a plane, when everything is quiet but the hum of the engines as you part the clouds and emerge from the misty gray-blue in to a world of clouds and sunlight covering everything. It's like flying through the sky of a painting.

This morning I walked home, with the train hurtling through, with the smell of sparkling wet pavement in my nostrils, with my Dad in my head.

I remembered what it was like to smell the pavement being 7 years old, followed by a ginger cat and swinging a heavy wet newspaper and I remarked upon how much I love mornings.

The stench opens up as a rotten egg will, when tipped down the food waste disposal...

"MMMMMph, don' wanna' get up..." J mumbled as the alarm went off for the 3rd time. I snuggled closer to his back, wrapping my arm around him so he'd be warmer.


The cats were already running around like crazed toddlers who've had too much juicy-juice, crying for their breakfast, after all, it was 6:06 AM for PETE'S SAKE, what did a body have to do around here to get a MEEEEEAL!


"Uuuuugh," he moaned as he rolled off the covers and slid out of bed. "You feel up to making breakfast this morning?" he said wistfully.


"Sure thing Honey," I yawned back at him, stretching and unsuccessfully wiping the sleep from my eyes. Hopping up I jerkily made the bedclothes and shuffled in to the bathroom to brush my teeth. J had beat me in there, and was tiredly wiping his face with a towel before slipping behind me back into the bedroom to grab a t-shirt.


My morning ablutions finished, I ambled into the kitchen, to see a pan already warming on the stove. 


"Thanks for washing the eggs!," I called to J, who seemed to be fumbling about on the back porch. A muffled "Welcome," came floating through the sounds of chicken feed being shucked into containers.


I had noticed that there were three freshly rinsed eggs in a bowl, and one sitting on a bit of paper, separate from the others. Suspicious of this, knowing J prefers only 3 eggs in the morning, I left the segregated ovum alone. 


The fork clinked in the bowl, as the three I'd chosen to demolish spun around the ceramic, blending into a yellow, viscous mixture. Setting it down, I scooped some coconut oil out of the jar, and flipped it into the pan. The delicious smell of coconut fat began filling the air of the kitchen. I poured the eggs in to the warm, buttery-like mess, where they began to sizzle pleasantly. I pinched a bit of sea-salt over them and went to throw the shells away.


"JEEBUS OBIE!" I exclaimed stepping into the laundry/utility room (where the large trash can resided) with a growl. Our large golden tabbied Maine Coon has a tendency to pull things from the laundry basket WITH HIM into the litter box. It's very exasperating. We don't know why he does it. 


Fishing out the cloth napkins floating in the pine pellets of the litterbox, and cursing quietly to myself ("Malevolent MOTHER TRUCKER!") I cleaned it out and put fresh litter in.  


Then standing up, and stepping back into the kitchen I smelled... something... browning... in an unpleasant manner... THE EGGS! 


"Oh no," I murmured frowning... J's eggs were nicely thickened into a fluffy omelet, that was turning golden brown underneath... way overdone for eggs. I flipped them over with a sigh, and grumbled about cats and napkins. 


Folding the omelette into quarters I surveyed the damage as I turned it out on to a plate. I set it in front of J, who began, bless him, to eat it anyway. 


"These are a bit... " he began.


"Overdone. I know. I'm sorry," I countered.


"I was going to say... chewy," He said grinning.


"Yes, well, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to," I tossed out grumpily, "what's up with that fourth egg anyway?"


"It just doesn't look right to me," he said "I'm going to throw it out."  I gave him a hug and began putting the dirty cups in the dishwasher. Then I plodded into the bedroom to grab a sweatshirt, before spooning his lunch into the thermos. I heard him over at the sink, the water running, the disposal on... wondering to myself what he was spinning down there, there was a loud crunchy noise, followed by the strong surging of water from the tap.


Handing him his lunch, I kissed him goodbye as he grabbed his bag and helmet. 


"Love you Darlin', see you this evening!" He said cheerfully with a kiss.


"Have a nice day," I said back. Then he left, forgetting the garbage on the porch. Oh well, it can wait a bit, I suppose.


Then I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbing my book, slipped outside to walk and read this morning. 


It was cold out, but only just. The gray fingers of the sun were barely beginning to come up. I sank onto the porch swing out front, and sipping my coffee began to read where I'd left off in one of my favorites, "Wuthering Heights."


Then, the wind picked up and after a quick self-debate I stepped back into the house... 


And was accosted...


by a HORRIBLE SMELL...


"Oh no... the lone egg..." I thought to myself.  As I approached the kitchen, the stench grew stronger. 


Grabbing my cell phone, I dialed J.


"Hiya Darlin', what's up?"


"Honey, where did you happen to put that funny looking egg?"


"Down the disposal," was the cheerful reply.


I groaned.


"Well Sweets, the whole house smells of rotten egg."


"Oh gosh! I'm sorry Darlin'. Maybe pour some apple cider vinegar down the sink?"


"I think we're out, but I'll try," I mumbled, "Love you."


"Love you too," he purred back. 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sometimes little innocent things explode...

Such as a mystery egg spinning down the disposal, cracking into a horrible, overflowing stink that permeates the air around it, rapidly spinning outwards in a cloud of awful, seeping into every room and filling every space with it's deadly perfume.

Just remember, that should a small, and seemingly insignificant thing crack and show it's true, stenchy colors, hang in there.

You might want to keep some lemons on hand too; to cleanse the putridity.

Also, they're damned helpful in making lemonade after a sour day.

Some days I feel like crying, don't matter if it's raiiiiin or shiiiiiine...

Everybody needs to be rescued sometimes.

Some days the world simply feels too overwhelming, to heavy and too vast.

It's on days like this that we appreciate the people in our lives who have enough compassion to understand, enough love to try, and enough courage to care.

Sometimes we don't realize we're even capable of receiving help. It's all too easy for a person to feel so utterly, completely and absolutely alone, that they're barely even able to ask for it.

Don't forget that you're NEVER alone.

Even when you feel pulled down into the depths of the deepest, scariest, most unknown vortex of yourself, you're not alone.

Feeling far away can be part of this too; not wanting to disrupt other's lives, or put the burden on someone else... the truth is, when you reach out, even if it's only for someone to listen, or talk 'normally,' to you for a while so you can feel some of the relief of the regularity of someone else's life--- that's what often times, is the exact thing one needs to anchor again.

Asking for help is the most brave thing a person can do. It's not weakness, it's strength. Knowing when to seek what you need--- STRENGTH. A person must be STRONG to do it.

I used to suffer by myself; I'm a sensitive, an all-too-energetically aware being. It's only been in the last 5 years or so that I realized exactly how things affect me in this life and this world; I'm still figuring some things out.

Everyone has a gray place, a dark place, a murkiness that hides behind the eyes and the heart.

It's one of the many things that makes us human, that makes us alive.

It's really hard to ask for help sometimes. Goddamned hard, but it's worth doing.

There are things that cannot be held, survived, contained or controlled alone. Some demons within are too great and a body needs backup to keep them at bay so they can be processed a little at a time.

There is not one kind of depression, sadness or fear. There are hundreds, thousands, millions. Every person has a different interpretation-- a different piece of puzzle.

You don't have to know exactly where someone is coming from to help. You have only to listen. To be present for them with love, compassion and patience.

No fixing. No taking over. Just listen to them-- it can help a person feel empowered, seen and loved, even if it's only for a moment. That little bit of hope and light - that's some times the difference between a body making it through, or succumbing to the pain, fear and deep.

No one is responsible for anybody but themselves - people can't be saved outwardly, they have to decide to save themselves, to do the work, and this is no easy task.

Remember to have patience for others and patience for yourself. It's no good to hold on to a pattern of behavior or belief system, that doesn't serve you as an individual. It's just like wearing an ill-fitting garment; horribly uncomfortable.

Please don't give up: on yourself, or someone else.

You don't have to remain constantly vigilant, but be open to someone who needs you, even if it's only for a 5 minute window to hear a friendly, comforting voice.

Depreciative judgement never helps. Of self, or of others when a trial appears. It makes things harder, more painful and clouded.

Honesty with one's self and others is what releases the hurt sometimes. It's okay to be scared and feel like a freak-- you're NOT one.

There's a quote, no one knows who it's really attributed to, but it goes like this:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.


Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.


It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.


We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?


Actually, who are you not to be?


Your playing small doesn't serve the world.


There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.


We are born to manifest the glory within us.


It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone. 


And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do to the same.


As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."




So, BE YOURSELF.

Warts and all, darkness and light, hard and easy; no depths are too deep, no height too disorienting.

Also, please don't forget: Someone loves you and cares whether you live or die. Please don't ever be afraid to ask for help.

This entry is dedicated to E: You are loved. <3