doesn’t get much better

my boy, my son, visited today and ate mom’s chocolate chip cookies with a glass of cold milk, we sat with his dad, the three of us, and babbled endlessly about matters of little importance to anyone but us,

his soccer game today, which was not attended by his daughter or wife on account of the level of—hmm—shall we say, “aggression”, and know that in fact it is a kind of stark violence not suitable for a toddler’s eyes, at least not when the player is her daddy,

now that would be scary for a wee one to comprehend,

the loud grunts, groans, cursing, falling, flailing,

angry faces, intensity, and so forth.

other leagues on which her daddy plays are suitable for family viewing.

not this particular one. many of these players are refugees from terrible wars where the combat on the soccer field truly resembles child’s play in comparison,

and some of the men have lost entire families, wives and children, to conditions that most of us cannot begin to imagine or to grasp the enormity of consequences,

hence, these soccer games are almost a form of worship, church attendance in a sense, a kind of reminder of their own humanity in spite of unbearable losses,

losing a game is nothing in comparison,

but still—

they give it their all, their hearts, their bodies, their spirits of complex emotions too problematic for understanding by otherwise non-battle-scarred folks.

so, my son came alone today to visit on this mother’s day, brought a funny card that made me smile and understand his still-shy love for difficult mom who nevertheless fought tooth and nail for him throughout his tender years.

he took the time to admire all my seedlings, to compliment my massive tulip bouquets, to eat my baked offerings with due respect and appreciation,

he’s letting his hair grow out a little, now, after going through that popular shaved-head phase of grad students, a phase which has always made me long for the days long, long ago when he was that little “hippie style” kid on the little league team, the boy with unbelievably long red hair, the boy that everyone identified by the color and length of his beautiful locks.

i hugged him too many times today, i’m sure, but there are some acts that must be forgiven in the big scheme of things. repeatedly hugging your grown son, that man taller than you, that massive mysterious man you will always think about with your heart rather than your head, the one you will secretly and forever sense is your baby boy, the infant for whom you waited eight long years in anticipation when you were determined to be a better mom the second time around, your baby,

your “love heart” as he called you when he was only 5,

the child who talked about god as if the two were best friends—before you had ever mentioned the word or the concept “god” in his presence, the man-boy whose current work takes him into dangerous and worrisome environments, the man who can calmly behave in a crisis when all others are losing their heads,

that kid,

that boy, the beautiful red haired child who confessed, at age 9, that sometimes he knew what events were going to happen before they actually happened,

a child who has some very unusual qualities and traits, which make him, at times, feel odd.

that’s when it feels good, to him, to come home again to mom and to dad.

we know.

we know he is not an oddity but an amazing individual.

how can a day which includes a visit from such a person, from the one person you know as your son, be anything less than awesome?

other diversions

spent the last 5 hours deadheading the spring bulbs

not even half way through this labor of love that some would call a chore

my living room’s adorned with vases of long stemmed pink tulips and

old glassware overflowing with sky-blue forget-me-nots and white narcissus

my kitchen table is graced by a bouquet of crimson tulips numbering in the dozens

today it is expected to reach 87 and by sunday, omg, 92

gee, folks, no global climate changes happening here, haha

if only the weeds would grow slower than the flowers

my crop of pumpkins (still in pots) appears to be dosing up on steroids

the funny thing about living hereabouts, though,

we could easily get another snow storm before the week is out

or at least a killing frost

if not, it appears i may have a bumper crop of apples and cherries

sadly, my sweet white peach (the second in 35 years) just became kindling

haven’t decided whether or not to replace it, again,

growing fruit trees and planting gardens

well, these are acts of a mad woman or maybe

just signals that all

hope has not yet been abandoned

unpredictable

life

we all know that

even the statice seeds are flourishing in their little window trays

i always plant far more than i can handle

it’s the one part of my existence

i suppose

that has been gifted to me in a kind of foresight of abundance

my visions of flowers and fruits to come

of bizarre gourds in spectacular forms and colors

blue corn the size just right for, say, smurfs,

all of it

a kind of insanity, of course,

if clearly seeing images of beauty-not-yet-born are forms of

hallucinatory power necessary to inspire continued life

then, yes, i accept the label of madness

in all its innocence

picture with me now, if you dare, fields of snapdragons

row after row of sun flowers

red sun, chianti hybrid, evening sun mix, mammoth russian,

even the seeds packed for 1998,

heirloom variety love-lies-bleeding

have come forth to show me the way to everlasting

redemption, apparently,

if ever a body needed to be shown the possibility for future promise

this is the woman who needed a slim sign of potential

goodness to come

someday i will learn how to post photographs of these

lovelies

that yet another may witness in living color the miracle of everlasting life

recreated by a garden in motion

brought to life and sustained by some unseen forces

calling forth to us all

no need for title

presently i am coping, which means only that i am still alive and functioning in some minimal ways that are not healthy for me, from an objective standpoint yet are not at this time unhealthy

enough to lead to my imminent demise. i guess that’s saying something.

i am also listening at the moment to a crow screeching outside my window. its voice mirrors my current state of mind, perhaps, as one who calls frantically for aid without hope of any meaningful exchange.

still. i woke praying to some god-being-thing in whom i have no actual trust or belief—now, that speaks of desperation, no doubt, and i am even calling out in silence for help, from time to time throughout the day, when i remember, just in case.

at the bottom of this well of loneliness and dread is, of course, a survivor of severe trauma. are there other kinds? (not so severe?) i’ve not wanted to claim it (trauma survivor) as an identity, believing that if i do not name it fully or take it on as mine, then somehow i can escape the full intensity of its legacy.

the increased adipose tissue is not helping—so much for my half baked theories—and i had forgotten how uncomfortable it feels to eat more than one desires, well, unless we’re talking ice cream…my body feels invaded now, stuffed with NOT-ME, which may be more reflective of how i often felt as a child. so. not good.

also. i’ve begun self medicating while waiting for a long over due shipment of prescription meds. sent the script off OVER a month ago, and the pharmacy (which my insurance insists on using if i desire any reimbursement) claims that the manufacturer is causing the delay.

and yet i cannot help but wonder if the longing for meaning, my longing, tells me all i need to know, tells me that i cannot continue to exist under conditions of meaninglessness, and, therefore, the impulse is enough. it is enough to need that intangible essence or that mysterious source of that which we commonly understand as power.

as usual, i have no firm answers. not even flimsy answers. i have only more questions, more desperation, more hope, perhaps more hopelessness. i’m not so sure that i would recognize the difference anyway.

more seeds

i’m obsessed.

no point in denying it and no point in trying to hide it from my writing here.

not only did i discover statice seeds, which are already about an inch tall in their seed tray,

but, get this, OMG, (a veritable FEAST for a seed addict of my type):

my local farm store had the following seeds, which of course i purchased

post haste,

1. blue miniature ornamental maize
2. mini ornamental  corn (3″ to 5″ ears) in “light and dark colors of red, blue, white, yellow and purple
3. gourd, small fancy mix
4. daisy gourd in shades of yellow, green, white (resembling a daisy)
5. birdhouse gourd (oh. my. lord.)
6. poppy bread seed “hungarian blue”

They also had a million pots on sale, which i resisted, and my life is now complete after obtaining these particular seeds. Don’t ask me to explain, for there’s no logic in my choices.

There is only emotion and mouth watering anticipation.

Today I flung weeds like a lunatic bound for hell.

Sometimes my insanity takes the form of growing things. This is obviously one of those years. Stay tuned for updates on the growth progress.

My life will never be the same.

P.S. post publish note: Cinco de Mayo update…as to the latter seed listed, #6 seed pack for any of you dedicated worry warts–not unlike me, duh–I’ve been assured that the poppy seeds produced will indeed yield an amount suitable to garnish my infamous bagels but would require about 10,000 more packets of seeds and subsequent full-grown plants (not to mention fully tilled acreages) to produce enough poppies for anything resembling actual opium production capable of getting a gerbil intoxicated, let alone a human being. LOL. Rest assured, I am a flower junkie, not the other kind.

slumber bliss

right now i’m struggling with my self identity and my social identity and

i recognize that another aspect of myself, or perhaps another ego state has

emerged from the months of fear and uncertainty that i’ve felt.

it’s almost like another personality has emerged, but not quite that

sharp of a division between the former and the current—more fluid,

i suppose, and still…

i recognize the differences, the strange and somewhat false sense of

confidence accompanying my daily existence.

the second half of my nights (sleep-wise) are terribly haunted by dreams

that come with short bursts of so-called sleep,

and night sweats that resemble those of a malaria victim

whereby i become chilled then overheated and drenched in sweat

all the while tossing and turning so much that my partner

cannot sleep in the same bed with me and the covers become twisted

and tangled and entangled with my body so that i awaken as if

trapped by ropes binding me, except i am merely wrapped in my own

bed sheets to the point of not being able to move.

my poor old cat (who once slept beside my young son) attempts to

accompany me throughout my bizarre unreality of movement and

climate change, hot cold hot cold hot cold

etc, but she must be a saint from a previous existence to put up with

the shenanigans i go through in my determination to snatch a few

precious hours of sleep. i often fear that i shall roll over and crush her

abruptly because she is so small (no, i shall not think long about her aging body that

sustains me much like the mediums of witches from earlier mythology),

and i am swept up with pleasure by the mystery wanderer, the stray hen who

has found her way into our midst, a wild thing she is, a present from nature

much like the pheasants or the meadow larks or the red tailed hawks

(the latter of which, by the way, have STILL not settled on the most

appropriate place to build this year’s nest for their young-uns, an ongoing

argument, it seems, according to my undoubtedly perverse interpretation

of their morning calls),

and one more peculiar thing i want to announce here

just in case i am not

crazy and perhaps another mother has heard the call of some migrating

bird species that seems to be saying, on early morns,

“pucci for girls! pucci for girls”,

except in my own mind i hear them calling:

“pucci for gels”—in the manner that my own young daughter was prone

to (mis)verbalize these words, no doubt heard by her originally on some

saturday morning cartoon commercial for the little pink and white

stuffed puppies that so captivated that generation at about the

time that Care Bears first became the rage.

pucci for gels! pucci for gels!

i wonder what the species of wild winged creature now takes me back

a quarter century or so to the time when my own sweet “gel”

believed in the power of fuzzy fake animals to keep her safe

throughout her slumbering nights.

i wonder

when i was four and the world seemed like an impossibly horrible place

did i hear the meadow larks calling to each other in the spring?

when i was five and the world seemed like a bizarre site of constant terror

did i taste the sweetness of the peaches i picked from back yard trees

while the juice ran down my chin?

when i was six and the world felt like a stupid joke created by the devil

himself did i wonder why this place can make a regular human

being transform into a different type of species

that is, did i realize that my existence was already doomed

not because the world was bad but because the people with

power did not have even the hint of a clue?

two more films

The Yellow Handkerchief

Submarine

Both available on Netflix Instant for those occasions when life feels too much. Or when you need an excuse to make a giant batch of popcorn.

The former reminds you that it is never too late for romantic love, even when both people are obviously imperfect—and imperfectly matched.

The latter makes you laugh with recognition for all the fantasies you concocted during your formative years when the object of your affections (a girl or boy) and the state of your parent’s relationship often struggled for priority in terms of your attention, and the conflicts between between family loyalty (in my case, insane attempts to save my family—parents and brothers and self—from inevitable destruction) and the desire to abandon my family to its own horrifying circle of hell caused juvenile delinquents (like me) to act out our noble causes with sincerity and stupidity. But mostly with innocent shenanigans.

The first film is a lovely independent romantic drama with endearingly flawed characters, set in the contemporary American south, post hurricane Katrina. The latter is set in Wales, a land of enchanting scenery and beguiling people who remind you of actual human beings you briefly knew as a teenager but may have forgotten about until now.

Enjoy!