Suspending Etiquette

Oh sweet life gift me a straw as big as the sun rise sky. Let me drink this day with such gusto my cheeks hurt. And tonight, when the last drop has been drawn into my soul, may the night sky vibrate with the most amazing slurp of joy the earth has known. Even the rules of etiquette surrender to joy. 

Bouncing Laughter

Some mornings you just have to wonder. Oh, not "wonder" as a question and scratching your head. True wonder.... We all know "sleep hair." Well, this morning I woke up to sleep hair that would rival Woody Woodpecker and I just bellowed...  and the laughter, sweet mercy, bounced back.

In the Field of all vibrations where we align with All That IS, like a child standing in front of the Universe's playground, with impish eyes, I shall simply run in without abandon and throughout the web of Life, in my best southern childlike drawl, giggle

"Hey Yall!.... What's Happen'n?"

Tsp Revisited Bearing a Gift

I related my inability to cook in a July entry called Seesaw Wisdom .  I repost it here so you can follow the update.

My mother was obsessed with cleaning and her kitchen. No one could help her wash dishes or clean. Only she could make sure it was done correctly. And she most definitely did NOT teach her daughter how to cook.  I am 58 and I still do not know how to cook. The language of cooking is as foreign as the language of Martians. To get my Brownie badge, the one exception was made and I entered her sacred kitchen to make brownies from a boxed mix. The directions were quite clear- "50 strokes by hand." Hmmmm. Must be a reason you cannot use a spoon, it clearly says by hand. So...... squish...one..squish...two... My mother entered the kitchen and to her horror her daughter was mixing the batter, by hand.  Lesson over.  Later, regretting her lack of wisdom, she gave me a Barbie Easy Cook Book for children hoping I would learn to cook...I was in my 20's and living away from home.  I tried.  Finally in frustration I called her. She could tell I was mad.  I had been to every store, asked every clerk and no one, no ONE had tisp flour! How were you supposed to make the recipe if you could not get tisp flour! A long silence. Then in her ever so slow southern drawl, she asked me to read exactly what the recipe said (perhaps remembering the 50 strokes by hand).  I did.  Another looooonnng pause.  Quietly she informed me that "tisp" was an abbreviation for teaspoon - tsp. Not a brand or type. TSP mean teaspoon. Sigh...and giggle.

Tonight, Friday 12/21/12 - Perhaps the season, but my mama's presence would not leave me and created a desire for toast made in the "thing" (aka oven) with butter and cheese. Do not know why, but felt I needed to make.  Four phone calls later, finally found someone at home who told me what kind of pan to buy at the store and to call them back when ready. With phone on speaker, and yes, much laughter, they told me how to put the butter and cheese on the bread, and using the photo of the thing's (aka oven) knobs told me what to press and turn.  And then, quite exhausted from their laughter, told me to call later to make sure the house did not burn down.

And so there I sat, on the floor, with the light on so I could see. Have you ever watched bread turn into toast?  Folded cross legs holding my hands I squiggled and sat and watched it all happen.  No, there is nothing in the picture, the thing is empty...and yes I remembered to turn off the light.  I sat there looking into the empty cave of the thing, drinking my coffee and eating my mama's cheese toast and heard the thread.... perhaps that is Christmas .... daring to look beyond what has never been done, into the light with the eyes of a child.  Magic. Wonder. Giggles and sweet tears.

Merry Christmas mama.... thank you for the present.

Undaunted Blue

Walking around the park lake yesterday, I pondered the morning's excursion to another lake and a path blanketed from the sun by trees and the sound of a river dancing.  In the midst of the tree limb'd canopy, a small opening filled with the sun pointing to a tiny blue flower, in solitude amidst the green fir fingers of new fir trees reaching for the sun.

As I walked and remembered, a tiny voice yelled at me, "I'll race you!" Stopping I saw a young boy on his Hot Wheel tricycle, his face fixed in anticipation. His mother and grandmother giggled in embarrassment. I knelt beside him and asked if he thought he could win. His tiny feet danced on the pedals and his eyes grew big. Assuming a runner's starting pose, I looked at him and counted us down.... We reached the tree's finish line the Hot Wheel and a boy's laughter crossed first.  Kneeling beside him I raised my arms in the air and told him to feel his strength. Timid at first, his arms flew up. The grandmother's hands likewise flew clasped to her heart. His mother laughed so hard I do not know if the picture she took with her phone was steady. I whispered, "Well done!" and bowed as I left.  Never has defeat tasted so sweet.

A tiny blue flower, defiant and determined, embraced by a sliver of sun. Tiny arms that felt the power of their courage. The joy of defeat. Simple fragments of a day, the threads of life.

Humming prayer

I am so much a child. The morning coffee, the birds and the sun.  I had to share. Having no one I brought outside my impulse buy of a toy horse, posed standing up with the feel of power his feet pawing the air.

Holding the image up to the morning sun just seemed the thing to do. And then I giggled at myself, with a whisper of 'my gosh you are a dork.'

A car went flying by, way too fast, probably late for work. Open neighbors' windows released the sound of a husband yelling at his wife and another the sound of a child and mother not very pleased with other. I recalled the young man standing in front of the house last night screaming at his girl friend on the cell phone and bad words flying through my open windows. I thought of the clerk who despite my best efforts simply refused to smile. I felt the holes in the wholeness of my heart and body. 

As I pondered, the little horse danced in the air, and upon the porch windowsill. The birds and wind chime became his orchestra accompanied by my soft gentle hum and prayer of peace to all whose images and voices I felt and saw.  Another hum for any who might see my little scrich, a hummed prayer that in the midst of your busy day, you could come and play with life, pause to hold up the silliness and wonder in your heart, and giggle to yourself, 'my gosh I am a dork.'  I'll leave my little horse here, in case you need a friend to play.

Ginger Snap Thread

To know or be around me is to know or be with a child playing dress up in a tattered weary and old body. Sometimes I think I am like Peter Pan and have refused to grow up. With a giggle, Life conspired to make me an adult first and then I became a child.  I think, perhaps, I appreciate the gift more having received it in reverse.

And so the child dips her Ginger Snap cookie into the adult's cup of coffee. The adult sighs as her eyes refuse to see the words she needs to read.  The child giggles and slurps the soaked Ginger Snap cookie and while talking with her mouth full, observes to the adult, "You can see...maybe you're just learning to read."

“Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”  - A.A. Milne

Hunger of White

Give a young child a crayon and color book and watch their small hands dance and swish across the page.  The passion of an artist spilling the pallet of oils or watercolors across the canvas, laughing to feel the hunger of the empty whiteness. The child sees no dark lines and shapes that define things, cartoon characters, bodies or animals. Swoooooosh, whiiiiisk, sliiiide and glide their hand dancing with the colors til the blank imprinted ink defining this from that surrenders to burnt orange, cobalt blue, lavender, maroon, yellow and red. 


Hold your crayon lightly and color your day.  Go ahead, trust the child. Color your day. Melt into the sun.