Sweating It Out

October 12 and it's 81 degrees, hot, and sunny. I'm sweating indoors and out. Oh, will this interminable heat never let go? I long for crisp cool and leaves underfoot.

I Know It's Out There Somewhere

I know it's out there somewhere, the ocean, that is. Water surrounds me, and yet it has been three weeks since I have seen the ocean... counting one week approaching shoulder surgery and two weeks since. I miss it.
I can feel the breeze here and sometimes I think I can smell the ocean, but I look at the line of trees around my yard, and it seems so far away. I like to go down to the beach at different times of day to walk, swim, or just sit. Something wonderful always waits to be seen down there... sometimes just the color of light on the clouds. Even driving across the high Emerald Isle bridge is thrilling - oh, especially when the big moon is hanging over the island.

I'm surprised how easy it is to become indifferent to the presence of the ocean nearby. How can that happen? I find it rare that anyone wants to go down there with me. My good neighbor lived on Emerald Isle for a year, and never went down to the beach once. My husband seems to feel that it is just too much trouble. I have met people who haven't been in years.

I've not yet lost the sense of wonder and refreshment I get from the beach. The ocean defines every aspect of life here. If you don't go down there and immerse yourself in the beach and literally in the ocean, what is the point?

Want to go? I'm looking for a ride.

Left-handed Point of View or A Life Closely Examined

Status post rotator cuff surgery: one week ago today, to the hour. I told myself I'd find plenty of things to keep busy during the six weeks my RIGHT arm is in a sling, and I'm forbidden to drive. I told myself I wouldn't get depressed and I would find ways to exercise and improve my mind during my confinement. 

This morning, after a week, I can say, "My God, what do you mean it's only been a week!!"

Life with my dominant hand in a sling has brought new meaning to the question, "What can I do today?" First it has become a literal question. Never mind lofty goals, I'm talking about the basics: eating, bathing, getting dressed. Man, I can't lift my right shoulder, so like deodorant under either arm is a major task.

And, food, anything that requires using a fork or spoon  means a change of clothes afterward. I can stab at small chunks of food with a fork, but I have absolutely no finesse, and soup with a spoon is a drippy affair with little nutrition making it as far as my mouth. Consequently, peas, lettuce, and rice have become finger foods. Unfortunately, potato chips are as easy as ever.

Personal hygiene? I'll spare you. No wonder my husband is sleeping in the spare room and looked happy to be going back to work.

Activities I can do: Reading, yes I have a lot of books. Holding them with one hand is a trick, and it's hard to position them so that I can assist with my right hand. I tend to quit after 30 minutes from physical fatigue.
Hmm, write the great American novel with one hand. Well, I've been venturing out on my computer, and at the rate of production and mistakes I'm making, I'll have to amend that to be write the great American sentence. Read my car manual: Snore. Housework: let's see laundry, make the bed, fold clothes, wipe off the counters - do you have any idea how long this takes with one hand? Not to mention tiring.

I'm kind of exaggerating. Why I've done 10 different things already today, and in only two hours it will be lunch time. Status post rotator cuff repair: among the noticeable side effects: cabin fever. Well, it's only five more weeks.....  at last I will have the opportunity to discover what those housewives are so desperate about. Coming to you live from the Rubber Room of a facility near you, I am.    

Upward and Onward

September 17, and G-man is out in the garden, pulling up grass by the roots. This is no mean feat. I haven't touched my flower garden in months due to a shoulder injury, and it's a jungle out there. I tried left-handed weeding for a while. When that shoulder began to hurt and the temperature crept past 95, I gave up.

Bless his heart, my husband took pity on me and the garden. It can be so handy to have a husband out in the yard.
  
I stood by his side, shivering in my shorts and t-shirt. How is it possible to go from a high of 90 to a high of 69 in one day? Breezes I welcomed last week feel uncomfortable this week. I'll never get used to the coast, because I don't think I'll ever be able to wear shorts and flip-flops in January. That and my white legs would not encourage tourists to visit the Crystal Coast.

I assisted the G-man by talking his ear off and cutting my final bouquet of zinnias. They remain stunning to the last. The good old, dependable marigolds have also reached their glory - a riot of orange, copper, bronze, and yellow. Do they just know about Halloween?

In my annual act of faith, I planted zinnia and marigold seeds in the spring, and here in autumn, they are still working hard and pleasing the eye. I call that a garden miracle, good weather or bad.

These plants survived my haphazard gardening test. "Plant something you like in a place you like. If grows; so be it. If it withers or fails to thrive; plant something else." This is my strategy despite having had two excellent horticulturists as close friends. Soil-test? "Gee, do I have to study for that?"

This is all to say we have survived summer, and our first coastal garden has yielded successes and occasions to plant something else. Autumn has arrived at last, and our afternoon of tidying up has ushered in my favorite season.

Purveyors of Poop

This is a post about poop. Squeamish readers beware.
 I have discovered, living in my neighborhood, a critter who takes the concept of recycling to an all-time high. I think it's a highly successful enterprise, because I believe this insect has been around for thousands of years.
   He's called a dung beetle (you're surprised?) or scarab. Remember scarab bracelets from high school? Euuuuuuuu! Yuck!
   The ones in my neighborhood appear only in black with a green iridescent tint, and sport several pairs of menacing and finely honed pincers. I discovered these guys while walking my dogs.
    Nicki and Teddy would make their daily roadside deposits, and we would continue our walk. When we returned, perfectly formed poop balls would be rolling across the road in a somewhat orderly line. Later in the day, the the dog poop would have completely disappeared. Self propelled poop - never had I seen such a thing.
    How nice. Wonder if the Home Owners Assoc. provides this service?
    The next day I looked closer, and that's when I discovered the dung beetles, hard at work maneuvering balls of poop, nearly twice their size across the road. They are quick and highly efficient.
     Though I had previously never thought about dung beetles, I more or less assumed they fell upon a pile of poop, consumed mass quantities and moved on.
      Oh, no. It is so more comprehensive than that.
       According to good old Wickipedia, my dung beetles are of a variety called "rollers" which, as we have observed, roll the poop in a straight line despite all obstacles. They can roll a ball up to 50 times their own weight. They feed exclusively on dung because it is so nutritious!
     Beetle couples work together to roll the ball of poop to a romantic destination where they mate, bury the ball, and create a little dung honeymoon shack where she lays her eggs. When the larvae hatch, they eat the dung ball. Now this is what I call conservation!
     Dung beetles also replenish nutrients and restructure soil when they bury their dung balls. They also protect livestock by burying their feces, which if left above ground, can host any number of pests and diseases.
       Right now, dear reader, you are saying, "This woman needs something more to do with her time!" Too true, but I am happy to acknowledge such valuable and fascinating little critters. They take something NOBODY else wants and turn it into something useful for themselves and others. I am delighted that there is less poop to scoop, and I appreciate their efforts. I will not, however, be inviting them over for a glass of wine on the porch.
  There is something about all of this that reminds me of the movie, "Soylent Green." Honk if you have ever seen that movie. I think about it all the time, but then that is another blog post. 

Fear & Other Things That Go Bump in the Night

I have a quote on my refrigerator (actually my refrigerator contains more wisdom than food, in hopes that I might ingest some, I suppose):

Approach what you find repulsive; help the ones you think you cannot help; and go to places that scare you....  from some Tibetan monk I never heard of

     I've taken this as a general kind of guide to self improvement and living a life less self-centered. Although I once interpreted it to mean travel by myself to a foreign country where I did not speak the language and to eat foods of unknown content and origin.
     There are times, however, when this quote takes on a radically different meaning.
     Did you ever startle awake in the middle of the night for no good reason, gripped by a sweating, heart-pounding feeling of doom - that either this is the big one or else all the awful mistakes you have made in your entire life have gotten together and decided to perform an intervention while you slept? 
     I have, and it usually signifies that the Fear and Anxiety twins have come to pay me a visit for as long as, oh well, as long as they care to stay. They are old acquaintances of mine, but they are unwelcome.
     The problem is that when they visit, they wrap themselves around your head; clutch at your throat; twist up inside your stomach; suck up your energy, and they won't let go until it thunders.
     Your home becomes house-arrest, and the still-pajama-clad creature watching yet another re-run of "What Not to Wear" at 2 p.m. is you: the repulsive thing you can't approach. The place that scares you is the shower; and you are the one you think you cannot help - beyond force-feeding your way to the bottom of a full bag of empty calories. 
    You could do something about this, but you feel, profoundly, that any non-essential movement would split your entire self into a thousand, ungatherable pieces, and that would be that.
    You never felt like this? Hmmm, imagine that.
    After years of hosting the Fear and Anxiety twins at varying intervals and for varying lengths of time, I've learned one, and only one, important coping tip. Remind yourself that it won't last. They will move on.
     So you spend a day or two posing as a lazy, overweight, unmotivated slug, and then you approach that place that scares you. You take a shower; put on some clean clothes, and take a break. Then you do something else; make coffee, maybe make up the bed.
     Funny, the twins have an aversion to clean clothes and made beds; they'll begin to pack up and move out.
     Last night, I went to another place that scared me. I rode my bike through the marsh walk, something I had never tried before. I left the twins back at the house. I enjoyed the ride, and when I returned there was nothing to do but clean up the dregs they'd left behind.
   I'm told this is National Mental Health Week (Month?). Depression gets to most of us sooner or later, but it won't last.
    
    
  

Early Beach

Impossible task to write about a morning beach in any form that approaches originality, and yet .... this morning the beach looked entirely new. Clean, water-swept sand washed into a blank canvas for skittering bird feet and ambling human feet whose heels and toes still cast shadows in the early morning sun. Emerald waves hit the shore with thick white spray and spread foam like a flowing layer of icing onto a crumb-cleaned cake. The sun, for the first time, felt good warming my back.
   Our beach is so forgiving. Just one week past Labor Day, and the cigarette butts and bottle caps have all but disappeared. Nothing left but nature and a few morning worshipers planted in couples, coffee mugs in hand, in silent communion; lone fishermen, lines in the water and thoughts far away; and amblers like me, breathing in fresh, healing air, and breathing out those little prickly things that pinch your insides and make you lose sight of perfection.
    I have no new words, but you could come here at 7 a.m. and find some of your own.

Up Close and Personal

Ah, ha There he was - a Green Heron perched on a railing of the pier, studying the marsh at 7:30 am. So intent was he that I stealthily approached to within in 30 feet. He turned one beady, black eye and studied me back. Several moments passed; woman and bird connected in silent observation. He appeared unperturbed, and I dared one slow step closer. Delicately he arched his back, pooped into the water and flew away.  

After Irene

Hurricane Irene has come and gone, and so did we. G. and I evacuated to Fuquay-Varina to stay with family. The hurricane blew in less intensely than expected, but it was enough. We, our home, and our neighbors are all safe, but things are not the same.

As a hurricane neophyte, I don't know how to write about this storm. I walked over to the park this morning, the first time since the storm. It is closed to traffic, and it's a mess. Trees are down and debris covers the road.

I have most noticed what is missing - and not just shingles. Trees and shrubs, which I passed everyday, are broken and blown away. Prior to the storm, they mostly blended into the blob of green that surrounds my walkway. Prior to the storm, I neglected to see the individual beauty and contributions of these objects of nature.  Those trees will never live there again.
 
The landscape will have changed when all is cleaned up or rotted away. Nature cleans out what she doesn't need, and we just get in her way. All is evidence for paying attention and appreciating the here and now. Observe, grasshopper, observe.

I also missed my red pickup truck friend. The park is closed, and I wonder where he goes now to eat his morning biscuit and have his morning read. I hope he comes back. I'd like to tell him that he is missing the marsh turn from green to gold and the perfect stillness of the water. Fish are jumping and flocks of birds are feasting in the grass on their way to who know where. It all changes so quickly.

Ok, I'm going to try to write to this blog every day. You don't have to read it, but I need the practice.

Reverie

Mornings when I walk or bike to the little park near my house, I always see the man in the red pick-up truck. He parks near the water where he has a sweeping view of the marsh. His pick-up is old and beat-up; he's old too. He reads his paper and finishes his breakfast biscuit. He doesn't seem to have any place to be in a hurry. I notice him as I pass by the truck, and if he looks up, we nod in recognition. A snowy egret stands quietly by the green marsh grass, also in no hurry. I don't try for conversation with either of them. Their quietness is enough.

Morning Conference

Six black crows sit atop a tall pine tree
cussing and discussing their day.
Brash and bossy,
they all talk at once,
and two fly away
in disagreement.

After Summer

The seasons changed today. I know hot days are still to come, but I know Autumn in my bones, and I felt it. Night exhaled deeply and blew cool air all the way into morning. Delicious. The color of light is slightly different this morning. "I can see clearly now..... the humidity cloud is gone." Soft gold has taken a tenuous hold, but it will grow stronger. Butterflies linger over fading flowers, and a blue tailed gecko suns himself on the porch rail. The universe is breathing again, and so am I!

Breathe In: Breathe Out

This morning, on my porch, I am reading The Wisdom of No Escape by Pema Chodron. This book is a series of talks she gave on Meditation at Gampo Abbey in Nova Scotia.

I like the idea of meditation. I completely see its value. I know people who meditate, and I envy their experiences. I can't do it.

Lord knows, I've tried often enough. But my busy head just won't shut up. "Label it 'thinking' and then let it go." I know it's just thinking but my thinking gear is stuck on fast forward. For me, sitting quietly, is like opening wide the throttle. "Did I set the chicken out to thaw? I'd better go to Lowe's today for another can of spray paint. Hmmm, what did we call that thing in the middle of the ice cream freezer from which Daddy always ate the frozen fruit?"

So I sit on my porch, with my book, my coffee, my dogs, and the morning spread out in front of me. I tuck up my legs, fold my hands in my lap and wait. Breathe in and breathe out.

The Mourning Dove is at his place on the electric wire, cooing over my back yard. I've always thought that Mourning Doves call the morning awake.

I can see the sun coming up through the pine trees. It's light turns their needles to gold, but it's soft, lovely, and so foreign to it's evil day twin who will soon take over and burn every living thing to a crisp all day long.

I have a tiny wind chime attached to my ceiling fan, and it sends out a delicate chime with the motion of the fan. It's nearly inaudible with all the birds waking up and making so much noise ...... cawks, and peeps, and whistles as they urgently dash across the yard and in and out of the trees. What is the nature of their tireless business so early in the morning?

The dogs are just like me. They sit down to meditate and promptly fall asleep at my feet. Fine examples. I don't believe they get stuck on the "just thinking" part. Teddy is snoring.

Let's see: that vine needs watering; petunias need dead-heading; the sedum has outgrown it's pot; tomatoes need picking; and the fern has strewn it's dead leaves all across the porch again. How fast the grass has grown since last week!

You know, I think this is the first morning in at least a month that it has been cool enough to sit on the porch. A little breeze is worth waiting for as it whispers the pines just beyond the yard.

Oh, my gosh, there is a blue dragonfly! It's the first one I've seen here.

Well, thirty minutes have passed. My coffee mug is empty and my butt is starting to hurt from sitting still.  Meditation, phooey. I still can't get the hang of this.

Moon Crazy

Friday, July 15, 10 p.m. I sit on the porch during the first balmy night in ... oh, it seems forever. Full moon rising. She seizes the night sky in her slow arc, silhouetting a giant pine against bright moonlight. A drift of clouds brazenly sails across her moon face and hurries away - defeated. She glows and grows to her apex. She rules the night, and I, nearly infected with moon crazy, escape inside to bed.

Saturday, July 16, 6 a.m. The dogs and I walk beneath a pale, lemon moon, under seizure by pink dawn clouds. She is still queenly, but wan, and we are safe to walk out beneath her benign descent.

Zinnias

Give me zinnias in a Mason Jar; a glass of iced tea sweating on the screened porch; and days that linger until 9:30 pm. I'll sit on the porch until dark; watch the pink and orange zinnias fade to gray; drink the tea, and consider whether summer might be worth it after all.

Painted Ladies

The painted ladies
who hang out down by the beach

are waking up from winter hibernation.

I saw them yesterday

shaking sand from their skirts

opening their shuttered eyes

touching up their make-up.

Ready for another season 

plying their trade,

the message is clear.

Pleasures for sale.

"Why don't you come down and see me sometime?"

Heads Up

My husband G. and I never miss visiting the Levine Museum of the New South http://www.museumofthenewsouth.org/ when we are in Charlotte. It is one of the best museums I have ever visited, and I never leave the building without feeling excited, energized, and provoked. The exhibits are often challenging and provocative.

Their permanent exhibit From Cotton Fields to Skyscrapers is a journey of recognition and memory, if you grew up in the South, and a fascinating educational experience if you just want to learn more about our ways and where we came from. This exhibit and all of their temporary ones are excellent and presented in ways that capture your attention and get into your head. You'll laugh; you'll cry; you'll tell all your friends!

A recent exhibit, now sadly gone, presented in an interactive manner, the question, "When cultures collide and integrate, what traditions do you keep and what are you willing to discard or assimilate?"

Charlotte, like much of the South, is now a multi-cultural and multi-ethnic city, though we are coming to this later than some areas of our country.  The question was primarily asked of people coming to Charlotte from other parts of the world - new to this country. I think it is equally provocative and necessary for long-term residents to ask themselves the same question. It's not just a matter of tacos and Chinese take-out. Our culture is expanding to include or reject a wide and worldly influx of new ideas and practices. What do we keep that is necessary to being Southern or American, and what new things do we accept and welcome as changes or additions to our culture?
   It's a complicated question, and one that I think about a lot. I daily see new faces - different faces from those with whom I grew up.  These folks are not ones about whom I can say, "Well, I knew his/her people." That's a Southern expression and a classic lead-in to classification as OK vs. Not-OK. This expression is often used in tandem with the conclusion: "And he/she is getting above his/her raising."
   And they don't know our people. Both sides are struggling with definitions of what it means to be an American and to live in American society, keeping some of our ways sacred, yet choosing when to bend and blend. Trouble comes when lines are drawn in the sand on those issues. I mean not everyone wants sweet tea with every meal.
   Whew! How did I get here? All I really meant to say is that in my little part of the world, I've been trying to adjust to living at the coast vs. living in the mountains - a much smaller question indeed. I have had to leave some things behind. I am learning to know and accept things here on the coast that are different, but also part of a good life.
   Some things I want to keep. Daffodils are a non-negotiable. So I dug up some of my best bulbs when I moved last March (the WRONG time to dig them), stored them in a big pot of soil all summer; and planted them deeply in our sandy soil last fall.
    The bulbs and I have been waiting to see how we do here. This week, I'm happy to see them pushing up above ground, just as they should. I believe we are going to make it here, but I am also considering planting a palm tree as a concession to my new life. Some of each, I think. Some of each.

Smelly Stuff

G. and I visited Shackleford Banks - home of the wild ponies - a couple of weekends ago. Have you ever traveled out to an island in an open boat in January? What started as a balmy day turned wicked as the Capt. roared his engine just past the no-wake zone out of Harkers Island. The wind cut my face like razors, and my eyes watered frozen tears.

 
Thank goodness for layers, because we peeled a few once we landed on the island, where the weather was indeed pleasant. I'm still amazed that you can enjoyably be on the beach in January.

We found some interesting things. I found a live sand dollar and a whelk casing with tiny critters inside. Unfortunately they were thrown upon the beach too soon and dried there for our beach life edification. Reluctantly I returned the fuzzy gray sand dollar to the water to live out his life.

G. found a lovely lettered olive shell. It was still shiny and retained its pointed crown. He stowed it in his bag, a good find.

I later decided to take a couple of shells to a friend, who does not live at the beach and brought the olive and a couple of others into the house to wash off the sand.

I scrubbed and scrubbed the olive, and the more I scrubbed the stinkier it got. Apparently, the poor thing was still alive when G. found it, and it had died with a vengeance. OMG - it was the worst, and no amount of scrubbing would remove the remains or the smell.

I spent the rest of the morning working with harsh chemicals and radical methods to remove the malicious odor from my hands, sink, counter, and general atmosphere. Also, I threw the olive outside, hoping that in 20 years or so, it might find its way back inside minus the stink.

The moral is: check with the critters first to see if they are ready to give up their lives for the sake of souvenirs... if not, they are going to make a big stink about it.

Goodbye Tannenbaum

   Among other symptoms of the post-Christmas blues is Christmas tree guilt. We still put up a live tree. It's a pain in the tuckus - G. has to haul it in and set it up; I have to clean up needles all the way to next Christmas - but it's worth it.
   The fragrance, pungent and fresh, tickles my nose and lives in memories of Christmases past, present, and future. A live tree gladly holds my precious and ancient ornaments among its sturdy branches, and as each year's evergreen is different, so is the glorious result. "It's even better than last year's!" we always say.
   This year's tree, purchased from our church - see there, it's already better than the one in the attic - was spectacular in height and funky in form. We soon concluded that funky is us in spades, and this was indeed our tree.
   This tall, fresh beauty graced our living room and shone through our windows until past New Year's. Just one more day. Just one more day. But, I finally concluded it was going to look foolish with daffodils pushing up in the yard. We took it down.
   This is where the guilt comes in. In previous years, G. would drag the tree, stripped of glory and dignity, down the hill and out into the woods,where it chastised me whenever I looked that way. "Thank you tree, thank you tree," I whispered, but it wasn't enough.
   G. swore that the old trees created habitat for critters, but I swear I never saw a rabbit, possum, or raccoon go near one of those trees. It's possible that once or twice a glittering angel may have paused at the top of the skeletal remains, but I never saw that either.
   This year, though we are well into 2011, I have no Christmas tree guilt. Here at the beach, live Christmas trees, who have served their families well, go on to greater service after Christmas.
    We took our tree to the old Christmas tree drop-off in Emerald Isle, where after a brief farewell ceremony, we left it. The town, takes the trees and finds a glorious final resting place on the beach for each one. A tree spends the rest of its days trapping sand and building dunes - a fitting end for a fine evergreen. Artificial trees, left on the beach, are removed to the trash!
   Today, when I walked on the beach, I looked for our tree. I thought I saw a glittering angel wink at me as I passed by a tall, still green tree, but I'm not sure.