A potluck picnic in the park.

A family that had recently moved here from Boston.

I asked the wife if by chance she knew Grant…?

YES she knew Grant!!

He’s my cousin.

Then she asked me if I knew Tina?

Yes, she’s my cousin!

We bought her house!

And then, having moved here, they’d sold that house, with the closing being today in fact. I told her that Tina and her husband had moved to take care of her dad. He quietly passed away at home at 101 last year with family by his side.

Then she asked me if I knew Julie? She adored Julie, too, and Julie’s husband had gotten his PhD at Stanford, so maybe we’d met them?

Yes, she’s my *oldest cousin’s daughter!

No way!

(*My sister corrects me: Julie’s dad is the second oldest cousin, his big sister beat him to it.)

A bare spot in the yard over here, a small stray struggling plant seeded by the birds in a corner over there in the way of the peach tree I wanted to plant: would I like him to move this over there? (Motioning across the yard.)

Sure!

And now every summer I look forward to watching the hummingbirds darting in and out among the tall mound of flowers, grateful for eyes that could see what could be that I could not.

To the folk tune of, Did you ever see a lassie go this way and that?

The following is what you get when someone starts doing puzzles for the first time in her life at 66 after yonder friend Holly says you’ve got to try these.

This one, though, was from apparently a print-on-demand outfit. There is no artsy-fartsiness in the cut, none of the whimsy in, say, her recommended Nautilus puzzles that had me starting out with the best and I didn’t even know it.

Two shapes. With the only modification being the solid line at the edge pieces. It’s a pain to put together, it’s a pain to get them apart. “High-quality wood”? Yes, that’s what cardboard is made of, c’mon.

And it would be great for kids because if you don’t care if the picture you end up with looks like a wild game of 52-pick up, then, hey! If it fits it sits, right?

All that said. He finished it off yesterday (to my relief) while I watered the garden.

It’s pretty. It reminds me of my late cousin John, the only stained-glass artist I ever knew. I like it. I miss him.

And now, typing that out, I understand why I couldn’t make myself take it back apart till tonight.

Our first week in California in the late 80’s, someone at church invited me to come to a baby shower she was throwing for another member because, as she told me later, she figured that was a good way for me to get to meet people faster.

Hah! I was prepared: the Toys R Us in New Hampshire had had a clearance baby outfit for all of twenty-five cents, just get it out of our store. Nobody had wanted to buy light cotton baby clothes during a New Hampshire winter. I even knew where the moving box was.

I asked Karen, the expectant mom, if this was her first?

The room erupted in laughter and kidding. And no she did not finally get her girl but a baby boy to go with his six older brothers and my outfit was light blue. Perfect.

Her oldest was in high school. A really nice kid.

Soon I was asked to be the Compassionate Service leader. Sure. I’d never done that before and wasn’t sure what all was expected but the woman who’d asked me…didn’t quite know what to do with me either and so she did nothing. No phone calls, no guidance. No meetings. No inclusion nor decision-making. It may even be that she’d entirely forgotten she’d asked me; I didn’t know how at that age to ask a much older woman a question that could put her on the spot. We’re all volunteers here anyway.

Well then, I’ll just make it up on the fly all by myself, I eventually decided.

Our house came with multiple rose bushes.

I delivered a number of roses to a number of women who’d looked like they could use it but there were more flowers and a feeling like I wasn’t done yet.

Hmm.

I figured, every teenager needs to know that an adult who doesn’t have to cares about them just because they are, and ended up calling Karen and her oldest and explaining what I was hoping to do.

He was all for it and his mom thought it was a great idea.

So I went and picked Robert up and then he guided me to the homes of the teenagers in the ward that he thought could use a rose and a hello to cheer them up. I would drive and he would run a flower to the door and say the ward wanted you to have a nice day. Anybody who’s struggling with their classes, or life, I told him, or anything. You know them; I don’t yet. So you tell me where.

Mostly, I noticed, we ended up at the homes of the girls, and he had me as an excuse in overcoming any teenage shyness.

One particular girl… I never mentioned to him that sitting in my car as she opened that door I saw just how much it meant to him to be able to do this unexpected nice thing for her.

Her older brother flew into town this weekend. He is the only person I knew when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s who had Crohn’s. From childhood. A survivor who showed the way, and kept in touch with me via FB, and there he was! Seeking the two of us out and making sure we didn’t miss seeing each other.

Because his old buddy he’d grown up with had finally done what his mom had long thought was just never going to happen at this point.

Robert and his bride look gloriously happy in all the pictures and their loved ones in church today all were, too.

She was worth the wait, and so was he.

Our friend Dani stopped by two days ago with some Alphonso mangoes–a real sacrifice on his part. One whiff and a long exhale and the thought, Now THAT is what a mango is supposed to be. Thank you, Dani!

Then I took the sad little wannabes from Costco that had been picked too early, chopped them up with a bunch of green onions and threw them in with some peanut satay sauce: playing vegetables was the best they could attain to.

Dani’s were the real thing. Peeled and devoured.

So my thought was I’d sprout the seeds from his. I know he doesn’t have space nor sun but maybe he’d love gifting a baby tree to someone who does. And maybe I just want to see what they do.

Mangoes come mono- or polyembryonic. You want the multiple embryos if you want one just like the parent whose fruit you ate, while monoembryonic is a genetic potluck–so of course the Alphonso is a mono type.

Googling ensued. Videos were watched. One person said let the pit dry for two days and then cut the seed covering here with scissors and pull the seed out.

I tried that. It was every internet hahahaaayouactuallybelievedthat?!! result.

The next video, the guy got a gouge going in that woody thing and then took needlenose pliers to try to slowly, forcefully, hopefully, with great effort, manhandle that thing open and off.

The camera cut away and they did not show you all of what he had to go through, but there it was. Voila. Seed.

My scissors had gone, What are you trying to DO to me! Back into the kitchen gadgets drawer.

My pruning shears went, I’m not going to try it, you try it! Okay, you tried it. I won’t do it. So there.

Huh. Well I do have those long-handle tree pruners where you pull down the string that pulls on the lever that moves the blade that cuts the limb a dozen feet over your head and hope you have a good helmet on; maybe I could manipulate that blade up close while pulling on the string way over thataway out of reach without, y’know, cutting my finger off or my skirt in half in the process. Dunno how well that would work for a precision cut on such a small piece. Where is that thing, anyway?

Remember the old Life cereal commercial, Let’s get Mikey to try it! He hates everything!

Yeah, well. Around here, Mikey seems to have gone into hiding. And that’s probably a good thing.

One of this year’s fledglings parallaxing at sunrise today. Raptors bob their heads before taking off to gauge the distance and trajectory of what they’re aiming for–but this one made me laugh.

And it made me remember.

I wrote about it at the time it happened 15 years ago and I’m sure I’ve mentioned it here at least once since. It was such a powerful experience.

Today fellow knitter Clara Parkes asked on her Substack, If there were one thing in nature that you could become one with, what would it be?

There were fun answers, beautiful answers, and here was mine. Since it’s behind a paywall, I thought I’d share it here, too, where members of the falcon community can read it:

I was on the camera crew for a season monitoring the peregrine falcon nest high up on San Jose City Hall. I would love to be able to spread my wings and coast on the wind like one of those magnificent birds.

As I sit here remembering: one of the chicks at first grew big enough to explore the concrete HVAC ledge outside the nest box, its feathers for flight beginning to grow in, no longer a ball of white fluff.

And then it moved more slowly and after a day or two, quietly passed in a back corner of the nest.

The parents fed their other chicks and soon they were teaching them how to not just fly but transfer food mid-air, how to hunt, how to dive at over 200 mph, all the peregriney things.

And then the father came back to the wooden box the UCSC biologist had installed. It had a layer of gravel to mimic the rocky cliffs of nature. He stood there facing the remains of the one that had perished for some minutes while I at my computer, hand hovering over the mouse, waited to see what he might do next.

And what that was was something that had not been observed before in that species, from what I’ve been told: he bent way over towards his son’s body and then with the top of his head, the most tender, vulnerable part of his own, pushed it down, down, to give a burial to his boy where it would be left undisturbed.

It was astonishing and profoundly moving. Love. Love is the entirety of the universe. I want to forever be part of that love.

We went to a potluck tonight and time and food with friends was a welcome respite from the worst of the news of the day.

To dear friends of ours in Minnesota: we are so sorry.

I debated to the very end throwing responsible disease management to the wind and joining the local No Kings protest. I badly wanted to be able to tell my grandkids I had, to set an example of standing up for democracy, of the right to peaceably assemble to petition one’s government.

But once again in the end, having done blindness, kidney failure, and cerebral vasculitis in autoimmune reactions to summer suns, I just couldn’t make my husband worry like that. And I wanted to see those grandkids grow up.

But color-wise I was dressed the part because that at least I could do.

Someone else there had on white stripes against red, her pants blue, and I knew without asking. The refugees in that family were only two generations ago.

We caught each other’s eye but didn’t say anything: not in someone else’s home while two older people were there who already know where we stand and who break our hearts.

The kicker being that one of them emigrated here, many years ago, after falling in love with an American.

Good friends

Great birthday party

Good night

A discussion in Sunday School and a question was asked: have you ever done something with the best of intentions that turned out badly?

One young woman raised her hand and came close to tears as she described how, while living overseas, she had encouraged a friend to come to church that week. The friend was a Mormon, her husband was not, though he came with her when she did come. But she had a serious chronic illness that made it difficult and she hadn’t in some time. She missed everybody and she was missed.

H. talked her into it. She was so looking forward to it that she made herself do it and she did, where she was surrounded by exclamations of joy at the sight of her.

But. The woman’s husband took H. aside and reamed her, telling her, You don’t understand: it took all of my wife’s energy for this whole day and probably this whole week to make it here. You don’t get it! You don’t get what it does to her physically!

H. had regretted the whole thing intensely ever since. How had she not seen. How could she have done that to her friend. And her husband, too, for that matter, poor guy.

I immediately raised my hand. I have been that very ill person with chronic disease, I told her. I know how face time with friends your illness has deprived you of, when you get to finally have it, can power you through for a long long time afterwards and you never forget how much it meant to get to see them. You did the right thing.

She looked across the room at me with what I can only describe as a sudden fierce disbelieving hope, wanting that to be true.

I said it again. You did the right thing.

As I thought of the time in ’03 when my doctor showed up to my hospital room every morning and every evening on his own time to be present with me while I was going through this and I could not let him blame himself when it wasn’t in any way his fault. I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t do that to him, I had to live.

Yes we tried an experimental med and yes it saved my life–but that came after he already had by who he was.

And there was the friend and her daughters who came over to wash my hair over the kitchen sink when my PCC line for IV feeding still being in meant that if any water got into that incision it would channel an infection straight to my heart.

Yes finally finally finally having clean hair again after two weeks was wonderful, but their being present was everything.

Days after I got out of the hospital, so weak that I knew in my bones that if I caught a cold it would kill me and well before masks were a findable thing in the wild, one of my sons was giving a talk in church and the other was playing the organ and I was not going to miss that. I am their mom. I cheer on my kids. I insisted on being wheeled into church.

I managed to sit upright through the opening prayer and I think song but that and the shower beforehand to get ready and I simply laid down on the pew and snoozed through the rest of the whole thing whether I wanted to or not.

But I was there. To the very best of my ability, I got to be there for my kids and I got some in person time with dear friends.

And every one of those moments with other people, when there was nothing left but who we are and how we feel, helped get me through that long recovery process.

First H. went to her friend’s house to be with her.

Then she gave her the courage to try and to find in herself the willingness to take that risk of exhaustion for the love it would bring into the light.

Yes H. did the right thing, so much yes.

And had it proved the wrong time that week then her friend would have had a goal to focus on for her future, knowing that she mattered to her friends.

We don’t do business anything on our Sabbath if we can at all avoid it, so talking about buying stuff feels a bit hypocritical.

Ain’t it great to be human. So here goes:

I posted to my knitting group recently about finding someone selling old-stock Holz and Stein needles and how good those are.

Tonight at our Zoom, one friend said she’d thought, sure, I can try a pair.

She was telling us, marveling, that these were the best needles she’d probably ever had!

She was asked what made them so, and she talked about the finish, the smoothness.

I thought, and the perfect join between the needle and cable, the perfect tip for all kinds of yarns, not too sharp, not too blunt. The sturdiness from the wood having been treated to withstand the stresses of being a musical instrument, and how cool that the leftovers got put to such a good use. You’re just beginning to find out. Have fun!

It just totally made my day that she hadn’t simply blown money on a rather expensive pair on a retiree’s budget but that she had actually fallen in love with them the way I had mine, and I pictured the many many hours to come of her enjoying them because she knits even more than I do.

And she gives away more of her time and love that way than probably anyone I know.

She’s the perfect person for the perfect needles to have found their way to.

At that picnic on Monday, a friend who’s an oncologist asked me point blank out of the blue, How’s your health?

I admitted I had an ultrasound coming up on Wednesday, but they’d done one previously and found nothing so the doctor didn’t think it was cancer but wanted to keep tabs on it.

He said something about his patients hating ultrasounds and I kinda shrugged it off. But not out of ignorance–rather, eh, I know what I’m in for.

Turns out it actually was easier than last year’s testing. Yay. And for getting one step closer to ending this two-year period. The hard part is the waiting to hear. I have plans for this next month of my life that I am going to do (Hi, Mom!) because I said so.

I mean, that always works, right?

(Update: I just signed in and there was the radiologist’s report. No mass seen, no abnormal thickening. Yay.)

Having your parents divorce while you’re starting to hit puberty can’t be easy. The kid’s had a rough time of it, the parents don’t have each other there for emotional backup as their oldest starts his teens, and I’ve been trying to figure out if there was anything I could possibly do but have come up empty for months now.

Because every thirteen year old boy wants to be best friends with a sixty-six-year old woman, right? Uhhhhh…

There was a potluck picnic in the park this evening. He and his little brother were heading to where the food was being set up when suddenly, to show off, he leaped up to the picnic table and danced across it, down to the bench, and back to the ground heading past me.

I caught his eye just long enough: “I was just thinking, another week or so and you’ll be taller than me. And then you did!”

That’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh in a good long time.

My friend Anne told me her story this evening and I asked if I could share it.

She and her husband had gone out for ice cream.

In her words, after asking me to pray for the elderly gentleman:

“We were waiting for someone to take our orders, and he gave up and walked out just as someone showed up. I went and got him, and paid for his milkshake. As we were leaving, and he was heading to his car, I told him to have a nice day.

That’s when he said his wife died yesterday. To say I was gutted is an understatement. I parked, got out of the car, gave him a hug and prayed for comfort and that good memories would counteract the grief he feels.”

To which I expressed that the fact that the employee had been out of sight to the point that he had given up while they happened to be right there feels to me like the choreography of G_d: had he been immediately taken care of, there would have been no conversation, no meeting of hearts, no sharing of pain nor offering of compassion nor even the simple gift of a milkshake on a day when he so needed to feel human connection. Enough to get him out the door to go buy, what? Ice cream? I can imagine him thinking, Why? What does that matter now?

But there was. It happened. There was.

She and her husband were part of the answer to the very prayer she’d sent up on the man’s behalf.

Some years ago I mentioned a woman in my lupus support group whose health and mental health were spiraling downward together. She was an immigrant and at that point had no support system here other than us. We all did our best to reach out to her but it was hard to feel successful.

One month, an unusual thing happened at the meeting: only three people showed up. Her, the group leader who is a nurse as well as a patient and a very gentle, quiet soul, and me.

Listening to S, it was a wonder that she had even made it there but that seemed a sign that some part of her still wanted to live.

In the quiet of the room she opened up just enough for us to see what she had finally decided to do and said I’m sure more than she meant to of how she was going to do it.

Which she could have just gone and done already and none of us would ever have known, but she hadn’t, which said to me that she didn’t really want to, she just saw no other way out but had wanted to see us and say goodbye to us first.

We did our best to just listen, to convey that we cared.

And then I raced home and grabbed the phone I could hear on, because my cellphone in those days was not it.

Riiiing.

I know, HIPPA and all that, but can you tell me if you *don’t* have a patient named–? I explained the situation.

The first doctor’s office staff, after some checking with colleagues for guidance on the situation: We don’t have a patient by that name.

Thank you very much! (Calls second office, repeats the question.)

(Checks with colleagues, too.) We can’t tell you that.

Alright, cool, she’s with your practice, I said, I thought so. So: IF you have a patient by this name, this is who I am and my phone number, this is who the group leader is with her name and phone number and she can verify that this is what this patient told us at our support group meeting a few minutes ago.

They thanked me and got me off the phone fast and were right on it.

Five minutes later the woman herself called me. She was furious.

DID YOU CALL THEM?!

Yes. I did.

WHY DID YOU CALL THEM!

Because: I knew you would be angry with me. You. Are. Worth. That. to me. You. Are. Worth. That.

There was a sound that I could only interpret as wanting to be angry but suddenly turning into what started to be crying but she hung up fast before I could hear more.

And then we didn’t know, and we didn’t know, and we could only pray and wonder, but the two of us never told the rest of the group anything more than that we were worried about her, and that was nothing new to them because they were, too.

Eighteen months later she surprised us by showing back up. She tired easily, but there was a resilience I hadn’t seen before. She didn’t mention the suicide attempt, just that it had been hard–really hard–but that she was doing a little better now. And she had learned that when you have autoimmunity affecting the stomach, your body doesn’t process food well at all and studies have shown that that can impair your mental function and cause depression. So they’d been working on all of that.

At the end of the meeting she walked out with me and once there was no one else around to see it, threw her arms around me and thanked me.

Our group went to Zoom with the pandemic and she was part of it for awhile and then eventually she wasn’t and we’ve all wondered and hoped things had held for her. She had come so far.

Our group leader’s phone rang this week.

Our friend’s family had moved to Canada when she was a child and then she’d come to the US.

I can’t imagine how it must have been under the current regime.

It was her. She wanted to touch base and let us know: she had moved back to Canada and had bought a place with her elderly mom and things were going very well.

Our leader marveled, She sounded so, so happy! I’ve never heard her so happy, it was so wonderful!

She was home. Country, family, everything–at long last she had come home.

The Musicians in Residence at the local college put on a concert tonight: violin, bass, and a piano played by a dear friend of ours.

And not just a concert but a lesson on Claude Debussy. Russ gave a bit of history and a demonstration of the heptatonic scale typically used in Western music, with a picture of it on a bar of music on the screen behind him. Julie Andrews and The Sound of Music children singing Do Re Mi appeared next to demonstrate and the audience chuckled.

Then he showed the pentatonic scale (five notes in an octave instead of seven) and played it. Then the whole note scale, no sharps or flats. Neither of them sounded like much with so many sounds missing.

But then he started playing some familiar gorgeous Debussy piece whose name I didn’t catch, and then another, using those scales. The fun begins when you mix them up between the two hands or instruments.

See! He said, bounding enthusiastically up from the piano bench and waving his arms at the audience. You can try this at home!

The next screen: You TOO can convert classical music to Impressionism! You just need six things:

1. You have to say it in French!
2. Pentatonic scale.
3. Use the sustaining pedal a lot.
4. Whole note scale.
5. Unusual rhythm.
6. I had a hard time seeing the last thing through the tall head of the guy in front of me and Richard doesn’t remember so I can’t tell you and
7. I’m not actually typing the numbers 6 or 7 but this computer program is expecting me to because I typed that you need six things so it is bound and determined to put a numbered list of six things here and won’t let me type anything without auto-adding those numbers and won’t let me delete the numbers after I do. It’s creating an Impression of what I’m trying to say. Russ would laugh and laugh at that.
8. And then, 8, after I said that and hit Save Draft there was no sign of any of the numbers on my Preview page, including the ones I actually typed and the 8. it put before any of the rest of this sentence.
9. So we’ll just have to see how this blog post plays out. (Still indented, too!)