Reflections

Sorry to borrow the title for this post from you, Cynthia, but it was exactly the right word.

I do apologize for obsessing about the Poem A Day thing, but I have truly been obsessed with it for this entire month.  It has been a mental challenge, and a good one.  I think that by doing it I have worked through some things: my feelings of regret and sorrow over this move - the anger with myself that I have had for the past four years since we did it, grief over the deaths and losses that have happened during this time.  The way I have hated being here, refused to open myself up to the good things about this place and our life here.  Days spent mostly in the yard cleaning up gardens, welcoming spring, planning what I'll do in the gardens once this cataract surgery business is over and I can see clearly, work freely - these have been days spent thinking poetry all the time.  I write in my head for the most part, no words get processed or put on paper until they have flowed through my mind for quite a while, been discarded, rearranged, reimagined.  So the birds, trees, flowers, dirt, weeds, and compost have been my companions and inspiration for most of the month. I could only wish that it had been possible to take a beach walk now and then.  But walks along the river have substituted pretty well.

Right now I'm hoping to be able to do the last two prompts, for days 29 and 30.  Twenty nine, tomorrow, should still be possible - but as I'll have the first (left eye) cataract surgery on Friday, a poem for the thirtieth may have to wait a few days.  The doctor's office can't seem to tell me (they say they won't know until the first checkup, on Saturday morning) whether I'll be able to read and write well enough to use the computer.  The final part of this is choosing my five best efforts to send in to Robert Lee Brewer before May 5th.  I've been working on trying to make this choice - and it's not easy.  There are clearly quite a few that I won't choose, but the truth is that there are more than five that I feel pretty good about.  Anyone who'd like to help with this choice is welcome to go to Poetic License and leave your opinion. It would be doing me a big favor. 

New Home For My Poetry Challenge Efforts.

I thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be that this month is almost over.  Thirty poems in thirty days.  And we're only on number 26 right now.  Moving these poems around from place to place has been almost as exhausting as writing them in the first place.  Finally what I have done is create a whole new blog for them, it's called Poetic License and it's here.

Unfortunately it starts with Day 1 and goes on chronologically to the current effort.  But, if you know where you stopped reading them, you can just look in the sidebar and find your place.  This is the very last fooling around with this I'm going to do, and I want to thank the faithful few who have been reading my attempts at this Challenge.  And welcome any newcomers. 

In Defense Of Looking Back

The Poem A Day Challenge rages on, and there's still a week to go.  I have been keeping up, though not publicly posting my efforts.  There is one prompt I haven't been able to write from - though I am still working on it. After agonizing for the first couple of weeks, I realized that thirty poems couldn't all be torn from my heart, and I might as well have some fun now and then. So, I had fun with yesterday's prompt, which was either "Looking Back" or "Not Looking Back."  I got very maudlin with a couple of attempts, personally and regretfully looking back, but then as I was pruning the big Russian Sage out front, one of story-telling's most famous lookers-back popped into my mind.  And this is the result:

In Defense of Looking Back

Don’t look at me like that.

I know you think me cowardly,

Call me slow and weak.

If you had ever loved this way

You would have done the same.

Half mad with grief and loss

All I wanted was to touch her,

Look at her once more.

I thought I’d saved her from the Underworld.

I didn’t know the fury of the gods.

How could I not look back?

On Vision

I was browsing through my old private AOL Journal (exported to Blogger  - or should that be imported? - when AOL Journals closed) yesterday, and happily came across this poem by Lisel Mueller that I had included in a post there.  I'm not sure why I included it then, except that I loved it, and had seen an exhibit of Monet's paintings from his old age in New Orleans some years ago - the poem helped me understand the paintings, made me love Monet even more. I'm not sure how historically based the poem may be - much of what I've read tells me he struggled against the growing blurriness of vision and loss of color perception caused by his cataracts.  In any case, I know I'm certainly struggling with mine. As a visual artist Monet was dependent on his vision, but he used even his aberrant perception in his waning years to put his impressions on canvas.  It was his loss of color more than loss of the sharp outlines that distressed him; But I'm finding it very hard to live without those edges.  My opthamologist tells me I probably won't have to wear glasses for distance vision after the operations, and perhaps only nonprescription reading glasses.  It all seems much too amazing to believe, for someone who's worn glasses for almost sixty years - since she was seven years old, and now wears bifocals. It's interesting to note that Claude Monet did have The Operation, in 1923, three years before his death.


Monet Refuses The Operation

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

Lisel Mueller

  

The Eyes Will Have It

I don't know if spring has been the death of blogging for me, or if I should blame it on Facebook.  Or the Poem A Day Challenge.  Whatever the cause, my impetus to blog has been in serious death throes for a while now.  The end of the term is of course another likely culprit.  Facebook has been a real entertainment, but it's beginning to wane.  Spring calls me out of the house every day until the day gets too hot, to get things cleaned up, weeded, cut back, planted, ad infinitum.  It is so utterly spring here now, the fresh green leaves of the big cottonwood outside the kitchen window greet me every morning and make me smile even before I get the coffee going. The redbud and the lilacs are glorious right now, irises blooming a rich deep purple.  I just cut the remainder of my winter greens, some chard and spinach, for a stirfry tonight.

I won't be able to do much in the garden, at least of the bending, stooping, lifting sort (and what other sort is there?) for a while soon, as the next milestone on my life journey is coming up in two weeks.  I've been procrastinating about an eye doctor visit much too long, but very aware how blurry my vision was becoming.  I thought I just needed new glasses.  But no, I need new eyes. And so, I'm having cataract surgery, both eyes, one eye at a time, the first one on the thirtieth of this month.  Everyone tells me I'll be so happy once it's over, that it's like a miracle, and other exuberant forms of propaganda, but I'm fairly freaked out about it nonetheless.  Blog readers who have already been through this - I'd love to hear your experiences.  One of my sisters has had one eye done, and she is in the "it's like a miracle" camp, and she doesn't suffer medical procedures lightly.  I dreamed last night that I found an old pair of glasses in some stuff I was going through, and they were perfect, I could see absolutely clearly and was so happy because it meant I wouldn't need to have the cataracts removed.  Perhaps the glasses stand for the lenses I'll have IN my eyes once it's all over, or perhaps it's just about how nervous I am.   (Cross-posted to Women On)

Now We Wait And See

So, today it finally happens - the hummingbird feeders go up.  Or at least a couple of them.  I'll wait until I see some hummers actually on the first feeders before I put all of them up.  The black-chins are first, and have already been observed in the area.  It's still so cold at night and in the mornings that if they're here they really need the supplemental nutrition of feeders in order to survive. The plants that offer up their usual source of nectar are not yet blooming, or certainly not here in my yard; so really for these early birds the feeders people hang will be the only source of energy for a while.  And boy, do these little guys need energy. This site is really your best source of information for all things hummingbird.  I find I refer to it constantly throughout the summer as questions occur to me.  Just took this photo of my feeder and my darling redbud tree.

Later the same day:  Thinking of the hummers must have been an inspiration.  I've been struggling with Day 8 of the Poem A Day Challenge since yesterday morning.  Knew where I was going, but couldn't figure out just how to get there. I think I've got it now, this afternoon.

Vuelo De Las Brujas, by Franciso de Goya Y Lucientes PAD #6

Although I wasn't going to post any more of these on this actual blog, I can't help but share this one here.  The prompt at first made me say "OK, this is the day I give up."  Here it is:
"For this prompt, write an ekphrastic poem. According to John Drury's The Poetry Dictionary, ekphrastic poetry is "Poetry that imitates, describes, critiques, dramatizes, reflects upon, or otherwise responds to a work of nonliterary art, especially the visual." So, I've provided links to two pieces of art, and I want you to pick one (or both) to write an ekphrastic poem. (It would be helpful for you to mention which art you picked.)"

1. Pocahontas, by Annie Leibovitz
2. Flight of the Witches, by Francisco de Goya     

Could any two pictures be more different?  Egad.  But clearly, Goya is the one to write about, if writing there will be. Once I started it became surprisingly easy. Even fun.

The Witches Entertainment

There is no moon tonight
and cloudcast hides the stars.
Put on your hats, my beauties,
soon we ride
skyclad
across the  darkling Spanish plain,                     
seeking louts who wander
from the taverns in the town
wanting only
the warmth of their own beds,
fire on the hearth,

a sodden night of sleep
too drunk for dreams.

We shall remake them
fly them,
dumb creatures of the earth,
to ecstasy and terror in our arms.
By hidden light of dark day stars
cross tossing stormy seas
to visit cannibals
eaters of human hearts.
Then drop them
bloody, riven, gnawed
through forest leaves.

They will hear music
played by monsters
around a ring of fire
deep within the midnight trees
dance with us
strange sisters,
then sleep
abandoning despair.
From unreasoning sleep awakening
 they will not remember.
Will not care

In The Garden

Damn this Poem A Day Challenge, it's kept me in the house for far too long.  So, I spent this morning in the yard, and going right back out there while I can. I've been watering everything; the back is done but I need to get out into the front before the winds start blowing.  We are under a wind advisory for the afternoon, and it is supposed to be almost eighty. Not weather to encourage shy young sprouts. The redbud tree is starting to blossom, and the irises we freeloaded when a neighbor thinned hers out two years ago are finally going to bloom.  I think there are things that didn't make it through the winter, but I'm waiting a while longer to be sure. I don't know if it's too cold here for the salvia leucantha, but none of them seem to be showing signs of life.

I was surprised when we moved out here in spring of 2006 to see the profusion of lilacs blooming everywhere in ABQ and Santa Fe.  There was one small and stunted lilac in our backyard, which has only had a few blooms in the intervening years.  This year it is entirely covered with buds, covered, I tell you, and it, along with the irises, is giving me a reason to live a while longer. Okay, and also I saw my first tiger swallowtail in the front yard yesterday afternoon.  Black-chinned hummers have been sighted in the Bosque, so I have to look out my feeders, get some filled and hung on the patio.  Too busy to go to work, it looks like - spring has sprung.

Re The Poetry Page - Updated

 April 22 Update.  I've taken down the Poetry Page, and am putting my Poem A Day Challenge poems in my private blog.  If you're interested in reading them, please leave me a comment and I'll invite you to that blog.  It was too messy to try to put them all on one Page. 

Now that I've come entirely out of the Poetry Closet, and you know the secret vice I have practiced in that closet from the time I first learned to write, I will disclose that in my list of Pages in the sidebar to this blog there is a page called "Poetry."  I posted some of my previous poetry on it, but then didn't have the nerve to show it in the Pages list.  Now I have decided to use it for however many of these Poem A Day challenge prompts I can write something for.  Days 1 and 2 have gone there, with some revisions; and Day 3 is also there.  Day 3's prompt goes like this: "take the phrase "Partly (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and then write the poem. For instance, your poem might be titled "Partly Cloudy," "Partly Crazy," "Partly Out of Touch," or whatever,"  Or whatever indeed. It was hard for me until I looked around my house with a open inner eye - and then it simply wrote itself. 

Poem A Day Challenge, Day 2

It's pretty unlikely that I'll be able to keep up with this challenge as the month proceeds.  Right now I'm Home Alone on a long holiday weekend, with nothing much else to do but keep the home fires burning, read, noodle around on the internet....and write poetry. Real Life will return with a vengeance all too soon. So I'm taking advantage of this time to do this writing.  And already I'm a day behind!!  Yesterday's prompt was "water," something that I think about a lot here in this dry land.  I've written several responses to this prompt, but this is the one I think I'll keep.  The subject of this poem, BTW, is a real place.  See it here.

Leonora Curtin Wetland Preserve

It hasn’t rained for months.
The Santa Ana winds
Are blowing dust and grit
Into every pore and cranny
of furniture and skin.
The mountains
have been invisible for days,
cloaked in wind and dust.
My lettuce seedlings in the backyard struggle,
 need water twice a day.

Yet I know, not far away
there is a miracle,
a place for rehydration of my
dried out desert soul.
Pocket wetland,  eye of water,
waving cattails, lily pads.
rushes, reeds and ferns.
All the thirsty green things
find home and shelter here.
Even in the hottest days of summer
 the air is damp and green,
 alive with forbs and flowers, nodding willows,
butterflies and birds.
Bullfrogs wallow in the shallows
at the edges of the pond,
bask on rafts of rotted vegetation,
under hovering damselflies.
High desert miracle of hidden wetland,
 watercress and cactus side by side.

Still About The Poetry

So yes, National Poetry Month.  Several of my friends in this virtual world are poets, and quite good ones at that. I had been planning to post about the Poem a Day challenge that is part of celebrating the month, but didn't get to it fast enough, and some of these blogging friends have already leapt into the fray. The challenge is on the Poetic Asides group at Writer's Digest. Robert Lee Brewer has the Guidelines, the prompts and his own daily attempts. Yesterday's prompt was "Lonely" and here is my shot at this topic:

Still in my pajamas on Good Friday afternoon,
Under the portal,
watching white-winged doves
 blown across the powerlines on Santa Ana winds,
helpless as leaves or straw.
 Two thousand miles of mountain chains and prairies
Away from everyone I love,
Sorting through the morning mail,
listening to the wind,
Waiting for the phone to ring.

Two others who are writing for this Challenge are Theresa of the blog Theresa Williams Author, Exile Edition, who has posted her first day's poem, and Cynthia of Sorting the Pieces with this lovely essence of "lonely" Haiku. We are already on the second day now, and the prompt is "Water."  I will be following Theresa and Cynthia as they write their way through the month.  If you join in this poetic fun, please leave a comment and let us know so we can follow you as well.

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month:  "a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern. We hope to increase the visibility and availability of poetry in popular culture while acknowledging and celebrating poetry’s ability to sustain itself in the many places where it is practiced and appreciated."

At the Academy website there are many different ways you can participate in the enjoyment and propagation of poetry in this country, from signing up to receive a poem a day from Poets.org, to finding coming events honoring the poets and poetry of your own state on the National Poetry Map.  For instance, when I clicked on New Mexico, I found this perfect poem by a poet whom I do not know at all, John Balaban:

Passing Through Albuquerque    

At dusk, by the irrigation ditch
gurgling past backyards near the highway,
locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods.

A Spanish girl in a white party dress
strolls the levee by the muddy water
where her small sister plunks in stones.

Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car
men are pitching horseshoes in a dusty lot.
Someone shouts as he clangs in a ringer.

Big winds buffet in ahead of a storm,
rocking the immense trees and whipping up
clouds of dust, wild leaves, and cottonwool.

In the moment when the locusts pause and the girl
presses her up-fluttering dress to her bony knees
you can hear a banjo, guitar, and fiddle

playing "The Mississippi Sawyer" inside a shack.
Moments like that, you can love this country.

This poem evokes an Albuquerque of years gone by, although I know for a fact that this version of it still exists in the Hispanic enclaves of the south Valley. So, who is this guy? I asked myself after I read the poem. A little searching brought me a lot of information about Balaban, and now I am embarking on a search for more of his work.  He's an amazing human being, as well as a fine poet, as this interview from TriQuarterly makes clear. So, there you are.  One brief visit to the National Poetry Month site, and I'm off on a new poetic adventure. With a reason to crawl used bookshops' poetry sections, one of my favorite occupations.

Feast Day at Laguna Pueblo

A short post on the final event of the week of spring break.  On Thursday of that week, my friend Maryam and I headed west early enough in the morning to get home to Albuquerque by dinnertime that evening. We drove the rented Ford Escape like bats out of hell, while listening to a couple of audio books I'd brought with me from the library.  It's quite surprising how much faster an audio book can make a trip.  On my way from ABQ to Dallas I listened to most of a not-terrific mystery by Lisa Scottoline, and although she's no one I have to read more of, it certainly made the miles fly by. It was wonderful though to have live human company as well as a recorded voice on the trip home, someone to pass the trail mix bag across the seats and take turns pumping gas.  We had already caught up on news and gossip while I was in Dallas, so we could enjoy listening to stories, Maryam knitted while not driving, and I just vegged when she drove.  Knitting is not in my bag of tricks.  Alas.

Friday we had a power breakfast in order to last through what had the possibility of being a long day; and drove west on I40 to the pueblo of Laguna for the big spring feast day, March 19, Feast of St. Joseph.  Joseph is the patron saint of the pueblo, and all the villages belonging to this pueblo come together to celebrate with dancing and feasting on this day.  My partner, Gail, works with a woman who is from the pueblo, and she, her daughter and mother were to be dancing in the festivities.  The idea of Catholic saints as patrons of the pueblos is perhaps startling to many, but is really no different than what happened all over the Old World when missionaries started converting the tribes and peoples of those times and places: a rich mixture of ancient spirituality was taken in and became part of the new Christian religion.  There is currently an exhibit at the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center here in Albuquerque that features this tradition here in New Mexico: Saints of the Pueblos will be on display through next year and is worth a couple of visits.

We arrived at Laguna in time to watch a good deal of the morning dancing, in weather that flipflopped between bright sunshine and rain showers.  When the dancers broke for lunch, we found Gail's friend Kim and her family, and were invited to follow them to the house where they were going to eat lunch.  Once we had set foot through the doorway, we were automatically part of the lunch crowd.  As our hostess Julia said: "If you come into my house on this day, you stay and eat in my house."  So, of course we did.  We felt quite honored to be included, eating with the dancers in their beautiful regalia.  After lunch we thought we would be able to see more dancing, but soon after we left the shelter of Julia's home, a huge wind came up, whipping the dust and sand into our eyes, forcing the vendors to start taking down their booths and tents.  The wind soon brought stinging hail and freezing rain out of the scary black clouds that had been threatening (see photos), and we three decided to give up and head home.  Taking pictures of the dancers, or the pueblo in general is not allowed, but it is possible to take pictures of the church.  This Mission Church of San José de Laguna is three hundred years old, and is the heart of the pueblo.  I wish I had been able to take photos of the lovely paintings on the inside walls of the church, but had to content myself with the exterior only. We drove home in rain, hail, even some snow, in a wind which made keeping the car on the road a real challenge.

The santero, Charles M. Carrillo,  who created the retablos in the exhibit mentioned above also has a book by the same name as the exhibit, Saints of the Pueblos, where he explores this topic in depth.  I think I may have to buy it and get a little better informed on the Pueblos and their Santos.  There will be more feast days ahead, and hopefully once we retire ((soon, very very soon) we can have the time to explore many more of them.

Barn Owl Box Livestreaming Video, Updated

I posted on this yesterday, but have found more info and have continued to watch the nest. Annoyingly enough, I
still can't embed the code for this, but there are now five babies, no, four babies, one unhatched egg, in the box, Magee the daddy owl is very much in evidence, and it continues to be amazing. The Owl Box.

These are barn owls in San Marcos, CA.  They have become famous through the live streaming webcam placed in their box by a guy named Carlos Royal.  Learn more about Molly and Magee at their website, Molly's Box. 

More good stuff from Earth and Sky here.

Spring Break in Dallas

My spring break trip to Dallas was fun, but a disappointment in terms of seeing any wildflowers.  It was much too early for the areas of north Texas  I drove through as well as for Dallas itself.  An Austin friend tells me the flowers are really coming out now, and the blog Homesick Texan is asking on Facebook for folks to send in their photos. This is the time I am really a Very Homesick Texan, wishing I had the time for another trip over the border and down to the Hill Country, or to East Texas, to glory in the miracle of a Central Texas spring. But my class continues, and then come my cataract surgeries - so I'll have to say "maybe next year." By next spring Gail and I should both be truly retired, able to roam as and when and where we like. (Bluebonnet photo from Homesick Texan Facebook page)

Despite the wildflower disappointment, I enjoyed my nieces and a great meal at Gloria's with friends. Most of a day spent at the Dallas Arboretum's spring event Dallas Blooms was spiritually improving, although it was a little early even there.  And the crowds were astounding.  In truth I enjoy a visit to the Arboretum on a day without an ongoing event, just wandering through the various gardens, pools, copses, and of course the gift shop, without throngs of visitors everywhere. Here's a few photos from my day of tiptoeing through the tulips - and what Gail thought was a giant rat is in fact Ferdinand The Bull, smelling a bouquet of flowers.

Twelve Step Recovery Program Desperately Needed.

I asked for help when I first signed on to Facebook, but now I need a twelve step program (surely there are some?) to rescue me from its alluring clutches.  Life has disappeared into a sinkhole of roving the net, searching for former students, family members, guests from our days of running a bed and breakfast on Cape Cod, high school and college classmates, friends from all over the planet, both Real and Virtual, and catching up with their lives, which it is possible to do minute by minute in fact  After two and a half weeks on the damn thing, I have sixty five friends, some requests still unrequited, and I can't stop searching.  I've fallen and I can't get up!!!  I notice that some folks, mostly young people, have two or three hundred "friends" on their lists.  How is this possible?  I'm sixty-six years old and I don't think I've known that many people in my whole life.  How can my nineteen-year-old niece have 322 Facebook friends? The grand-daughter who has only been on the planet thirteen years have 122?  See?  I'm obsessed.  Look at me, using one Internet application, Blogger, to write about another one, Facebook.

While my garden goes unweeded, real  friends in real time and space uncontacted, phone calls unreturned, lesson plans left hanging.  My name is Mary Ellen and I have become an addict.  Gonna go to Facebook and search for a recovery program.  But first, if you're not already there, will you please sign up to be my Friend?

Poem For The Gift of Rain

Night Rain, Late March

Awake at two a.m.

and then again,

three-thirty,  eyes wide open,

under comforters and cats.
Listening to nocturnal blessing of

rain pounding on the hallway roof,

dripping into barrels just

outside my bedroom window.

The rain we haven't heard all winter,

falling through gravel mulch,
dry drifts of autumn leaves.
Soaking deep into roots of

cottonwood and olive.

Pores of the earth

drinking in the clouds,

the snowmelt

from the mountains miles away.

It may rain all night

on river, gardens, roof.
But there is purring at my shoulder.

I fall asleep til dawn.

Checking In

Home from Texas; drove back from Dallas with our friend Maryam, in time to go out to Laguna Pueblo on Friday for the Feast Day dancing.  We took her to the airport yesterday, and now it's time to get down to real life, no more fun and games - back to work, gotta go grocery shopping, not a thing but beans and eggs in the house, doing laundry this morning. More on both trips, Dallas and Laguna, maybe tomorrow.

After the sunshine and flowers in Dallas we were surprised by yet another spring snowstorm here on the weekend.  But then, it moved on to Texas too. What a strange year. Today it will be seventy, then Tuesday night another storm will blow in, quite possibly bringing yet another round of snow.  Great for the mountains and the skiers, and I must admit to gratitude for the moisture it brings to my yard. We have high expectations for spring, forgetting that it is actually the most changeable of seasons, as often cold as warm.  The explosion of weeds in my yard assures me that the flowers are on their way.  And my silly forsythia bushes are actually blooming.

Help Me Rhonda, Help Help Me Rhonda - Or Anyone Else

I won't be posting for a week or so, unless I get big inspiration and some unexpected time while I'm in Dallas, but if anyone has a minute to read the post I just put on Women On, asking for help with my new Facebook life. I don't really understand a thing about it.  Perhaps I am, as I have thought for years, just not a Social Network kinda gal.  So, anyway, let me know your thoughts. Do you Facebook? Why? Should I keep this? Why?

Have a wonderful week, it's spring break for many of us - maybe it will actually be spring???  Soon? Redbuds, daffodils, forsythia, tulips. They should all be there at Dallas Blooms.

Let Us OUT Of Here

A blogging friend posted a comment at my last post, to the effect that she had put her patio plants out on the patio, and they were looking great and happy out there. She is in Dallas, TX and I am in Albuquerque, NM. What a difference 640 miles make. As I type, it is snowing like mad here, has evidently been snowing for quite a while, and shows no signs of stopping. My outdoor plants, which are, as you can see, mostly succulents and cactii, have been screaming at me lately to LET THEM OUT of this house RIGHT NOW. They are in sunny south and west windows, the cats can't get to them, they are watered as needed, one of the crowns of thorns is blooming, the other is just about to, you'd think they would be happy as pigs in mud. They spend the summer on a rocky ledge in the back yard, among pots of perennials of a nontender sort, in morning summer sun, where they double in size every year; and their impatience to get back out there is palpable, emanating from them in waves.

Or is this what the therapists call projection? The snow is beautiful, but quite unexpected. I was planning to spend the morning weeding in the perennial beds. Like my jades, aloes, crowns of thorns, sedum, rosemary, and geraniums, I am desperate to GET OUT. It's supposed to be almost fifty degrees today, so this snow will be gone before dark.  But this strange stormy weather, say the necromancers, is supposed to go on through at least the rest of the month.