The Associated Press just announced that "Mary Oliver, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet whose rapturous ode to nature and animal life bought her critical acclaim and popular affection, has died. She was 83·" (by Bill Reichblum)
So long, Mary. We will miss your brilliant mind and tender heart. JS
My friend, Capt. Judy Miller-Keay, has reported that the rebels have held strong and successful at the Siege of Penzey’s in the Sellwood section of Portland, Or., which brings me great relief. The thought of seeing such a great herb shop floating in a sea of red MAGA hats was almost more than I could bear. Where else could we all get a really decent herbs de provence? I mean, really.
Random bursts of gunfire blurt out every so often in the distance and I heard an ambulance siren earlier, but things are much more quiet today and I am grateful for that. Perhaps, we can all begin to heal. Maj. Neyhart found a definite bullet hole in my pack, although we have failed to find a bullet in my body, nor do I feel the least bit paralyzed, and even tested myself by doing the macarena in the kitchen while smearing peanut butter on my toast. Her shoulder seems better, although she was definitely wounded. Lt. Toby only has some minor powder burns on his paws. My horse Dickens, however, has already begun his rehab and is swimming in our pool. JS
My friends, Kay & Stephen, at whose home I rolf when I am here in Tulsa, have been hiking in the mountains of Colorado for the past couple of weeks. Stephen has been posting videos of their adventure from time to time and I have enjoyed seeing them, especially the one from yesterday.
Stephen and Kay have what you might call different styles of hiking. Stephen is the Master of the Saunter and he stops to photograph, or, just admire, the scenery surrounding them. For Kay, hiking is more like a Marine Corps forced march and she blasts forward, charging full-out up that trail, like she’s delivering a satchel for the Pony Express, or she’s got a pocketful of plutonium she’s got to unload before it burns her leg off. From the video Stephen posted yesterday, what we see is the back side of Kay 50 yards ahead and we hear him muttering about the beauty of the mountains and the spectacular view of the canyon below. Occasionally, Kay looks back over her shoulder to make sure Stephen is still there, that he hasn’t been clawed and chewed up by a bear, nor has he slipped off into the canyon and river below. Whenever she looks back to check on him, we hear Stephen, in that wonderful British accent of his, shout out, “CARRY ON, McDUFF!” It is comforting to me in an odd way. I am not entirely positive of just what that means, but I assume it’s from a movie or book I’ve not seen or read. Still, I understand it and it makes me smile.
I appreciate it so much because it reminds me that two people can approach something in different ways, with their own unique styles, but that those styles can still be tolerated – even celebrated – when they know they share a great love, and, these two do, which also makes me smile.
They will be home in Tulsa late tonight. I hope I am still awake when they come in the door so I can welcome them home and so I can say, “CARRY ON, McDUFF!” It will be good to see them. JS
It was a balmy 82 degrees last night when my plane landed in Tulsa, and the high yesterday had only been 86 which, you gotta admit, is pretty decent for summer in Oklahoma. I enjoy being surprised in this way at this time of year in this part of the nation. Texas, where I grew up, and Oklahoma, where I have spent a lot of time, are both notorious for getting a running start on summer beginning in late April or early May and not letting up until the end of September, where sticking your head out the window feels like you’ve just stuck your head into a dryer full of still-damp Levis.
The air seems to disappear during this time. For years, in Dallas, I was sure Texas sold all its air to another state and the humidity and heat created its own particular miasma, rather like a wet diaper, and just about as pleasant. Ugh.
I once shared a motel room in Houston in July with far too many people, all of us there to watch a softball tournament. I wound up sleeping on the floor and awoke in the middle of the night unable to breathe. OH, I thought, OH, MY HEAVENS, THEY’VE BREATHED UP ALL THE AIR – THERE IS NO AIR IN HERE! I rolled over onto my belly and commandoed myself over to the door in the darkness, sliding my hand up to the door handle, anticipating oxygen and cool night air and relief of some sort. I cracked the door open enough to stick my big head outside and was instantly stung above my eyebrows by 3 mosquitoes who figured they’d just arrived at a late-night drive-thru, PLUS, there was no air outside, either! I pushed myself back into the room and lay on my belly, panting into the musty carpet and thinking, as I often do, I’M SCREWED. Eventually, I resigned myself to my fate, and, waiting to die, fell asleep. In the morning, I was still alive, still sweaty, still panting, but more determined than ever to find out just who was sucking all of the air out of my state through some giant pneumatic tube hidden somewhere.
I searched for years, upending every suspicious-looking rock I ran across, ready to shout – AHAAAAA! and blow the whistle on somebody for this offense. I never did find out. I moved away to Oregon instead where the summers are not as long and not nearly as intense. There might be some hot days but it always cools off at night in the Pacific Northwest and I like being able to sleep with the windows open, yes, even when skunks come up in the yard late at night to dig for grubs in the lawn. I savor the sounds of the night I can hear at certain times of the year, like the bullfrog who shows up in the pool in the spring, croaking madly for a potential girlfriend. And, of course, what’s a lovely morning in Oregon without the sounds of a hundred birds right outside? Just think of it – all of that beauty and wonder because I get to leave the windows open. What could be better than that?
All of this focus, by me, on the weather, of course, has me thinking about the young children and babies being held as “detainees” by our government along the Texas border in the broiling heat. FOX news right-winger, Laura Ingraham, tried to spin it all as their being at “summer camp” in describing these children and babies who were taken from their parents by people operating under direct orders from the Trump administration. So, Laura, here’s the deal: I challenge you to go and spend a week with these kids in 100 degree heat, in tents and cages, and then tell me if it still feels like they’re at “summer camp.” Because, I tell you what, Ms. Ingraham: UNLESS ALL THOSE CHILDREN MAKE IT BACK TO THEIR FAMILIES – SAFE, SANE AND UNHARMED – KNOWING HOW TO PADDLE A CANOE AND TIE NAUTICAL KNOTS, I’M CALLING BULLSHIT ON YOU AND YOUR STUPID COMMENT. IF YOU DON’T HAVE A HEART, DON’T REMIND US. Ugh. JS
What if, at the moment we leave this life, we get to feel every hug we have ever given, ever received? What if we get to hear every laugh that has made us laugh out loud, too? What if, rather than seeing our own silly little life flash before our eyes, we get to see every majestic sunset, each dazzling, heart-stopping sunrise, every gathering of birds, every ocean’s surf blasting and foaming against the rocks, every salmon leaping in a silvery arc out of a quiet river in the mist of early morning? What if we get to hear the joyful secret of every baby’s first laugh? What if we get to witness a tiny bee’s exploration of the most luscious flower? What if we get to see the faces of people who’ve heard our stories over and over and still laughed anyway? What if we get to watch all the dogs we have ever adored, their hearts full of mischief and love, running full-out and strong on the beach? What if we get to smell, once more, the inside of a barn, run our hands across the smooth, worn leather of a saddle, and see a new mama horse nuzzling her foal? What if all of our senses are suddenly bombarded with all of those sights and smells and sounds and feelings, those things and moments which have made our breath catch in our throats, the ones that brought us to tears and to joy all at once – what if?
If all those things are true, if all those things happen to us with our final breath, it really might not be a bad way to go. What if, suddenly, right at the end of it all, we realize with such clarity that the whole thing has been so exquisite, just so perfect in all of its joy and angst and wonder and glory, that the very last thing slipping out in a whisper from our lips is the the only thing left to say, the greatest prayer of all: THANK YOU. That’s what I’m thinking. JS Continue reading
Cheryl Strayed walked a thousand miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. Her new hiking boots, which were too small, ripped most of her toenails off. After her mother’s death, she had taken a look at her life, didn’t like what she saw, and said, “I’m going to walk myself back to the woman my mother thought I was.” So, she did. Her book about this journey is called WILD and it is FABULOUS. They made it into a movie starring Reese Witherspoon, which is also EXCELLENT – as raw and real as Cheryl’s life must have felt during that whole time.
Last Friday, I had my right knee replaced, which has been needing to happen for many years. At home now, EVERYTHING I try to do seems to take YEARS for me to do, and, then, I am exhausted. Parts of my body other than my knee now hurt, too – aching and throbbing from being called upon to get to work doing jobs I’ve never asked of them before, or, just from simply lying in bed for hours in weird positions just to get comfortable.
I emptied the dishwasher earlier, which seemed to take hours. Of course, then I was exhausted and grumpy. My leg was throbbing like a sump pump. I thought, as I often do, I’M SCREWED. Sometimes, I am right; other times, I am wrong about that. Then, without preamble, Cheryl Strayed and her journey wafted across my mind and then I thought: WELL, AT LEAST, YOU’VE STILL GOT ALL YOUR TOENAILS.
I hobbled in here to the living room, clicked on the TV, and there was Reese Witherspoon starring in WILD, right there for me to see. Again. Writers have a way of saving each other, even when they don’t know it; ESPECIALLY when they don’t know it. I hope words I have written over the years have offered hope or comfort or insight to someone right at a time when they were needed most, even if it just allows someone to think: WELL, AT LEAST MY LIFE ISN’T AS BIG A MESS AS HERS.
It is important, especially for those of us who tend to “awfulize,” to realize that pain, even in all its rawness and thrashing about, doesn’t last forever. Wounds heal. Movement returns. Things change, shift, and life goes on. Sometimes, Life, with arms spread wide and grinning at us like we just won the decathlon, even forgives us. Today, I needed reminding of that and Cheryl Strayed showed up. Right when I needed her most. Thanks, Cheryl. JS
An elderly cat died in our bathtub this morning. He belongs to our neighbors who are out of town and, clearly, not very aware of how sick their cat was.
Stef brought him home from an alley-way last night where he was dying, wasting away, and very, very old. We had him resting on blankets and towels in the family room, but I insisted we put him in the tub last night so I could get up and check on him or give him water if he cried out, which he did, a couple of times.
I talked to him about the Rainbow Bridge and told him that this house was a safe place from which to make that launch. I told him to look for Riley (who would show him the ropes) but to watch out for Tinker (who could get kind of snarky) and how much fun it will be to feel his body young and strong again and out of pain.
He made hi.s transition about an hour ago at 8:30am. I had gone in there about a half hour before to give him a little sip of water, stroke his head and talk to him. He has always been an outdoor kitty, so this might have been the most affection he’s ever gotten in his life, and I’m feeling really sad and weepy, reactivated in remembering all the animals I’ve carried in my heart and had to say good-bye to. I’m glad we were the ones to do it, though, the ones to be kind to him right at the end of this life, the ones to remind him that this is what we are here for – to love each other, to care for each other gently, and, when the time comes, to wish each other well as we strike out for the next great adventure. JS
I have been informed by people in sales who are very good at their jobs that my offer of a refund if people don’t like my books is a dumb idea, that I need to take a sales course, etc. And, while all of that might be true, my offer still stands and my reasoning is this: the number of moments we have here on Planet Earth is finite and we don’t know what that number is. I don’t want anyone to be disappointed that they spent time or money on what I have written. Thus, if you buy either or both of my books and don’t like them, just tell me. I can’t give you your time back, but I can give you your money back.
That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. JS
I have no hair on my legs. None. Menopause had rendered me down to 3 on my right leg only and zero on the left and now those 3 have disappeared, too. I’m thinking I must have dripped some of my home-made weed killer onto my pants leg the other day. Or, perhaps my eyesight is going. Or, aliens made off with me in the night, plucked out those 3 remaining hairs for research, looked at each other and said, “Nah, she’s a geezer – she’ll never even notice,” then carted me back home and into my bed before dawn when I awoke. At any rate, that’s the status for today.
Spooky, isn’t it? The thought that you could be double-crossed by your very own body 3 & 4 times in one lifetime is really kind of creepy, don’t you think? I mean, just when I finally get used to it being a particular way – WHAM! – there’s something new that’s arrived or disappeared and, suddenly, I have to spend twice as long to look half as good as I ever did, and even half of that time is spent plucking or tweeking somehow, or clipping or tucking in or cinching up or buffing or smearing with some sort of cream or ointment.
So, I hope you’re having a hey-day, you creepy, weird-O aliens, with my 3 leg hairs, and I hope my schizophrenic DNA sprays all over you when you crack those babies open. You won’t know what’s hit you. I certainly don’t. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. JS
Up very early this morning, not even 3am, because I couldn’t sleep. Toby got up, too, thinking, as he often does, that this means it’s time for breakfast, which it almost always is, for him, as soon as I get up. But not today, not this early. He tests me many times, heading toward the kitchen, hopping up and down, doing the entire repertoire of excited doggie tricks he enlists to enroll me in the euphoria of his mealtime. But, I don’t fall for it. I sit on the sofa, pull out my laptop; he sits beside me on the couch, sighing for effect, letting me understand his disappointment that he doesn’t get to have breakfast during what is, essentially, the middle of the night. I stand firm, however, not giving in to the manipulations of my little canine boy, until, at last, he hops down from the couch, wanders back into the bedroom and waits for me to come and pick him up onto the bed so he can go back to sleep.
Sometime, I hope to be able to explain to him the advantages of delayed gratification but, since he’s a food-motivated dog, I’m not so sure how that will work out.
I’ve been reading Anne Lamott essays for the past couple of hours – crying, laughing – and feeling grateful there is someone on this earth who understands the rust spots on a tarnished soul, pointing out that rust is just oxidation and oxidation means that something has just been working extra hard to be seen. JS
