Comey Day Cometh – Here’s What to Expect

Again, must read this and keep an open mind.

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Rabbit holes and conundrums ***UPDATE***

Usually about this time of the year I’m waxing philosophical about the creatures who come to dig holes in my yard. I pen great works about the ravages they have manifest, my struggles with attempts to convince them the grass is truly greener over yonder, and finally my complete and utter resignation to their complete and utter dominance of my landscape and, some days it seems, my serenity.

To date, these pesky, little varmints are here.  And they’re doing their darnedest to pepper my lawn with subterranean passages joined by large holes on the surface.

And once again, I am faced with a conundrum.  I do not want these creatures in my yard.  I have tried everything possible to discourage them from coming in, yet also offer ample reasons for them to return.  Thus, the conundrum.  There are a plethora of birds that visit here, either staying for the season or dropping in while they journey north and south.  I personally think we must get good reviews on Yelp as to the accommodations and amenities provided.  Said amenities include copious amounts of various and sundry birdie treats.  Black sunflower seed, peanut butter suet, thistle seed, orange marmalade for the orioles and oodles and oodles of yummy sugar water.  The pesky varmints aren’t after the orange marmalade or the sugar water, but the birdseed that has fallen out of the feeders above and been scattered on the ground below must surely seem like the Holy Grail.  At any given time of day, one can see a bat-guano crazy woman run out into the yard, yelling at the insouciant critters to “get out of MY YARD!!!!!!!!!!”  Said creatures scurry a couple of feet away, stand up on their hind legs and peer intently at the wild-haired, towel-waving lunatic.  Said lunatic stomps her foot a couple of times, utters a few profanities and then retreats back into her lair.  The creatures return to the previous business of scavenging.

The conundrum: the most obvious solution would be to stop providing reasons for the creatures to enter the yard.  Meaning, stop feeding the birds.  But we love the birds.  The birds love us.  Ok, that’s a bit of anthropomorphizing to be sure.  I have no earthly idea if the birds love us or not.  Or like us for that matter.  Or even acknowledge that we exist.  For all I know, the birds think the birdseed is like manna from heaven.  It just appears magically in the feeders whenever they are hungry.  Who knows.  I’m not a bird psychologist, nor a bird behaviorist.  Though I’m sure these type of professions do exist.

And now I’ve digressed.  The point was that I don’t know how to solve this problem.  We like having birds in the yard.  To do that, we must offer a smorgasbord of a menu to attract them.  In so doing, there will be the inevitable hangers-on, just like the groupies who follow bands around the country.  I must learn to take the bad (creatures who dig massive holes in my yard and create tunnels underneath that threaten to undermine every green tree left) with the good (many, many different species of birds alighting in the trees each day).

So I’d gotten to that point actually and only half-heartedly yelled at the damn gophers to “get out of my yard” the last few days.  Granted, it’s been snowing for a week now. !!!!!!!!!!!  And it’s very cold and very wet and who wants to be outside when it’s snowing in May?  Right. And don’t remind me of every other post I’ve written in which I’ve waxed poetic about snow and rain and precipitation and how necessary it is because we don’t want to experience a forest fire……………HA.  So that happened.  And per several of the firefighters, I’ll not need to worry about a fire for another 25 years.  So it can stop snowing now!!!!!!!!!!

I digress.  Yet again.

Basically, I’d let the damn gophers alone, because we were getting some beautiful birds showing up and I’m a sucker for pretty things.  I’m sort of preening myself when I think of the beauties that have been here this past week.  (As if I had something to do with their flight patterns or their desire to settle here or stop here on their way through.)

A Bullock’s oriole (male) who insists on attempting to drink out of the hummingbird feeders despite me hanging a custom-made oriole feeder right there, smack-dab in the middle of the yard.  If it was a snake, it would have bitten him.  Two hours I spent the other morning, in the snow, chasing that damn bird around, from the front to the back and  back to the front.  Just trying to entice him to the oriole feeder so he could take a drink.  Aaghhhh.  That was a cold, wet morning.  He’s eating the orange marmalade now, but still won’t touch the orange, or drink the sugar water.  What can you do? Horse, water, not so much.

The evening grosbeaks are really quite amazing with their black and bright yellow and white colorings.  They like the little bird feeder designed by Grace.  Maybe the colors of it? Maybe the black sunflower seeds inside?  Since I lack a degree in bird psychology, I’ll never know.

And then something unexpected happened.  Though, to be sure, nothing around here should be unexpected anymore.  A solid week of snow in late May, 65 degree days in March, hummingbirds arriving 10 days early…a lot of weird juju basically.

Two days ago, Buck started barking in the back yard.  It sounded like his “I’m lonely out here and I want a treat” bark, so I pitched Aengus out to keep him company.  A few seconds later I happened to look out the front window and to what should my wondering eyes appear, but…

Silly old bear.  Birdseed is for birds.

Followed by one of our resident foxes this afternoon.

What next, eh?

Conundrums.  To feed or not to feed the birds.  After much soul searching (something that goes on quite a lot here), I’ve come down on the side of “to feed.”  We’re studying infinitives and infinitive phrases in grammar right now, so this seemed apropos.

The fire on our mountain last summer consumed A LOT of habitat.  There are some areas in which green grass can be seen to be sprouting, but that’s from my vantage point of down here, looking far up there.  I cannot be certain what exactly is growing and whether or not it’s what the resident bird population used to feast on.  The mountain itself in other places is, for lack of a better word that doesn’t necessarily seem accurate, denuded.  Dark, burned, charred sticks are all that is left of the beautiful pine forest.  Granted, many of those trees were dead or dying from beetle kill, but it still provided necessary habitat.  The chickadees never returned.  I waited patiently all winter for my little mountain chickadees, but sadly, nary a one.  The pine siskins and rosy-headed finches have not arrived either.  A flock of red-winged blackbirds has taken up residence and their sweet songs each morning and evening are a harbinger of spring and summer.  The steady family of Stellar jays were around all winter, numbering roughly a dozen, but have moved on and only a few are alighting here these days.  We have a new addition to our community and these are a delight to watch: Audubon’s warblers.  Gorgeous, bright yellow chin and wing patches with streaks of white on tail feathers.  They weave and bob amongst the aspen leaves just budding out, searching for little things that fly.  (I had a picture, but it was too blurry & I deleted it.  Sorry.)

Well that was a wee bit of rambling.  I was headed into an explanation of my decision “to feed.”  The fire destroyed not only homes for the birds, but also food for the birds.  Birds are essential to our ecosystem.  We all fit in at certain points and places around the web of life.  No, my birdseed is not their natural diet.  But it is close and if it provides a little sustenance until the mountain can grow back enough to support them, then I’m going to err on the side of feeding.  (Note: see previous post about “Inappropriate Relationships.”)

The hummingbirds are back!!  In greater numbers than I thought I’d see.  The first couple showed up about a week and a half early, so I scrambled to get the feeders up.  Their zinging and chirping is music to my ears.  I lose great gobs of time each day watching in awe at their antics.  I’ve not taken any current pictures as it’s been snowing or raining every day for the last ten days and feeding time is usually cold and dreary.  I’m worried the cold will be too much for them, but as of last night, I’d have to estimate at least a hundred or more on the feeders at the same time, so maybe they’ll be just fine.

Now, for the rabbit holes.  I’ve spent the better part of the last couple of weeks down a few of them.  This post is long and math lessons are waiting, so now I cannot wax poetic about where I’ve been or what I’ve learned.  Suffice it to say I am faced with a conundrum as to what to believe.  Do I listen to the naysayers and those disparaging the work of others?  Do I jump down the rabbit hole and listen to my instincts as to who and what I think are competent, credible sources?  I’m not one to blindly give credence to conspiracy theories.  I have enough education behind me, most of it scientific, to understand the importance of not taking something only at face value, but instead reading, researching and learning as much as I can

(Sorry, lost my train of thought because I needed to yell at the radio because Trey Gowdy is being a smug a** about damn leaks.  aaaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)

Ok.  I’ll try to pick up my thought.

As I was writing, I think I have enough education behind me to be able to suss out what I believe to be facts versus just garbage.

I’ve been down some rabbit holes lately that I think might lead to something.  I reblogged a post here from Louise Mensch. *****Go to her site on your own as I’ve been warned the link I had previously leads to some rather disgusting garbage. (Thank you Mr. Seahorn.)

She has been pilloried in the mainstream media (and elsewhere) as a wing nut, wacko, crazy person peddling some ridiculous theories.

I, for one, don’t think she’s wacky and I don’t think the theories are ridiculous.  I think we would be wise to pay attention.  I reblogged one of her posts here because I think its important.  There is more afoot than what is reported on the nightly news by “trusted” news sources.  I stand by my beliefs.  Read her as you please.

And now I must delve into verbal phrases, fractions, decimals and Spanish.

Vaya con dios mis amigos y amigas.

Blessings be.




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“Trump’s Presidency Ended May 9th” – Hatch Getting Security Briefings

I have been silent on my blog about these issues, but find I can no longer be quiet.
I am reblogging this latest post from @LouiseMensch of so that you can start to read what I’ve been reading.
Louise Mensch has received enough blowback labeling her as an “unhinged British witch” for one thing and others mocking her for lauding conspiracy theories.
I believe she has the information necessary to write what she does, so I am reposting this here.
I would highly encourage anyone who reads this post to go to her site and read the other posts.
The information will 1)make you sick to your stomach, 2)blow your mind and finally, hopefully, 3)give you hope.
I know I’ve found a glimmer of that hope.
May the Universe bless this great country and help us to right the egregious wrongs that have been committed.

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Patient zero (0)

For those of you who know me (and the mini-me who inhabits this sanctuary of peace with me) know that since November 8, 2016, I (and she too actually) have been wandering.  Wandering in the wastelands of “What Ifs” and “What Might Have Been” and “How Could This Possibly Be Happening?”  These are barren, drought-stricken, depressing, soul-sucking, mind-numbing places to be.  They are not happy.  They are not conducive to healthy living, nor are they beneficial to the mind, body or spirit.

I read about the five stages of grief (see Kubler-Ross).  I sailed through them all a few times, bouncing back and forth, landing on denial one day, anger the next, back to denial, even hanging out on bargaining for a long time.  But I never seemed to get very far in accepting what had happened that night.  Nor accepting the fact that Hillary would not be Madame President.  Nor acknowledging that the pins and the buttons and the patches and the bumper stickers and the magnets and the paper dolls would need to be relegated to either the trash (sacrilege!!) or the keepsake box (why? why preserve the hurt?).

I turned off the news.  We listened to Christmas music four weeks earlier than our normal. We usually wait until after Thanksgiving Day to bring it all out and crank it all up and dream of white Christmases and peppermint hot chocolate and bulging stockings and pretty white lights.  This year we started early.  We needed to dull the pain.

I stopped perusing my news feeds.  As we don’t have television here (a blessing now that I think about it), I rely on the internet and the radio for my daily dose of world happenings.  Some who know me might say I’m addicted to the news.  I would have to reply, “fair point well made.”

When it became necessary to pack up the Christmas music (which in all truth ends up being more “holiday” music here…heavy on Ol’ Blue Eyes, Dean Martin and jazzy renditions of Rudolph) as the damn store-bought trees were long dead (which is a story for another day…due to a teensy, weensy fire on the mountain preventing us from trekking out back to cut down our tree), I found I still couldn’t quite stomach the news.  We switched to jazz and immersed ourselves in Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Herbie Hancock and Dave Brubeck.  With a healthy dose of Frank and Dean sprinkled in as well.

I tentatively waded back onto the wide world of ethernet “news” and found I could barely keep it down either.  I limited myself to one site that has a rather comforting daily column, heavy on the snark, full of like-minded readers, gathering from all walks of life to share our  daily travails.  But that was all I could manage.

The inauguration loomed.  It seemed surreal.  We (the mini-me and I) talked about it and decided no way in hell-o would we be caught watching it (on the computer) or listening to it (on the radio).  Total blackout.  Denial.  Pretend it wasn’t happening.  Go on about our business as if the world hadn’t turned upside down. (One million to anyone who can quote that song from our favorite musical.)  Instead, we listened to jazz that day.

I had to work the weekend.  I work at a county hospital in a red city in a red state.  A very western, very red state.  Usually when I walk into a patient’s room, I inwardly cringe as Faux News is blaring on the television.  And the people are always enraptured.  Enthralled.  First thing I do is dive for the remote to hit the “mute” button so we can have a proper conversation.  I very often get the stink eye over this, but they don’t call us “Physical Terrorists” for nothing.  I prefer physical therapist, but whatevs.

That Saturday was difficult.  I was still in sort of a fog that Friday had actually happened.  We actually inaugurated that man.  I couldn’t see a way forward.  I couldn’t square this circle.  And I was having a difficult time finding compassion for my Faux News-loving patients.  I walked through the morning in a blur, putting my best face on and one foot in front of the other.  My heart was hurting though, and my spirits were definitely low.

Until I met Patient Zero.

Patient Zero, because he is the one who ignited my spark of hope.  He is the one who allowed my soul to breathe, to see the possibilities ahead of us, to acknowledge that though the battles before us may be great, we can overcome.

He was propped up in his hospital bed, the head of the bed elevated so he could see the television up on the wall, with a multitude of pillows surrounding him.  Pillows behind his head and neck, pillows under each arm–almost as if he was floating on a cloud.

He was wearing huge, gold-rimmed 80’s style eyeglasses with a floppy, khaki-colored fishing hat.  He seemed to be entranced by the television and I thought to myself “Self, I cannot handle another second of Faux News.  Somehow you must find the strength to carry on.”

I steeled myself, walked in and commented on his hat.  He turned to me with a 100o-watt smile and told me “I like to make a lasting impression.”   He turned back to the television, smiling all the while, almost enigmatically.  I was curious as to what was captivating his attention.  Because, truth be told, he didn’t appear to be the average Faux News viewer.  He was not an older, white male.  He was very distinctly black.  As in not white. African-American.  He was older, I’ll give him that, but not white.

Curious, I turned my head to look at the television screen and saw “MSNBC” scrawled at the bottom.  I turned back to him; he nodded at me and then gestured with his chin at the tv.  I looked again and realized it was live coverage of the Women’s March on Washington. And Chicago.  And Los Angeles.  And Denver.  And New York City.

I again turned back to Patient Zero, who bedazzled me with that mega-watt smile that seemed to light up his eyes, as if to say “see that? That’s for you and for me and for all of us here despairing of anything being right in this world again.”

It was a few minutes, truly, before I could find my voice.  I stood there entranced as well.  I finally shook my head and mumbled something about not knowing, not realizing, not having any idea…my words seemed so pathetic, so not enough.

He just smiled and nodded his head.  I mentioned that all of the other rooms had Faux News playing and what a relief it was to walk in and see this.  He reached down, moved the covers aside, patted the bed and said “Sit down awhile. Watch with me.”

We watched in silence and awe.  He never stopped smiling.  Quietly smiling and nodding his head.  He seemed to be reveling in the moment.  It would be foolish of me to begin to think I knew what was in his mind, his thoughts.  I didn’t ask.  He didn’t say.  We both seemed to just need the silence and the awareness that a fellow traveler was finding some comfort in the images on the screen.

I reluctantly tore myself away from him.  That’s what it felt like.  I’d found a kindred spirit, a soul who shared a moment with me, and I didn’t want to leave.  I didn’t want to walk out the door into the other reality.  I wanted to stay and be the recipient of that beatific smile.  I wanted to revel in his quiet strength and calming presence.

As soon as I left his room, I called home to make sure the mini-me could see the images that I had just seen.  I wanted her to be able to grab some of the hope that I just did, to see there were others like us out there.  I wanted her to be calmed by the realization that we are not alone in this.

I have not seen my Patient Zero again.  He was very sick then.  I do not know if he is still walking the good red road.  I know with every fiber of my being, on that day, he was a beacon of hope for me.  He was the spark that ignited in me the possibilities of meeting this challenge head on.  He was very sick, he was very old, he was a person of color…three strikes right there.  Yet he found a reason to smile.  And to include me in his quiet strength and equanimity.  He exuded peace and calm, and hope and courage and bravery.  All with a knowing smile on his face.  As if to say to me “Don’t you worry about a thing now.  It’s good.  It’s real good.”

That night I joined the ACLU.  I am now a card-carrying member!  We have been to an ACLU People Power meeting.  We have written postcards to the White House inhabitant.  We are no longer hiding from the daily news.  We have our #ScienceNotSilence t-shirts and have made plans to attend a Science March in a close by community.  We will lend our voices to the resistance.

And finally, finally, I was able to listen to Hillary’s song.

Not without crying mind you.  And I’m not ashamed to admit that the tears are falling now, as I watch and listen, yet one more time.

At what might have been.  At what could have been.  America…what did you do?

I will admit, I haven’t been able to handle the Pantsuit Power video/song that I wrote about several months ago.  That one is simply too much sunshine and light.  I’m not there yet.  Maybe someday.  But not now.  I’m in a fighting mood.  So I need a Fight Song.  A take back my life song.  An I’m alright song.

The above was on my Twitter feed  {from @AltUSFWS} the night of DJT’s address to the Joint Session.  Words from the Fight Song.  Words that I will now live by.

I will walk boldly into the night, the darkness, remembering the serene countenance of Patient Zero.  His blissful, quiet smile as he lay there absorbing the events on the screen.  The battles against him were many that day, and may be still–I do not know.  He met them with grace and equanimity, more interested in making sure my soul was at peace than wanting me to make it better for him.

I dedicate my spark to him, to Patient Zero.  I will raise my voice in protest; I will stand up for what I believe in.  I will teach my mini-me to walk the good red road, to stay true to her beliefs, to advocate for those without a voice.  We will not go quietly.

And finally, because this can not be repeated often enough:

“…the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.”     ~Edward M Kennedy

Blessings be.


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Inappropriate relationships

I’ve entered into an inappropriate relationship.  And I don’t quite know what to do about it.  I know it’s inappropriate because with the deepest fibers of my being I know I shouldn’t be doing this.  It’s wrong and I know this.  But I can’t seem to stop.  The consequences will likely not be good, for either party involved.  I really don’t see a good ending, for either one of us.  It may be mutually beneficial at the moment, but I just don’t see this ending well.  One or both of us will likely be hurt.  And the fallout, or collateral damage, could be significant.

I just read that paragraph and it’s quite disjointed, I will admit.  But that’s sort of how I’m feeling at the moment.  Disjointed and jumbled up inside.  Knowing what I need to do, but not wanting to do it.  Knowing I need to be “the adult in the room” but truly railing against the dictates of maturity and rationality.

Why must I be the reasonable party?  Why must I step up and call it quits?

What am I getting from this inappropriate relationship?  How is it beneficial to my life?  Is it worth it?  Will the guilt that I will inevitably feel overshadow the pleasure I get now?  Or will the good outweigh the bad?

On a side note (and simply to detract from my current rumination and hesitation on doing what is right) do you think Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions might be wondering about his inappropriate relationships of late?  Do you think he might be worried about the collateral damage that his clandestine carrying-ons might be causing to him, to his loved ones, to his so-called boss, to his country?  Or do you think he might be trying to figure out which lie he told to whom about what regarding his inappropriate relationships?

Oh the tangled web we weave, when at first we try to deceive…

(…or something like that.  Shakespeare, no?)

Perhaps Mike Flynn, of recent National Security Council brouhaha fame, might be feeling a bit of angst or regret regarding his inappropriate relationships.

Maybe even the media (I could spend all night listing out specific members of the media who have rankled me to no end in this department…here’s looking at you most specifically @mitchellreports and @VanJones 68) might be finally, FINALLY, reconsidering their inappropriate relationships with our most esteemed Twitler-in-Chief.

But then again, maybe not.  This is the fawning, supposedly-librul-elite-but-all-of-us-liberals-know-better media.  They have done and seem likely to always do the craziest things when it comes to the Dear Leader.

Back to what has been troubling me of late–inappropriate relationships.  When one enters into one, hypothetically speaking of course, one must realize from the outset that it is, for lack of a better word, wrong.  Inappropriate if you will.  This adds an element of derring-do maybe.  The thought that one is doing something on the sly, not mainstream, not sanctioned by rational, ethical, moral adults, seems to up the ante.  Makes the stakes higher.  Makes the risks riskier.  Of being found out.  Of being called out.  Of being ridiculed or shamed.  For doing what one knows, deep down inside, is not the right thing to do and hoping to get a pass.

Feeling these feelings of unease, having the niggling nigglings of self-doubt and hesitation draw attention to the seriousness of the transgression(s).  These uncertainties reflect a conscience I believe.  A conscience being  the ability to delineate right from wrong, to take bold steps to ensure that one walks the straight path, true as an arrow, to speak truth to power.  I cannot figure out that last phrase.  I have been hearing it daily, for a while now, as if it is in the running to be considered the new lexicon of 2017.  Regardless, I’m not quite sure if it is…appropriate…for the above sentence.  But, until I’m told otherwise, it will stay. And as the editor is very tired of late, things are slipping by that just never used to in the good old days of yore.  You know, back in the days of life with the white picket fences and June Cleaver dresses and pearls; and coal jobs abundant, as far as the eye could see.  Not to mention steel factories and textile mills so thick it was like a pea soup of manufacturing.  Ahhh…back when America was America, the land of the free white men and the home of the brave white men.  The days of the shining city on the hill, albeit one that was rarely seen through the black smog from the coal mines and steel factories.

Whew.  That was a wild meandering; a serious digression.  I have no earthly idea, nor one from any other planet either, how that happened.  Or why.  Please ignore and let’s now get back to our regularly scheduled programming:  Inappropriate Relationships.  With a capital “I.”

And Consciences.  With a capital “C.”

If one has a conscience, then theoretically, one shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t have an inappropriate relationship.  One would know better.  One would realize the implications of the clandestine affair, the collateral damages if you will.  One might then realize that acting on impulses to engage in the inappropriate relationship(s) will only bring downfall and ruin.  That may be a bit melodramatic.  I should instead write: engaging in inappropriate relationships might could bring angst, discord, disharmony, confusion and despair.  (Which, in reality, sound a lot like “downfall and ruin.”  But again, lack of an editor and all.)

Being of sound mind and body and conscience, one would then simply not act and not engage in the inappropriate relationship(s).  If one had a conscience that is.

By the Transitive Property of Equality (my absolute fave mathematical equality), one could assume that women (and men) entering into and sustaining inappropriate relationships would not possess an adequate conscience.  A conscience being defined as that little figure sitting on one’s shoulder (doesn’t matter which side) whispering either quietly in encouragement for good deeds or yelling very loudly in opposition to troublesome actions.

Still with me?

In lieu of this evening’s troublesome, tormented, tribulations regarding possible collusion with the big bad mean country across the pond (see above referencing white picket fences and June Cleaver dresses and steel manufacturing and coal, oh glorious coal–back when it was fashionable to be afraid of this boogey man), one has to ask oneself: is there anyone in our government with a conscience?

Because they sure as heck don’t seem to be having any trouble carrying on with a whole host of inappropriate relationships.

It’s late, my editor is on what seems to be a permanent vacation, I’m meeting with the accountant in the morning and I still have not unburdened myself of my own personal angst.

Because you see, I do have a conscience.  And the damn thing niggles at me, all damn day.  Sometimes the noise is incessantly loud and obnoxious, usually when I need to pay attention to something of utmost importance.  At other times, the noise is a dull roar that can sometimes be relegated to the background.  But always, always, it is there.  And I am aware of the damn thing.  All damn day.  And night too for that matter.

I have entered into my own inappropriate relationship.  From the time I initially started writing this treatise, that has now blossomed to multiple inappropriate relationships.  (Life got in the way and this writing was shelved for a day or two or three.)

I have a conscience and thus know it is inappropriate.  And know I must eventually end this, before it is too late.  Before there is too much collateral damage.

The first step is admittance.  Not to make light of addiction, nor the incredibly helpful programs to address this life-shattering problem.  Once that step is taken, one can hopefully move on.

Here is my admittance then, if you will.


You see, this is a fox.  And actually, in the spirit of full disclosure, just one of the three foxes that are now frequenting the area.  And he is (yes, this is a he as it was anatomically certified) looking in through the front window, presumably wondering where his meal is.  Because, and oh, please don’t be judging on me right now, I have–man, you don’t know how difficult this is for me to write–OK, I’m just going to spit it out–I. Have. Been. Feeding. The. Foxes.

(HUGELY big sigh of relief right there.)  See?  The hardest part is admitting.  Now that it’s finally out there, floating around the ethos, I’m feeling a bit freer.  My conscience is still screaming at me at decibel levels that are headache-inducing, but I think my steps will be a little bit lighter when I finally stand up from this computer.

I have developed an insanely inappropriate relationship with a “trio of trespassers.”  (Grand prize of 1 million besos if you can name that movie.)

It started so innocently.  It was late one evening in early January, in the first of the many snowy nights.  A blinding, blizzarding, snowy night.  The little female was out front, covered with a thick layer of snow, scratching at the snow beneath her feet, valiantly looking for birdseed that had fallen out of the feeders above.  I watched her for the better part of an hour as she got whiter and whiter, intent only on finding random bits of birdseed, seemingly oblivious to the wind and snow.  I couldn’t help but be impressed by her persistence, but felt angst at her possibly hungered state.  She came again the next night, determined as ever to find the last remnants left by the birds.  I dithered and dickered with myself and finally, on the third night, snuck out and left a small portion of dry dog kibble under one of the trees.

I. Know.

Need I remind you of one of my professions?  I know one is not supposed to feed the wildlife.  I get that.  I also know that we had a rather large fire on the mountain this summer.  The wildlife that didn’t perish left the country.  Since January we’ve had a total of approximately 5 feet or more of snow, here at the house.  There are slim pickings out there and my tendency to try to take care of the world beat out the conscience sitting on my shoulder (who at this point was screaming at me) pointing out all of the bad things that could occur as a result of this inappropriate relationship.  These are all excuses, mind you. Justifications.  Rationalizations.  The first steps to becoming fully entrenched in the inappropriate relationship.

The little female took to hanging out up on the hill, right outside our bedroom window, where she had a straight shot down to the front yard.



Then, she brought who we assume to be her two brothers, littermates we think.  That first night when all three were out front was hilarious to watch…foxes jumping and chasing each other and running each other away from the birdseed.  Too dark for pictures and the action was too mesmerizing to leave.

Since then, I wrestle with my conscience each night.  Should I leave food out there?  Shouldn’t I leave food out there?  What are the downsides to this inappropriate relationship?  Who will be hurt by it?  What kind of consequences will my selfish actions have?  Selfish because I’m thinking of assuaging my guilt and angst at this trio of trespassers maybe not having enough to eat this winter.  Selfish because I am enjoying the antics each night.  Selfish because I feel as if I’m helping out the world a little bit, but in reality, my inappropriate relationship may just be harming another inhabitant of this planet Earth.  Which is truly not my intent.  I seek to do no harm.  I took an oath, many years ago now, and stated those words…”do no harm.”

Am I harming this family of foxes?  I know not the consequences of my actions.  I know only that it feels inappropriate and I must find it in me to step away from this inappropriate relationship.  As I would hope the leaders of our country who are now embroiled in their own inappropriate relationships might first find and then listen to a conscience, telling them to “do no harm.”


Curled up tight for the night.

Good night.  And good luck.


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When it snows, it snows.

I realize that’s a ridiculous title, but I couldn’t necessarily write the hackneyed phrase “when it rains…” as we’re not really in the rainy season here, if there be such a thing in this location.

Rather, it’s January.  And it’s the dead of winter (again, hackneyed phrase meet keyboard) and it’s flipping cold out there.  As in 20 below zero before the windchill. But as an esteemed guest told me, who had been staying here and was able to make it out before the wind started blowing, it really isn’t that cold here because the town down the road was a balmy 40 below, before windchill.  At which point said guest decided the back windshield had needed to be scraped off again and so was able to share in great deal just how flipping cold it was down there.  But that I should be grateful because 20 below is really not that cold compared to 40 below.

Compared to the temperatures noted up at headquarters, while feeding the bovine inhabitants of the place, of 50 below.  Before windchill.

Dang cold.

All of this coupled with three feet of snow over a three-day period.

Which, on any given day, in any given winter, at any given time would have been met with hula dances, huzzahs and hurrahs, and happy, happy, joy, joy.  Because, if any one who reads here knows, the munchikin and I…well…we LIVE for snow.  LOVE the fluffy white stuff.  Dream of it.  Beg for it.  Watch White Christmas over and over and over because it always seems to make it snow.  I guess it’s our equivalent of doing a rain dance.  We pop in the DVD and get to singing and dancing with Bing and Danny and Rosemary and the other one.  I always feel so bad because I simply do not know the name of the actress who plays Judy.  She’s sort of lost in the whole Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye and Rosemary Clooney thing.

What evs.  We watch White Christmas a lot.  And it always seems to snow afterwards.  Except this year.  Our magic was haywire and for the entire month of December, we sat at the window and waited, ever so patiently, for the flakes to descend from on high.  We did get some, don’t get me wrong.  Just not an abundance of it.

The irony of the entire last week, in which the three feet of snow dropped from the heavens, is that now, right now, ahora mismo, we don’t really need it.

I know, right?  Really.

You see, the Superman who lives here with the munchikin and I had to have some parts fixed before he can return to doing Superman things and being all Superman-y and such.  I didn’t realize this, but super heroes actually fall apart sometimes.  And need to be put back together, better than before.  Totally going to date myself here, but our  Superman will now be more like the 6 Million Dollar Man.  “We can rebuild him.”  He now has a titanium knee.  Yay!  Yay.  Yay…not so much.  There is simply not a lot of “yaying” going on around here right now.  Ahora mismo, there is A LOT of pain.

Dang pain.  Dang swelling.

And dang if Superman isn’t one of the worst patients I have EVER encountered.  And that’s saying a lot because one time I had a cow in the supplies closet.  She was peeved because I had removed a calf from her uterus and I’m thinking she wasn’t appreciating how pretty the sutures looked in her flank.  Or maybe she was peeved she’d had to stand for the whole thing.  Maybe she was looking for more drugs.  She never said.  And I never asked.  But she was one mean cow.

But she’s got nothing on Superman.  Holy crow but the man can be stubborn.  And irritable.  And just downright a pain in the kister.   Dang men.  Dang superheroes.

Luckily, luckily, Wonder Woman lives here too!!!!

I know, right?  What are the odds?  Because in which comic book did those two EVER get together?

Regardless, Wonder Woman is here and all will be right with the world.  She is handling the dang man just fine…with kid gloves.  And bullet-stopping bracelets.

Only this Wonder Woman has to put on a balaclava, down coat, three pairs of pants, headband and hat with ear flaps before setting out to shovel snow and feed the birds.  Because this Wonder Woman is dang smart and doesn’t parade around in tights and short shorts.   Progress on the feminist front I’d say.

Wish me luck.  The patient needs to be reminded to do his exercises.  Definitely going to need the bullet-stopping bracelets.

Blessings be from this winter wonderland.




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Intentions, resolutions, changes, promises.

I stopped “making resolutions” a long time ago.  Mostly because, as with everyone I expect, I couldn’t stay with them.  I’d start out strong, slow down to a walk, eventually be crawling and finally lay, exhausted, on the floor, staring at THE RESOLUTION off in the distance.  Feeling like a worthless person, a loser, an incompetent lout.

Geez, that’s all rather harsh isn’t it?  Maybe not a lout, per se, but definitely not thinking very highly of myself.

And then the beatings would begin.  The banging up of the insides of my cranium as I failed to live up to my other-worldly expectations of my mortal self.  And then I’d just throw them all, THE RESOLUTIONS, to the wayside, walking past as if they were discarded trash and not worth my time.  I wouldn’t even pick them up and throw them away properly.  I’d just walk on past, pretending not to notice them, ignoring my shortcomings so the internal brain-bashing would cease.

Eventually I decided to simply not put anything like a RESOLUTION out there for the Universe to see.  It only ended up causing me more pain.

Fast forward several years to today.  I’ve been thinking a lot in the last couple of weeks about resolutions and intentions and attempts to live a better way.

This last year, 2016, was a complicated one, to be sure.  I have told the dear husband several times lately that I’ll be so glad for 2016 to be done and gone.  Buried under the ash heap of history.  He looks at me quizzically and says “why?”  I don’t think he’s trying to be intentionally obtuse.  I think he generally doesn’t see it the way I do.  I shake my head and say to him, “The Fire.”  He raises his dang eyebrows.  I then say, “The Election.”  He pauses for a moment, and I’m thinking to myself that maybe he’s seeing my light.  And then he raises his dang eyebrows again.  Shrugging as if to say, “meh.”

I stop there.  If those two catastrophic (in my crazy cranium way of looking at things) aren’t enough proof that 2016 needs to be kicked to the curb, then I’m out.  I can’t waste my precious seconds on this earth attempting to change another individual’s mind about…well…anything, truth be told.  We will simply agree to disagree.  I let him go.  Mostly because I was tired of those dang raised eyebrows.  I actually threatened him the other night that if he kept raising those dang eyebrows at me, I was going to get the tube of SuperGlue and make them permanently raised.

That elicited another raise of those dang eyebrows.

I stomped my foot and walked away.

Childish, yes.  But sometimes my only recourse.

Dang men.

I digress.

Intentions.  Resolutions.  Hope. Change.  Equanimity.  Peace.  Calm.  Serenity.

I have decided this year, 2017, that instead of making some grandiose RESOLUTION, I will try to live with better intentions.  I will try to “be the change I want to see in this world.” (M. Ghandi)

I will try to live with a sense of peace and equanimity of spirit.

May I see the rise and fall of things with equanimity.  (attributed to Buddha, I think)


That’s a big word.  One definition: the ability to see without being caught by what we see.  Or to “see with patience or understanding.”

A second definition:  to stand in the middle of all of this; to remain centered or balanced in the middle of whatever is happening.

I am fairly certain I do not need to spell out for anyone the situation this might refer to, the “whatever is happening” that is now happening.  I don’t even really want to write about it because that seems to give it credence or make it more so, more real than it is.  And the reality is so frightening.

It took me about a month, but I finally, blessedly, peacefully and contentedly turned off the news.  Anyone who knows me knows how addicted I am to news, all news, but mostly the political news.  It simply became too much for my peaceful heart.  Each and every day since The Election brought more angst, more trauma, more anguish.  More powerlessness.   I found myself becoming increasingly upset and tied up in knots.  I was consumed.  And I realized this was no way to live.  Luckily for me (and those around me), we have a very large collection of Christmas/Holiday music which, when supplemented with the Jazz station, began to soothe my troubled mind and heart.

Now that the music is packed away until next holiday season, I find I have no desire to turn the news back on.  I like my quieted cranium.  I am learning to live with equanimity of spirit.  We will become jazz afficionados I expect.  Or connoisseurs of silence.

Another intention will be to stick close to a familiar mantra from over the years:

Goddess (Allah/Great Spirit/Universe/Great Mystery/God) grant me

serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

courage to change the things I can,

and wisdom to know the difference.

I need to focus on those things in my life, immediately around me right here, right now, that need changing, that I can change and that will benefit from me attempting to change.  Everything else is not my business.

This is something I struggle with; knowing what is and is not my business.  Knowing what to make hay out of and what to leave alone.  Knowing how far to take my involvement in something versus sitting back and staying quiet.  I don’t want to be a wallflower.  Wallflowers never get to dance.

I don’t want to be a hermit living in a bubble, because if we all did that, what kind of society would we have?   I don’t want to shirk my civic duties, my responsibility to help others who may need a hand up.

“To those who have been given much, much is expected in return.”  (Joseph Kennedy to his children)

I may not have material wealth to be doled out to those in need, but I have been given so much already.  I tell my precious daughter how fortunate we are, to have been born into a family that acknowledges the importance of education, service to others, and the need to pass it along.  How fortunate we are to live in this country that was fought for by people in our own family so many generations ago.

We have been given much, and much is expected in return.

Finding out just what the return is becomes the question.  What can I do?  What can my little voice accomplish?  I have no money to give, how can I be a productive member of society giving back some of what has been given to me?

Especially in this time, when the highest office in the land, the sacred office of President will now be occupied by a person who makes a mockery of it each and every single second of each day.  (There, the elephant in the room.)

I can be the change I wish to see in this world.

I can live with good intentions.  I can put good out there into the Universe, not bad.  I can start to see the rise and fall of all things with equanimity of spirit.  I can see without being caught by what I see.  I can cultivate patience of spirit.  I can ask for serenity of mind and acceptance of what I cannot change but courage to go forth and change what is in my power to change.

I read something interesting yesterday:

“If I allow myself to be influenced by what the (fill-in-the-bank) says and does, it will make blots and smears on the pages of my year.  This I will try to avoid at all costs.”  (from One Day at a Time in Al Anon)

I don’t think I need to be explicit in who/what goes in my version of “fill-in-the-blank” above.  Anyone who knows me knows who would be center stage there.

We have but precious few seconds on this earth, in this form we are in, right here, right now.  I cannot let the trifles of others consume me and ruin my precious few seconds.

Instead I choose equanimity.  I choose serenity.  I choose hope.  I choose peace and calm.

And those are my intentions for the next year, living it one day at a time.

Blessings be.



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