Blog Rolling

Mitch Joel's books and thoughts have found their way to me. Six Pixels of Separation. http://www.twistimage.com/blog/

In researching information for work with a client, I am searching on-line and in the library for current info on what marketing is, and is not, snapping the market these days. Mitch Joel seems to be well versed on the topic and is easy to read.
Blogging is but one way to reach people since we are all connected. Finally, we start to get this. Of course, Joel is referring to connection in a way different than I have been spouting about, but I have to wonder if the commonality could work across the board. This 'connectivity' has all the potential to assist in us paddling our canoes together, up the right creek, and for the common good - all of us in service for and with each other. What an appealing concept!

Lunch-break Treasures

Lucy and I just returned from our daily walk at lunch. We have a circuit that's a bit shy of an hour that includes two hills, a walk near the forest and creek, and takes us to Mission Point, just south of Davis Bay. Most of the walk is in areas where Lucy can be off lead and fetch the ball I throw for her with the Chuck-It.

We finish up by walking the Davis Bay Boardwalk. Today we - well, me at least - were treated beyond our expectations as we watched a huge pod of dolphins head south in the straight. It was amazing! I have heard of others seeing this here before but hadn't ever seen it myself. The water was churning with their swimming and lifting out of the water. I wanted to shout to people in their cars to stop and see what was happening. I found this video online from 2009 that is very similar to what I saw today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbIim779Hnc

It was taken in April of 2009 in Roberts Creek, which is about 5 miles from Davis Bay. Perhaps this is the time of year one might see them here. Other info I was able to glean online suggested it isn't normal for them to be in this area. I don't know if it's 'normal' but it was a treasure on a lunch-break that brought a smile and tears.

Tending the Soil

The last month of winter winds down as daffodils splash the gardens in dashes of bright yellows and oranges, and softer yellow forsythia shrubs promise that warmer air is on its way. I was worried that I would miss the spring flowers in the gardens here at home but they have only begun to share their secrets. Primroses colour the earth beside the front walk - dots of purple, red, yellow, and cream stuffed inside a twist of green leaves - and ornamental bushes sport tender green leaves, this year’s growth showing off as it announces itself to all who will stop to notice. There’s that burning bush metaphor again.

Gardens, gardening, seasons, seeds, harvest, pruning, deadwood, new growth, creation, soil, warmth, water, transplanting, trimming . . . again this morning I reflected on how the garden truly does have all the words, the metaphors for life, for our lives, my life. My life is a garden. Is it a ‘Secret Garden’ , a garden tended or left in disarray, a garden to feed soul or body, or both? We are the gardeners of our soul, having been provided with an amazing plot of land to tend.

La Quinta Check-in and Out

My eighth day here in the Coachella Valley. Temps have been in the mid-80's, and the sun goes on and on. Tannis and Bucky have been great, taking me on drives, out to meet friends, walking with Lucy and I, and just hanging out. We are having a great visit - probably the best in years.
I've seen Mom twice since I've been here and she has really enjoyed her six weeks here with Vic. She and I went to the Thursday night market dntn Palm Springs which was great fun for the first hour and a half. It is very busy and after 1.5 hrs we had had enough.
Yesterday Tannis, Sonja (friend), and I went to the College of the Desert market - again a very full and active market overflowing with all sorts of arts, crafts, goods, and things I may or may not need. I bought a few trinkets; we didn't stay a long time mainly becasue of the heat bouncing back up off the asphalt.
Lucy has made good friends with both Tannis and Bucky, and cuddles up well with Bucky on the couch to watch TV.
Tomorrow Mom and I leave for a drive home via the coasts of CA and OR. A bit of a reverse drive of the trip she and I did in '89. Just yesterday. . .

The Japan events and ensuing crisis is frightening and sobering. Like all crisis' in the past 10 years, the images pour into the living room, along with the rhetoric. It is challenging to even wrap my head around what's really unfolding there, and seems very paradoxical as I sit here in shorts and enjoy a refreshing light breeze before this sunny day climbs in temps to 85, planning  a pleasant drive to Canada. So goes the dance of life for us all.

Stepping into Home

As you stepped

into home

breath shifting from

clay Spirit

to fire breath

daffodils lifted

yellow heads

punctuated with orange

like farm fresh eggs,

their song rising

to unseen hills and ears

green arms lifting you

up to beyond

where I could not see

or hear

or go.

As you stepped

into home

I felt the shift

knew you were gone

and still here

in the same breath

that birthed us all

from the earthen soil

fired in the heat of a passion

that snapped, crackled,

and formed.

As you stepped into home.

Packing Up

My last day here in Yachats, and what a day it has been. We had major winds, and wind gusts here through the night (as had been predicted). Lucy was restless during the night, unsure of what all the noises were. Banging screens against window frames, power lines slapping against the roof, vents rattling on the bathroom fan, rain pelting against the windows, arriving in horizontal sheets . . . don’t know why she was restless!

By the time we got up, things had settled a bit but not before leaving some damage. I don’t think I was very surprised to find I had no internet connection. I hadn’t counted on no phone, though, forgetting that the phone here is with Vonage, and routed through the internet provider.

My lack of connectivity certainly got in the way of work, and being able to call for back-up. Ah, but I have a cell phone now, so that should help in the moment. Not so much. Apparently the no-contract, great price phone I bought to have in the car for emergency use only while I drive south can’t call into Canada. I received a #56 error, which meant nothing to me, but certainly was clear enough my call to Canada wasn’t going through.  I jumped in the car, in search of a pay phone. I found one, but all it had playing was a busy signal. I saw another, and off I went. I had my Telus calling card of course, but not the oh-so-important pin # - I never use the card so haven’t committed the pin # to memory. So much for that idea.

I recalled my neighbours in the small suite by the house saying they had picked up WiFi at the Green Salmon Café, my favourite haunt for Chai Latte. It’s now 8:20 and no one yet knows in my virtual office that I’m not online. Yikes.

I walk to the Green Salmon, which is noisy with a large table of what look to be like regular seniors having their morning coffee and visit. No one hurries in Yachats, or the Green Salmon. The woman in line in front of me, is paying for her order, and chatting with the fellow behind the counter about a fund-raiser that has gone well. He nods, asks a question, she responds, he counts out her change slowly. My anxiety has risen as I watch the clock move toward 8:30, and I’m wishing these two would wrap it up. As that thought crosses my mind, I wonder if I should settle down a bit, and go with the flow. Five minutes isn’t going to be a make or break at the office.

Finally it’s my turn. All I want to know is if their server is up. Yes, it is. Great, I’ll be right back. Back to the house, pack up the laptop, and back to the café. I feel like I should buy a coffee first – not just sit down and get online, for free. So, I stand in line again, although the woman in front of me is just finishing. I order a coffee, he says he’ll bring it over. Do I need an extension cord for power? No, I won’t be here that long, but thanks. It really is a most delightful coffee shop, with great Chai, great service, and good food. I choose a table, unpack the laptop, and log on. Connectivity.

I email those that need to be emailed, explaining briefly the situation briefly, and then wait for a reply to confirm they have rec’d my email. He brings my coffee, and asks if I need half and half as well, and brings it to the table.

After a half hour of emailing, a quick look at the news, and a second cup of coffee, I pack up the laptop and go back to the house. Since I am not working I begin to pack up things, getting ready for our departure in the morning.

Within a half hour a siren goes off three times – a wailing, insistent siren – at the fire-hall across the street. Now what? Emergency evac? When Rita and I were here in 2005, after we got married, we had only been in our cabin at the Wayside about an hour when there was an evacuation due to a Tsunami warning. Seriously. It was cancelled 2 hours later but it’s not something one forgets.

I watched the fire-hall, and the street. Were people leaving? Were emergency vehicles going out? Nothing. I never did determine what the siren was for, but it did add a bit more to an already heightened morning.

The morning was spent packing boxes, dismantling my ‘office’ I had set up, taking things to the car, tucking in an item here, another there. All the while Lucy watched, concerned about all the activity. By noon the car was packed, other than my last 2 small bags and the soft-sided cooler, all of which will go in tomorrow morning.

Still no internet, so I packed the laptop up again and drove to the local library. I thought I’d see if I could pick up on their WiFi outside. It worked. I checked in with work again, updating and advising that it was unlikely I’d be online again today.

So, a day early start on my holidays, which I hadn’t planned on. A reminder to slow down and go with the flow, and a chance to take Lucy for a walk on the beach in the sunshine. The sun has now come out. . .  Who knows where my internet connection is. I have tried rebooting the modem but to no avail.

Looks like Lucy and I are ready to go in the morning. Four weeks here has been fulfilling, has gone quickly, and has provided almost all of what I wanted. Now I’m ready for new vistas and some warmth.

In the night:

It is in my faith and believing in the bigger picture that makes the day-to-day picture manageable. Visioning the bigger picture allows me to handle the difficult smaller pictures in my life.

Lucy and I have wrapped up four weeks on the Coast with a grand walk on the beach. We parked at Tillicum Beach campground, and walked the beach all the way south to The Wayside Lodge. The sun came out, the air was fabulous, the tide going out, the soft pastel bands in the skyline perfectly picturesque, the gulls white on tan sands, Lucy running as fast as she could to scoop the tennis ball up and into her wee mouth, racing back to me. I hadn’t expected this last chance at the beach since I have work to do, and the weather wasn’t supposed to be so great. Well my lack of connectivity took care of all work, and the clouds lifted and parted a smidge – enough to allow sunshine to warm my face and lighten the view. I am blessed to be here, to experience the beauty and space, to enjoy Rita’s presence, and God’s. I am blessed with love and care and softness. I am blessed with time to reflect and put down the baggage that no longer needs to travel with me. I am blessed that God and the ocean are able to hold all that I throw, dump, hurl, drip, drop, fling, shoot, offer. . .  all with grace and a softness.

BBT quote

What we believe has no meaning apart from what we do about it. There is not a creed or a mission statement in the world that is worth one visit to a sick friend, or one cup of water held out to someone who is longing for it.
 (Barbara Brown Taylor, Another Way Home) Reflecting on Matthew 21: 28-32

It's all in the dance

You dance across the back porch

feet quick to avoid the

broken place

barely a swoosh heard

from the soles of your

dance shoes,

arms flung to the air

in worship of the summer day

soaking the afternoon

with yellowness.

Hair flies as the twirl

brings you close to the edge

caught in time and danced

back to the centre.

Laughter rings

peeling the bell of release

of love.

Face flushed,

eyes bright with mystery

you finally sit beside me

on the built-for-two swing,

breath coming quickly

as you turn to me,

forehead damp

and creaseless,

“It’s all in the dance,”

you whisper in my ear,

as if I should understand

so quickly what you have known

for eternity

for all time.

Reaching under the swing

you lift a box

to me,

no wrap, no ribbon,

“for you,

yellow dancing shoes.”

Snow, seals, songs, solitude

Amid the weather that changes from one minute to the next today, I decided Lucy and I needed to get out to a beach for some play. We drove to the Smelt Sands Park, biting off the residential portion of our walk to the beach; that would allow us – read me – more energy for the beach.

As I parked the car, with Lucy bouncing around the front seats in anticipation, the snow flakes began to drift down once more. As I leashed Lucy up, clicked the ‘lock’ button on the key (times do change, don’t they), and managed to get my hands gloved and my ears muffed, the snow was seriously falling, and the wind off the water was anything but warm. I walked a few feet, thinking this was a really dumb idea, and wondered if we should wait in the car, or go home. Thankfully we carried on.

Right at the parking lot you can pick up the 804 Trail that runs along the ocean bank for about a mile or so, and, if you go north, will eventually deposit you at my favourite stretch of wide, open beach. As we walked toward the beach, snow dissipating, I saw what looked like a chunk of wood, or a large stone, perched about 10 feet above the water. Something about it struck me as odd, and I stopped to look longer, wondering why it was intriguing me so. All of a sudden I realized it wasn’t a rock or piece of wood – it was a seal, resting. Resting way above the water, on some low brush/lawn, with a million dollar view of the Pacific Ocean – not that it doesn’t have an awesome view of the ocean every day. How did it get way up there? Why was it way up there? Who knows. Resting, maybe readying to birth a pup? Why was it all alone, at least as far as I could see? A woman walking her bike came along and we chatted about the seal, watching it lie there. Finally Lucy and I went on our way.

Our journey continued, we moved toward the open beach area, Lucy pestering me to throw the ball. I glanced above me and overhead a Golden eagle flew south. By the time we got to the beach the clouds had moved off to the sides of the sky (it’s no wonder we thought the earth was flat), and the sun was warming the walk.

When I was here in Yachats in June last summer, I walked to the beach area below the Wayside Lodge and scattered the last of Rita’s ashes into the ocean. I knew that today I wanted to make the journey again, so off Lucy and I went, me throwing the ball, she retrieving it. We had to cross over a few creeks emptying into the Pacific, all of which were running higher than normal with rains and melting snows. I’m not talking knee-deep creeks, but wide creeks with rocks strewn throughout. I’m getting better with my balance as I cross the creeks, stepping from stone to stone, with the occasional foray into water. Bear in mind I have runners on! Semi-waterproof yes, but not rubber boots. Lucy, of course, ran back and forth across the water, a few times sharing my tiny foothold of a rock, me trying to shoo her away – telling her to find her own stepping stone.

We walked for about a half hour to get to the Wayside step area, and when we got there I stood for a few moments, remembering last June, and why I was there, and the song I listened to on my ipod. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_NpxTWbovE

This clip is similar to the concert that Rita and I saw kd perform at in Vancouver.

While I walked I reflected on the week, recalling the too many anniversaries that perhaps had been vying for my attention. Four years ago this week Rita had her initial surgery and we learned what we were truly up against. Four years ago this week my Grandmother died, the day before Rita’s surgery. And a year ago we had just returned home to Davis Bay, from the Oregon Coast, knowing that we had turned yet another corner.

The walk was refreshing, releasing, and the ocean, as always, was wide enough and deep enough to hold all that I needed to put down. It occurred to me that perhaps one of the many reasons I so love the coast here is that the surf is loud enough to drown out the chatter in my head  - monkey mind, as Rita used to call it.

We turned around and trekked back, sun full on my face, surf high, and not another person in sight. The seal continued to rest on the brush, and there was a small sign posted between it and the main trail – a sign I’m quite sure hadn’t been there earlier – about not disturbing seals, sea lions, or their pups. I expect the woman I had chatted with – a local, she had shared – had called someone and they had come and posted the sign, hoping to prevent anyone from being foolish enough to approach the seal. Why anyone would is beyond me, but I guess they wouldn’t post the signs if it wasn’t an issue.

As we neared the car, the clouds had gathered once more and the snow began to fall again, and I smiled. Barbara Brown Taylor is right; there are altars to crack our shins on and burning bushes flaming high everywhere we walk.

Coastal Ramblings

I awoke to sunshine and a dusting of snow in the hills. Down here in town there are ice crystals shining in the sunlight on the walkways and parked cars. Unable to sleep at 4:30, I sat up and read the final chapter of Dear Heart, Come Home (Joyce Rupp). A good book, and I’ve enjoyed what she has to say. She’s a better writer than I had realized before, and her poetry/prayers are clear, clean, and speak to me. In fact, the whole book spoke to me.

There are days

when I dream myself

to be

dandelion to the last puff

a full circling miracle

hanging onto a fragile stem

complex in my beauty

yet simple in my standing –

knowing I’ll only grow again

if each intricate

delicate parachute of mine

is pulled off, whirled away

and seeded in

some strange new soil.                 Joyce Rupp

It is now snowing outside, after having hailed for a few minutes.  I’ve never seen it snow here! The sunshine is no longer with us. Low tide is at 11:30 and I had planned on going to the beach with Lucy but at the moment that adventure is back on the shelf. And, as I continually see here, the weather can change quickly, so we may still make it out for a romp on the beach.

I’m glad Lucy and I are not heading out this morning for Palm Springs. Although the roads are probably fine, I wouldn’t really want to be on the stretch between here and Florence right now. The road is much higher, as it climbs, hugging the rocky cliffs above the ocean. It’s a piece of road I take care on in good weather, forgetting about looking at the scenery, instead focused on the road.

When you put your hand in the flowing stream,

you touch the last that has gone before and the first of what is still to some.

Leonardo da Vinci

I have been all over the map this week, emotionally - a bit like the weather. I work with patience in my soil/soul, knowing the seeds within are there, waiting for the warmth and sunshine.

Rupp speaks about hope in her final chapter, and this paragraph in paricular speaks to me:

Each of us has a "shepherd's fire on another mountain" that has kept our hope alive. When the nights of our midlife have been dark and bitterly cold, we have seen something "far, far off" that has helped us survive. This fire has given us the courage to recover our lost self and to believe in the dreams that stir in our soul.

To Lie Fallow

To let things lie fallow. This has come up in two books for me in the past few days. Barbara Brown Taylor (Home By Another Way) refers to it in a sermon based on Leviticus 25: 1-17. “Park the tractor. Put the tools away. Oil your work boots and put them in the closet because the seventh year shall be a Sabbath of complete rest for the land.”

Joyce Rupp refers to the act of lying fallow in her book, “Dear Heart, Come Home”. She is writing about being in a place of darkness, a cave for her, and how moving into the dark or shadow places allows us to move deeper, and to know ourselves better. As much as we may resist the call to move into the dark places from time to time, the depths we dive into can provide many gems alongside the heaps of rubble.

In looking up ‘to lie fallow’ I find various responses, most of which do not ring true for me. One author writes, “Instead of letting fields lie fallow these days, crop rotation is used to maintain productivity.” Another site suggests it is cropland not needed for a season. Another notes it is to deteriorate by lack of action.

Finally I find a definition that rings true: to replenish nutrients.

To let a field lie fallow is one way to allow the field to rest, to refresh, to replenish. To lie fallow does not mean there is no activity within the field – no more than to say there is no activity in a hibernating bear. I believe we all need times to ‘lie fallow’. Times to rest with what we hold emotionally and spiritually, and to be OK with the quiet of the day and night as the questions tumble forth. I think in this time of quiet we are better able to hear what may be offered. As the fields within us rest and replenish, I believe we have the opportunity to move into deeper places of relationship and peace.

Tumblings

An excerpt from my morning pages today:

Let go of the leaving and embrace the receiving.

I think I’ve always read/heard Psalm 23 as being written for the person dying. Today I hear it as being written for those left behind. Hmmm…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9fzWq-d8jU

Time to remember and hold the gift given instead of staring at torn, crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, united ribbon, and a squashed bow. It is easy to become so dismayed, so heartbroken over the wrappings lying on the floor that I forget to remember the gift given, and received.
****************

The sun is shining today, casting brightness over the lawns and waters. Most definately a day to wander the beach with Lucy when the tide's a bit lower. On Thursday Lucy and I spent 2 to 3 hours at the beach. We returned to the South Jetty Beach of Newport, where we had been on Sunday. It was a postcard-perfect day with deep blue skies, warm sunshine, and waves cresting white. As I sat watching the waves curl, and reaching toward the shoreline, seemingly so gentle and fluid in their rolling over back into the ocean, I saw sprays of white mist sparkle above. It reminded me of the snow tails you see behind a skier traversing the hill. Water droplets in both scenes, catching the light and wind of action.
There is a brief moment, a split second, when the wave curls, reaching to its height before folding over, that the light on a sunny day exposes the aqua marine colour that is like green glass. A bit like the the veil between 'here and there' that would dissolve in our hands if we could even begin to touch it. I never tire of watching for that colour, that thin place, as the ocean waves give and receive.

Judgement or Forgiveness?

I think of The Shack and the section on judgement, and how easily we all rush in to sit judgement on others, eager to shine the light on poor choices, and at the ready with how we would have done things differently. Easy to sit in that chair, but not so easy to measure the ‘punishment’. How much for an indiscretion; what’s the fee on a lie? Where to for hurting someone, even if it was an accident, or unintentional? How long for harbouring ill wishes on someone? What’s the penalty for doing something that ultimately changes another person’s life? How do we decide the cost on stealing, cheating, lying? What purpose will our ‘sentence’ serve? Who will it serve – us, or them? Or neither? And how about when we aren’t in the judgement chair, but in front of it, being judged?  Doesn’t it all change somehow, and we have reasons for choices, for actions? We were younger, or foolish, or not thinking, or made a bad choice, but surely we aren’t going to ‘sentenced’ for this, now?

Sometimes I think it’s about learning from our poor choices/mistakes, and how might the learning serve me. But what if it doesn’t? What if I make the same (poor) choice more than once? Then what? Does this then justify the punishment? So, how many ‘strikes’ do I get? How many do I offer to another? Do unto others . . .

Judging and sentencing is a scary seat. I think perhaps reflection and forgiveness, and moving forward are easier actions.

Food for Thought

Yesterdays musings about folded hands into prayers sent me on a search this morning. The following are the three, of many, answers that resonated most deeply with me. 

 

1. When I was a child I was told that we could whisper our deepest thoughts into our empty hands and they would follow to where our fingers were pointed - straight up to heaven.

2. Religious historians trace the gesture back to the act of shackling a prisoner’s hands with vine or rope: joined hands came to symbolize submission. In ancient Rome, a captured soldier could avoid immediate death by joining the hands together. Just as waving a white flag today, the message was clear. “I surrender",".

 

3. One hand represents the higher, spiritual nature, while the other represents the worldly self. By combining the two, the person making the gesture is attempting to rise above their differences with others, and connect themself to the person they bow to. The bow is a symbolic bow of love and respect.

Choices

My thoughts are truly random this morning as I continue to think about choices and an email conversation about Deuteronomy 30: 15-20 (http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Deuteronomy+30%3A15-20&version=NIV). Life is about choices on every level, and then the results, or consequences of my choices. I think we tend to see/hear consequence as a negative word; it is not. It is the result of an action.
I ponder again the words of Viktor Frankl. "Frankl concludes that the meaning of life is found in every moment of living; life never ceases to have meaning, even in suffering and death.  . . .  Frankl concludes from his experience that a prisoner's psychological reactions are not solely the result of the conditions of his life, but also from the freedom of choice he always has even in severe suffering. The inner hold a prisoner has on his spiritual self relies on having a faith in the future . . ." (Wikipedia)

Suffice to say I have reflected a lot on the meaning of life these past few years, and continue to do so, even as I consider the myriad choices and possibilities available to me.

Some days feel (too) ordinary to me, and then I remember a woman interviewed on TV about Schindler's List. She was a holocaust survivor and she said that all she reached for/dreamed of during her days and night in the camps was an ordinary evening at home. How easily we tire of the ordinary days, and how many around us dream of them. It brings Sarah to mind: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Urv7tyeJ7qE

I consider prayers and hands folded - not that I think you have to have your hands folded to pray - and wonder if clapping is a series of tiny prayers . . .

Beach Bums

On a whim, I stopped with Lucy at a different beach than I had planned today - one I haven't seen yet over the 17 years I've been trekking to the Oregon Coast. The state park, which is also a campground and would be fabulous in camping weather, has a multitude of trails that wander through the grassy dunes that are between Hwy 101 and the ever-changing Pacific Ocean. Lucy and I walked for about a half mile before cresting above the ocean and a view that never fails to inspire me. Crashing waves rolling in, like lines of rushing white stallions with manes whipping in the wind, racing for the firmer sands, followed always by yet another stampede.
The mist dampened my face and hair as we walked, me throwing the ball for Lucy and watching for ocean treasures. When we first hit the beach there were about a dozen other people that I could see on a stretch that must have been at least two miles in length. Within an hour we and two others far down the beach were the only ones left. By that time the mist had strengthened to a drizzle, and by the time we returned to the car, it was simply raining, and we were both soaked. It was great! Easy to say when you know you're getting into a car with a good heater.

Driving home from the beach, with the heater on and warming us, the radio cranked to R&R from the 70's, the wide expanse of Oregon Coast to my right, I smiled. Not a bad picture as I wind into the last quarter of my 53rd year. Truly, the only piece missing was Rita. She would have loved the beach, the rains, the dog play, the tunes. . . it was a most perfect Sunday afternoon. And she was with me, as she always is.

Daffodils and time

Yesterday I saw a few clumps of daffodils readying to unfurl their blossoms and greet the Spring. I doubt I will ever see daffodils without bringing Rita to mind. On what I would call her last 'good' day, she told me that during her morning meditations the daffodils had been singing to her. I was struck then, and continue to be, by what an amazing exchange that was for her, and how peaceful it seemed to be for her. A bit like transcending earthly constraints and connecting with all life force.
As I walk by daffodils, I wonder if they are singing and I just can't hear them. . .yet. Perhaps all flowers sing.

Fifty-two weeks ago Rita and I were here on the Oregon Coast, having arrived yesterday after a fun sleep-over at the Ace Hotel in Portland, recommended by her radiologist, Dr. Lim. And 42 weeks ago Rita died. It is still hard for me to grasp all that has unfolded these past few years, and what it means for me.

I was reminded  this morning in an email exchange of this woman who spoke at the first Affirm Conference I attended in Ottawa in 2002. A great speaker that inspired me; http://www.leannetigert.com/index.html

Sandy days

Lucy and I stretched our legs for two hours this afternoon, feet and paws crunching on gravelled walks, sinking into soft, spongy grasses, and finally stepping out onto miles of sandy beaches. They say, as my Grandmother would say, that you can walk from Yachats to Waldport along the beaches. Of course, the tide would have to be in your favour, and you'd need to be in decent shape since it is a few miles. Eight miles as the crow flies, or seagull.

As we walked past the Adobe Resort, along the path gravelled with what appears to be crushed rock from the rocky beaches right in that area, I noticed that a flower memorial has been started for the two young high-school seniors that died there last Saturday. They had been playing catch with a football and must have not noticed a sneaker wave come in. The surf was high and the winter ocean rough last Saturday, and there was a small craft advisory out. They got caught by a wave, were pulled out to sea, and both drowned. Both bodies were recovered; one within a half hour and the other early the next morning after a local out for a walk spotted the body. A tragic story that puts me on alert with wee Lucy, and myself. I love being by the ocean and walking the beaches and trails, and I try to keep an eye on the water at all times.

Wikipedia states: A Sneaker wave is a popular term used to describe disproportionately large coastal waves that can often appear in a wave train without warning.
Because they are much larger than preceding waves, sneaker waves can catch unwary swimmers, washing them out to sea. It is not uncommon for people walking or standing on beaches and ocean jetties to also be washed into the sea.

This afternoon I enjoyed a half hour in the local Lions Thrift store, securing 3 family-style videos (no blood, no car chases, no guns), a Colleen McCullough book, The Touch, a coloured oil/water 'toy' that changes shapes between two small sheets of plexiglass, and a fine  brushed cotton shirt in my favourite colour. What's not to like about that? Oh, all of that? Cost me five bucks.

I am living across the street from the local county fire department and ambulance hall, which in and of itself is rather reassuring. I've noticed a pair of goats tied up outside the hall during the day - yes, I wrote goats. In early evening they are in the back of a canopied pick-up, complete with an appropriate cage, hay on the outside of the cage which they tug at, as they should. In the window of the fire-hall door - the small entrance door, not the bay doors - there is a sign posted that reads, Eggs: $3/dozen. As I walked by the hall today after my wee shopping spree at the thrift store, I saw the goats tied up, and a woman was there giving them a bit of hay. I stopped and said I was curious about the goats, and why they were there. The woman looks to be in late fifties, graying hair pulled back away from her face, well worn and clean jeans, a blue checked flannel work shirt, and glasses. She smiles at me and says they are hers and they come to work with her every day. She has other goats on her farm, and they wander about, but these two Pygmy Goats will have nothing to do with her regular goats, and whine all day if they don't come with her. So she packs them up in the truck and along they come. If it's raining in town, she leaves them in the back of the truck, thus the well set-up area where they can eat and rest. I ask her about the eggs. Somehow I know they are going to be hers. Yes, they are hers, and she has some available. It's an honour system. Just tuck myself inside the bay door, turn to the left, and go a few feet down the hall. There's an ice cooler there with eggs and an envelope for my three dollars - make change from the envelope as I need. I confirm, again hardly needing to, that they are free-range eggs. She smiles and nods. I'm sure I've just been pegged as someone from the city, which I am not. Why did I even ask that? She asks if I might return the carton when I'm done with it; of course. She takes up a broom and starts to sweep the cement floors; I figure she is employed as a custodian of the fire-hall.

When I get home I look at the varied sized eggs; white eggs, brown eggs, and what appears to be a few light green eggs. Those ones should be interesting! I did grow up on a farm but I admit I've never seen egg shells that colour.

Later this afternoon as I am looking out the window across the street I see a man seated at the front of one of the two bay doors of the hall, a plastic sheet draped around him, and the Goat Woman, as I am now calling her, is cutting his hair. Somehow it doesn't surprise me that she cuts hair too. Maybe she'll cut mine in a few weeks when I need a trim!