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Mother’s Day is coming soon, and I’ve been thinking about  my mother’s pies.

She made them regularly after she retired. She made a wide variety, mostly fruit.

To name a few: gooseberry pie, apple pie, peach pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and rhubarb pie.

Her crusts were always home made and hand rolled with a rolling pin. She was an expert.

Recently I’ve been going through all my family pictures. My mother had many glamour pictures taken throughout her life. Though, the picture I was seeking was of her in her early seventies proudly displaying some rhubarb stalks that she had grown.

My mother was never one to sit for long. She always wanted to be moving and doing.

This picture captures her essence that I remember most fondly.

 

Tributaries of a monster river can wander away into the woods and form reflecting pools.

Some move ever so slowly; they can appear still to the undiscerning eye.

Water loving trees find their way to the river’s edge. Seedlings can root in the byways of the wandering tributaries.

Their roots sink deep into the mud, and they grow beside these reflecting pools. Some roots can grow so big and strong they can break rock.

To an observer the line between the real and reflected can become blurred.

Angels in Water

I took this picture long ago. I am thankful for my creative eye and my sense of whimsy.

Now I am thankful for my sense of humor because this makes me laugh.

Seriously, I am more thankful for my husband and my daughter. They keep me grounded in reality.

Time marches on.

I am thankful that this Thanksgiving I am learning to trust my faith again.

I hear Moana singing and I think of spirals and tunnels. The sound waves echo around and around and it takes me down a time tunnel, from radio waves to gamma waves to thoughts of ships and anchors, then back to Hawaiian surf boards.

The ocean has been a constant in my life. I was born on an island in the tropics. We moved away before I got to know it. My father learned to sail there, though I don’t remember this.

We moved to a North Pacific coastal town and then onward to a North Atlantic coastal town. Both coasts had beaches. At five we traveled on an ocean liner from the North Pacific Ocean to the South China Sea.

I learned about banana trees, monsoons, and whole roasted pigs with apples in their mouths, and chocolate covered ants. Before we left the South China Sea I learned about rock gardens and tea ceremonies, and kimonos.

At eight we moved back to the Pacific coast, and lived on a Naval base. I learned about war and absent fathers. My brother listened to The House of the Rising Sun, the Beach Boys, and the Doors. I learned how to macrame and play piano. My sister chose the flute.

By the time I was twelve we had settled in the Mid-Atlantic. We became anchored inland, no longer on a coast. Decades passed, we all went off to college. I was the only one to return home and back into my parent’s daily life. Soon after my return my parents split away from one another. My life became divided.

Eventually both my parents passed. My siblings have not returned since then. The past is now the past.

My life has moved on. My vision still works, and I live from day to day anchored in the present. This past summer I bought an anchor T-shirt. It serves as a symbol of my past and both my parents who had worn gold anchors on their lapels. I don’t wear it every day, only now and then, and as the weather chills it will be put away until the weather warms again.

 

 

 

 

Sitting in the sun today, I had thoughts of an abalone half shell. Long ago I had inherited a lovely old basket full of show shells. This is how the abalone came into my possession.

I remembered how the abalone’s color sparkled in the sun. The pastel pink and sea-foam green of its inner side blended naturally. Its outer shell was encrusted with evidence of a past life where other life forms had snugly attached themselves to it.

I knew nothing of its personal past. I just knew it had to have lived a past life in a distant sea. Either a diver or a stormy surf must have brought it up to shore. It wore nature’s artistry with a humble modesty.

One day I had decided to showcase it in a miniature garden I was making. It sat among an array of miniature plants. Since the plants were within their element of soil, they flourished and became overgrown. The abalone was in an alien habitat, and it could not compete. It sank into the soil as the plants took over.

Today my memory of it sent me searching for it. When I found it I saw no evidence of its pastel pink and sea foam green. All its vivid color was covered over with a dark rich soil embedded in its every crevice. I cleaned it out and washed it with a mild soap. I’ll have to soak it in a bowl of water to see if I can bring back its former glory.

 

 I am a spiral, not a braid. I can twirl and curl, spring and stretch.

A braid is always holding hands within. It is always neat and well-behaved.

Step on to my spiral spinner. I will wind you up, then let you go.

I hope you are a ballet or disco dancer or have an iron stomach.

Stand tall and hold your ground for the dizzying motion can throw you down.

 

Numbers bounce. Words sink. Periods stay.

A rhyme can soar while reason stumbles.

Numbers rumble, roll, and tumble.

Words mix and match. The meanings get lost.

Interpreters, translators, and liaisons are at a loss.

There is no script or cipher. All the symbols cry and defy.

We will not stand on the spot, hang on the peg,

Or step in the hole. You cannot order us.

The dreamy days of summer are coming to a close. All the random thoughts that like to cycle through my head will have to take a back burner.

The reality of  paid work will be upon me next week. Year round I’m a caregiver to my adult daughter. There is one continuous season to this work, and I am the boss.

Naturally when someone else pays you, they are the boss. And bosses have bosses. Such is the living and working in the real world.

I’m actually looking forward to getting out of my head, and getting involved again with the education of the young people in my community.

This work definitely keeps me grounded, and helps me to sharpen my communication skills with young people.

I have a tendency to think with outdated words.  I need to keep updating myself with the language of today.

We all want to hold onto time, and yet, time is a concept with abstract words.

What exactly do we want to hold onto?

A snapshot of our life, a state of being, a permanent situation. A chance to make a difference or a chance to make more money. Staying young becomes a quest.

We all want more time to fill our days and nights with business, pleasure, and even ecstasy. We all compete for more time. We don’t want to believe it is all a ruse.

In the long run all  will dim and most will be forgotten. Life is inherently impermanent. As individuals we perish, as a collective group we sustain our species for a little while longer. Life as we know it will eventually end.

The clouds can hold onto time in suspended animation. However, one cannot really live in an animated state.

In the meantime, let’s celebrate the ones we love and give thanks for the passage of time. If time didn’t pass for us we would just be river stones.