Observations

 It's very difficult to write an observational sort of entry when you aren't observing very much. My days are spent at home with my person, our cat, and the fish.

This is what I saw today:

This is Maggie, soon to feature in a series of stories titled "The misadventures of Maggie the Cat".  She looks cute enough, but boy, she does manage to get into some trouble.

It is May 5.  If we were to celebrate Cinqo de Mayo, our costumes would include parkas, hats, and gloves.   It is also liberation day in Holland. Excellent cause for rejoicing, but again, we would be celebrating freedom attired in boots and scarves. It is co-o-o-old here today!

In the breaking of bread

One of my favourite Gospel readings is from the end of Luke. Jesus had been crucified, and the apostles reacted as we would; they were afraid, wary, confused, grief-stricken.

This story tells of two of them walking to a village some miles from Jerusalem called Emmaus, "conversing about all the things that had occurred." (Luke 24:14) A man joined them, asking what they were talking about. Naturally they were astonished that he seemed unaware of what had happened, and filled him in... or so they thought. 

They were so silly, because of course that man was Jesus and of course he knew what had happened, but they were not yet able to recognize him. Even when he explained all the prophecies in scripture referring to himself and how what had happened, had to happen, they still did not recognize him. (This sounds so much like me) When they reached the village, they encouraged him to stay the night there, rather than go on further.  This is the best bit: "And it happened that, while he was with them at table, he took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to them. With that their eyes were opened and they recognized him..." (Luke 24: 30-31)

Have you ever heard or read something you just couldn't stop chewing on?  I've been pondering on this since it was read at Mass: they recognized Jesus when he broke bread with them.  I love the imagery of these two men walking along with Jesus, listening to him teach and thinking he's a pretty cool guy. But then he picks up a loaf of bread, and #ohmygoshit'sTheLord!! (Oh to Instagram that supper!)  There's something to be gleaned from them not knowing Jesus until they broke bread together. They sat and had a meal. 

We can share all the book learning. Teach all the theology. Most of the time, though, meeting a person where they're at, offering hospitality, feeding them, is the way to really reveal Christ  to them. (All the 'learning' means more later on, after they've been introduced).  It's also how we come to know and recognize each other: spend time together. Have conversations. Linger over a meal. Be present in a moment of each other's life.

How sad it is, that for much of a year we haven't been able to spend time together. How many people are walking alone on that road to Emmaus? How many people have not been able to share in the breaking of bread - in the Church sense, but also in the hospitality sense. Because of that, how many people do not know the Lord?  How many people are unknown in their own lives?

Let us all resolve that, when this is over - or at least when we are allowed to - we share as many meals with others as we can.  Not fancy, planned out, stressy 'dinner parties', but 'come into my home and share my meal'.  We need to break bread together.

Of things in pockets

One of the nicest things about having someone else around all the time is that I'm never stuck for something to do. Waiting our turn to go in the grocery store, extra long ad breaks on tv, or when I visit in his shop and he tells me long (ie. technical) descriptions of what he's doing... no need to fear boredom! There is always something interesting to do: go through his pockets.

He's an electronics technician, with a special interest in repairing vintage things. You know those old handheld games? Or Atari consoles? Even typewriters!  That's his jam. I was never into video games so I don't get excited about all of that, but the very cool thing is the tools and gadgets he has laying around for repairing and building. (I just love any activity that allows for a whole new collection of accessories.) Many of them are small, which makes them even more interesting. Tiny screwdrivers, small snips and cutters, wee little pliers. Then there's a thing that heats and melts plastic, another nifty tool for soldering, something else that looks like a heart monitor. 

The soldering gun is too big to carry around, of course, but I bet you'd be surprised at what he considers important enough to tuck into a pocket 'just in case' (I suspect sometimes he just forgets he put it there, and then we end up at Costco and he has a full-sized wrench in his pocket)

I have found:

Elastics, screwdriver, tiny screws, telescoping flashlight with magnetic end, two-way radio, electronic handheld games, zip ties, bulb from string lights, batteries, fork, transistor radio, manuals to old things, rosary, St. Jude prayer card, mechanical pencils, wrappers, cat lazer pointer thing, kolbasa, way expired gift cards and credit cards, pine cones

We went through airport security a couple of years ago. I was pulled aside because my hand lotion was 5 ml over the limit, and I dared to pack the tablet and keyboard in the same bag.  Meanwhile, he sails through with a full-sized laptop in his carry on, and walked through the x-ray machine with a pocket full of several lengths of wire, bits of cables, and several mini tools! Airline staff were probably reassured having someone on board who obviously would be able to rebuild the engine should it be necessary.

My own MacGyver.

Near and far

Do you remember that Sesame Street skit from ages ago? One of the characters runs up to the camera to demonstrate "Near!" then runs into the distance to demonstrate "Far!" over and over again.

Time is like that, isn't it? Events, moments, from our past can feel like they happened just yesterday, and then the next time we look at them they seem to be very far off in history, as though they were written by someone else.

Over the course of Easter weekend, with the help of modern technology, we watched two Masses from the church I went to back in Days of Yore when I lived in Capital City. Though I could point out things that have changed in the *gulp* 12 years since I was last there it felt so immediate, surely I could step out my own front door and walk up the stairs of that church to celebrate with those dear, familiar faces I spotted in the (Covidly thin) crowd. The music included hymns I haven't sung in over a decade yet the words tumbled out of my mouth with no hesitation. 

The priest celebrating Mass told the story of an Easter Vigil more than 20 years ago, where the then Pastor, Father F, nearly set fire to the church. The Vigil, you see, begins with the church in darkness.  The priest stands outside with the unlit Easter candle. He lights a fire (usually a small one, in a hibachi, well outside the building - even if it snows, which it often does because this is Canada). Father F, however, had a dramtical flair. He wanted a Fire and he wanted it In The Church. So he lit a fire inside the main doors. A Big Fire. The flames were, by different accounts, 6, 8, or 10 feet high. It was exciting! The Easter candle was lit from the fire, then like a wave moving through the congregation row after row of us lit our tapers from it until the building glowed with golden candle light and we settled in to listen to the Old Testament readings (I think we did seven that year, some of them accompanied by drums. As I said, Father F liked it dramatic.) The church was fine, by the way. Whilst we lit our candles and our hearts thrilled to the 'Escaping Egypt' beat of the drums, the ushers dealt with the fire-code-breaking fire. I think, being quite used to Father F, they knew to be prepared for any eventuality.

I haven't thought of that night in a long time, but hearing the telling of it Saturday night, it felt like he was telling my story. I was there. I remember it. Remembering ties me to that place, those people. It bring us near to each other no matter how removed we might actually be.

Even though I've lived a lot of life in other places, and am entirely content where I now am, it doesn't take a lot of doing to pull the distant past near. Memories can be like a slinky: they  stretch further and further away, until something tugs on them and they come sproinging back to you, and in this case the sproing totally made my Easter. My hope is that you also had moments of happiness this weekend, and that there is joy aplenty ahead.  Happy Easter to  you and yours from us in The Lighthouse.

t.

Of the tomb and the crocus

As of this morning, we are in Lockdown 3.0. Or is it Lockdown #2, version 19?

I wasn't doing well leading into this, so when I heard rumblings I was a little concerned it would prove too much.  BUT WAIT! Lest you worry this is going to be another depressing post, rest easy, dear Reader! You see, a crocus has popped its charming little head above ground this morning, despite freezing temperatures overnight and snow covering the ground just hours before.

"A crocus?" you say. "What the dickens has a crocus to do with anything?"  Well, I see it as a sign of hope. It encourages me to trust that even though circumstances may seem bleak, like frozen, snow-covered ground, life truly does go on. Yes, it sometimes looks like dandelions, but now and then, when it seems most unlikely, life is a beautiful, unexpected crocus. That is a promise.

Keep hopeful, friends. In this moment (Holy Saturday, when Jesus is in the tomb), the world is silent and sorrowing. But joy comes in the morning! Watch for it...

Over the road

Over the road. That's a British way of saying 'across the street', which somehow makes me feel better about peering through the curtains.  "Lots happening across the street" sounds like I'm spying on my neighbours (which I kind of am) (more on this anon), while "Such a lot going on over the road" sounds like there is something interesting happening and I perchanced to see it.

Over the road is a nondescript house of indeterminate age. Maybe built in the 40s or 50s? Smallish, two-storey with an after-thought addition on the back. It's been uninhabited in the three years we've lived here, but lately is the focus of a great deal of interesting activity.  Diggers, dozers, and dumptrucks have been taking loads and loads of house-guts out and away for months now. It's hard to imagine such a small house could contain as much as we've seen be carted away!  Trucks and vans appear at odd times, then aren't seen for days, even weeks.  Official looking people have disconnected power lines, then returned to string them back up.

The house next to it is also interesting. There have been a few different households of people living there, I think as tenants, while the owner would be there occasionally to tend the garden, which is mostly 20-foot cedars in pots. The most recent tenant would be on the front sidewalk many times a day with varying combinations of mobile phone, cigarette, and dog in hand. We nicknamed him Slow Walker because that's what he'd do: walk slowly up and down the sidewalk. This was to distinguish him from the tenant before him nicknamed Smoking Guy who smoked on the sidewalk but did not walk.

Slow Walker recently got a car. It was very loud, which is how I know he'd drive away at 6:15 every morning, returning about 10 minutes later. I figure this was to buy cigarettes.  Then a few weeks ago he was gone! I feel bad because if he moved out I didn't see it happen, and I have no idea how long it took me to realize he wasn't there anymore. He pulls up to the house now and then (in a much quieter car) but doesn't stay in the house for long. There were other people living in the house at the same time as him and they seem to still be there, though we don't see much of them.

Anyway.  There is a steady parade of pickup trucks on our street today. One is parked in front of our house with safety pylons around it. One guy has been carrying very long bits of timber from the Flipper House to that truck.  Another truck pulled up in front of Slow Walker's house, and four guys got out, one is a safety vest.  He knocked on the door of SW's house, while the other three went to the backyard. I assumed they were heading to the Flipper House, and maybe Safety Vest was wanting to let the neighbours know they were going to be working outside.  Or maybe to borrow a hammer, who knows?  Yet another pickup pulled up, and the four guys come along to pull out two cabinets crammed into the cabin of the truck and they brought it into SW's house! I know that doesn't sound so exciting but I am very curious.  What's going on in that house?  Why is there a ladder propped against the side facing the Flipper House?  Why are the same men going back and forth between the two houses?

And while I was so distracted by all this mysterious activity, I completely missed the fact that the rest of the crew was taking down the back extension of the Flipper House. I saw it leaning a little but, and then it was gone. No fuss, no fanfare.

This is probably not at all interesting to anyone else, but what's happening over the road is the highlight of my day.

Not fine

I'm not fine. Not at all fine.

Nothing about this is fine. Global pandemic. Lockdown. Isolation. Uncertainty. 53 weeks and counting.

We often compare ourselves to those who lived through WWII. "How resilient they were," we say, "So capable. Isn't it lovely how they all pulled together?" Yes it was. They did pull together. And they were resilient. And capable. They lived through extraordinary times in an extraordinary manner. It's quite possible they were stronger than us, more capable than us.

I'll wager though, that more than one person, at some point, said "I don't care about the blackout! I've been in the dark for FOUR YEARS and I'm opening the curtains!"

I tell you, I'm about to rip the curtains open.

I found a photo from last April. In it, my car sits in the driveway, hood up, jumper cables connecting it to the neighbour's car. I'd tried to get out of the house for a few hours by taking a little drive but car and I were grounded. Darn all dead batteries!  This was only a few weeks in, and I was thinking escape.  I came across an email conversation a few weeks further on, between me and a colleague in which we share what we'd been up to: decluttering, walking, baking, cooking, painting... and hoping this wouldn't go on too much longer because we'd done all the things. This was a year ago.

Yes, life has slowed down. It's been stripped back and simplified in many ways (but so complicated in others. Have you tried buying eyeglasses in the past year?)  I enjoy the clean conveyor belt at the grocery store. I like that people have embraced board games, puzzles, crafts, cooking, baking, and so on. I like this larger bubble of personal space and will find it difficult to give up 'when this is all over'. Even this cloud has a silver lining.

There was a period of time last year when the interior workings of thinking, deciding, focusing stopped functioning for me. I tried an online counseling session, but the remedy offered was to read 80 pages a week on depression. Not helpful, considering the major symptoms I'd given were "inability to focus, unable to read, and feeling overwhelmed by the smallest tasks." Daylight grew stronger, and so did I, which is often the remedy for me: sunshine, nature... these are excellent mood elevators. So it surprises me that now, just when Spring is busy springing all over the place, I am feeling so low.

I've experienced anxiety and depression in the past, for which I went to counseling and received excellent help. I learned coping mechanisms, cognitive behavioral therapy strategies, and was fascinated by how the mind can work for you instead of against you by shifting how you think. Finding that counselor was an answer to desperate prayer, let me tell you!

Strategies aren't a magic bullet though. Or maybe I mean that you have to be able to pull the trigger... except that sounds rather grim, doesn't it? What I mean to say is that right now I'm finding it really hard to kick start the strategies or get the ball rolling toward mental wellbeing. I'm tired. Tired of not seeing whole faces rather than just eyes. I'm tired of being afraid to be close to people. The struggle between wanting to leave the house and being reluctant to leave the house is exhausting. I'm tired of missing family celebrations. I miss hugging my friends and family.  I'm worn out from being tired.

What else is there to say except that none of this is fine?

PS - I'd like to encourage you to not hesitate if you are feeling worn out, tired, anxious, overwhelmed to find someone to talk to about it, whether it's a counselling service or a friend. Just saying the words to another person does a lot to lighten the load. Don't even think that what you're going through isn't as tough as what someone else has on their plate. There's enough compassion for everyone.

A lot of dirt

 These are mostly pictures of dirt. I want to document the growing of things in the garden, so here's the beginning: March 23, 2021

Thyme, just starting to green up.

One of the things I don't remember planting

Mostly dirt, but slender green spikes of something are popping up

Mid progress clean up

Collection of squirrel holes. And tiny crocuses

Tiny purple sedum

New tulips in the OG (first-year garden)

These particular green things are garlic!

Not everything is faring well. This poor boxwood declined all last year

I have a vague memory of this shrub looking dead last spring, too. I hope it's just playing possum.

Pay attention! A lesson from the garden.

Be patient with me. After what felt like the longest winter in the history of dark and dreary days, I'm going to spend some time rhapsodizing over green and growing things, blue skies, and daylight after five PM.

As it is, I know that temperatures could very well plummet once more. There could even be snow (this isn't an invitation!) I know that while I am abundantly eager to wallow deep into Spring, things need time to wake up and get their bearings for the coming growing season.  

I need to ease into Spring in this little garden, too. I thought I made good notes last year about what I planted where, or at least that every plant would be obvious, so of course I'd recognize them all! Ha. It's like not labeling the chicken soup in the freezer: you're so sure you'll know what it is seven weeks later, but I assure you, you will not. I'm finding all kinds of awakening green bits that I don't remember planting last year, or if I remember putting something there, I don't remember what. When this happened last spring (because, yes it did, and I still didn't learn to make more thorough notes!) I was too quick to pull up what I thought must be weeds, only to realize too late that it was actually the gaillardia I'd loved so much the year before (transplanted from container to rock garden in the Fall... so certain I'd remember where and what it was). This year I'm sitting on my hands in enforced patience.

The garden has its own timetable. There is very little I can do to bend it to my will.  The tulips will take exactly as long as they need to stretch up from the earth.  The Dogwood will leaf out when it's good and ready to. I can (and do) go outside several times a day to examine the progress since my last visit, and drag my husband along to exclaim and admire at how miraculous it all is, but I can't make it happen any faster. 

In truth I wouldn't really want it to.  Oh, I'm very eager for the beauty to come, but this part is special too, the anticipation and the dreaming. Every year I remind myself: pay attention!  Don't miss a moment! Soak up the joy of right now.

Pretty seedy things

 The seeds are here! They have come! They have arrived!

This is year three of our little garden. The first year it was a tiny ring around a little lamp post out front. The second year it expanded not only around the lamp post, but we took out a wooden deck in the back, put in a gravel patio and somehow plants found their way into that space, too. 

Now, year three, we're branching out into seeds. This very moment in our dining room there is a fancy full-spectrum light bulb waiting to shine its life-giving rays onto pepper seeds, if only they would sprout into seedlings (the first batch grew an impressive crop of mold, you see. We're trying a little less watering this time.) I'm also going to try to fill corners in the garden and pots galore with flowers grown from seed. That's the plan, anyway. Have you any idea how tiny flower seeds are?  I'm supposed to just drop them onto the earth and hope that, against all odds of wind, rain, and squirrels, they manage to cling to the soil, drink in the sun, send delicate roots into the ground, and grow into beautiful, jubilant, fragrant flowers. They do it all the time in the wild without me watching over them, worrying about their comfort and their fate, so I suppose I can trust that some of them, anyway, will make it, these pretty, seedy things.

Of rabbit holes and bicycles.

 I couldn't sleep last night. I fell down a rabbit hole.

The rabbit hole was on YouTube land, and I wasn't looking where I was going, and whoom! There I went, into complex network of tunnels, leading to Dutch bicycles, infrastructure, design, and urban planning.  It wasn't actually that complex, I just happened to find a channel of a guy from Ontario now living in Holland who posts videos about traffic planning and related matters.

It was fascinating! So much so that it was 4am before my eyes drifted closed. I might have watched every video he's posted, but I'm hooked now, and keep going through his library of posts to see what crumbs I may have overlooked.

Years ago I read 'The death and life of great American cities' by Jane Jacobs, which is about exactly what it sounds like it's about: what made American cities great, and what has caused their demise. It's an important work that I wish more people read and cared about. Jane didn't write about the life of cities in isolation, as though they are autonomous entities, but how the life of people is intimately connected to that of their city. If the city thrives, quality of life for people increases. And Jane defined thriving, or greatness, not by economic riches, but by the presence of life, movement, activity, connections, diversity of purpose and presence.  Fascinating stuff.

Back to the rabbit hole. This biking Youtuber talks about the same sorts of things. Jacobian things?  Janeian things? Thriving city/ quality of life things. He currently lives in Amsterdam and talks about all the wonderful things the Dutch have got right about city planning. Entire videos on traffic signals! Transit connections! Bicycle garages! In-ground garbage bins! Level crosswalks! So interesting.

It really made me want to live in Amsterdam, where it seems happiness can be found on the back of a bike. Plus, they have tulips, which are my favourite flower. And I also love cheese, so there's that. Not so fond of smoked herring or eels, which might be a problem, but if I pedal fast they won't be able to force me to eat them.

More and less

 This is a natural moment to pause and reflect isn't it? Given that it's Been A Year. My word, has it Been A Year!

It's been a year in which I've walked more and less. Less in the course of my day, considering I now work 15 steps from where I sleep, but more in that when we go out on the weekends, we really ramble far and wide. I love it. My knees and hips, however, would tell you they don't love it after all the sitting they do Monday to Friday. Nor do my fat ankles. I can tell the day of the week it is by how inflated they are from all the sitting.

It's been a year in which I've eaten more and less.  No eating in restaurants, fewer snacks picked up while out and about, not to mention missing meals with friends and family. I am eating more frequently, though, because it means a trip to the kitchen. That's an outing! An event! Also, I, like everyone else, got into baking bread... and what more alluring siren call to visit the kitchen is there than freshly baked bread?

It's been a year in which I've prayed more and less. I've spent less time in church than since I started going at the age of 12. I certainly never dreamed, as I went to Confession in a cold parking lot last winter, that churches would still be (effectively) closed a year later. This has been a year of prayer, though. The world is noisier than ever right now but my own life has become quiet. It's so much easier to hear God in that quiet.

It's been a year of reading more and less. There were long stretches when glossy magazines got me through dark days. Oh, the pretty pictures of all the pretty things! So much better than doomful reports of harrowing numbers. Then suddenly I had a voracious, indiscriminate appetite for reading when I consumed books glutonously. I listened to books while baking and cataloguing and dusting, had a book on the go downstairs, and another upstairs, and a basketful beside the bed in case I ran out. Books were a balm... especially with tea and toast (made from freshly baked bread, of course!)

It's been a year of so many feelings, more and less. Of feeling everything at once in greater measure than usual: anxiety, worry, stress, uncertainty, fatigue, joy, hope gratitude...  and also feeling empty, dull, hollowed out. Hugging my mom after months of keeping our distance brought me to tears and overwhelmed me with thankfulness that I was able to do so. I hope I will always remember to acknowledge the joy found in such simple things. 

I want to say something clever here about less and more (making do with less makes  you appreciate what you have all the more, etc.) I'm sure you've had your own experiences of this in the past year, and have your own stories to tell about what you've gone through, how you've lived, what you've learned, how you've coped, and where you're at. I hope you're doing well.  More or less.

The moon, it was bright

 I don't recall that the moon was notable in the last days of 2019, and if it was, I didn't read any significance into it in terms of it being a herald of Big Things To Come.

The moon last night was remarkable. It was perfectly round, immense, and prodigiously bright.

Does it mean something? Is this extraordinary moon, in combination with the recent convergence of Jupiter and Saturn - the Christmas star - significant of yet more Big Things To Come?

Possibly. I believe in Signs and Wonders. My fancy delights in them; my faith is encouraged by them. I don't immediately look for worse and worser things to follow, however, so my hope for the new year is, as ever, for peace, for joy, for love... for you, for me, for all of us.

Of green dreams and grey skies

Blue sky chases grey

Dragging puffs of white

Red and orange ride the wind

Covering bare brown earth

I was feeling poetical while planting bulbs earlier today, and those phrases kept drifting through my mind.

 The air was just crisp enough to be sharp but not unpleasant -  a Granny Smith apple sort of afternoon.  The sun couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to shine unfettered and joyous, or to take on a more muted demeanor. As I dug holes, dreaming ahead of the delight that comes from watching plants break free of the earth in Spring, I'd have my vest on, chilled by the overcast sky, only to have to take it off again when the sun grew bold once more. 

There was snow yesterday.  Barely enough to be called snow, but it landed too heavily on your shoulder to be called rain, so the pepper plants - elegant with arching branches, decorated with tiny red jewels - stayed in the garage all day. It look like there are a dozen young peppers growing still, and we're trying to keep the plants alive long enough for the peppers to ripen.  

Our very own Thai chillis! Year two of gardening has produced mostly squirrel fodder but not much for human consumption, so these fiery red beauties are precious to us. Next year might bring garlic and onions to our table, for I defy those long-tailed fiends to feast on such a harvest.

The flower bed continues to provide contentment, though it no longer produces blooms. Its beauty is less obvious now, more muted, quieter, and yet it remains a lovely thing, offering shapes and structures not evident in the dizzying time of growth and blossoms. There is purpose in the seed heads and folliage for life goes on in the garden, though flowers are gone.

The time is right and good for sleep, for plants and people. Let's hibernate, recouperate, and dream dreams of a green tomorrow.

Of straight lines and scalping

I nearly scalped my husband Wednesday night, and it's all because I can't sew.

He's a story teller, this man of mine. From our earliest days of dating he would tell me I could alter his long-sleeve shirts or could easily sew up my own this or that. Listening to him talk, I'm positive he was imagining me at a spinning wheel, perhaps even carding my own wool. Whether I was also raising the sheep that wool came from is not clear, but for sure the scene was lit by lanterns.

No amount of protestation ever swayed his certainty I would be the sort of wife who knew how to cut and taper a sleeve. I could demonstrate my extreme ineptitude for straight lines on paper to no effect. He showed no concern after my story about the time I tried to make a blouse but sewed pins right into the hem and made one side of the collar a full two inches taller than the other. His belief in me would be almost touching... if it wasn't also frustrating.

Alongside the stories about me tailoring his clothes were the ones about me cutting his hair. Dear Reader, he has beautiful curly silvery white hair (he silvered young, but has kept his hair, huzzah!) which he would get barbered twice a year. And by barbered I mean buzzed down to a military length. (I had feared he would do so for our wedding, but the dear old gent who has been barbering him since he was a lad knew there was a bride who would cry that day, so he tamed rather than removed those curls. I bless him daily.)

"It's easy," my beloved would assure me. "If a ninety-year old man can do it, you can do it."

"I can't do straight lines!" I'd protest. "It will look horrible." Which is no way to convince him because his response is always, always, always: I don't care.

"I'll buy clippers," he'd say. "You just run it all over my head. How hard can it be?"

That scene from that movie with Demi Moore would go through my head. You know the one I mean? She's training to be a Navy Seal and her miles of long hair are getting in her way so she grabs some clippers and has at it. Piles of hair drop to the floor as she mows uneven paths over her scalp until she's as bald as the men in her class.  There's equality for you: no woman should have to carry a life boat full of water across the beach with hairpins stuck in her head!

Anyway. It started to appeal to me, this idea of the clippers. I started to think that maybe that blouse was a blip and maybe I could handle cutting and sewing afterall. So Wednesday night, between coming home from work and leaving home for Mass we sat him down on a chair in the dining room with an old sheet meant to contain the carnage under it all. I'd read the instructions and watched the tutorials so helpfully posted online so I was confident when I picked up the shears.

I do believe I was lied to. It wasn't easy or straightforward.  Hair flew everywhere. The dining room quickly looked like barnyard animals were fighting, and my poor husband had got caught in the middle of it. Though I by no means used the smallest of guards, he was being shorn down to the scalp. It was too late to switch to a different length though, because a great wide swath of hair had been cut away. There was nothing for it but to see it through to the bitter, bald end. I was also up against the clock as I tried to figure out what to do with his ears as we had to be at church by seven. I didn't have time to even out the sideburns, so they're just gone.

Even now, days later, he has remnants of longer feathers that catch in a breeze, but when I point them out to him, he tells me he doesn't care. He loves it, and he tells everyone his wife cut his hair, which is really touching... and a little humbling, too.

It is finished

Six weeks later, my brain is now stuffed to its maximum capacity with information about metadata and linked data. 

I've learned about syntax and semantics and crosswalks. I've studied RDF triples, FOAF, and SKOS and explored how to transform a standard MARC 21 description into a BIBFRAME serialization. 

I've read hundreds of pages dealing with the evolution of data in cultural heritage institutions and our goal to integrate with Web 2.0.

I'm afraid to move my head too quickly for fear that a random acronym will fall out leaving a hole where an essential bit of information ought to be, and I'd be left wondering if OWL is the same as MODS and what an aquifer has to do with DLF. (Answers: no, and nothing)

The course has been interesting, and I'm keen to implement what I've learned in my work, but mostly I'm glad to get my brain back.

It is finished.

There is a man in the house

I knew that being married meant having to share my space. For an introvert... no, not even introvert, really. Rather, someone who likes - nay, needs - her personal space... for that person, having another person around all the time is not a situation to be entered into lightly.

And now there is a man in my house. He's almost always here. He has definite man-like ideas about where laundry goes and whether shoes need to be put away and how many acceptable places there are to store one's treasures at any one time (and by treasure I mean wallet, keys, flashlight etc.)

It's awfully fun having him around, if only for the opportunity for anthropological study.  People who don't believe in gender differences need only to observe a man and a woman both tackle the same household tasks.

Several weeks ago I showed him a list of chores I wanted to get done, and said we could go out afterwards. "It'll be too dark by then," he said, "this is going to take hours!" I laughed, because I don't dilly dally over chores. I get 'er done and then move on. There is too much to do to linger over the toilets! But sure enough, it wasn't until 5 hours later that we were putting furniture back in its place after sweeping, vacuuming, then mopping the main floor. Turns out he is very thorough.

A detail I remembered again this morning when I watched him tackle the downstairs loo. When I do the job it entails wiping down the outside of the toilet, scrubbing the inside thereof, mirror, sink, faucet, tub all get a wipe down, and I go over the floor with a disposable wipe or two. My husband, on the other hand, removed everything from the room not bolted down, and went after every nook, cranny, and crevice. He even took apart the extractor fan thingy to complain how dirty it was, then dismantled, cleaned, and reassembled the wall-mounted soap dispenser left by the previous owner which I didn't like because it looked gross. NOW it sparkles and is the most convenient contraption.

I think I'll keep him.

No one can know... almost

12 short stories in 12 months.

Completed in 2017. Not even attempted in 2018, what with a new job, moving, and oh yes, getting married I knew there was no way I'd get any real writing done.

2019 begins with not only good intentions but a real itch to tackle some writing projects. Wouldn't you know 2019 also begins with a course for work complete with weekly assignments and roughly one billion pages of reading?

The result is this: a fun prompt: No one can know. I knew instantly what the 'knowing' would be about. 

If only I'd managed to get'er done.  It's meant to be 1500 words, but his is all there is of it so far, 200 words short and a whole lot of killing of darlings still to be done:
**

It happened quite by accident. We weren’t looking to cause trouble for anyone. We didn’t want to draw attention to anyone who wanted to keep an aspect or two of their lives private, but sometimes people behave so oddly they draw attention to themselves anyway. Or at least the attention of someone with a proclivity for nosiness and a steady habit of people watching.

That’s what we were doing: people watching. There is a picturesque water fountain - the kind that used to water cattle in the olden days - near one end of a charming cobblestone street. It’s more of a lane, really, populated with small but arty offices of architects alongside cafes, book shops, and sellers of collectables and flats above with charming boxes of geraniums at the windows. Everywhere were parked bicycles with wicker baskets on the front, and people walking or sitting in groups of various numbers. One could hardly resist the lure of an hour or two spent observing all that activity perched on a step of that water fountain. We couldn’t, at any rate, and whether you would or not isn’t relevant to this story.

We noticed because there were six of them, you see. We might not have paid any mind to that lacquered blue door if it had been only one or even three of them passing through the door within minutes of each other and emerge again three quarters of an hour later. There was an almost furtive air about them though nothing specifically we could put words to. There also didn’t seem to be anything in their appearance to link them together and yet somehow we could tell they belonged together in some way. Perhaps it was that they didn’t want to be seen that drew our notice.

We were intrigued enough to return the next day to see if the same activity occurred again but to our disappointment not one person used the blue door a few minutes past noon. Still, it was a beautifully soft blue sky day so we didn’t feel the loss of intrigue too keenly. There were pretty girls and boisterous children enough to engage our attention.

We would have thought no more about it except there we were, back at what was becoming our usual spot - a stone bench around the fountain - a week later and by chance saw the young woman. Was there something familiar about her that caught our notice? Or was it the fact that with a hand on the shiny handle of the blue door she quickly looked back from the direction she had come before slipping inside?

Now that we were watching for it we saw four more people behave in the same fashion: slipping out of the flow of people strolling along, a furtive look up and down the lane, a quick disappearance through the blue door. No one seemed to notice the mysterious behaviour; it was as though  people were willing invisibility upon themselves.

What happened behind that blue door? Why was it such a secret? Another week passed in which the questions would not rest. We pondered and puzzled over the problem of answering the riddle for five complete days. On the sixth we had an answer, and on the seventh we set out putting our plan in place. We were going to enter through the door ourselves and hide inside to observe from within.

Several hours were devoted to learning how to pick a lock. (It really is remarkable what knowledge can be found online) Our own door served admirably well for practice. It was while bending over to better see the mechanism when it proved especially difficult we realized we had never seen any of the mysterious ones in the same position. None of them had ever used a key to open the door, but rather had walked right through. The door must be already unlocked!

It is a very difficult thing to sleep a night through when the mind is occupied with the anticipation of promised treat. True, this was not a dinner of chocolate or an outing to the seaside but

[next day... something something something... we're hidden inside and observe: ]

Far enough away the sound was muffled, a heavy door creaked open, hesitated, then creaked its way closed to a rusty catching of the latch. Click clacking heels made their way toward the room where six people sat in a circle of chairs.

“Again!” cried the wearer of the heals as she entered the room, “I was nearly spotted coming in just now. Why must we meet right next to a bookshop?”

Either no one in the room heard her, or they were so familiar with this question nobody bothered to answer her. We suspect it was the latter, because Heals went immediately to a mirror hung just inside the door to reassure herself her impeccably styled hair hadn’t been harmed by her adventure. Just as she’d expected, not a hair had strayed from its assigned place. It would take a substance stronger than hair to go against her will.

Meanwhile, some others in the group were exchanging banalities with each other, details of life since they had last met. Some spoke of children’s progress at school, one shared a new shortbread recipe, and another commented on the rather daring tie of the gentleman sitting beside her. This pleased the gentleman to no end, as he had just the evening before made the purchase of it with the hope it would catch her eye should she be at the meeting today.

“It’s a little too dashing,” said Tie, hand smoothing down the length of the object. He was hoping to hear assurances to the contrary, which the woman with glorious red hair was more than happy to provide.  “Oh, just dashing enough! Do y’know, it really brings out your eyes.” Red smiled at him, despite the pointed snort of ‘enough already’ from Heals. “And very fine eyes they are too,” said Red, patting his hand.

Tie laid his other hand over Red’s, preparing to look deeply and meaningfully into her eyes with some profound yet intimate comment but was foiled by the insistence of a person dressed in severe blue that they keep to the schedule and begin at once without wasting time with chit chat for once. The Boss was a firm believer in schedules.

“If we could all just take our seats, please,” a pause fraught with the expectation of immediate obedience, “In future I’d very much appreciate if we could keep the chatter to a minimum. We are making every effort to be discrete and it will be remarked on if we are late back to our desks every Tuesday.”

“I agree,” chimed in Red, “we’re already four minutes late starting.”

“Does she realize we’re all waiting for her every time?” asked one of the moms of the other with a sniff.

Her friend peeped over the brightly coloured cover of the paperback in her hands. “Don’t let her get to you, hon. She’s always been wound tighter than a clock with a too-short spring.” (As we have the advantage of being outside this story, we would have to agree with this mom’s assessment of Red. Not three minutes before click clacking her way into this room, she shared a piece of her mind with a young boy who swerved too closely into her path in his skateboarding exuberance.)

The room settled into silence. Six [Seven?] people sat in a circle facing inward, each had a paperback novel in hand. Some were held sheepishly. Most books were face down. Only two were brazenly showing their [insubstantial? lurid?...] covers. These two were obviously well on their way to not caring what others thought about their reading material.

Five [six?] pairs of eyes - and one pair of glasses - looked to The Boss. (This seems a suitable time to tell you that The Boss was not and has never been officially declared the boss of that group. Some people come by that sobriquet by virtue of being bossy in all situations. Our group here had simply....

**

that's all there is.

Of corduroy hats and anniversaries

Ten years ago today I wrote here at the Lighthouse about my dad's death. The fluidity of time is such that it stretches long  and distant, then with startling unpredictability it contracts tightly into itself so that events seem near enough to touch them as though they just happened.
There are memories from within the months leading up to and immediately after that are a presence just over my shoulder. I can hear them and feel them clearly because time hasn't yet worn away the details of them. The month I spent with mom right after, for example, and the week we had the two littlest of the Peanuts with us. The months and months I slept with a candle burning on my bedside table. The sight of one of the boys climbing into the back of the hearse and hearing his pleas for Opa to come back. Unexpected conversations about him with people who'd known him. Standing in the grocery store with a can of tomato soup in my hand while other shoppers mercifully pretended it was perfectly normal for me to be crying.
The days immediately leading up to my wedding carried with them a lot of emotions about my dad, which, I think, is natural. I didn't dream of being walked down the aisle by my daddy, but I did - and still do - wish the two men had known each other. They would have got on so well, I'm sure of it. (In fact, I'm quite certain my dad had a hand in R and I being together)
Aside from wedding boohoos, it's been a while since I've been surprised to tears by stealth memories. Missing him has taken on a physical presence in my body like it's one of my organs and maybe because of that I've learned to let it do its thing while I carry on.
Which is why I was unprepared when a memory of his corduroy hat popped into my head a few days ago and had me weeping in the hallway at home. It's been ten years and I can picture it so clearly, still feel it in my hands.

Floorboard collision

There is a writing prompt site called Oneword.com, where after clicking on 'go' you're taken to a new page with one word at the top, and below that, an empty text box. You have one minute - 60 seconds - to write anything, whether you're inspired by the prompt or not. At the end of time, a delicate chime sounds to signal it's all over, your fevered brain can rest, your fingers can still, and your heart rate can slow.

Today the prompt was floorboards, which caused my brain to fracture, because right away my thoughts headed to the state of my actual floorboards, which, if I were to have unexpected company, would bring shame on my Dutch ancestors, after all the hours they had spent daily scrubbing the sidewalk outside their front door as a precursor of the cleanliness within the home. But at the same time my mind went to a picture I saw in an issue of Outdoor Photographer today, of Arctic Hares leaping through tall grasses. (Dusty bunny to hare, get it?) The sight of a rabbit in mid jump is surely one of the most joyous images, so you can't help but smile in delight at the freedom and joy that comes from very nearly being able to fly. (Just think of yourself as a child on a pogo stick or a trampoline... without the broken bones, of course. See what I mean? Joy.)

The two thoughts collided causing inspirational paralysis. I typed and deleted about 75 words in those sixty seconds, mostly in an attempt to find a way to describe the highest jumping rabbit with words that didn't include 'leaping with abandon'. Mental thesaurus meltdown.

Even now, hours later, I still haven't swept my floors, but I HAVE spent some time online looking at more pictures of rabbits leaping with abandon, which has made me feel much, much happier, despite the appalling state of my housekeeping.