Those who know me know that me with an absence of words is, well, odd.  To say the least.

I have so many words, so much of the time.  And I rarely fail to use them.  With the dear husband (you remember him right?  Mr. Man’s Man/Woman’s Man/Everyman/Superman that I live with) when I pepper him with phone calls all day every day.  Or bombard him when he comes in the door at the end of a long day, seeking peace and quiet and the asylum of his serene (HA!) home.

Or my poor patients at the hospital, wondering who this damn, cheery person in blue scrubs is that has the temerity to waltz into their room and suggest exercise?!?!  To whom I then launch into a stream of words that surely has them wondering what dimension they’ve entered.

Or my daughter, during another history lesson, when I wax poetic (I love this phrase, but in all seriousness, what does it mean???) about some part of our shared existence.  There are so many things to teach her and share with her and tell her so that she can venture forth into this world and make informed decisions.

Just the other day, at drop-off for summer camp, I talked with another mom for over an hour!!!  Standing in the hot sun, in the street next to our parked vehicles.  We covered a lot of ground.  But oddly, she avoided me the rest of the week.  Not enough hours in the day for my rambling loquaciousness I think.

My sister will call and two hours later we end the conversation.  But then there is radio silence for awhile.

It’s like I’m bubbling over with chatter, jargon, utterances that threaten to overwhelm those who come into close contact with me.  I should wear a warning sign:

“Enter into conversation with at your own risk.  You have been warned.  Danger, chance of losing hours of your time listening to WORDS.”

I don’t mean to be so voluminous with the verbiage.  I really don’t.  There are just so many things I can contain in my cranium without them coming hurling out in some form or fashion.

Except lately.  Yes, there was the drop-off this last week.  But I am finding that the voices in my head, shouting to be let out, shouting to get the words down in some way onto the paper, or the computer aren’t coalescing into coherent thoughts.  And they seem to be receding.  Which, some might say, would be a good thing.  To not walk around with drums banging around inside your cabeza on a minutely basis.  To not be constantly distracted by WORDS.

But my words have always been comforting.  My voices are comforting.  They’re a way for me to organize my thoughts, to help find a way to communicate my feelings.  My voices are  an avenue for my expression.  And my expression is the essence of me.

I am losing touch with that essence of me.  My voices are growing silent.  My words are not banging the drums. I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect that my spirit is breaking.  The daily onslaught of the news has begun to create in me the necessity of putting up walls.  I am walling off my words because the enormity of what is happening is simply too much to comprehend, too much to organize into those coherent thoughts, too much to deal with.

When I look inside, I am not seeing the tapestry of my WORDS, but instead blank, whiteness.  And that is frightening.  I force myself to think about something….the children standing by, crying, unable to speak the language, wondering why their mother and father are being taken away, left to fend on their own, noone to console them…or the mothers who don’t know where their children are…

…my heart starts beating faster, my respirations increase, I begin to feel a sort of panic welling up inside of me.  Centered in the middle of my chest, like a little, swirling tornado that threatens to erupt.  This is why people speak about “heartache.”  Because it actually feels uncomfortable right there where my heart lies.  I worked with a homeopath for a long time on identifying what was happening inside my body, during a time of extreme stress in my life.  Stress that was threatening to pull me under.  We worked for a long time on naming what I was physically feeling and then finding ways to get past it.

I feel as if I’m back there again.  I do not know how to not be affected by what is happening in our country.  Forget the entire world, the starving polar bears, the melting in Antarctica, the erupting volcanoes and complete destruction of islands due to hurricanes, the massive wildfires. That’s enough on any given day to cause a migraine to arrive and visit me with its wrath.

The destruction in our country, in America, is becoming more than I can bear.  It is beginning to affect me physically.  And I know I am not alone in this.  I am erecting walls against my words as a protection mechanism.  Because the words will unleash a torrent of pain and suffering for those being irreparably damaged by the void of leadership in this country.  The words that I am walling off will open a window into the devastation of lives and I am so very afraid of being sucked under and not being able to surface.

That is my fear.  I do not think I can handle another photograph of another crying child, or read another story of another woman who has had her child pulled from her arms.  I cannot read another story about the island of Puerto Rico without power and people dying because there were not able to get to dialysis.  My heart is overwhelmed.  And I am beginning to feel it physically.

America, what have we become that the president can use children as bargaining chips?  Where is the conscience of the leaders of this country?  Why is this happening?

The children are suffering.  This cannot be who we are.

Because I have closed off my words, I will end this with some which are comforting, if only for a fraction of a second:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird-

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.

BUCK

~2000 to 2018

Happy thoughts like the kind that make you laugh so hard you float up to the ceiling for a tea party with Mary Poppins and Bert and the kids.

Or happy thoughts that make you fly again like Peter Banning when he remembers how to be a Lost Boy in Never Never Land.  Bang-a-rang!  (I miss Robin Williams. He was a perfect Peter Pan who forgot he was Peter Pan and then remembered again. Oops…not so happy.  Bang-a-rang Robin Williams wherever your beautiful spirit is flying today!)

Happy thoughts like when you look outside all of a sudden and see nothing but big, fat, white flakes falling from the heavens, blanketing the trees and the hills and the Jungle Fort out back.

Happy thoughts like the first sip of the first cup of coffee in the morning.  Ahhhh, nirvana.

I have found it so easy to feel like I’m drowning in the ugliness and the chaos and the inhumanity of the current state of affairs in this country.

My last post spoke to the jumbled-up-ness of my psyche as it tries to digest the news of the past week, let alone the past one and a half years.  Putting a misogynistic, sexual predator who defends domestic abusers in the White House will likely be remembered as one of America’s absolute worst acts ever.  Ever.  The psychic trauma of this last year and a half for those of us who don’t subscribe to the beliefs of the xenophobic, racist, sexist bully’s regime is great and may take years to recover from.

It’s been a delicate dance since November 2016.  Too much news and politics and I yell at the radio and say bad words and feel knots in my stomach.  Not enough news and politics and I feel that I’ll miss something that will be the turning point, the coup de grace, the final blow to this national nightmare.  From which we can all wake up and resume being civilized humans in a civilized society again.  (Nota bene:  dearest daughter Gracelyn won’t let me change the station too often, asking me if I remember what happened the last time I consciously did that?  She’ll answer me in her sweet, sing-song voice:  “Comey was fired.”  And so we leave it on the news station.  I think we’re both just waiting for words that will make us have faith again.)

I published the last post (My “And So I Stayed” story) on another site on Sunday morning and was overwhelmed by the responses.  Affirmations of what I’d written, stories of others’ experiences, kindnesses, love, gratitude, appreciation…just generally the best part of our collective humanity.  It was truly humbling.

And so freeing.  I have felt a bit lighter since initially getting the words out.  Sunshine truly is Nature’s best disinfectant.

Sunshine.  That’s a happy thought.  Usually in the middle of winter, I’m content for gray days with snow and blustery winds and freezing temperatures.  Perfect for sledding or skiing or drinking hot cocoa (for her) and hot coffee (for me).  Or snowball fights, or making forts, or throwing snowballs.  But this winter hasn’t turned out to be much of a winter, with a paltry amount of snow on the ground and bare spots every where you turn.  We had mud in the drive already.  Mud.  And exposed grass in the front.  It’s only the middle of February.  I don’t care what that groundhog said.  I don’t see much winter left.  So when it gets like this, I think my Spring Fever sets in and I’d just rather get to the sunshine.  And the sprouting grass and the buds on the aspen trees.  And the sun rising higher, not hidden behind the mountain on its shallow arc across the sky.  Instead, blazing a path right overhead.

So sunshine is my happy thought today.

“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you….please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Blessings be.

Something to think about this MLKJr Day, am I right?  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr certainly left a legacy.  He handed down to us words, dreams, thoughts, calls to action.

He would have been 89 years young this year.  What would he think about this country today? Would he take a knee, bow his head and speak his big words of “love…together…peace?”  Would he link arms with John Lewis, Michelle and Barack and the rest of us hurting at this time of strife in our country?  What would he tell us if we could stand and listen to his fiery oration?  Would he still have a dream?

Would he think we had squandered all of what has come before us–the suffering and the sacrifices that he and his brethren made for the rights of all?  Would he be angry that we hadn’t done more, that we had wasted time, that we are all still not sitting at the same table?

Or would he clasp hands with each and every one of us, wrap us in a hug, and tell us that “Love is the key to the problems of the world?”  Would he tell us to stay strong, to believe in the movement, to not give up, to keep marching?

I heard this on the night that Barack Obama was elected President in 2008:

“Rosa Parks sat so that Martin Luther King could walk.

Martin Luther King, Jr walked so that Barack Obama could run.

Barack Obama ran so that our children could fly.”

The above was reworded by Jay-Z from the original wording uttered by Cleo Fields, former Congressman and State Senator from Louisiana:

“W.E.B. Dubois taught so that Rosa Parks could take a seat. Rosa took a seat so we all could take a stand. We all took a stand so that Martin Luther King Jr. could march. Martin marched so Jesse Jackson could run. Jesse ran so Obama could WIN.”

Either way the words are a testament to the giants who have come before us.  We must carry on their legacy.  We must remember Martin’s big words: love, peace, together, dreams.

We must stand and march and run and dream and fly.  This country is depending on us.

Again, I quote Joseph Kennedy:

“To those who have been given much, much is expected in return.”

It is time for us to give.

(Untitled)

December night,

warm and bright inside.

Fresh arroz on the table,

Peas, so delicious, make it

stable.

Baked pollo, spicy shrimp,

outside the snowflakes

fall.

A large white cake, sprinkled

with snowy sugar and

sparkles.

A happy family birthday.

and

Silence Has a Sound

Though you don’t notice for all the

noise around,

Silence has a sound.

The whisper-roaring you hear,

Every time you put a shell to your ear.

The Hush-shush of skis on snow,

The shifting of an ice flow.

Marching ant feet,

making something, to them, so sweet.

The pop, pop, pop of an octopus underwater.

The clip-clop , clip-clop of a relentless

horse trotter.

The crash-clang-bang of a fight with

swords,

The power of a few words.

The scritch-scratch of a pen,

Telling not where but when.

Silence is made up of all the

sounds in the world,

Curled

In on its self.

Silence has a sound.

Silence has a sound,

the world ’round.

I am sure if I had a few extra seconds in my day I could go back through the archives of “Excerpts from the Diary of a MadRanchWife” and find words written at about this time each year, describing the melancholia that seems to descend upon my countenance.

We had a long discussion this morning about the conundrum we encounter each year at this time.  My daughter is living up to her mini-me status in yet another way.  She senses the passage of time as acutely as I do.  She is as melancholy as I when she steps outside and feels the need to add a sweater due to the autumnal chill.  She must also intuit the changing sunlight, the different arc the orb traces through the sky each day, the loss of the brightness as it travels overhead.

I told her how truly conflicted I am at this time each year…saddened at the waning days of summer (we have such a truly, short summer here), the loss of our beloved flower garden, the exit of our zinging hummingbird friends as they head south for warmer climes.  The regret at lists not completed, projects not even started, hikes not taken, books not read.

We talked about feeling despondent and powerless over time marching on, despite our very best efforts at attempting to lasso it and hold it still, long enough to eke out just one more day of summer, one more night of backyard camping, one more s’more, one more day sitting on the front porch smelling the flowers and watching the hummers dip and dive and fly crazily about.

And then we began the slow turn to musing about the myriad of wonders that fall brings, in all of its splendor.  We spy the beginnings of the leaf changes, first the ground cover, followed by the willows beginning their dance of rust and red, then the wild rose bushes, with their bright red rose hip berries and yellow-gold leaves.  Finally the aspens start, at the very tippy-top, with a few leaves sporting new colors, usually varying shades of gold.  I anticipate a lovely fall, bursting at the seams with varying hues, a result of the many rainy days in August.

We talk about the smell of fall–fallen leaves, musty earth.  We talk about the tastes of fall–the biggest, crispest, sweetest apples of the year.

And we both come to the inevitable conclusion that though we are loathe to leave summer, we welcome the autumn with open arms, with all of the awe it has to offer.

We make a pact to enjoy what each day has to offer, to try not to live with regrets for things not done.  We decide to be grateful for what we have before us, to not be saddened that the wheels of time continue turning, despite our best efforts to hold them still.

This is the blessing of my life–to be able to share with my daughter the bittersweet lessons of letting go and learning how to live in the moment.  I don’t always get it right, but knowing I have a kindred spirit to share my path helps to soothe my soul.  Knowing that her life has been entrusted to me, by the Universe, to guide and teach and shelter along the way helps me to look forward to trying to be a better person, a better mother.

Blessings be.

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. ….

The above are the beginning lines from an essay titled “The Crisis” by Thomas Paine, written on December 23, 1776 and read to the troops at Valley Forge.  Paine writes in the essay about various battles, commanders, revolutionaries and their common struggles, in an attempt, I think, to “rally the troops.”  Now, some 240 years later, it would seem the words ring just as true.

I have excerpted several passages, the ones that seem to speak so directly to events of today.  It had been my thought to comment on each paragraph, drawing similarities to what we currently face as a nation.

I think, instead of inserting my own thoughts after some of Paine’s words, I’ll simply put the entirety of my excerpted passages so that you can read uninterrupted.  Paine’s words flow eloquently and one can imagine the troops massed at Valley Forge that cold December day, hearing these words meant to spur them on in the battle for the soul of the new nation.

Without further ado:

‘Tis surprising to see how rapidly a panic will sometimes run through a country. …

Yet panics, in some cases, have their uses; they produce as much good as hurt. Their duration is always short; the mind soon grows through them, and acquires a firmer habit than before. But their peculiar advantage is, that they are the touchstones of sincerity and hypocrisy, and bring things and men to light, which might otherwise have lain forever undiscovered. In fact, they have the same effect on secret traitors, which an imaginary apparition would have upon a private murderer. They sift out the hidden thoughts of man, and hold them up in public to the world. …

…that America will never be happy till she gets clear of foreign dominion. Wars, without ceasing, will break out till that period arrives, and the continent must in the end be conqueror; for though the flame of liberty may sometimes cease to shine, the coal can never expire…..

…I call not upon a few, but upon all: not on this state or that state, but on every state: up and help us; lay your shoulders to the wheel; better have too much force than too little, when so great an object is at stake. Let it be told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet and to repulse it. Say not that thousands are gone, turn out your tens of thousands;…

…It matters not where you live, or what rank of life you hold, the evil or the blessing will reach you all. The far and the near, the home counties and the back, the rich and the poor, will suffer or rejoice alike. The heart that feels not now is dead; the blood of his children will curse his cowardice, who shrinks back at a time when a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death…

Let them call me rebel and welcome, I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils, were I to make a whore of my soul by swearing allegiance to one whose character is that of a sottish, stupid, stubborn, worthless, brutish man. I conceive likewise a horrid idea in receiving mercy from a being, who at the last day shall be shrieking to the rocks and mountains to cover him, and fleeing with terror from the orphan, the widow, and the slain of America.…

…I thank God, that I fear not. I see no real cause for fear. I know our situation well, and can see the way out of it. …

By perseverance and fortitude we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission, the sad choice of a variety of evils – a ravaged country – a depopulated city – habitations without safety, and slavery without hope – our homes turned into barracks and bawdy-houses for Hessians, and a future race to provide for, whose fathers we shall doubt of. Look on this picture and weep over it! and if there yet remains one thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.

Powerful, gut-wrenching words that unbelievably seem so appropriate for today, some 240 years later.  How can that be?  How can Thomas Paine’s words be applicable to today?   The American Revolution was fought and won and birthed our great nation.  The centuries turned, the country expanded, the times- they changed.  So much has happened since December 23, 1776 yet so much remains the same.

We are now massing in numbers to fight the tyranny of a leader, a government that seems hell-bent on putting their heel down on our backs.  We are forming groups who are banding together under the slogan of #TheResistance, empowering each and every one of us to dig deep, to find our voice, to rebel against those that seek to oppress us.

A most trite and hackneyed phrase–history repeats itself–has never seemed more evident than now.  As Paine writes above, it is frightening to see how rapidly a panic will move through the countryside.  Panic are the touchstones of sincerity and hypocrisy.  Whew, that’s a loaded sentence that pains one to cogitate, ruminate a moment as to what exactly Paine is attempting to say.  Hypocrisy is exposed to the light of those who are sincerely panicking? Hmmm. An interesting way to suppose I have an inkling of an idea as to what he meant.

I would have to say I believe we are currently in a state of panic.  We are exposing much to the daylight and grappling with what the light has revealed.

How will we do?  Will we choose the perseverance and fortitude put forth by Paine above?  Or the cowardice and submission, giving in and giving up, throwing up our hands and saying “it’s too hard to fight all the time, I’m tired, we’ll never win anyway, my voice doesn’t matter.”

“Tis the business of little minds to shrink…”

He’s not mincing words there.  And we must not shrink from this fight either, 241 years later.  We must soldier on, we must find the courage to persevere.  We must not give in to the hate, to the divisiveness, to the tyranny that threatens to tear asunder the very fabric this country was stitched together with.

The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot must learn how to be all-weather!  This is not the time to stand idly by and think the work will be completed by others, to languish on the sidelines, not sure if there is anything to contribute.  This country was forged inch by inch by the blood, sweat and tears of those who have gone before us.  Those who felt a stirring deep inside their bones of the absolute belief in the power of the people.  The power of principles.  A rag-tag bunch of colonists banded together to fight for what they believed in.  If ever there was a story of the little guy against the giant, the American Revolution was certainly it.  Our Revolution birthed a nation, birthed heroes for that nation, and birthed the people to populate that nation.

I’m conflicted as to whether or not it’s a good thing that it is becoming increasingly obvious we need to muster ourselves for another round.  It seems to me our nation is under attack, and not just from a foreign enemy.  If we want the blood of our forefathers, the founding fathers, and every patriot who battled for every inch of this country to mean something, then it becomes imperative that we take a stand today.  If we believe that great harm is being done to this country and the ideals for which so many gave their lives so many years ago, then it is upon our shoulders the mantle lies.  We must take this responsibility and, as Paine writes, “lay our shoulders to the wheel…come forth and meet and repulse it.”

I am reminded of another’s famous words, told to his children frequently as they were growing up:

“To those who have been given much, much is expected in return.”   ~Joseph Kennedy

We, the people of this hallowed country, the United States of America, have been given much.  It was handed to us by those who fought with everything they had to create it.  We have many struggles here; the battles against us are many.  But, truth be told, many of these are  “first world problems,” a meme mocked around the world.  None of us gets a free ride and none of us should be allowed to take without giving in return.  We are blessed to be alive in this country, albeit with its many imperfections.  But again, #firstworldproblems.  To those of us who are able, those of us who have been given much, it is time to give in return.  My ancestors fought alongside General Washington.  I have a great(x many)-uncle who fought in the Civil War and died, wounded, as a POW in a Georgia prison.  At the age of 22.  My ancestors bled for this country.  I have been given much–the freedom they fought for.  Much is now expected from me in return.

The heart that feels not now is dead; the blood of his children will curse his cowardice, who shrinks back at a time when a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection.

This is not a time for shrinking.  This is a time for us to gather together and grow stronger so that our children and our children’s children and their children will be able to look back upon this time period in the history of this nation, and state, unequivocally, that we answered the call.  We summer soldiers and sunshine patriots smiled through the troubles and became braver and bolder and more courageous for it.  That we did justice to the sacrifices made by those who walked before us, that we honored the government they so carefully crafted, the documents they so diligently debated.   That is the story our children’s children’s children should tell.  That we stood up and did our duty as American patriots.

For these are the times that try men’s souls and we must succeed, as history has its eyes on us.

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.