I've been sitting all day in my scrubs waiting for a lady to go into active labor. Sigh. It's taking a while. My clerk at PCC, Remy, is expecting twin boys. Rather, his wife is. I told him I was waiting for a momma in labor and he gave me a chocolate bar to give to the mom. He wrote SAMPLE on it. So if you go to your local coop and write SAMPLE on some grapes or a bottle of wine or some dish soap, you can just walk out without paying. At least, I think you can.

Our Felix had his, uh, surgery. The vet said we had to keep him quiet for 10 DAYS. He is still a puppy and bored out of his head. No stairs? Right. No chasing the katz? YOU keep him from chasing the katz. So he is crazy with inactivity. I can't really explain how wild he is. He throws toys in the air all by himself if we won't. He doesn't run down the stairs, it's a sort of controlled fall/slide thing.

Only four more days to go. Until he can run after a ball. Or run across the grass. He's a toddler in a cage. On uppers.

Tomorrow is the day. Except for absentee ballots. And the Eastern seaboard. And other acts of the Lawd.

Surrender Dorothy.

This weekend is devoted to DANCING. Last night I danced til I had to lie down on the sweat floor. In sweat. A puddle of sweat. I danced with my darlings. My dance community is so grand and lovely and I love them even though I don't always know their names.

The best song of the night was Patti Smith covering Nevermind, the Nirvana song.

 I know, I know. Hippy dancing. But the music is loud and nobody cares how you move. And I dance today and tomorrow.

Yesterday three boys from next door came and raked my leaves. They passed out a flier asking if we needed 'releaf'? They were so cute. They came with their mom. And they raked the whole yard and brought a leaf bin. All for $15. And their mom came to collect them when it started to rain.

Felix is recovering from being neutered. We're supposed to keep him quiet. Ha! We barricade the stairs so he doesn't hurtle up and down. He has more energy than a pile of puppies.

I read poetry in public on the 15th. Gawd. What shall I read? What shall I wear? I'm gonna aim for elegant and aloof. All black? A ski mask? My jellyfish costume?

Please watch this. I laughed so hard I was crying. We're going to her Christmas show.

for the midwives, mothers and babes everywhere

My dears,

Back from the beauty of Vancouver Island, way up there in Canada. Country that has a leaf on their national flag. A red leaf. A country that goes crazy for ice hockey. And stop lights on their interstate highways.

I drove the Malahat highway, their version of Highway 1 in California. Cars parked for the salmon run. Deep mountains and massive lakes. Gold and burgundy leaves.

Oh, and kilometers instead of miles. And the Queen on their money.

I snuck off on Friday between the week and the weekend to go swimming in their new aquatic center.

I wasn't prepared for the splendor. No, really. They had a SWIM SHOP where you could buy a new suit and some earplugs if you needed. A massive locker room, no cement floors for them.

And then there was the pool 'area'. Where should I begin? The kiddy area was sculpted with life-sized dolphins and sea lions spouting water. There was a 'wave' that turned on every half hour and carried the swimmers around on a watery track. The adult pool was olympic-sized with huge lanes, mostly empty.

Um, then we come to the after-swim leisure area replete with sauna, steam AND hot tub. Sheesh. Truth to tell, that part of the building was overrun with men of the guy persuasion, guffawing and eyeing the lassies. They didn't spend half a minute with me because I'm way past the bikini stage. Way.

But, holy fuck. Seattle pools have a pool and a bare-bones locker room. And we're grateful. I just wasn't expecting a Disneyland pool experience in Naniamo, no less.

http://www.nanaimo.ca/UploadedFilesPath/VirtualTours/NAC_2009/VT_NAC_04_2009.html
 (in case you wanna see what knocked my socks off)

Politics and the hurricane, o lordy.

Please vote. Please.

On Saturday, I leave for a week. I'm going to Nanaimo land of the Bethlehem Retreat Centre where I'll be with my teachers and the wee lake and the forest. We'll get up early and be fed delicious food and we'll be in silence and we'll go to bed early. No talking, no eye contact. For eight days. No email. No internet.

Watching Uncle Vanya on 42nd Street, directed by Louis Malle. People talking in a room. Much suffering. All the men in the play in love with Julianne Moore (why?)

The dog is chewing on a dried bull penis. It is his favorite thing in the world. Besides swimming and running and barking and eating and messing around with other dogs.

It's getting cold. We've hardly had enough rain. Many fall hikes to contemplate. Today Mt Rainier shone like a heavenly snow country, a place where the devas live.

Autumn beauty today, clear and warm and brilliant leaves. Felix thinks life is great, especially when there are two squirrels, chasing one another. One of these days, my arm will be yanked clean out with a lease on the end.

Jim the handyman came over today and we discussed the issue of the back door. It scrapes against the floor which is now deeply scratched and the whole back door area needs to be weather proofed, or whatever you call it. The weatherstripping is gone and the sill is flaking and peeling. It is the door we use the most so it gets beat up.

it's always something. I used to think I could fix anything but that is, ah, not true. When I accidentally pulled the tub out of the floor, there was no way I could fix that. Besides the tub weighs about 4,800 pounds. SO.

Jim the handyman is a wonderful thing.

I read recently an account of a vagina. The author called it her 'lady garden'.  From now on, that's what I'm calling it.

It's  RAINING, o joy o rapture. The dog and I got soaked. He's an interesting shade of beige.

Today at the Good Will I saw a car with a 'My Son is a Marine' bumper sticker and a HUGE handwritten sign in the back window supporting Referendum 74, the gay marriage bill.

I was flabbergasted.

Maybe his/her Marine son is gay.

And there you are. Just had to share.

I'm unashamedly watching Downton Abbey. I LOVE the Brits. They are so ridiculous. And they are my people. Heaven help us. Upper class twits in the 20's with all the intrigue below stairs. And this season, o my lord, Shirley McLaine is the American grandma. And she looks, well, whoa.

"There's something Johnny Foreigner about the Catholics".

I plan to drink brandy from a crystal decanter. And I do need a new footman. Oh, and I'd like to be called my lady from now on.

Ooooh, I think the new footman is gay. He's certainly got a lovely six pack. "He looks like a footman in a musical review." Indeed.

I'm the one in the hat and white suit.

Yesterday, while down in Pioneer Square to see my therapist, I got out a few bills for TJ, the homeless man who sits under the wrought iron and glass awning. Yesterday there were two happy birthday balloons and a big pink opened cake box with a message on top--Happy Birthday to Tj and Ben. Ben, a non-homeless man was standing beside TJ and handing out pieces of cake on paper plates. At eight in the morning.

I promptly dropped my piece of cake on my therapist's carpet but that's another story.

I cleaned out my studio today. It took me three hours. I always think I'll throw out a bunch of stuff but I end up on the floor going through old photos and notes and cards from my kids. Stacks of old photos. People who are now dead. A whole box of James' writings and his photos. Old lovers. I managed to wrassel a box of stuff for Good Will. And I felt virtuous besides. I moved art supplies around and dusted. I threw open the windows too. I didn't start a painting. That's tomorrow.

Tis the season

He's not like other guys, thats for sure.

Ye dog and I amidst the falling leaves

Always wanted to use the word 'amidst'.

My head feels like it has been underwater for a few weeks with seaweed hanging out my ears and a buzzing of the air world around me.

I've been sick with a cold and my 'gut ache' which has been a problem since I was about 15. It's been diagnosed variously as an ulcer, gall bladder 'problems' and sludgey gall bladder. I've been on an ulcer diet (which did absolutely nothing), I've visited the ER a few times when the pain was too severe- for demerol shots (heaven-addict tendencies) and fasts for two or three days with a chiropractic adjustment thrown in. Now I have a stash of vicodin from 2011 which I dole out to myself so I can sleep. Sleep, that precious thing. I wake at night with a knife in my belly. If I sit up and move around, it gets a little better. I try sleeping sitting up. Sometimes that works. For the last few nights, I've succumbed to drugs.

What causes it? Well, I wish I knew. Sometimes, I haven't eaten and food on an empty stomach will trigger it. Sometimes fatty foods. Stress, o that is a pretty good trigger. But who doesn't have stress?

I might try a cleanse. Sounds awful. Although I don't know what that entails. Probably vile herbs and green blendered drinks that taste like pond scum. And look like pond scum.

And then I 'll be healed. For good.

Happy birthday, dear heart

More jelly is made, I have a wee cold and it is another damn sunny day in the NW, land that the weather forgot to drop gallons of water on.

Waiting for a baby and sucking down elderberry syrup. I hear it's good for you.

The poodle sleeps on the stairs.

The guys next door have fired up the power tools. The neighbors are building a new kitchen. FOR FOUR MONTHS. Gawd. No one is more sorrowful about this than my tenant, who can hear everything. At least they aren't there on the weekends. The chickens don't mind. In fact, as long as they get to eat mealy bugs, they are pretty tip-top most of the time. I'm not sure what mealy bugs are and frankly, I don't care to know.

I'm gonna try for a nap. I might be up all night so I better get it now.

First, I'll finish the NYT. As long as I read the Book Review, I can pretend I've read 15 books, all at once.

I picked more grapes because I'm a fool. So tomorrow, the jelly making machine rolls out again.

But.

I climbed to the top of the arbor with a ladder and let me tell you, the grapes there were purple and delicious. No wonder the raccoons and the rats (ew) go up there.

I've seen so many squashed raccoons this year and I'm afraid to say this but, good. I hate them, they're fuckers. They kill chickens and they attack katz and they creep me out. Ok, the babies are cute but they grow up to be adults.

I'm eating an entire bunch of kale that I've toasted in the oven--kale chips. And I'm gonna sprinkle 'em with brewer' yeast and salt.

I'm so healthy, I disgust even myself.

La-de-da.

Yesterday and today, I saw a hummingbird in the back yard, at the "lipstick" plant. I saved a hummingbird a few weeks ago, after wrassling it from Lola's mouth. I'd like to think my hummingbird today was the same one.

Maybe it was. It could be. It could.

Can I speak about pilling katz. Lola needed a vet visit because she was licking and scratching obsessively, even with flea treatment. And she seemed skinny.

So the vet said she thought Lola was allergic to fleas, or rather allergic to flea spit. Really, flea spit? So she gave me fish oil to squirt on Lola's food. Ok, that's easy. And then there was a big pill for just once. And little yellow pills for twice a day, yeah right.

Giving a cat a pill  is like putting your hand into a garbage disposal when it's on. Or putting your hand under the house where you last saw the badger.

I got the big pill into Lola while she chomped down so hard on my right index finger (a very important finger as a midwife), that I shrieked and yelped and proceeded to bleed profusely all over the floor. For a while. Finally, I got the bleeding to stop with a giant bandaid. Then I went to work. Drawing blood with a giant bandaid, very reassuring to my clients, I can tell you.

So what about the little yellow pills? We exchanged them for liquid and so we're supposed to squirt a ml into the side of her mouth.

You wrap the cat in a towel so she/he can't claw your face off. Then you somehow get the medicine beyond her teeth. When we did this to Lola, she foamed at the mouth. GAWD. I thought I killed her. And the look she gave me. I'm sure she'll never forgive me.

I think the vet should give her the little yellow pills. I'm not kidding.

I raced home last night to watch the debate. I wanted to see them together in a room (gawd, Jim Lehrer is getting old) performing.

I was reminded of Reagan, pink-cheeked and wrong-headed in the most confident way. Although I think Romney knows he's lying and I was never sure about the Gipper. Romney doesn't care about me or my Somali neighbors with all the hungry kids or the guy across the street in the wheelchair in Section 8 housing. Romney's world and heart is so far removed from real people's lives that he doesn't understand us at all. All his children have healthcare. And orthodontia. And all the best schools. And nice vacations. The wealthy look better because they have less stress and they can get exfoliated for $200 a pop. And they can buy expensive vitamins and massages and organic food. And they can care or not care. Some wealthy people care about their fellows. But the tendency for greed is, well, vast. The wealthy are wealthy because they hang on tight. Their 'charities' are tax shelters. Very cynical.

And they carry on in plain sight. Well, I think the truly wealthy we never see. They live on exclusive islands and behind locked gates on enormous tracts of land. The only ones who see them are the servants.

Then there's our guy, the skinny black guy who's gotten quite gray over the last four years. His job is stressful. Living under the burden of so much hatred from the Right (sic) hasn't been good for his health. He's done the best he could under the circumstances. Last night he looked fragile compared to the bluff heartiness of Mitt.

I dimly followed what they said and I'll wait for the NYT to break it down for me. I can tell you one thing. Barack would blend in just fine on my street in Columbia City, the most diverse neighborhood in the country. Mitt wouldn't come here, except gladhand for votes. He wouldn't be comfortable here. We're too poor, too many and too foreign.

And I don't want him in the oval office. And I sure as hell hope there are enough of us who feel the same way and fucking vote.

Now back to your regular programming.

Gawd, I hope everyone is watching 'Half the Sky' on PBS. It's effing amazing. I am not kidding. And it's on tomorrow too.

Tonight my living room was full of friends and midwifery clients and one rambunctious dog. We ate cheese and crackers and chocolate and brand new grape jelly and grapes and gluten free banana bread. We had one real baby here: Ivy who's seven weeks.

Why, you may ask.

Well, tonight was the premier of Call the Midwife from the UK on PBS so we all had to watch it together. And we had an ad at the very beginning. Ha!!! We screamed so much when the ad came on, we couldn't hear it.

My grape jelly is beautiful this year. You'll be getting a shipment, Radish dear. Because we had such a dry, sunny summer, the grapes got dark red and very sweet. We had rosemary crackers with Vermont cheddar and a dollop of jelly. Ambrosia.  

It is now grape jelly making season. That's right, folks. Time to pick, wash, pluck, squish, boil, strain (let sit overnight), then measure, add sugar and pectin and pour into jars freshly pulled from boiling water, caps on and ta-da, the sweet 'ping' of the caps sealing. Then we pile them up in a wee pyramid where they filter the sunlight through their (this year) rosy deliciousness.

Because of all the sunlight and warmth this summer, the grapes are actually pink-purple so the jelly will be so pretty.

For the rest, there will be massive sticky counters, floors, bowls, stovetop, etc. And burned fingers. And I hope to heaven the jelly jells the first time around. Otherwise, there is the sadness of decanting all the jelly and starting over. It'll all be fine this year.

O, a bit of the extracted juice is the best grape juice I've ever tasted. Ever.

I"m watching the Wallandar series again. If you turn away, you don't understand a thing. Unless you know Swedish, which I don't. It does make the spit fly when they're being emphatic. And Wallander is always eating sandwiches, a kind of torture if you don't eat any gluten. I'd give someone my car for a slice of crunchy bread dipped in olive oil. But then I'd eat the whole loaf.

And I bought Halloween candy today. I buy the worst stuff so I'm not tempted to eat any. This year it's sweet-tarts, yuck. No chocolate. And Halloween is my clinic day this year. I need a costume. Something that won't scare toddlers.

We're at the top of Mt Washington, me and Felix and Holly. It was one hell of a hike. Loose rock almost all the way with steep switchbacks. Coming back down sucked. And we passed a bunch of mountain rescue people going up as we neared the parking lot. Uh-oh. Someone rock climbing fell and broke his ankle.

Therefore.

I am mighty glad to be in one piece. Holly fell twice. When I got home, I took an epsom salt bath and lay on the couch while my legs twitched and my feet made small yelping noises. My feet hurt all night.

Still.

I love hiking. I want to hike until I no longer can. We saw no one while we were hiking. The popular hikes are a) easier b) shorter c) less steep. The peaks are so great and this time we decided to go all the way to the top because we were stopped by snow so many times this year. Since I'm no longer a runner (sob), I can have my painful, exciting and possibly dangerous adventures in the wild. Just say no to bear encounters.

Felix slept all day yesterday. He was pooped too. Today he had a bath and a haircut. He looks like a real poodle.

I'm watching Giselle with The Incomparable Rudolph Nureyev, o he of the cheekbones and impossible leaps. In my birth splattered scrubs. The biohazard look. On the couch. I swept, did dishes and fed the creatures. And that's about it for today. Another fine babe in the world. She cried a lot and had some dandy clear lungs.

We went to the Pulalup Fair. Silly really to be delighted in a barn full of chickens. But they're so pretty. O the roosters are so glorious. I know they're not allowed in Seattle but just one, maybe. The neighbors would not approve.

And the piglets.  And the gorgeous draft horses. Gorgeous. We avoided the (er) food. We found salad and deviled eggs. No cotton candy or curly fries or caramel apples.

We rode the Ferris Wheel. Tame. The Rocket would have made us throw up. At least. I think all my clothes would have come off too. There were a lot of elderly folks with walkers and wheelchairs. We can still walk unaided.

O and we watched a dog obedience trials. The 4-H kids with their goldens and beagles and blue heelers. Felix needs some work, clearly.

Last night I went to Rebecca's reading. She was splendid all in black with black slippers. She read Henry poems. I don't think I breathed while she read. I didn't want to miss any words. The women poets were mostly good. The men, well, there is craft and then there is...uh, do I dare. It is uncivil to be critical. However, I can't help it. The old boy's club. Sigh.

Meanwhile, I'm still in my bathrobe with a towering pile of poems next to me. My task: enter them into my new(ish) computer and throw them onto the external hard drive so I'll have them even if this computer dies/gets stolen/blows up. Can't send them out if they're on bits of paper. All the years of workshopped poems and others.

Hey, I put all my music on the hard drive. I can do this with poems too. Besides, I'm in the mood. Inspired by last night. I rite good, I do. All I have to do is go to a reading to know this.

Rebecca, thank you. For everything.

There's a plumber in the basement, replacing the toilet in my MIL. He has no teeth. Or maybe he left them home. When I saw the footage from Katrina and all the folks with no teeth, I knew that was real poverty. When you're poor, you can't get your teeth fixed. You can't even afford dentures.

This beautiful morning, I'm mad at our greedy CEOs and politicians and other 1%ers. They aren't any happier but they sure cause suffering for so many people. Too many to count. Their mommas didn't love them. So they're gonna live on vast tracts of exclusive land in giant houses and be separated from the ordinary folks who struggle and scrape to feed their kids and pay the rent.

I don't feed equanimity for them. Ort kindness. Sometimes I do.

But not today. Nope.

Since my, ah, fall yesterday (see previous post), I feel like someone has been beating me all over my body with a stout, wide board. If the dog needs a walk, we're going to be very slow.

On the positive side, if we were still in the mountains facing another day of backpacking, I'd be having arnica and ibuprofen for breakfast.

Actually, that's a good idea. And some ice.

And you know I'd do it again.

Hey, I didn't break anything. I MADE IT OUT.

And Cheryl Strayed, in her book Wild, walked, what, 1500 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail in boots that were too small.  (are there too many commas in that last sentence?) By herself. Her pack was so heavy, she couldn't walk upright. She called her pack 'Beast'. Granted, she was a mite younger than me. But she was coming off heroin.

Another beautiful cloudless day in Arizona, formerly known as Seattle. It's unnerving to have one nice day after the other. We're not used to it. It makes us anxious. It's not right. We have umbrellas and raincoats and boots at the ready. We're hearty and resigned. So this is damned weird. LA is like this.  Not the NW. Here, we're proud of our weather induced depression.

Sheesh.

So me and Holly backpacked to Ollalie Lake and Pratt Lake and all around.

And my elderly bladder got me up from my Thermarest so I could stand under the night sky o stars o stars o stars.

We heard an owl after dark. We saw a river otter in the lake and rolling around on a log. We ate dehydrated eggs for dinner. And some carrots. In the morning, I held pumpkin seeds in my palm and a jay sat on my finger and had breakfast. Her legs were shiny and black, like her beak.

Coming back, I tripped over a root and landed on my left side, wham! I raised a lump on my left shin the size of a grapefruit. When you have 40 pounds on your back and you're going over, there's no help for it, you go over like a tree in a wind storm. I lay there for a while, feeling sorry for myself. Nobody is gonna come along and offer to carry my pack and airlift me out. Nope. I got up and kept going. And it's one of those times when crying doesn't work either. I did cry about my mother for a while. I blew my nose on my sleeve. And every switchback was possibly the last one and we would be at the car and we could sit down and take off the hated hiking boots and go to Triple X Root Beer joint in Issaquah for fries.

You can tell who the day trippers are. They smell nice. They're wearing brightly colored shorts and sneakers. They may be carrying a bottle of water. Or not. The true backpackers are nasty. They're dirt streaked and have bandanas tied to their tangled hair. O, and injuries. And bug bites. They have survived and can now go somewhere for junk food. Deservedly.

I still have the smell of dry forest path in my nose. It's a combination of pine needles, dust and sweet high air. And the vine maples are beginning to turn red and gold. It was worth it. Always.

A musical interlude

All this glorious summer long I've wanted to put on a backpack and sleep out under the stars. So Saturday Holly and I will do just that. I dragged my knapsack, tent, flashlight, cookstove etc out of the garage where it all sits on the back deck, soaking up the sun and killing all mold spores. We can't figure out what to eat because the freeze dried stuff is icky. Usually I've eaten it half cooked and crunchy. Half cooked crunchy lasagne in a bag, yuck. So maybe cuz it's just an overnight, I'll bring real food, some veggies and humous. And plenty of water. And no dog.

Speaking of Felix, the dog. He was attacked yesterday by two vislas. One bit him on the butt and I didn't notice he was bleeding until he went in the lake. One perk for having a white dog; you can see blood. If he were black I would have missed it.

The lady who owns the dogs was trying ineffectually to get them away from him. Fancy house, Maserati in the garage, big empty rooms with furniture just so. As soon as I realized he was hurt I marched back to her house and got her number. Today I taped a bill from the vet on her door. Humph!

Let's see if I get a check in the mail.

I eliminated all grains from my diet and I've gained weight. Whatever. Today I'm going dancing and I don't care. As long as I can get off the floor without help, I'm ok.

Seattle is showing Stop Making Sense, the Talking Heads music video, on the big screen. I'm going. I saw it with my friend James back in the day. We were so excited we bounced around in our seats like four year olds.  I loved James. He was from the Big South and he loved pecan pie so I made it for him even though I thought it was gross. Karo syrup, what the hell is that? My girlfriend at the time was from  New Orleans so they were in pecan pie heaven. They'd sit outside and smoke dope and I could hear their slow drawls from the kitchen. We'd cook dirty rice and beignets and when she would go home, she'd bring back pralines. Now those were delicious. Homemade and stuck to wax paper. She also sat at the dinner table one night and sucked crawdad heads while the children and I watched in horror.

James died of AIDS before the cures came around and the country (read Reagan) got it's head out of it's ass. Those days were so horrible and frightening. I lost a lot of friends then. And we marched and protested and wept and took care of our own.

So James, wherever you are now, my sweet man, I'm gonna go see Stop Making Sense and bounce around in my seat like a four year old. I'll enjoy myself for both of us.

Today it is that day, that awful day.

And we had a birth, a lovely birth with a gorgeous Brazilian mother and her goofus husband. She labored so quietly I wasn't sure she was doing anything except that with her third baby, she should know. And indeed she did. With contractions, she would make a little face, barely noticeable. She asked that we not 'stare' at her because she was shy. So we didn't. We moved over to the other side of the room. I closed the blinds. We whispered. She was so quiet. Her husband put on some latin jazz. When she had pushed in the tub for a while, I suggested that she try the birth stool. With two pushes, she had her daughter.

She had blue painted finger and toenails. She was wearing blue and white beaded bracelets. After the birth, she put on a brilliantly colored dress and wound her hair and fastened it with a shiny clip.

We helped them get ready to go home. She wanted her own bed. With the baby tucked into the car seat, off they went in the late afternoon.

While NYC mourns and remembers, as we all do, in Seattle there is a wee babe named Clementine with her mother's eyes and her father's mouth.

Sweet dreams, dear families.

Everywhere.

Stevie Ray Vaughn and Albert  King.      Holy shit.

graphic post-enter at your peril

Ok, so we had four babies yesterday. I came home with vomit in my hair. A total biohazard. I fell asleep on the couch and went to my real bed at 8:30 and I don't think I moved for eight hours.

This morning, I gardened like a fiend. The dog needs his walk and then there are some babies to visit.

The life of a midwife.

O, I did take a shower. Actually I took three showers, between births. And then there was the vomit. I've been peed and pooped on. Of course there's blood and amniotic fluid. But vomit? it was a new one for me.

I'm well acquainted with body fluids. I figured out with my student that I haven't had spinal fluid on me. Or bile. Snot, sure.  But no bilious humors.

So I guess I haven't experienced EVERYTHING yet.

I'm already tired. I watched a docu of Dame Margot Fonteyn last night, falling asleep and waking up. She married a ner-do-well from Panama, she ran guns, her Panama husband got shot and was paralyzed forever but she took care of him, she danced until she was very old, much older than any dancer ever could and she fell in love with the impossibly beautiful cheekbones of Nureyev. He was 23, she was 42. She never had any money and was buried as a pauper in Panama.

But what a life.

And Lynn called at eight this morning to tell me there are two ladies in labor so I better get ready for anything today. We have SO MANY women in dates at the moment. We could have a major pile-up. And I'd prefer to lie in the hammock today, sipping margaritas and listening to Beethoven's 5th. I better go get my equipment from the clinic and walk the dawg. If Margot danced on bloody feet, I can be up all night for a few nights with a laboring woman.

Sheesh, what a whiney baby I am.

Today I went to the spa and got scrubbed within an inch of my life (as my mother would say) and now my skin is as soft as a baby's bottom.

What my skin looked like before the spa:

And I embarrassed myself by crying on the table in fromt of the nice Korean lady who was scraping off my dead skin. All the sadness and misery of August caught me up. I was so adult and available and everyone wanted to talk to me and I'm the 'boss' so I guess I felt like I had to keep it together. And I did. Until today. I didn't weep and wail, just let the tears ooze out while I lay face down. Now I feel hollow and empty. Emptied out.

But my skin is creamy. The ladies at the spa make you stay in the 104 degree tub for way too long so your nasty skin will be easier to get off. Man, I was woozy when I got out. I lay on the plastic lounge chair and had hallucinations. The skylights kept crossing and winking.

I have no idea how I drove home.

This morning, Lola, as usual, was meowing and meowing. When I called her to my bed, she didn't hop up but stayed on the floor. I peered over and thought she had a rodent in her mouth, but no. She had a bird. Not just any bird but a hummingbird.

Hummingbirds are magic. Their heartbeats are over a 1000 per minute Look them up here and fall to your knees in wonder.

So I extracted the wee thing from Lola's mouth, cursing cat nature and it's nastiness. The bird's wings were flattened out and a few green feathers stuck to my  hand. Her heart felt like an electric vibration in my palm. I thought, what to do? I kept muttering 'sorry, sorry' and 'better luck next life' while watching her for any perkiness. I folded her wings down against her body and her body was moving with her heartbeat. I held her in my hand and went to Deb so she could help me. She didn't have any ideas so I went back upstairs continuing my hummingbird prayer. She continued to live. I thought, maybe she'll die in my hand and I can be her witness, so much coming and going all the time. She was about 5 inches long with white and green feathers and the tiniest needle beak. Then she turned her head and looked at me. Hummingbirds have very small faces. I decided to hold my hand out the window so if she were recovered enough she could fly away. Then she looked away and back again and whoosh---she whirred away to the oak tree.

Later in the back yard, a hummingbird flew low over the deck with a flash of white.

With all the heartache of August, I took this as a sign that September would be better. Not that I believe in such things. But today I feel blessed by hummingbird medicine.

This morning, fall is in the air. A fire somewhere in the neighborhood; smoke smell lingers. The sirens yesterday made the dog howl. The chickens mumble and cawk. The cat across the alley is out yowling.    If I leave the back door open, Felix stands on the back porch and barks. At nothing.

Today, Holly and I will go to Annette Lake. Roughly 8 miles in and out. A pretty lake to swim in. Not too much elevation gain and way up the pass. Until you penetrate the tree line, you can still hear traffic.
In a few weeks, we're planning a backpacking overnight.  Maybe to Rainier, the most wondrous of mountains. Sometimes all the mountains are out; the Cascades, the Olympics, Baker to the north and Rainier to the south. Today might be such a day.

I'm grateful I can still hike. Grateful to this older body. Two types of hikers I see; young fit people with dogs, kids, inadequate footwear and no water and older retired folks, all decked out in small backpacks, water, walking poles and expensive hiking boots. The youngsters are careless. Their bones are strong, their muscles and ligaments flexible. They're the ones who trail run. The older folks are more careful and deliberate. They're wearing hats and sunscreen. They walk slowly. They're looking through binoculars at the distant snowfields. We nod at each other as we pass.

Maybe today we'll see some wildlife. Or not. Maybe I'll go swimming and yelp as I hit the cold water.

Instead of listening/watching the Republican convention, you should rent this movie:




It's effing hilarious. Really.

My neighbor told me over the weekend that their kitchen remodel will take about 4 months. That's fantastic. So above the noise of the chickens, the dog barking, will be banging and the buzzing and whining of power  tools.

I don't begrudge them a new kitchen. Their old one was long overdue for a make-over. However.

I'm either intolerant of noise because I'm getting old or I'm simply a curmudgeon and grumpy anyway. I long for a quieter environment.

On my favored Tiger Mountain trail, the first 200 feet or so, you can hear the steady rumble of traffic. Then you cross a clearing and enter the proper forest and the sounds disappear. I know when my hike is at an end because I hear the traffic again. There are researchers who look for places on earth without manmade noises. There aren't many any more. At least every 5 minutes you can hear a plane or chain saw or train most places on the planet. In Nepal and India the noise is unrelenting; constant blare of car horns and diesel engines. And when I say unrelenting, I mean constant.

Olympia is my imaginary destination. I imagine retiring. I imagine buying a house/cabin on 2 acres with  big trees and a wee bit of water (pond, stream, large puddle). There will be a clearing for vegetables with a deer fence around it. I'll swim in Evergreen College's huge pool as an alum. I'll dance with the local 5 rhythms community. I'll sit with the local Buddhists.

And it will be so quiet. I'll go out into my back yard and sit in the hammock and listen to the sparrows, jays and wrens. The dog will have learned by then not to bark at every damn thing. I'll finish my book and on alternate Wednesdays I'll meet with the local poets to read and hang out.

The End

Tonight is the memorial for a babe. We're going to the lake and read and cry and release lanterns that float and dissolve in the air.

I volunteered to read what the parents wrote. I just practiced in my living room. The katz scored me (4.5) and the dog licked my hand. Then he jumped up and barked. I think her was alerting me to the aliens landing in the back yard. Now he's on the deck barking.  I feel safe with him around.

Babies don't all make it. In my work, the grief is sometimes unbearable. But bear it we must.

Brilliant bright sun today. Reading Stephen Batchelor's book, "Buddhism without Beliefs". Beyond how-to books about meditation, he deconstructs religion as a system of followers who subscribe to 'experts' who prescribe exercises; how to breathe, how to reorganize thoughts (on the way to extinguishing them), how to chant properly, etc. Including Buddhism. I've reached a crossroads in my practice and I'm seriously questioning the various ways I've practiced over these 16 years. Sitting practice is important for me. What is more compelling is the ways I move toward or more away from pleasant experiences and painful ones.

What is meditation? What is it for? These last few weeks have been intensely painful. Rather than shrinking from what hurts, I've moved toward the pain; to investigate it and examine it. Does it have inherent worth? What can I learn? And I've been approached by others for comfort, how do I respond?

Pain can help us open. Or it can shut us down. Acknowledging my broken heart in the face of loss and feeling the sadness and grief of us all seems to be my daily work. And noticing the systole and diastole of emotion, noticing the moments of insight as well as the utter cruelty inherent in our lives here brings me to a kind of peace. It is what it is. Equanimity or Upekka in the Pali language. Being able to be with ourselves in the face of our overwhelming sorrow. Or joy. Or love.

It's not about transcendence. It is about immersion without hooks. Like waves in the ocean.

Courage, dear pilgrims.

This:

showed up yesterday. Wondrous and wondrous. 'Do you want to be King of the First Brutal Memory?' Wonderful, terrifying poems in a lovely hand-bound book.

Rebecca binds the thrashing reader. And you keep reading, going back and forth. I read a page. Then I read it again. And it's all new. What I read yesterday is not what I read today. Trism is even better read aloud. Try it.

I'm dog tired, whatever the hell that means. All night birth and directly to our annual picnic, still in my blue scrubs. I've taken to wearing scrubs to births because I was always messing up my normal clothes. And I feel vaguely important. Like when I used to carry a pager before all the drug dealers had pagers. I though I looked important then too. However.

I'm not important, just tired.

The picnic was lovely, lots of wee babes and bigger babes and their parents and a marimba band and balloons and a crap cake from Costco and potluck food and parents who are grateful for us, for being there when their babies came out.

We admire the babes and dance to marimba music by the lake and enjoy the fruits of our/their labors.

In the meanwhile, I'll eat a bite of dinner and lie on the couch in the attitude of Camille with a hand to my face as I delicately cough into my lace hanky.

I once saw Charles Ludlam's Ridiculous Theatre Company do Camille, all male. Men with hairy chests in tulle and falsettos. It was there that I realized that my high school art teacher was GAY. I was so uninformed in high school. I just thought Mr Muck was artistic, which of course he was. And he saved my ass by allowing us misfits to hang in his classroom, away from the jocks and cheerleaders and popular kids. And we made art while he played Grace Slick on the turntable. I had a terrible crush on Allen Bush who was probably also gay. He was pretty and aloof and I adored him.

I'm hoping a nap revives me. As long as the dawg doesn't bark and give me a heart attack. At least the weather goddess has come to her senses and given us proper NW weather, not that lidless 96 degrees. Nothing hurts my heart as much as the polar bears going extinct. If polar bears are in trouble, we're truly fucked.

Why the dog and the cat have a conflicted relationship

It's quiet here. I have to write a poem about a baby that died. For them. For the baby. For myself. How do you do this? You 'work the earth of your heart', as Kathleen Norris has said.

And still the relentless heat cooks the garden. When I came home last night, I ran to the coop to shut the chickens in, to protect them from raccoons. And I let the dog out, our prancing white poodle pup who brings me all his toys and welcomes me by biting and holding my wrist in his grinning mouth. Dog joy is eternal. I fed the katz, their indignity as having to wait so late for their dinner evident in their yeowling and tail twitching. Then I dragged the hose to the vegetables in the light of the back porch light. New starts of beets and chard seem to be holding their own.

The garbage strike is over. The trucks clank and shudder in the alley by the back yard. For once we're caught up with recycling, no more overfull bins and bags. A new Dead Can Dance plays in the background, electronic with sitars and odd drumming.

I pull myself back to the memory house where my parents, my brother, my grandfather circle and spin. They waver in their ghostly limbs, weeds just under the surface of the lake, barely visible but touching the swimmer's legs.

I build my house on their bones, on memory. My father skating figure eights on Lake Erie far from us, my mother peeling apples for a pie, the long curlicues of apple skin piled on the table, my brother as a little boy, lying before the fireplace, watching the flames. Down the years, my grandfather's suicide sending the message to his descendants, 'here is a doorway, here is the rope, the gun, a way to stop the pain'.

I know I'm lucky. Resilient. I could have been an alcoholic, an addict. Instead I had children who taught me how to love, how to hold on when the darkness came. I thought I was doing it for them but they saved me. My cousin wasn't so lucky. Or Colin. Or Geoffrey.

The mountains save me. The garden saves me. My silly dog reminds me to bark and swim and chase squirrels. The cat waking me in the night so I'll call her to my bed. Midwifery saves me.

Why did I choose to be a midwife? There are hundreds of reasons. And today memories come unbidden; mothers and fathers cradling their beloved babes newly born. Babes they made and praised and waited for. And I witnessed their joy and triumph and tears. And I hold their suffering too, as big as a world. For suffering comes to us all. And it shakes us, it shakes us in our bones.

I was gonna take myself to the mountains, a new trail by Bellingham where there is a fire tower and you can see for days. But. Someone is in labor and I'm going as the second midwife. So. I get to stay around here with de dawg until I get a call.

Felix got a hair cut on Sunday so for a few minutes he looked like a proper poodle. But then Deb took him for a swim so he's back to his usual shaggy self, just shorter hair. During Seafair, the water was so riled up, his hair was green when he came out of the water. Now it's crystal clear again, even for the weeds. Maybe I could sneak off to the lake for a quick dip before I'm needed at the birth. Maybe not.

The chickens are making their noises outside. It's going to be another hot day. The tomatoes are ripening and I just planted more beets and chard. The lettuce is bolted so the chickens get that. I water and water and my water bill is going to be huge. Sigh. We aren't having any rain, not a drop. Unusual for us here in the rainforest. I can't complain compared to the Midwest. Deb is going to Vegas for her brother's birthday and it's 100 there. Ug.

Paul Ryan and Ayn Rand? Hmmm. I feel for Paul's wife. Their kids are 7, 8 and 9. Way to crank them out and how exhausting for the momma. Maybe they have servants who care for the children and they come into the dining room at night so Paul and his wife can ask after their health before they go back to the children's wing for the night. All she had to do was birth 'em. And no more children? Are they using BIRTH CONTROL? I certainly hope so.

I'd much rather speculate about Gore Vidal, that fabulous man. Why couldn't we have someone like him for prez? Rest in peace, dear Gore.

By the way. Chickens can be really loud.

Because I am UNPATRIOTIC, I didn't watch a lick of the Olympics except while waiting for the guys at Firestone to fix my broken tail light, I got up to speed (haha) by watching the double amputee guy on his bouncy legs. I love him. And his bouncy legs.

And BTW. While driving on I-5, which is a big 4 lane, some lady asked me to pull over (wha????) while we sat in terrible slow traffic. I politely declined but she caught up to me again and yelled through the passenger side window that my tail light was out AND her daughter was delivered by Ina May.

Let me explain. My bumper sticker says 'What Would Ina May Do?' Ina May is a big famous midwife who lives on The Farm in Tennessee. She's an author and a world traveler. There is an obstetric procedure named after her, the Gaskin Maneuver. Anyway, sheesh lady. No, I can't pull over on the freeway. And I'm glad your daughter was delivered by Ina May.

I know, I know, you can't really see her. But I went to a Melissa Etheridge concert tonight and I danced in my bare feet by the stage and I didn't care that I might have looked a fool. Actually, I think everybody WANTS to dance but they're too worried that they'll look silly. So they kind of sway and wiggle their bottoms a little while Melissa is hollering and stomping and the guitars are screaming-I mean we're supposed to go crazy.

And it was outside at the zoo so we benefitted animals. Although I have a conflicted relationship with zoos, all the sad critters. We passed the flamingo enclosure tonight. They're pink because they eat pink shrimp. What if we could eat beets and become maroon? Or carrot orange?

So I danced and danced and now I have grass colored feet.

This child is AMAZING and so is the movie:

In 5 rhythms dance, chaos is everything but at the bottom is grief. So last night I danced the grief dance, all the way to the bottom. It felt like my whole body was crying.

This morning is therapy, oh boy. My therapist in in Pioneer Square, land of tourists wandering around with cameras and triple shot mochas with whipped cream. They ride The Duck, which is an amphibious car/boat thing with a guy hollering in the front. They get pulled around in horse-drawn carriages. They stand in clumps waiting for the Underground Tour of Seattle to start. 

I've never ridden The Duck, or a horse-drawn carriage or gone on the Tour. Nor will I. I would like to ride on the new ginormous ferris wheel by the waterfront but I hear the lines are huge and it costs, like a million dollars.

Also Pioneer Square has homeless people. My homeless man is usually there on a bench by Chief Sealth. He's polite with his cap out. I give him a dollor and sometimes five dollars. I look forward to seeing him because I know he's still ok, wherever he sleeps. He always asks how I am and he always blesses me. This morning I need his blessing. 

And the sun shines on all us sinners.

To those who read here, there are tragedies we can't speak of. Right now, I vacillate between weeping and being numb and sleeping. A hornet stung me yesterday and I thought, aha, a sharp pain on my hand. I can attend to this because I can't fix the bigger problem. I can never fix the bigger problem.

Sometimes our hearts are broken so wide open, they can't be enclosed again, closed again. Some loss can't be borne.

And yet, the dog needs his walk and the chickens need to be let out of their coop. Eggs collected. Cats fed.

Remember to eat. Go to work. Listen carefully to the mothers. Attend.

When you can, visit the mountains and breathe in the trees.

My sorrow is vast. And deep.

The Waltons, of Wal-Mart fame have the collective wealth equal to the bottom 30% of us. And they spend their time (and obscene wealth) on figuring out ways to avoid paying taxes.

What the hell do wealthy folks need with so much wealth that they'll never use in their lifetimes or the lifetimes of their offspring? We're living in an oligarchy now where my neighbor's children eat from my garbage cans (I took them some fruit and rice under cover of darkness) and I care for plenty of young pregnant women who have no health insurance except what the State (fortunately) provides. Thank you, Washington State.

I care for women who live in grand houses and I care for women who live in one room apartments downtown. Women with nannies and women with food stamps.

It's going to be insanely hot today. I'm heading south to a beach park where Felix can get in the water. My neighborhood is going to be packed today with inebriated sunburned revelers and I'd just as soon be gone.

Mary, this one's for you.

Lucy and Fiona:

And I found two sweet brown eggs in their box. Although they sit on each other in there. I'm not such what chickens think, or if they think. We might get four more pullets and we have to figure out how to 'introduce' them. Name tags? A motivational speaker?

I know there will be chicken wars but eventually Lucy will be crowned Queen Chicken and all will be well.

Sheesh.

Been listening to the Blue Angels this afternoon thundering over our roof. The katz have disappeared and Felix looks at the sky and barks. BARK BARK BARK!!!

Time for a dog walk and a dip in the lake. I'm not drinking alcohol now (sob!) because my naturopath told me not to. I don't drink much but on a day like this, a bloody mary or a margarita would sure taste good. And restorative. Maybe I'll take myself out to the local veggie restaurant and pretend my virgin Mary has alcohol in it. That's so sad.

I will admit to a wee bit of anxiety and depression. While looking at my garden this morning and wondering how to pay my taxes and continue to be a business person (not) with the whole effing burden of my clinic on my shoulders, I succumbed to depression or rather I became aware of my ongoing low level anxiety.

I dreamt the other night that a check fo $33,000 had just come in and, boy howdy, was I elated. I like being a midwife. I don't care for the worry about the business end. Everyone must be paid, supplies ordered, taxes and rent and oh yeah, I have to pay myself.

I look at my great big house and I want a cabin in Olympia that costs about $50 a month.

Whine whine whine.

I practice generosity daily or I try to.

Ok, enough of this. The sun is out and the filthy dog needs his swim.

At least the two remaining chickens are happy. And they give us eggs every day. Thanks, girls.

Rebecca, I wish you were here at the moment. There are two nice men with tight tee-shirts snaking the  drain in my yard. They're buff and hearty and cheerful. And they stride with purpose. We like that. I dare not think about their bill. As an old girlfriend used to say, 'it's only numbers'. Well, but heck. My tenant was complaining of a backed-up toilet and a 'bubbling' kitchen sink, neither of which sounds right to me.

I'm digging up a hollyhock in my garden that has gone nuclear. It's halfway across the walkway with no signs of abatement. With the garbage/recycling/green waste strike, our parking strip resembles a post-moving situation. And my neighbors saw the kids from the corner house eating from the garbage.

They're Somali refugees and there are many children, small children who run back and forth all day, unsupervised. Some of them look to be about 3 or 4. I've never seen the parents. They have a few bikes which they leave strewn about, once behind my car. If I hadn't seen it, I would have run over it. My bigger fear is that I'll run over one of them or a passing car will. When I heard about the garbage eating incident, I looked up food of Somalia : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somalian_cuisine and I found that I can't go to a regular store and buy any of their foods. I thought I could leave them some food.

I don't know what to do. I think the mother has a baby so she never appears.

I don't know what to do.

Yesterday Clark and I drove to Olympia to dance (again). There were about 40 people,  some from Friday night and some new ones. There were more old people like me and more men. One man, from now on called, 'orange man' was in the middle of the room and he was, uh, very big and LOUD. He shrieked and yelled and pounded the floor. I stayed away from him because I envisioned him jumping on my ankle and crushing it. He was very vigorous. One of the young nubile ladies came out of her top while jumping and twirling. Nobody seemed to mind. All in all, a wild time.

We decided we like our Seattle group just fine. And our Seattle teacher.

I have some judgments about folks younger than me 'teaching' in their self-conscious way, encouraging me (us) to 'go deeper' and 'connect with the earth' and assorted claptrap. I don't need anyone to explain or encourage me to alter my experience and I'm not sure anyone else does either. It's an attempt to 'make' people have the same experience, which is, of course, impossible. Sorta like mega churches with their group-think. As I instruct meditation on Wednesday night ( I even hesitate to use the word instruct), it challenges me to teach the basics without shoving anyone in any particular direction. Breathe this way, don't slouch, release thoughts, etc. I'm the 'breathe any old way, lie down if you want, revel in your daydreams' kind of teacher.

After all, what is meditation anyway? I'm still working on this one. Dance is my newest meditation and it's effing fabulous.

Chickens can be, well, animals. Apparently, Ethel had a weird chicken problem yesterday so the other chickens attacked her and she died. Deb buried her in the garden.

Now we're down to two chickens. Lucy and Fiona. And Lucy has Ethel blood on her head.

They're dumb but vicious.

We're gonna get more and there's a whole ritual with introducing   new chickens to the established flock. Sheesh.

I'm going to join the gym. Blech. My doctor says I need to lift weights. Pretty soon I'll look like this:

This afternoon, some of my dance buddies and I are driving to Olympia to dance for three hours. I've only ever danced for ninety minutes so I might collapse. Right in front of everyone.

I love to dance. I could feel tired or angry or sad or bored and the music and the movement and the other dancers pull me up and out. Or down and in. I don't know.

It heals what ails me. And I'm grateful that Maya drug me to the first dance in December cuz now I'm committed. As long as I can move, even if I just lie there and wiggle my toes.

My dears-Milo no longer has braces but his orthodontist gave him a giant bag of candy. What! Job security, right?

I think I might spend the weekend in Olympia dancing. I might or I might not. Or maybe I'll drive back and forth on Friday and Sunday.

Tomorrow I have a doctor's appointment and my profligate ways will be at an end. She'll draw my blood, check my cholesterol levels and that will be that. No more messing around.

Crap.

This is my younger daughter. Isn't she gorgeous?

We saw the Batman movie because Milo is here and he's almost 10. It was very loud and there were lots of flying machines and bad guys and killing but no gory killing like in Game of Thrones, which I can't recommend, frankly. Too much intestines and beheading for me.

We're back from our adventures and the house, katz and chickens are all here and in one piece. We've been waiting in vain for Lucy to lay an egg but we've decided she is laying but not white eggs. She's laying brown ones. And they sit on each other while in the nest box. Why is that? I can't begin to understand the behavior of chickens.

I baked chocolate chip cookies for Milo to take with him when they leave tomorrow. He's become such a nice boy. Maybe next year his folks will leave him here for a while and we can go backpacking. I'd love to go camping with him. And Felix, of course.

I had my mammogram and ultrasound today. Dr O (really) came in and said, 'It's nothing.' Maya was with me and we laughed and cried and made jokes. I was in a daze for several hours after. I'd already planned my funeral, for crissakes.

I guess I get a few more years.

Back from the most gorgeous Lake Chelan, a lake known for it's clarity and it's temperature (freezing or refreshing, depends on your perspective). When it's blazing hot out, a hop in the lake is in order. However, because we went to the Eastern part of the State so there would be no rain, there was a terrific thunder and lightening storm. Epic storm. The first night. Better than the movies. But it got hot and we melted, as I thought we would. And we ate of the carbohydrates, holy cow. And beans every night. It just worked out that way.

I got a haircut from Maya and now I feel sexy. And Milo is beside me on the couch so all is well in the world.

Tomorrow we head for Lake Chelan, where it may rain, ha. But it will be warmer than Seattle, not hard to do. Not my idea to go east of the mountains but there it is. We have a stand-up-in tent, a cot for Deb. two coolers for massive food, a blow-up boat with wee oars.

I baked two loaves of bread, made veggie chili, beet/carrot/dill salad, gaspacho, and black bean hummus. We'll bring all the eggs the girls laid. I bought a bottle of tequila.

We're joined by friends with four kids so the math is six adults and five kids. Felix goes to doggie daycare.

I'm bringing Super Scrabble and I intend to kick butt.

But wait.

At the dentist, I got to read all about this. Because their divorce is what's IMPORTANT, PEOPLE.

Today we had actual weather, complete with thunder {{{{}}}}} and lightening. Where I'm from, these are usual occurrences. And pounding sheets of rain. I LOVE weather like this. I love to be caught in it and come in dripping and happy.

First a massage to get the awful knot out of my shoulder-dog pulling on leash and yanking shoulder so I now have numbness and tingling in my arm (left arm-heart attack, right?) Then the dentist to give me a temporary where my broken crown is/was. Finally, my impossibly young doc felt my breasts and added an ultrasound to my mammogram next week. And she moved my appointment up a week. Probably nothing but I was terribly flippant with her. A regular comedian I was. Comes from being nervous. I'm the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz-a piece of me over here and another piece of me over there, that's just me all over the place.

I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do, I do, I do.

Beautiful morning. I did yoga last night and now I can hardly move, wry neck and back. Who says yoga is good for you?

I have two wee lumps in my breast, probably cystic. My mother had breast cancer so I have annual mammograms, going for my next one after my vacation. I try not to be worried. I've had lumps before, aspirated, removed, etc and they were all benign. But in my active imagination, well there I go. With my recent shoulder pain, I was having a heart attack but what I needed was a massage. Sheesh.

The chickens are making their usual noises. We are now getting an egg every other day. Small brown ones. Lucy, our big white hen, sits on the nest and pretends but she has yet to produce. Our smallest hen, Ethel, is the egg layer.

And no one has escaped since the wing clip. I'm not in the mood to go chasing chickens around the yard. In fact, I don't want to do a thing today but the family is descending soon so I better be ready to head for Eastern WA with food and camping gear. I might just melt over there, it's so hot.

The heat has eased off, Ethel has produced another egg and I'm apparently not going to any births before I leave for vacation.

With their wings clipped, the chickens are content to scratch around in the dirt and throw it all over themselves. The sparrows are feeding another family of chicks in the eaves of my neighbor's house. In a few days, my family descends upon us and there will be noise and a mess and more noise and hugging and talking. And a boy who is getting bigger and bigger each time I see him.

We're going to eastern Washington, which, for those of you who don't know, is high desert. This means that it's hotter than hell over there with dry sweet air. The Columbia River gorge is a most splendid sight and the river is huge and wide. Eastern Washington has rattlesnakes and sage brush and orchards and vineyards. So we're going to Lake Chelan, a clear cold lake with many campsites. We'll put up some shade and a camp kitchen and hang out with the many kids. I intend to spend a lot of time immersed in the lake water if it's 100 degrees, which it probably will be.

I'm bringing books and music. And one of those folding camp chairs with a cup holder. I don't even know if there is a shower so we may come back very dirty.

When I was a child, I went to Camp Talooli on Lake Temalo, really a large pond. There was no hot water so when we bathed, we soaped up and jumped in the lake to wash off.

The first time I saw the northern lights was there early in the morning.

And another thing. The chickens set up an almighty racket so I went to check and they were all in the yard, snacking on greens and plants and shrubs. Arggggaaa! So I got Heidi again and we herded them all back into the coop. And Fiona laid another egg, this one misshapen and cracked. So for ALL THE TROUBLE today, all I get is a wasp sting on my ankle that still hurts and a weird egg.

Then my hero Deb came home from work and clipped their wings. She wanted me to help but I told her the chickens and I aren't speaking right now.

And she brought me a half a watermelon and I ate the whole thing. I <3 her.

Tomorrow I have big plans that don't involve chasing chickens around and around. I will not be thwarted, I will not.

I'm a mite peckish because I dressed for my dance class this morning and woke early to go to the island to visit the baby before my class and the effing West Seattle Bridge was closed. Grrrrrrrrr. And the detour signs sent me to east Jesus and I finally got on the ferry much later and got lost on Vashon---finally found the house and the wee babe and sweet family but, ah, my morning was blown.

I cam back to the house to find that Fiona had escaped the chicken yard and Heidi, my tenant, had rounded her up and put her back. But I looked into their yard and Ethel was missing. I scouted my neighbor's yard, no Ethel. I went into my front yard and underneath the dogwood was Ethel, bucking away. I chased her around for a while, got Heidi and some towels and crouched in the underbrush to ambush her--and a wasp stung me on the ankle. I ignored it until Ethel was cornered. I grabbed one of her legs and hung her upsidedown while she frantically flapped and squawked. I managed to get her back to her yard, limping now from the searing pain in my ankle.

So I decided I'm not having an allergic reaction and as long as my ankle doesn't blow up the size of a football, I'll be fine. Ice and some baking soda paste but ow, it hurts like a fucker.

And everyone and their mother is at the lake, all the places I usually have to myself. I always think they shouldn't get to be in MY park because I'm devoted and they're fair weather visitors. I mean, what's so terrible about Seward Park in the rain and wind?

And the boats! Sheesh, there must be a hundred boats down in the cove and not just little rowboats but ginormous yachts, zillion dollar boats on a lake. Really, people?

Meanwhile my ankle throbs and stings and gives me the chills.

So I'm grumpy, even though I have the NYT to read and house is peaceful and quiet. At least July 4th is over and my neighborhood doesn't sound like Beirut.

I can complain if I want, dammit.

My honey just came home with a vegetarian frittata and a LONDON FOG. She must have heard me thinking.

It is beautiful Saturday. I slept in, just an amazing experience with a small farm. Deb is out somewhere with Felix, the katz are lounging in the sun on the deck and the chickens are giving themselves dirt baths. Bright blue sky, grapes growing alarmingly and minimal weeds. A quiet house.

Last night, our student who is leaving us (sob!), took us all to dinner at Poppy, where they cook with herbs they grew out back. They bring us wee revolving plates set with bites of perfection; minted snow peas, gingered carrots, garlic peppered brocoli, curried golden beets. O heaven. We spent four hours eating and laughing and reminiscing. Leah, the student, came to us very green and leaves us with some chops. On to her next site where they will polish her up and launch her into midwife land.

We get attached, we do. Birthin' is so intense and sometimes things are hairy and our students observe and participate in big life dramas. Not to mention clinic visits where we hear all kinds of secrets (and hold them close to our hearts). So we wished our dear Leah fair well and we'll visit her in New Zealand, if that's where she will end up with her gorgeous husband, Ricardo.

I don't have to get dressed today. I could read until it gets dark. And sip a London Fog, which is an Earl Gray tea latte with a touch of vanilla. I may have the best London Fog ever if I go to Vashon Island to visit a new baby. Vashon Island is a sweet island about 20 minutes by ferry from Seattle. Their only bookstore makes a LF from heaven. I have been know to go there simply for a cup of tea.  Today, tomorrow. La la.

We waited in the zoo line in the rain and we chatted up our neighbors, as only rained-on people do. We made jokes, we offered each other corners of umbrellas and tarps. It was altogether very chummy. KD Lang still has her chops. I swear the woman has a four octave range. At least. And she busted out Leonard Cohen's Halleluja. Gawd, it was gorgeous. I once heard her sing Orbison's Cryin' and I fell to my knees right in the doorway of the theatre. Kathleen Battle makes me keel over too. And if I could bring Maria Callas back from the grave, I'd be having a case of the vapors for her too.


Anyway.

We sat on the grassy grass with our snacks and made friends with our neighbors once again. The group in front of us had margaritas and they gave us one. I think alcohol is not allowed but we didn't care. A grand evening.

Today, I let Holly choose the hike we were going to do. So she directed us to Heather Lake (we looked it up) and it said no snow, a lovely alpine lake, secluded, etc. I neglected to check the distance. Oops. So we ended up going over the pass on Highway 2, almost to Leavenworth, which, if you're not from here, is to hell and gone. Really. By the time I figured out how far it was, we were halfway there so well, we did it. And finding the trailhead was a challenge but we persevered, north end of Lake Wenatchee, hahahahahahahahaha forest service road washboard dirt road for about fifty miles and so on. You ge the picture. It was fucking beautiful, driving along the wild river, huge rapids, waterfalls, peaks still covered with snow. Washington IS beautiful. At the trail head was a nice sign with pictures of grizzly and black bears. (Gulp) Not a single car except us.

And we headed out. Crossed many swollen streams, hit the middle of the trail where we lost our way several times and it was straight up, not kidding, and then, aha it leveled out---we must be almost to the pretty lake, just a few snowfields in the way, a few large snowfields in the way where the hell is the trail, all this fucking snow. And there the story ends. Felix thought the snow was fantastic as he lept around eating snow and sliding. But. We couldn't go any farther because we couldn't figure out where the trail was and rotten snow collapses into huge holes.

So.

We sat on a log, ate our lunch and watched for bears. We saw not a bear but we did see deer, including a sweet buck with a small rack and a coyote. Plenty of trillium still in bloom.

It was splendid even without the lake. We pinky swore we'd go back and find the lake one day. And then the ride home down that incredible elevation through the glorious Cascade mountain range.

A nearly perfect day. And some chocolate for dinner.

Damn, my feet are sore right now. And all the animals are around me because of the fireworks.

Yesterday at the monstrous home improvement store we were buying a hose and nozzle because ours had given up. Felix was being a well behaved poodle on his leash. he barked a bit at a leashed pitbull, normal dog behavior. A lady in drapey black pants hustled over to us to tell us that barking dogs bother her and by the way, her 93 year old mother was waiting for her at the check stand. ???? It was so bizarre, I was rendered speechless. Too bad too. But I still couldn't think of a clever retort because it was so random. 93 years old=barking=bother??? I don't understand why I think the way I do much less other humans.

Dogs are more predictable.

Felix and I went up Tiger Mountain and we got some rain and some sun and a lotta mud. He promptly fell asleep in the car on the way back. The wet forest looks like this.

One of the girls laid an egg, the first!!! Our first egg only cost about $2000, what with building the coop and food and the chickens. Who did it? Fiona? Ethel? Lucy? Lucy only lays white eggs, I think, so it couldn't be her.

Isn't it pretty?

Today, we're going to the zoo to hear KD Laing sing outside. We sit on the grass with our picnic dinner and hope to hell it doesn't rain on us. We're packing those low chairs, raincoats, a blanket and a thermos of hot tea. And it's July 3rd, sheesh.

There's a park here and apparently it's 2 miles from my house because I clocked it today (and walked back). It's called Martha Washington and it was the site of a home for unwed mothers. There are huge trees, a circular drive and a small orchard. Beyond the fringe at the bottom, are stairs to the lake. Hidden from the street we renegade dog owners take our off-leash dogs to the water so they can swim and romp with each other.

When I'm there, I think about the ghosts of the girls who walked those same stairs to the water, heavy with a baby they couldn't or didn't keep, going away for the summer and returning to school as if nothing had happened. And the shame. And the guilt. And how different it is now. At least half the women I see in my clinic are unmarried, as was I when my babies were born.

Girls, floating and their babies floating over the green lawn and the ball-chasing dogs. And the swallows dipping and swooping.

Who delivered them? Who adopted the babies? All because of sex. And no access to birth control. And shame. Lots and lots of shame.

It's a shame.