Ordinary beautiful

The 10,000 things, April 2012

Ordinary beautiful

Test drive, March 2012

Ordinary beautiful

Lunch and Grandma's house, March 2012

Shadow work, light work, March 2012

A story of brownies

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Arcadian pause

We had to get out. More -30°C shoveling before bread and coffee. More wool socks and balaclavas. Griping fosterage of Lazarus one and Lazarus two; both would rather have kept dreaming than sit in the school house with other people (ugh!) and learn. Sigh.

But where to escape? The options are few in Eldorado: the farm supply store or the delusionally named Burger Palace. Irritaville, 30 minutes away, has a WalMart and a Boston Pizza. Good enough! Let's go. Now.


The cruelty of this display made my dear wife terrorize many
soles with a slash of her mighty bear claws, March 2011


A 1500 cal lunch made us feel better, March 2011


Arcadian pause, March 2011


We will survive, we will survive, March 2011

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Still waiting to move

Who wouldn't want to buy this house? I love it. It's roomy enough for my boys to run laps and fill it to the cedar with squeals of laughter. The rain bounces harmlessly off the metal roof and the fireplace chases away malevolent chills. The kitchen fills the air with scents like rosemary, fresh autumn apple pie, and soul-stirring coffee. There is room for everything: toys, people, passions, books, exercise, visiting, and peace. Who wouldn't want to buy this house?


Recreating warmly, August 2009


Peace upon the pillow, August 2009


Eat, enjoy, stay, August 2009


Think, study, create, August 2009


You can even get a hair-cut, August 2009


Kids too noisy? Send 'em downstairs, August 2009

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Bungalow tourist

I feel privileged to have looked into the lives of many people lately. House hunting is a rare opportunity to see places we don't usually get to see. There's an intimacy and grace that I'm grateful to be part of.

Here are some shots from a few of these homes, one what soon will be my own (when we finally sell our Lohwinkel estate).


Bounty of light, August 2009



Dance on a doily, August 2009


The engine room, August 2009


Carpet divots, August 2009


Je reviens, August 2009

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Moving, moving, moving on beyond

Open floor plan, July 2009

Friday, my dear wife and I drove up to one of the small towns I work at, about 2 hours from our current home in Lohwinkel, and walked through several strangers homes, wondering if we could live in any of them.

We had been waiting for my employer to get back to us with support ($) for the move, but the wait was long. Too long. So, if we want our boys to start in the new school this September, we have to get our rears in gear. We have about 6 weeks to sell our current home and move. Gulp.

My blog doodling (and reading) may be sporadic for the next little while. After this quick note, I'm going to talk to the Realtor, sign the offer on the new home, find another Realtor to sell our Lohwinkel house, spruce up the front yard a bit, and then start packing and cleaning. I wonder if there's a name for the phenomemon of filling the space you live in with as much junk as it will hold!?

Luckily, we found an awesome house in the new town. (I will invent a blog name for the town -- stay tuned.) Awesome house, immaculately preserved over the years by an OSD baba (Ukrainian grandmother) and an over-achieving gido (grandfather). Lohwinkel money goes far when you head a little farther away from the big city zone of inflated prices.

It's going to be a busy summer!

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And so I go on

I didn't know what to journal about today. I'm in a place of vibrating stasis. Like a bee hive early in the spring when the sun warms it to life and then the moon cools it to sleep. Simultaneously coming and going.

Listened to an interesting podcast about fear by Gil Fronsdal, a Zen priest in California. What an amazingly timely gift of teaching! He asks this question: instead of looking at what you are afraid of, perhaps it's wiser to ask what it is about you that is being threatened. What are you afraid of losing? In the Buddhist practice, he says that when we experience fear there is something either in the world or inside ourselves that needs looking at. Is there a bus screeching towards you as you cross the street? Get out of the way. Survive. Is there a concept about yourself, a belief about who you are, that is being threatened? Maybe that needs to be looked at. For example, do you see yourself as easy-going and calm, but cramp up in bowel-wrenching agony when you have to step on a stage and give a speech? Maybe that concept of always being calm and collected needs to be looked at more closely?

So, I'm looking, but it isn't easy. It's kind of like I've been flown blind-folded to the other side of the world and left there to find my way home. On the surface nothing is recognizable.

What follows are some interior photos of last week's house. I've never been there before, yet it feels like home. And when I was there, I was afraid.


Kitchen and cellar door, May 2009


Old couch, stairs, closet, May 2009


Room with a box, May 2009


The box, mysterious contents released, May 2009

Significantly (I just had a shiver down my spine), Waltham was a maker of watches from 1850 to 1957. Perhaps this empty box is a message about the passage of time?

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Had a visit with Inez this week. Her husband, Gunnar passed away recently after a short battle with ALS. We were chatting in her kitchen. I asked her about the giant, flowering tree that I could see through the window over her empty sink. I think it's an ornamental apple. Delicate pink blossoms, too numerous to even estimate a number. Food for a million bees. She told me about the time many years ago Gunnar brought it home; not much more than a stick with a few leaves on it. He used to travel with his job and to keep busy at night, he would ride his bicycle around whatever town he was in. One night he stopped to admire a tree, just like the one that would grow in his back yard. The owner was in her garden and told him to take a branch home and plant it. It would grow, she said. So he did and it did.

Just now, as I was writing this post, I was interrupted by a neighbor from up the street. She had a pot full of iris bulbs that she just split from a massive iris in her yard. She asked me if I could use them.

I accepted the gift of those irises with gratitude and I bow deeply in thanks for all the gifts that the universe throws in my path on a daily basis.

Below is another gift from Jill Bolte Taylor via TED talks via Rev. Mugo at Jade Mountains. She is a neuro-scientist who had the gift of having (and surviving) a stroke. Her message is uplifting and left me feeling joy. All of this, the timing, the message, is significant.

Spring is in the light

Sometimes we need faith that things will get better. (They already are!) Spring rains will come and the green will return. The sun will drive the dry, white chill from our bones and we will nourish our joy with ice cream. The wheel always turns.

This post is for my nearby friends who like me woke up to a gauze wrap of white, white snow over our tender spring gardens. I'm going to lace up my runners and go outside anyway. How bad can it be?


Pussy willows, May 2009


Life in death, May 2009


Memories on a smokey day, May 2009


"Watering" the grass, May 2009


Grass creek (have faith), May 2009


Splashing on my toes, May 2009


The universe gave me two bucks!, May 2009


Frisbee golf tee, May 2009


33.3 gifts, May 2009


Afternoon nap (I was a cat in another life), May 2009

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Recreation Department

Recreation Department, February 2009

"... consider what you have, consider what you want, and figure out for yourself how to make it happen." --Mark Richardson in Zen and Now where he talks about Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

This photo is relevant in light of the theme of Richardson's book about Pirsig's famous book. It speaks for itself and makes me sad.

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Easter at the lake

The new place next door, April 2009


It will come, April 2009


Playing on the porch, April 2009


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Smithson, the cowboy

Smithson's room, January 2009

Smithson had a stroke that affected his ability to understand what he hears, including his own speech. He also took a hit in the frontal lobes, which seems to have decreased his inhibitions (he'll say whatever he wants, no filter). His memory for new information is shot and he has no sensation in his right hand (feels like it's not there, but it is in a disconnected kind of way). And when he reads, the words swim in a swirl of indecipherable hieroglyphics. He used to read cowboy novels, but will have to settle for watching TV now.

We were goofing around this week, exchanging wise-acre banter, and generally having a good laugh. His speech was fine. Almost normal. I was also checking his yes/no comprehension and he was doing his best to disrupt the proceedings. He got 20 out of 20 on the subtest. I wrote down the score and qualified it with the word (SMART-ASS). He got a kick out of this. Smithson and I understand each other.

When we were done with the formal testing, I asked him what his earliest memory was. Like most people over 70, he responded by saying "school, I guess."

Smithson gives up easily in therapy and needs a great deal of coaxing to continue. Most times he surprises himself with the level of success he can achieve with a little push. I got to wondering about his self-esteem. It's something I always checked into and did my best to build in the children I worked with. Why not think about it with an old fart like Smithson?

I asked him. "Were you bullied as a child?"

"I dunno. I suppose. I remember crying in the pump house. We used to hide in there." (The memories came back instantly. I saw it in his eyes.)

"Some of the kids were mean?"

"Sure. Someone was always picking on me. School was hard. But, there was a big kid, Jack, I think. He was like my mentor. Protected me. When he was around."

He didn't talk for a few minutes. Just stared at endless, snow-covered hay fields outside his room window.

Finally, he got up, looking at his watch. "I gotta go for lunch. We done with all this horse shit?" He waved at the papers balanced on my lap.

"Yup, horse manure all done," I said.

"Good. I wonder what kind of crappy chow they have at the lunch wagon today."

"Oh, it's good crap today. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and some kind of vegetable."

"That does sound good. I like the gravy."

We were walking in the hall at this point.

"Smithson, you did pretty good on the tests today."

"I did, didn't I?"

"Yup. Sure did."

"Yup. Sure as hell did."

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Simple wish

Infinite shortbread, December 2008

When you have a moment, find a shortbread cookie like the ones I baked this morning, a warm quiet spot to rest, and enjoy that cookie. Don't rush. Notice it. Butter that comforts and softens. Just sweet enough to make your tongue sigh. A fine powder to rub between your fingers. As it melts in your mouth, think about the people involved in making that cookie. The farmer who raised the wheat, the miller who ground the flour, the truckers who hauled, the clerks who stocked, the advertisers who heralded, the makers of the Frigidaires that allow us to store butter safely, and the hands that mixed the ingredients, cut out the shapes, and placed the cookie on a rack to cool. This is a short list. The real one is vast. So broad, it approaches infinite.

These thoughts bring in me a sense of peace. It's hard to explain, but it makes me feel like I am never really alone. And now I offer this feeling to you because it's not mine to hold.

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Christmas Party in Lohwinkel

Old-fashioned, December 2008


Santa IS scary, December 2008


I'm not excited, no maybe I am, December 2008


Mute, December 2008


Warm lights, cold cinder block, December 2008


Working on thirds, December 2008


Hear the children sing, December 2008


Dreaming of sugar plums, December 2008


Too much candy, December 2008


Too much candy, two, December 2008


Old scuffs, new boots, December 2008

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