tragedy

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Horrific violence. Lives lost. Limbs severed. Flesh punctured. Dreams shattered. And on it goes and goes and goes.

In the hours (and days) after a tragic event, we are inundated with reminders of the violent act. The same footage is shown again and again. I could likely mimic Bill Iffrig from Lake Stevens, WA as he stumbled and fell when hit by the percussion of the bomb blast while he ran the Boston marathon. But, I would rather put it out of my mind altogether.

I acknowledge and mourn the tragedy with exclamations of horror and even tears. Then, wrapping my mind around the event as best as I can, I compartmentalize it, tucking it away from of my stream of consciousness after surrounding it with healing, loving, positive thoughts.


A verse of a poem by friend, Kathleen Overby, says it well:

   I sequester myself in the garden, 

an antidote for the headlines

repeated over and over again --

as if only despair and destruction

could make the front page news.

Because life goes on and I choose to live in light and loveliness.

My sincere hope is that each living victim of the Boston marathon bombing will find a way to redeem this sad experience into something good - even if its simply recognizing the compassion and kindness and hope of the American people. 

luizberto.com

Pound cake with rhubarb compote

 So.... day 5 of 'acute' bronchitis and I'm climbing the walls out of boredom in between bouts of napping, coughing and wishing I had a new set of bronchial tubes.

Glancing through a magazine in the doctor's office yesterday I came upon this recipe.  (Yes, I'm one of those magazine page thieves. I can justify my actions.) Rhubarb delights me as does pound cake.

 

Today, the photo op of the baked product caught my eye. Subtle greys, delicate patterned china plate,  pink toned rhubarb compote. "Surely I can re-create this in water color", I mused. 

Before you form an opinion please allow me to explain that I am a water color novice with a capital "N". I know I cannot learn to paint without trying so I put on my brave girl panties and here is the finished product: 

Although it looks more like fried egg on toast with a huge splash of ketchup, I do like the fork and the plate has potential. Please notice the subtle shadowing. I'm quite proud of it. 

The next step involved replicating the dessert in real life. Lucky for me I had a few, ripe stalks of  rhubarb growing in the garden. It is as delicious as it looks.

Over thinker

I'm working on changing my habit of over thinking. It tires me.

No sooner had I posted this post when I came across this on Pinterest:  

'Nuf said.

 

Life....

We received the phone call in the wee hours of the morning the night before we were scheduled to leave on vacation. Glynn's 86 year old mother fell, breaking her hip.

Time has a way of slowing down and wrapping its edges around an event so that it becomes one's focus. Worrying about Ellen, ensuring she receives proper care, calming and comforting her consumes our time. Thankfully Elda happened to be in town visiting her mom for a few days before flying on to visit her grandchildren. Her bedside vigils have been a huge comfort to Ellen.  Elda plans to stay in Olympia for a few more weeks, until her mom's life 'normalizes'.

Surgery was successful. A heart murmur was detected and treated. This may be what has been causing her frequent dizzy spells and falls. Ellen was moved to rehab yesterday and the arduous task of getting her up and moving will begin today.

Ellen is spunky. A recent fractured rib only kept her down for two weeks. Our hope is that she will regain mobility such that she can remain in her independent living situation in her little apartment in town. We are holding our breath, knowing Ellen may have a new normal to adjust to.

Time will tell....

Here is a result of yesterday's therapy: creating.

Chicken fricasse

I'm still trending upward on the chicken raising learning curve.

I learned that introducing a rooster to the flock will help protect the hens from predators.

I learned (the hard way) that the Rhode Island Red rooster is notoriously aggressive.

courtesy of: farm6.staticflickr.com

I learned (the hard way) that carrying a shiny pan into the coop to treat my flock to leftover steel cut oats sends a message of danger: predator to the pea-sized brain of said Rhode Island Red rooster causing him to attack the back of my legs with a powerful WHOMP, causing me to drop the pan resulting in another powerful WHOMP.

My cantalope-sized brain instinctually tells me to 'let him know who's boss'  resulting in an aggressive stance on my part causing yet again one more WHOMP on the back of my legs.

Sigh.

As I walk back to the house, my tail between my legs, my mind is already creating the ad that will appear on Craigslist:  Aggressive rooster for sale. Will pay you to dispose of. 

courtesy of: l.yimg.com

While my racing heart calms, I google my latest chicken challenge and discover that although the RIR rooster is often aggressive, said aggressions manifests itself as he reaches adulthood. Since 'Randy' just recently found his voice, a rather pathetic cock-a-doodle, I realize he's nothing but a cocky, young dandy, strutting his stuff amongst his harem.

The article informs that bringing unusual items into the coop - like a shiny pan - causes his protective radar to ping.

It's all good.

To curb said aggression, one can hold the rooster in the crook of ones arm 10 minutes a day for one week. This allows rooster to learn that I, the ultimate coop master, am safe.

courtesy of:fellowshipofminds.files.wordpress.com

Stay tuned for more chicken raising adventures. Something tells me I'm in for a wild ride.

courtesy of: arcatapet.com

Enjoy the journey

Contentment

Last Saturday I experienced a fresh version of joy.

2.75 year old Cooper spent the weekend with us and when we awoke to sun, I knew Cooper would be delighted to run his little legs in the yard while I commenced cleaning my flower beds of winter's debris.

Imagine for a moment my enjoyment as Cooper willingly became my little helper; filling the wheelbarrow with dead branches, crumbling seed pods into dust, and discovering worms. He planted himself amongst  tall, dried out stalks of ornamental grass and shook them vigorously, laughing delightedly as they rattled and rustled. Cooper is just now finding his voice and he entertained me with a running commentary of melodious chatter, a diction only he can interpret.

An intense wave of tenderness toward this precious, little boy washed over me (again) that day. He has stolen this grandma's heart.

courtesy of 123rf.com