Real Education

I've been away. It's been educational. Tidbits garnered during the last two weeks:

1.  If you've flown your yard wizard in from Southern California for the week to design your space, go out and help with the work, sore throat or not.  But bundle up even more than you think necessary.

2.  If your body says rest because it is nearly ill, not listening and continuing to push forward allows the bug to get real momentum.  It will get your attention.  It will make you rest! Bottom line: it's worth it.

3.  If your chest is tight from the bug, cayenne capsules can help get things moving. However, putting them into a touchy stomach means they may be rejected (ejected).  Your flaming mouth and lips will make you more cautious next time.

4.  If you cough up "dirt socks" all night long, in the morning your bedroom will smell like a foul laundry hamper.  Fling open the windows as soon as you can gather your strength to do so.

5.  If you wake suddenly in the night having to cough up the heel of a sock and also needing to pee, get to the pot before you allow yourself to cough.  Keep clean underwear handy.

6.  If you're in the middle of your 4-AM-cough-until-it's-all-out (two pair of dirty socks worth) and your mind takes off to write a blog about it,  take heart!  You are getting well!

7.  Slowly, slowly, the body wins.  The bug wears out.  The body gets well.  However, a tentative, nearly-well body is no match for the splendor of plarking to flesh out a new yard, front and back.   Let's just see how much I've learned!

Get To. . .

Ferny rosettes of young Knapp Weed

"It is, indeed, my pleasure to. . . " I like those words so very much better than "have to." Can you feel the difference in your gut when you try them on for size?

Lush green heart eager under last season's dried growth

Recently it was my pleasure to remove Knapp Weed from the  county property next to my house.  Last summer the green plants with deceptively charming purple flowers swooshed in the breeze of the traffic going by.  Winter turned the tops grey-brown.  The purple flowers turned to seed heads.  The dormant plant resembled baby's breath, but chunkier.  The energy of spring has the perennial gathering steam for a new year.

Tiny, tell-tale pompoms that mark Knapp Weed.

Knapp Weed is considered a noxious invasive species here in Oregon.  The roots release a chemical that discourages other plants from growing.  Letting it go unchecked is not a good idea.  So Michael, another volunteer, and I marked off a section of the affected land and took it on.  Three hours of focused effort equalled ten bags piled at the corner for the city to pick up.

We'll go after it again one of these days.  Two more "get to's" ought to do.

Ready for pick up

Shall I?

What an honor to observe the results of molecules
joined so elegantly in Beauty.

Got to thinking the other day.  The spirit of this writing, about how we look at our duties, chores, general activities wants to carry on, even in this New Land.  Is there still a space for it?  Is there yet an appreciation for the thoughts of blessing even the most ordinary of tasks?



For some reason, I feel a pull, a drawing toward the expression of the sacredness of all movements in this life.

Perhaps your opinion about the continuation of "Things I get. . " is not as important as the overwhelming benefit to the writer.  But I'd like to hear from you just the same.  Your thoughts matter to me.  Shall I write here again?

Come See Me!

Hello Dear Faithful Readers!

I've begun a new blog--Life in a New Land.  Come see me at lifeinanewland.blogspot.com.

Suspended. . . .

Service Berries in bloom, Bend, Oregon

Between Portland and Bend, Oregon, the main focus of Things I get to do today is to remember to breathe. It's been months since this blog has chronicled any of the details of daily life that fuel the body, the mind or the soul. During that time, we've slowly released the roots that keep us in Portland, while we extend our energy into the new land of Central Oregon. It feels like a very good move.

But today the house goes on the market, and the scurrying about to collect, pack and dispense of possessions begins for real. Life is no longer marked by the usual routines. For several weeks there is no tossing the toothbrush on the counter in the morning after brushing. The house must look very close to not-lived-in.

This blog, which has been silent for months, is suspended as well as my Handy Andy skills are put into full swing to make the move and the settling into a new space. When we reemerge in a couple of months, writing will be part of the things I get to do everyday, and the blog will resurface as "Life in a New Land."  I'm looking forward to seeing you there.  Blessings to you all!

Fortress Refortified

Hens eat the whole seed.  Two hens can clean
a dish is one minute!  They don't have time or
need to select only the tender inside seed.

The fortress has fallen.  The evidence has been toying with me for several weeks:  sunflower seed hulls.  That's it--the grey, split, empty half-shells.

Here's the deal.  Every evening when the Lovely Ladies go to bed, they get a generous cup of sunflower seeds for a bedtime snack.  If they don't eat all of it, the remaining seeds are there for them when they hop down from the roost in the morning.  By the time the coop is opened the next morning, the dishes are empty, until recently.  That's when the hulls appeared, and I knew that rats were coming in in the night and slicking up the treats.

Rats were coming in under the door.  It has just now
been reinforced with ½" hardware cloth.  

Hardware "cloth" and plywood make up the walls of the chicken coop.  All the eaves are sealed. The floor is made of 12" concrete stepping stones.  It is indeed a fortress.  Finding the weak spot has been niggling into the Things I get to do today for some time.

New screen over the big hole the rats carved in the door sill.
Tonight's feast is canceled.

This morning I stumbled upon it.

Plant Promises

The gusting wind woke me and kept me from sleep.  It was well below freezing, and I, right there in the middle of the night,  promised my Daphne that I would cover them from the harsh wind first of the Things I get to do today come morning.  Their tender little flower buds were already fat and pink, the fragrance still concealed tightly inside.






But when morning came, the flower buds looks browned and "burnt" from the cold and low humidity. It seemed too late. I thanked them for trying.  There would be other flowers.  There would be other years with less harsh winters.

But now this morning, two weeks later, the snows and ices all melted, the smallest flash of a flower caught my eye over breakfast. Was it really possible that the Daphne kept its promise of blossoms and fragrance and bliss though it was too late for me to keep mine?