The Foot Bone's Connected to the... Oops.

Dear Anna,

We appreciate that you let us stay bare much of the time, that we can feel the sun and the dry air. If, however, you plan to move rocks -- nay, boulders -- please. put. on. real. shoes. Flip-flops are not acceptable shoes here in rattlesnake/scorpion/giant centipede country, period, let alone for moving massively heavy objects. We don't appreciate being crushed, stubbed, or otherwise mauled when the boulders go astray, as they will do after a long day of your relentless efforts (would you just give it up already and live with the dirt, or put in a lawn or something?), and if you're going to refuse us fair cover or an evening of rest on your plush footstool, understand that our throbbing pain will wake you up in the middle of the night.

Please, we don't want to see anymore boulders hurtling toward us. You have shoes. Use them tomorrow and you can sleep tomorrow night. Don't use them, and you can kiss your gardening days goodbye for a month or two.

Sincerely,
Your Bare Brokendown Feet

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Dear Anna,

We continue to enjoy these well-aired, no-sweat, fungus-free summer days, and we commend you for ceasing the boulder-moving operations until you can find your left boot. We would, however, like to bring to your attention the hazards involved in sawing large limbs off the several elms that you deem to be partially blocking your garden from essential mid-day sunlight. Granted, we feet are mere props in such an operation -- until you start climbing said trees to get at that one pesky limb hanging over your precious heirloom tomatoes, or tromping over the downed limbs to start hacking away at another one.

Lumberjacks, even pretend ones, wear boots. Not flip-flops. As previously mentioned, flip-flops are not regulation gardening attire, even less so considering that you're hardly "gardening" on these days of unbridled landscape alteration. When will it end?

Consider this your final warning.

Sincerely,
Your Still-Bare Too-Many-Close-Calls Aching Feet

P.S. - Your aching, half-locked-up elbows work for us now.

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Dear Feet:

I am in receipt of your letter dated 13 June 2005. I appreciate your concerns and will take them under advisement. Please be assured that I remain dedicated to your well-being and am honored by your tireless service.

Best regards,

Anna

P.S. -- I signed you up for a special new service, which you can access by clicking the link below -- enjoy!

Glad Someone Is Out There Fighting

I've been feeling like an underachiever (nice word for "failure") lately, and although this (below) doesn't help me feel any more successful, it does make my heart glad. This guy John Bonifaz was a high-school classmate of mine, and I'm so glad to read that he's still making (the good kind of) trouble after all these years.

=============================================

After Downing Street: A Resolution of Inquiry

By Steve Cobble / The Nation
June 7th, 2005 12:39 pm

It's not exactly a news flash that the Bush Administration lied to the public before the invasion of Iraq. What should be on front pages, though, is new proof of the Bush Administration's lies brought to light by the previously unknown Downing Street Minutes, recently obtained and printed in the Times of London. (The Downing Street Memo is a transcript of minutes of a secret meeting chaired by Tomy Blair in Britain in July of 2002 to discuss preparations and propaganda before going to war. It was marked "Secret and strictly personal--UK eyes only.")

The Downing Street Minutes are deserving, in the words of constitutional lawyer John Bonifaz, of an official "Resolution of Inquiry directing the House Judiciary Committee to launch a formal investigation into whether sufficient grounds exist for the House of Representatives to exercise its constitutional power to impeach George W. Bush, President of the United States."

Bonifaz, who two years ago took the Bush Administration to court on behalf of a coalition of US soldiers, parents of soldiers and twelve Members of Congress (including John Conyers Jr., Dennis Kucinich, Jesse Jackson Jr., Jim McDermott, José Serrano, Sheila Jackson Lee) to challenge the constitutionality of the Iraq war, adds:

"The question must now be asked, with the release of the Downing Street Memo, whether the President has committed impeachable offenses. Is it a High Crime to engage in a conspiracy to deceive and mislead the United States Congress and the American people about the basis for taking the nation into a war? Is it a High Crime to manipulate intelligence so as to allege falsely a national security threat posed to the United States as a means of trying to justify a war against another nation based on 'preemptive' purposes? Is it a High Crime to commit a felony via the submission of an official report to the United States Congress falsifying the reasons for launching military action?"

As in previous investigations of "High Crimes and Misdemeanors," such a "Resolution of Inquiry is the appropriate first step in launching this investigation."

Bonifaz's memorandum making the case for launching a Resolution of Inquiry is posted at www.afterdowningstreet.org, a new website founded by David Swanson, Bob Fertik, Bonifaz and others (including this writer), together with a broad array of public interest groups that is posted on the web site.

Our memo is written to Representative Conyers, both because he is the ranking Democrat on the House Judiciary Committee and because he has been a brave truth-seeker on this issue and so many others. We support his letter demanding answers from the Bush Administration, signed originally by eighty-eight of his House colleagues; his call for 100,000 signatures to back up that letter; and his plan to go to London to seek more answers.

We have also made contact with several other members of Congress, and we believe that it will not be long before a group in Congress officially calls for an ROI.

Unfortunately, as most Nation readers know, the Downing Street Minutes have only been a story in the rest of the world, especially in Britain. In the United States it is taking much longer for the mainstream to pick up on it, and the issue is still being treated far less seriously than the seriousness of the charges warrant.

Fortunately, the blogosphere has found this new proof of George W. Bush's "misleadership" much more compelling than the mainstream press has; writers like Apian have posted incisive diaries on www.dailykos.com, which regularly covers the story, as has Georgia10 and her friends, who founded the wonderful site www.downingstreetmemo.com.

Despite a slow start, the Downing Street Minutes may have a long life expectancy, and the Misleader of the Pack may yet have to confront the truth.

=============================================

Rock on, John.

Grammar Lesson

Okay, so I'm writing these destination guides, and in researching the various cities, I visit anywhere from 10 to 100 Web sites in a day. Some are very polished, with compelling graphics and excellent prose, some are passionate but kind of clunky, and some are clearly slapped together in the "they say we need a Web site so put something up ASAP" tradition. That's okay; I'm just there to get some basic info and move on. But I do have a pet peeve, and I'm appalled to see it crop up nearly everywhere, even on some of the professionally done sites.

It's not "it's" or "its'" when you're referring to something and its attributes. As in, "carefully restored to it's 1800s grandeur" -- good God, who gets paid to write this stuff, and who signed off on it? Oh, that's right, the real writers and editors all got laid off as soon as the economy got dicey because it's not that important to worry about grammar and its fine points.

R.I.P., Chica

We had to put our dog Chica down yesterday -- she got hit by a car (I assume) and dragged herself home, two days after disappearing, with a shattered hind leg. Even if we could have afforded to get the leg x-rayed and all that, I doubt it would have been reparable. I feel just awful... she was a pain in the butt a lot of the time (she barked a lot) but she was so sweet, and now Lucy (our other dog) misses her something awful.

Chica was an escape artist, see, and would roam the town at will after squeezing under the gate or through an invisible gap in the fence, often with Lucy who would simply jump over the fence and run with her. I tried everything but couldn't keep her from finding some tiny gap to wriggle through, and she was just dumb about streets, and I so saw this coming. A few weeks ago I bought a tie-out to keep her tied up so she wouldn't keep escaping, but it seemed cruel... and she figured out how to slip the collar anyway (a perfectly fitted choke-chain, no less; she'd already ditched four or five collars by then)... We have a big yard, lots of room to run and play, but it never was enough for Chica, and God forbid we try to take a walk and leave her behind -- I'd be ten yards down the street and I'd hear the gate rattle and then here came Chica loping down the street with her tongue hanging out and her tail wagging in big loopy circles. Every time a car came by, I'd have to call her sharply, grab her collar (if she hadn't ditched it yet) and hold her till the car passed, or she'd just stroll out in front of it.

So, yeah, I saw it coming. I feel bad that I never spent enough time with her, doing some basic training and all that. She needed more than I had to give -- she was always a bit insecure (hence the barking, and also some recent snarling dominance battles with Lucy, who's a good 30 pounds heavier) -- and so I feel like I failed her. She wasn't even two yet -- still a puppy, but starting to mature into a good (if rough-around-the-edges) dog. Chica, I'm so sorry. I miss your pretty blue eyes and happy chatty bark, and I miss watching you and Lucy roughhousing in the yard and, yes, chasing rabbits through the fields across town. Happy trails to you.

A few birthday pictures

We had a real birthday party for Lazarus today -- Jai came over (along with his mama and papa), and several of our friends showed up, too. It was a really, really nice day, especially when Papa brought out the little blue pool. Maggie spent a good two hours splashing around and then in the pool, just having a blast. She crashed out before cake time, which to Lazarus is the whole point of having a birthday. All day yesterday and today he chanted "Happy birthday cake! Happy birthday cake Lazarus!"

I think I got better shots with my "real" camera, but here's one of my favorite moments of the day (post cake, post-pinata):



Yesterday we went for a picnic in Water Canyon -- Laz was so excited to be on a picnic, and Maggie tasted strawberries for only the second time, and it was just a perfect evening.



I also finally wrote out Lazarus' birth story yesterday... gee, that only took me three years. I'm amazed at how much I still remember, but I'm glad I wrote it down finally because some of the details were starting to fade. If you really want to read it, here are parts 1, 2 and 3.

And here's a parting shot, from last week when Granna cut Laz's hair. I love this picture:

Three years ago today...

this little person came to live with me:



I still can't believe how fortunate I am.

Another garden update

This'll be a quick update, which is all my gardening warrants these days because it's so piecemeal (moments stolen from my too-precious work time).

Some chickens flew the coop this morning and got at my brand-new purple and yellow bell pepper plants and cucumber hills. I got mad, almost mad enough to pull out the axe and start hacking. And for me that's pretty mad. Instead I swore a holy blue streak, chased the mean ol' rooster around with a big stick, and built up the coop fencing a bit more. They'd BETTER leave my garden alone, or they'll be next winter's chicken stew, all season long. I don't need their eggs that badly.

I picked up four heirloom tomatoes on Tuesday -- they didn't have any of the deep purple or tiger-striped kinds on hand, but these'll do nicely:
-Old German (big, tri-colored streaks, sweet)
-Sugar Lump (very sweet cherry tomatoes that probably won't make it into the kitchen)
-Pink Brandywine (big, smooth but complex flavors)
-Rutgers (deep red, abundant, old-time tomato flavor)

I also bought some lavender plants, which I've put with some established Russian sage plants into what's now a rock garden. Use what you've got, right? Rocks, we got rocks. I managed to refrain from stuffing Mom's CR-V full of plants because I just don't have time to dig, amend, plant, tend. That, and autumn is a much better time to plant perennials. Oh, I picked up some herbs, too, including lemon grass. In California, I stuck a tiny lemon grass plant in my back border and two years later it had become tall, majestic and irresistibly fragrant. I know that won't happen here (and I'll have to mulch the heck out of it and the other herbs if I want them to survive the winter), but it's nice to have some on hand. I was going to create an entire rock herb garden from scratch -- dig the (rock-solid) bed, haul the boulders for the perimeter (15 or so at 50 pounds each... uh-huh), amend the dirt, plant the herbs, and fence it off so the damn chickens won't destroy it -- but, uh, no. Not this week, anyway, so I'll just put the herbs in the final garden bed and be done.

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Tomorrow is Lazarus' third birthday. Three years ago today, we spent a wonderful Sunday with friends, and although I wasn't due for another week, I had a feeling something even better was coming, and soon. But it was scary getting there. If I have time tonight or tomorrow I'll try to write about it.

Oh

Okay, so I signed on to post pictures, but my little camera is downstairs (and I'm not even sure where its special USB cable is, which explains why I haven't posted pictures in so long, not to mention the just-realized fact that my new upstairs computer doesn't have Photoshop...)

*SIGH*

Maybe tomorrow. Or not -- I'm taking Mom to the airport (*sniff!!* We miss you, Granna!) and plan to kick up my heels a bit -- um, I mean, take care of some essential business and errands -- in Albuquerque, since I have to drive the 200 miles anyway. In Mom's wonderful new car. With the babes at home in Papa's loving care.

I got me some serious road-trip fever now.

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Garden update:

I haven't been able to work on my gardens (yes, I always use the plural; it sounds more impressive) nearly as much as I'd like, thanks to a busy workload (thank you!!), but I've managed to get in some vegetable seeds and tomato plants, and have the veggie garden drip irrigation system all set up except for two (out of six) beds' worth of emitters. (Emitters get the water from the black tubes snaking across the yard right to the plants, and I just got a sampling of fancy-schmancy ones that only a total gardening geek could appreciate...)

Tomorrow (in Albuquerque, where my choices go WAY BEYOND WALMART) I'm going to get four to six heirloom tomatoes (fancy term for really tasty older varieties that haven't had the taste hybridized right the heck out of them) to replace the Big Boy plants (from WALMART) that croaked seven minutes after I planted them. I also plan to take another stroll through Plants of the Southwest, where Mom and I had a lovely time last week looking at native and drought-tolerant trees, flowering shrubs and such. (Their Web site doesn't begin to do the place justice -- the place is just heavenly.)

I also want to take another look at the Imperial Honey Locust tree I've tentatively picked out for the back yard. That is, for that empty stretch of dust and rock between the house and the shed that currently doesn't even sport weeds because, well, it's an empty stretch of dust and rock that the dogs and the child (the mobile one, that is) and other assorted creatures trample endlessly. The plan: put the tree in once fall comes, then landscape around it, outward, to break up said empty space. So this summer (after I finish this big work project, and the veggie garden, and the drip system for that and the border gardens that currently sport nothing much because it's just about IMPOSSIBLE to grow stuff here) I'll start moving rocks and hauling manure back there to get the space ready.

I know, I'm such a glamour queen.
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House stuff:

I love my little house. It's way too small, but it'll do nicely for now, and with a $450 mortgage (yep, one zero, no numbers missing there) I won't complain. Just for perspective, I took a looksie through home prices in my old California neighborhood, where we bought a cosmetic-fixer for just under $170K in late 2000. Wow. A house behind our former home is listed for $355K -- as is, with "untold potential," in a bankruptcy sale. A full 100K over what we sold our house for just over two years ago. That's just insane. Which is what I thought when we sold the house for 90K more than we paid a mere two years after buying it. But this is more insane. The house wasn't that nice.

No, I do not regret leaving Southern California. I miss my (spacious) home there, but geez. My property taxes there would be more than my mortgage here.

Of course, our street there was paved, too.

;-)

"Working" at home

What a joke -- I have two projects due tomorrow, so I've been trying desperately to pick up an hour here, an hour there all week, with mixed success. No mix today. I sat down to start working at 9:30 this morning, after feeding and changing the kids and feeding myself and getting things a bit straightened up, and exactly seven minutes later Maggie bonked her head on something and started howling. Stop, pick her up, console, put her down, endure more howling, try to refocus on "To illustrate Cellerator utility concretely, consider the kMech model for the synthesis of the amino acids leucine, isoleucine and valine within the bacterium E. coli. One important reaction in that pathway..."

The phone rings. Dispatch call, go back to "...in that pathway is the 'ping-pong bi-bi' enzyme mechanism of the enzyme ?-acetohydroxyacid synthase, an enzyme that catalyzes the condensation of one molecule of pyruvate and one molecule of ?-ketobutyrate to form one molecule of ?-aceto-?-hydroxybutyrate." Read twice to make sense of it, start editing to make it readable; then cue Lazarus: "Mama, want a vitamin! Now!" No, you've already had one today. Would you like a drink? (God knows I want one.) "No, want go outside." Go get your shoes for mama. "No WANT shooooooooooes!" (Runs away.)

Back to editing. Boy lets in dog, who sticks her cold wet nose in my belly and then starts barking at cat who is impatiently twining around my leg because the food and water I gave him this morning is now spread all over the kitchen floor, with Maggie in the middle of it. Get up, trip over cat, grab dog by collar and put her outside to Lazarus' shrieks of "WANT LUCY INSIIIIIIIDE, MAMA!," pick up Maggie who's now soaking wet and howling again because she WANTS to splash in the dirty water and eat soggy cat food, park her in playpen, clean up the sloppy mess on the floor (scooting Lazarus out of the way as he stomps around in the water), get more food and water for the cat who is now attacking my leg, retrieve Maggie and change her all over again....

The days, oh, the days.

Research

See, the thing is, my life just isn't dramatic enough.

And the World Wide Web offers endless drama, and the information I need to create or enhance my own personal drama, right at my fingertips.

And I have DSL now.

That said, I'm actually researching a serious topic: developmental delays and learning disabilities. I'm taking a skeptical, cautious approach to the information I find so that I don't get swept away on a wave of panic, or fanaticism. I just want more information, I guess so I can get some idea of what to do next, what to expect, what to think.

I've known that Lazarus was a bit different since he was just over a year old and still wasn't crawling, or even trying to. In one ear I had people sounding alarms -- "he's not CRAWLING YET?!? Well, that's because you hold him too much. Or else something's wrong with him" -- and in the other ear those with kinder intentions (or perhaps just more tact) were telling me that kids develop at their own rate and just don't worry about it.



But I worried. A bit, then more as Lazarus finally mastered crawling around 14 months but didn't try to stand up and walk anytime soon after that.



He turned 18 months and wasn't walking, and that was the line for me -- the development charts say that's the cutoff, see your pediatrician, and by then I'd noticed other things as well. He spoke no recognizable words and made few attempts to speak or to imitate my words. He couldn't seem to hold onto things like a spoon or a cup or a crayon. So I talked to our doctor, got a referral for early intervention, and started him on occupational and speech therapy. He took his first solo steps soon after.



He's done really well, and I'm thrilled to hear him speak his thoughts and express his feelings (even if he's telling me "Lazarus no NEED a nap, Mama!"). He's always been able to "tell" me how he's feeling with his gestures and facial expressions; now we're connecting verbally, too.



Still, I see him with other kids around his age and I see that he's different. He trips and falls a lot. He can climb, but he doesn't seem to know how to jump -- he makes a mighty effort and ends up taking a big clumsy step, and he's so dang proud I can't help but clap. He sort of runs (especially when I'm trying to catch him around naptime), but not freely like other kids. And his words -- my mom says it's like he's speaking a foreign language, always having to translate his thoughts into our language. He speaks haltingly, with feeling but not with ease, having to lay out his sentences in careful blocks and backtracking as he realizes he missed a step.



It's okay. He has always been an absolute delight, very happy and easy-going (well, from about two weeks on) and quick to smile at anybody whose eye he could catch. I don't worry that he's not perfect, that he won't "achieve," that he won't "fit in" -- okay, I do worry about that last one, because I know people can be merciless to someone who doesn't or can't march in lockstep with the pack. Lazarus is not quite three, and about all he's known so far has been the love and praise of family and friends. Like any (decent) parent, I want to shield my sweet child from hurt, rejection, derision... and I know I can't, not forever. I guess it scares me to think about sending out into the world a child who already is a bit out of step. An easy target. Maybe that's why I suddenly want more information -- a thorough evaluation, some diagnostic tests (but no needles!!), some clearer idea of where he is and where he's going. That's mostly for me, to help me understand and get him what he needs, but it might scare me more to find out just how "different" he is.

But if I have to let him venture out into the world, and I know I do, I desperately want to make things easier for him. I guess I start -- and I think (hope) I've been doing this for almost three years now -- by loving him, purely and completely. God, I can't help but do that. Because he is perfect. He's my beautiful, sweet child. As much as I dread loosing him into the world, I can't deny him the wondrous, scary, human privilege of living in it.

Frost heaves

The Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
--William Wordsworth

Welcome, Spring. Winter's parting tantrum left us a good 10 inches of snow last Monday and Tuesday, after a week of dreamy sunshine, and a cloudy, unsettled chill has lingered. I know, it'll pass. It always does.

Last week was hard. Damn hard. I had to do things I didn't want to do, didn't know how to do, didn't think I'd have the strength to do, and it wasn't just one thing but a slew of things, all tremendously draining. Tell my husband our marriage is over, and explain why, what happened, what's going to happen next (I hardly know that myself, but since I'm the one who opened this door, I'm supposed to take the lead). Nurse Maggie through a scary two days of illness. Wonder yet again what's the sense of living so remote from civilization, so isolated and vulnerable. Try to cobble together enough work to support us, then actually find uninterrupted time to work, which lately has meant staying up very late knowing the kids would be up by 6:30 or so. Try to figure out what's wrong with my computer, and why the DSL I'd breathlessly anticipated still isn't working after a week of troubleshooting. Thinking about any of it, I start feeling panicky. It's too close, and unresolved, and overwhelming.

Now I have to get back to daily life. Reestablish our routine, focus on work. I have so little energy to do anything. And another upheaval is coming this week as Antonio returns from Denver and tries to start a new life here. I can't do it for him, but I feel compelled to help, but I have to make and keep boundaries. It would be so easy to slip back, to shrink away from what I know will be difficult and perhaps even devastating, and part of me doesn't want to do this even though I know it'll be spiritual death, for both of us, if I don't. "Do what you know in your heart you need to do." Damn easier said than done, that's all I can say right now.

Senate Clears Way for Arctic Drilling

Drilling the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge won't make a dent in gas prices at the pump or break our dependence on Middle East oil. This was really a vote for Big Oil, not for the solid majority of Americans who oppose turning America's last great wilderness into a vast, polluted oil field. President Bush and his Senate allies resorted to a sneaky budget maneuver to get their way.

Now, Congress is one step closer to trading away an irreplaceable national treasure for a few drops of oil that we wouldn't see for a decade or more. If the oil industry can drill in the Arctic Refuge, then no place, no matter how pristine, will be safe. But there is still have a lot of political tundra to cross before this fight is over. We'll keep battling them every step of the way.
--Karen Wayland, Legislative Director, Natural Resources Defense Council (links mine)

Dammit.

March = Big Snow

I had a lovely, manic weekend of gardening in the warm sun -- and I must have known subconsciously that this was coming:



We've got about eight inches, and it's still falling -- I guess we're getting these wraparound waves because it's blowing from the east rather than the west and that always means trouble. But Las Vegas, NM has two feet and counting, so I won't complain. I'm glad I stacked the wood, cleaned up the front yard, and refilled the birdfeeders, though. Not much else to do but watch movies and gaze out the window.

Robins

I had my front and back doors open this evening, to air out the house after the woodstove went haywire and started belching sooty smoke from all its orifices. The dogs came in and wandered around, warily at first, then happily, cleaning the food off the dining room floor and chairs and delighting in the messes around Laz's and Maggie's spots. Lazarus ran outside and twirled around in a momentary drizzle, looking straight up and exclaiming, "RAIN, Mama! It's RAIN!" Maggie crawled right up to the threshold and kept reaching her hands out into the cool air, laughing and clapping as she watched her big brother sway and dance. And then, for just a moment, everyone paused, and we heard a robin singing its evening song. I always forget that song over the long winter -- it catches me by surprise every year, one late winter day, and a part of my soul that has been sleeping stirs and stretches and takes a deep breath, and I know spring is coming.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Maggie Roo

It's been one year already.

Aw, shucks, is that for me??


We had a small party here at home -- just Maggie, Lazarus, and me. Lazarus figured out that if said "happy birthday, Maggie!" he'd get props from Mama, and, eventually, some cake. But Maggie got the first bite, and I think she enjoyed it:



Want eat cake, NOW. ...Please.


Okay, enough pictures already! Pesky paparazzi!


Tonight as I laid her down to sleep, I said a prayer: May each year bring you bountiful blessings, and every year may more people who love you come to celebrate your birthday with you -- someday more people than can fit in a whole house.

A parable

I repotted some plants today, unpacking their cramped twisted roots and easing them into the fresh dirt lining the larger ceramic pots I'd dug out of a box in the shed. Some hadn't been repotted in years, I realized, yet they'd survived, if not thrived (the jade plant being a mysterious exception given the particular neglect it has endured) in the many, varying spaces I'd put them over the years.

Over so many moves I've managed to bring along a few plants each time. One of my most heartbreaking moments when preparing to leave California was realizing that I would have to leave behind all of my outdoor plants and most of the indoors ones, too. This was the most luxurious collection of greenery and flora I'd ever managed to cultivate -- both because of the mild winters, which let me keep many plants outdoors where they really wanted to be, and because I was sure I was finally home and so I didn't hold back from sending down roots, figuratively and literally. Outdoors I had bougainvilleas -- such a strangely opulent plant, with its showers of neon blossom-like bracts -- and huge green elephant ears and fuschias hung carefully in moist shady corners, and two huge ficus trees in pots at the front entry, where I also had different ferns and cyclamen and amaryllis planted in the thin strip of earth between the driveway and the entryway. In the front yard, I'd just planted an avocado tree that would be bearing fruit in another few years. Around the side, what was a wasted strip between our house and the next became a fragrant haven of jasmine, more ferns (since it was the northeast corner of the lot), impatiens, and ivies. Inside I had hanging plants and small potted plants and, in my bright living room, opulent floor specimens I'd carefully cultivated for years, hoping for just such a sunny space.

We decided to move to Denver rather hastily, and although I thought I'd be able to take most of the indoor and a few of the outdoor plants with me, the realities of packing everything, but everything, in such a short time soon overwhelmed me. So I gave most of the plants away to friends, who promised to tend them carefully, and left most of the outdoor plants for whoever would be so lucky as to buy and live in my house next. I just couldn't leave those two beautiful ficus trees, though. I knew I was going to a cold grey place, and I thought the trees would keep my head above water during what I sensed would be a difficult adjustment. I managed to shove them and a few other potted plants, mostly small ones, into the moving truck just before my husband slammed and bolted the door. On the rainy November night we left, I had to sit in the driveway for just a few more moments to look at my house, my almost-overgrown entryway, my side garden where the hummingbirds would return in the morning for more nectar and song. And I cried. In fact, I still cry, more than two years later, thinking about being uprooted so unexpectedly, remembering that moment when I lost faith that I'd ever settle and not have to tear up or leave behind so much.

We moved three more times after Denver, and I think I still have four or five of the plants I brought with me. I lost a small azalea, a philodendron that had once hung from ceiling to floor, and a few others to the dry indoor heat. The ficus trees survived the first move but both perished when we moved away from Denver, killed by a hard overnight freeze as they waited in the moving truck for us to finish packing. That hit me hard. Not just because they were still regal but because they had stood at the portal to what I'd thought was Home, and I was saving them for my next real home.

This afternoon, as I repotted three survivors of my tortuous travels, I noticed that one, a small ficus that had never grown much since we left California, had very little root system left. The thready tangle that dangled from the plant's base was brown and dry and mineral-caked, and as I picked at it I realized most of the roots had been dead for some time. Somehow the tree had managed to take in just enough sustenance to keep the appearance of life, but over the years it had been dying, just underneath the surface, and with its recent shedding of most its leaves, which I'd attributed to temperature fluctuation, it seemed to be giving up. This small tree had once thrived on my dresser in the big bedroom of our California house. I remember wondering why it stopped growing after we left, but figured it just needed a stable home and, now, more space to grow. It still looks alive, but it can't grow now, its shriveled roots too long neglected, no longer able to take in nourishment. I've kind of known that for a while but hoped it wasn't true, that somehow I could revive it. Now I must decide: let it linger, keep trying and hoping to save it even as it continues to slip toward its inevitable demise, or bury it in a corner of the vegetable garden. I know what I must do, and it just goes against my deep drive to keep nurturing, keep things growing, keep the green light of hope alive. But it's time to let it go, along with all that has gone before it, and work on bringing the rest of my garden back to life.

Why haven't you written?

I've been reading other weblogs lately and have been awed by their power and beauty. And I come back here and wince at the paucity (see, there's an important word) of words here. Many thoughts and ideas drift through my head during the day, but I'm constantly moving and tending and I write nothing down because, well, holding a pen or sitting at a computer seems incompatible with chasing a toddler brandishing a soggy diaper in one hand and a purloined coffee cup in the other, or pulling the baby back out from under the recliner yet again, or making yet another of the endless stream of meals these creatures seem to need throughout the day, or dealing with Dear Husband on the phone for the fourth time today (he may be in Denver, but he's doing his best to make sure I don't miss him too much). The time I might spend writing -- when both babes are napping (I know, how lucky am I to get simultaneous naps most days?!?) or after I put them to bed at night -- usually trickles away to cleaning up or working or doing homework or maybe, just maybe working on the quilt I started for Maggie two months ago.

And I think being in survival mode for so long has muted me. How can I sit down and think and write from a deep place when I've been treading water for... well, years now? Ranting is easy -- something from the outside pings me and I have a stockpile of righteous anger at the ready, and it's easy to fire something off when it doesn't come from the heart. A heart I hardly know anymore, at least some corners of it. My children absorb me, happily 98 percent of the time, and I could never have imagined the depths of caring and passion I've found with them. But other things are going on inside that I'm ignoring, or unaware of, because I just don't want to sit down (I like to say "set down" in keeping with my old-timey ways) and dig and sift through all the dirt and roots and old buried things. Get my hands dirty. Sit on the ground for a while next to the hole and the piles to sort it all out. Uninterrupted, unavailable. I don't have the space to do that right now and haven't quite figured out yet when I'll really be ready to make that space. Maybe I'm starting now, making some tentative scratches at the dirt to see whether it's muddy or packed solid or just dormant, crumbly and dark and still fertile under its thin winter crust.

Given that it's almost 12:30 a.m. and Maggie will probably be up at 4 and both kids again at 7, I have to wash my hands now and go to bed. But first, two bits of (good!)news:

-I got DSL service today -- DSL, out here in the boondocks!
-Maggie started crawling for real today -- going forward on hands and knees, eyes fixed on destination, plot for world domination hatching underneath her sweetly scented hair.

"You're not to be so blind with patriotism that you can't face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it."
-Malcolm X, 1925-1965

My life

Antonio is visiting this weekend from Denver. We went to a friend's for a "dinner party" (in the loosest sense of the term) and had a great time -- all but one of these people live out of town now, so we rarely see them anymore. It was great to hang out for a long evening and have good talking time. I love it when people shower Laz and Maggie with attention, but I also love carrying on a grown-up conversation once in a while. It cheered me up a lot.

My mom will appreciate this: I dreamed last night that I was house-hunting *in and around Philly* and found the perfect place for myself and the kids and the dogs (sorry, Mom, they came along for the dream), with huge trees and a big yard and an old stone barn. Of course it was a sunny, warm day and everything was green, which suckered me right in.

No, I'm not making any plans. If I based my actions on my dreams, yesterday I'd have headed out to sea in a large tin washbucket with a bag of apples. Now, that doesn't seem like a good idea, does it?

Does it?

A moment in time

This week has been bittersweet -- full of anxiety and sadness yet also of moments like these:



Sunbeams they be, my little Maggie and Lazarus.