Calendars point

And almanacs predict

But you already knew

Autumn is coming

You caught her mood in the breeze

Felt her cocky glance in afternoon light

And as leaves gather at your feet

You hear her crackling voice

Calling you inside

Calling you back to your hearth

Your home and your family

And back to yourself

To what Summer’s frivolity

Holds out of reach

At the end of a very long day

*for my Mother on her birthday*

Life flickers

a flame

I can’t hold in my palm

A butterfly hovering

Just out of reach

And this hummingbird

So delicate

Breathing its last

On our door mat

Reminding us

On one foot

…brief updates about me and those I care about

*Oh, we had a ball with the grandsons yesterday…but raising children is truly for the young.

*I just finished reading a wonderful biography about Fyodor Dostoyevsky…and am looking for other good reads…any recommendations?

*Jumping back into yoga with CC today…I’ll keep you posted!

Love

And what is love?

the gift

the giving

the invitation to play

the playing

the pleasuring

the singing together

the song

the you and me

the us

the here and now

the we

A cricket to my window came

Sweet troubador

Without a name

And sang upon that dismal night

Beneath the moon’s full, golden light

His cheery tune

For all to hear

Who could resist?

So I drew near

And as his melody arose

Like angels up a ladder climb

I felt my worries and my woes

Dissolve and fade

In record time

And every night

That’s happened since

I yet await my singing prince

The moon may wane

Withhold its light

But he renews his song each night

Fulfills the dream I long to claim

Sweet troubador

without a name

That’s right. The news may often leave me shaking my head in dismal wonder, or even make me cry at times, but I am finally taking some kind of action for the sake of society.I’m knitting again.

Those of you who have endured my previous attempts at this homey task–who have worn my well-ventilated caps, or even beheld the “bird cage cover” I crafted during a brief period of over confidence– may be cringing now, wondering why these miscreants of knotted yarn should be thrust upon an already ailing society. Well, you can calm yourselves, unclench your nerves and breathe with relief. This time I am not knitting alone. I’m even supervised by an expert.

You see, Shelley, a very kind lady at Temple Beth Sholom, has expanded her volunteer work here in Salem by founding “Hats for the Homeless”, And just like its name suggest, our mission is to deliver homemade knitted caps to folks who really need them.

So yesterday I trekked over to the local craft store, bought a fresh pair of bamboo knitting needles, a skein of what is termed “chunky” grey yarn, and a few thimbles. Why the thimbles? Because I have learned over the years that if I don’t use one on my right forefinger, knitting keeps me from reading. It’s the calluses, you know, the calluses that form on my Braille reading finger. Luckily, thimbles protect my ability to read.

At our first meeting this morning, I showed Shelley my current project. I’m not even up to my previous knitting level, but she assured me that I’m on the right track.

“It’s not perfect,” she said, “but it will certainly keep someone warm.”

So please, dear Readers, keep your fingers crossed for me that I absorb some of Shelley’s expertise as we go along. I’ll be busy knitting.

At the end of the day

Maybe fatigue will save us.

Maybe we’ll roll over in the blackest ink-spot of some night,

Our hands will touch, or at last

We will feel the faintest breath of life

Passing between us,

And the rooster will crow. Faintly.

Far off in the distance,

From the horizon’s hidden passage.

And we’ll hear it

And one of us will move,

Finally recognizing the pain

Of remaining still forever,

Of keeping silent amid fear and turmoil.

We will all need to move then,

Like dominos falling

One by one.

Like a snowy hillside when gravity calls.

Like the human heart when it opens

And daylight reveals us, face to face.

There is nothing like spending time with grandchildren…especially our two grandsons, Thad and Mat. And this summer, J and I have been grabbing the opportunity whenever possible. We all play together, and we take turns interacting with each, a delightful twist since Mat is not yet 4 and Thad is now eleven.

I think yesterday was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. You see, Thad and I have always enjoyed playing word games . And he’s finallyold enough to be a masterful Scrabble opponent, and the words he hides for Hangman have become incredibly difficult to predict. Best of all, are the stories we create together–you know, one person starts, then the other builds upon it, and so forth.And yesterday’s creations had us laughing together so hard that Thad got the hiccups, which made us laugh all the more.

This tale is not only about the grandkids, though. It’s about two dear old friends, J and me.

We had a plan for after our playtime with the youngsters. It involved a homemade pizza and a bottle of wine. But it was after 5:00 when we left for home, and the traffic was all backed up with rush-hour antics, and it was the heat of an extra warm day for Salem, and you know how all that can jangle the nerves of even the nicest people Well, we got a little jangled ourselves, so we settled for chees sandwiches for dinner. Between bites, however, a lightbulb went off for me.

“Hey,” I exclaimed, “we’re grown-ups, you know. So we can do what we like, right?”

“Okay,” J replied dubiously, “which means…?”

“Which means,” I turned to face him directly with my revelation, “we can eat pizza for breakfast if we want to!”

“OOOOH! We crooned.

And so It was that we kicked off our 40th wedding anniversary weekend with homemade pizza for breakfast. A great solution in my book, too, because the ice cream cone I wanted for breakfast for Saturday proved impossible. Who ever heard of such a thing…Baskin Robbins not opening until noon!

**For anyone wondering, the bottle of wine was not part of breakfast, but accompanied our cheese sandwiches**