I’m pretty sure my twenty four hour day is seventeen hours long or less. Am searching for friendly time–scientists or mathematicians who will affirm this hypothesis. Consequently, last month is regularly where I think I am. Thinking last month was January of this year, I literarily let So I See blog slip by unattended. Chasing March, at a rapid pace, I am inclined to over do it a bit. Here is Auntie Ant from February, having littered the desktop and printer all month. I suspect March blogs may be hard to stop.
Auntie Ant
This morning, when I turned on my computer to write, or not, a tiny ant skittered out of MacBook’s keyboard. I thought, Oh dear, what now? Do I have to eliminate this sweet thing?” (Shamefully, I’ve done it before when a whole colony insisted on living in my Almond Butter.) Today was different, she, or he, all alone, walking the keyboard, like a labyrinth–it’s cute! I feel friendly, compassionate, imagining giving her a name and appropriate housing in which we can visit now and then. Perhaps we could share tiny bits of Almond Butter. I would make her an official “she” and name her Auntie Ant. She will live peacefully with Olive, my pet snail, in Olive’s giant mayonnaise jar, So, I gently chased her off the keyboard labyrinth onto an unfolded piece of white paper with a poem on it. I walk her through the hallway to the dining table where Olive lives most of the time, noticing Auntie Ant’s remarkable ability to skitter over one side of the paper to the other–back and forth, again and again. Opening the lid to Olive’s domain, I flicked Auntie Ant off the paper, onto the moist, rich, organic soil into, what I now call, Best Foods Park. She has disappeared, of course, I’m not worried because she has Olive’s organic lettuce for now and when I take time off, I’ll add a little Almond Butter expecting to see Auntie Ant in the near future. The story isn’t over. A few minutes into the rest of this jotting, another tiny ant came right out of the G key. I thought “How sweet, now Auntie Ant has a companion whom I will declare an official “he” and call him Uncle Ant. He was satisfied to skitter my left hand from backside to front, finger to thumb on our way to Best Foods Park where I flicked him in. Hmm, now, after 40 minutes,10 tiny ants have emerged from MacBook’s keyboard. I am stupefied by my naivety. I can’t imagine what they are doing inside little Mac! So far, they haven’t destroyed anything. I’ll just deny it for now–pretend it’s not happening. It would take a long time for them to get to the Almond Butter from here.
Norma Edythe Heyser, 2/2/20
Auntie and Uncle Ant leading the family to Norma’s MacBook thank you HP PMG Unlimited
Yesterday, large, white flakes blew sideways onto the grassy knoll, apartment gable roofs turned white three times between bouts of warm sunshine. This morning, a cloudless, blue sky, and rising sun throw sunshine shapes all over the landscape at 33° degrees. Each morning’s weather is a new experience, and so is life. Here, in day two of self quarantine, I can’t stop thinking, writing, stretching, writing, eating, writing, walking, writing–what a perfect day!
Today is both Snow and Virus Days. Days when old people like me are advised not to go out in the world and get into trouble. Actually, for me it’s a great excuse to write, sitting down in one place for hours on end; a quick stretch now and then to keep the systems working. This morning there was a poem on the desk I didn’t recognize nor know how it got there. Sure enough, I wrote it in 2014 and, like most of what I write, it didn’t travel beyond Little Mac’s back-up storage. Today, it actually makes sense to me so I’ll push it out to So I See.
She Says
She Says, Let go of the past, it’s no longer useful, You mean like Grandma’s library table I can’t lift anymore? My relationship that hurts whenever it’s not boring? Changing, transforming, awakening to all that is. She continues. You mean our melting planet, Eboli, Isis, the water crisis, food crisis, corruption, revenge, murder, advertising, consuming and video games? She says. Pure awareness, pure love, pure joy, the essence of all that is. You mean Nature? The rhythm of Music? Heart beat? Breathe? Light? Feeling the soles of my feet? Feeling alive and healthy? Happy hugging my kapok-stuffed polar bear? Receive joy, She says, choose to feel love, passion, desire, abundance, embrace life, relax into it. You mean let go of thinking about the past, and wanting things I don’t have–be excited about what excites me? Remain centered in the present, She says, allow yourself to feel your passion, aspirations, the potency of your life. Give more of yourself. Talent? Shall I recognize my talent? Devotion to the work I do with pleasure? Making pictures, poems, laughing at my foibles? Forgive yourself in this moment, let go of any desire to control reality, move beyond your fear, acknowledge Life. I’m old, there’s a lot to do and a lot to learn. Maybe there’s no such thing as time? Maybe forever is now? Maybe I know all I have to learn? You have the power to change and transform. Each breath gives you another moment to imagine your life expanding, to develop your inner resources, opportunities, to use your talents and capabilities, time to give more of yourself, more of yourself. She says.
In late 2019, each time I sat down to write a So I See post, I experienced a sudden case of lethargy. It feels like losing my keys, except it’s inside me that I can’t go anyplace. Then, on the first day of the new year, I started writing as if I couldn’t stop. Seems thoughts with words were like heavy rain, looking a lot like poems. That means they’re appropriate to read at the Head For The Hills open mic reading on Tuesday, January 28 at the Hillsdale Library. First, I’ll try a few of them out on you, the four blog readers I know about. I love hearing from you, send me your poem if you have one.
Dialog with Voice
Sitting down to write with lots of ideas today–again. Voice says, Don’t write. What? I said, Don’t write. Don’t be silly. What do you mean, don’t write? That’s what I do. Don’t bother. Why? It doesn’t matter. What doesn’t matter? What you write doesn’t matter. Why? Because it has been written. No. Yes. It hasn’t been read. It has all been written, it has all been read, it is not important. You did this to me once before. Yes, I’ve done it before. Painting, drawing, environment and concept works. Even conceptual works needed stuff to make them happen. Less stuff, but still stuff. You convinced me there is no place on Earth for the stuff I make. I gave up and lost part of me. I understand what you’re saying, It takes stuff to write–paper, electronic gadgets, road trips, precious resources for the sake of words repeating themselves. Should the buck stop here? What about losing myself?
The buck does stop here, Life is about losing one’s Self. Think about it.
NEH, 1/1/20
20/20
It’s a new year, 2020, the one some astrologers anticipate. They say the stars and planets are arranged, so that everything getting ready to happen, is happening.
I suspect all the things I tried hard to make happen in 2019 happened on the first days of 2020–finding my ring of keys in a coat-hood was stunning.
Almost every morning’s walk in 2019 was uncomfortably dampened by sudden squalls. Each day of 2020, so far, I don’t even need the raincoat I tragically lost in 2019.
2020’s news informs me the president of my country shot the top commanding general of another country. The voice in his head said it would be a good idea.
The other country doesn’t like that idea and wants to shoot back. I wonder if they will shoot the president of my country, me, my family, or my friends?
A whole host of hope-filled presidential candidates are professing their talents. No one is better than the other. Seems we need them all, and then some, in 2020.
My planet has been working on a plan to take back the resources we humans have been stealing to make ourselves rich and comfortable. 2020 may be the time to do so.
I’m old now, on the other side of life. I’d like to think, as my generation moves out, a new kind of Earth will nurture a new kind of human–sensible, thoughtful, altruistic.
NEH 1/3/20
Road Trip
A jazzed Poet-Quintet sways together in an old, silver SUV from Portland to Seattle on a stormy, black and white day, rain falling, rising, flying lane to lane. A motley, little group of Boomers, Hippies and an old Silent–warm, safe with Driving Poet in charge. All animated, alive, awake with anticipation.
Two Portland poets are featured presenters at seven p.m. The rest will join some of Seattle’s best at a quaint, up-town coffee house open mic. Arriving on time, a necessity, is achieved after hastily securing two one-person and one three-persons rooms in a small, nearby hotel.
Hearing impaired listeners struggled through coffee house, kitchen dish-banging to hear exquisite poetic rhythm and meaning. Applause for Portland poetry seems meager. Seattle poet response for Seattle poetry comes with raucous hand-claps and whistles. Perhaps glasses of wine would help, but was an unwelcome added expense.
A happy coincidence for one Portland and one Seattle poet of the same generation is, they were both born in China, not far from each other. Their poems were serendipitously inspired by the Yellow River. A friendship flowered over tea and talk. Rain never stopped that night. Driving-Poet found her way soberly, safely back to the small hotel.
Silent Generation-Poet assumed her position as Chaperone-Poet in the room for three. He-Poet was on the cot. Driving-Poet chose the bed closest to the bathroom. Driving Poet is beautiful and smart. He Poet declares his love for her, remaining appropriate at all times except when he says, “May I tickle you?”
Old, Chaperone-Poet senses helplessness. Drivng-Poet giggles just right, naming her beloved husband’s attributes and magnetism frequently dampening He-Poet’s ardor sufficiently. The next morning, He-Poet informed both females their snores kept him awake. Then, Portland Poet-Quintet took to the rainy road back home to bright, Portland sunshine.
12/28/19
Gun
Looking for Something Special? Did you know there are thousands of firearms, let alone all types of outdoor gear available for special order? Stop by the sporting goods counter at your local Bi Mart!
He, sandy-haired, clean-cut white man–mmm, early 40’s? Precedes her at Bi Mart’s checkout stand.
She, white-hair, white woman looking for the right battery to lock and unlock her car door.
His cart holds four, empty, kaki, canvas rifle cases, four dark, heavy steel boxes, and plenty of ammunition.
She, in characteristic visual acuity, notices two more carts of firearm gear steered by clean-cut men to other checkout stands.
What is this, she thinks, then taps the young man’s shoulder. He swings around alertly, making stern, pale blue, wide-eyed contact. eased by her geriatric demeanor.
“Are you going to kill somebody?” She asks, wishing they could talk. “Oh no”, he says, after a thoughtful moment, “This is for my father.”
She remains confused, as they move on; imagines standing with the Christmas bell-ringer, watching for gun gear; asking the question…
“Are you going to kill somebody?”
The Christmas bell-ringer will say, “Careful, gal, you’ll get yourself killed, and maybe me too.” Curious, she still wants to know the answers to that question.
In my imaginary dialogs with Jesus, he says he is exhausted. He says he feels used. He thinks he is sometimes used as an excuse for people to misbehave.
He says he isn’t frozen in time or in the stories people wrote about him long ago. He says he is alive, sad, tired, misunderstood and disappointed because the world doesn’t seem to reflect his teachings.
He says he speaks to us all the time, trying to help us appreciate and love ourselves and our lives so that we can appreciate and love each other and all life around us. He notices we are too busy to listen.
He is sorry that his birthday is used to boost the economy–he would like his birthday to remind us of our appreciation for life.
He says he wants to rest. I am imagining this Christmas as a time to give Jesus the gift of rest-filled peace.
Honoring all participants in the UN Climate Action Summit in Madrid, December 3 - 8. This is a message of encouragement, gratitude and hope for international goodwill, cooperation, discovery, research and creative solutions. Thank you for your efforts on behalf of our Planet's recovery, healing and sustained health.
EARTH POEM
Our Mother Who art the Earth Hallowed be thy name
You are the bed in which love is made You are the bed in which seeds of human-kind grow and multiply You are the bed in which we rest in peace
May you be blessed and holy to all who think and act upon you
Give us this day our daily share of reverence and sensitivity to the truth of your nature
Give us the clear understanding that it is out of your womb all life is born and every breath is your gift
Help us forgive ourselves our transgressions upon you Open our eyes to see your needs are our needs Open our hearts to love you as we love ourselves
Grant us the energy willingness passion to heal your wounds which are also our own
For thou art Almighty Mother Earth the power grace and glory of our being and we are your precious children
The West Hills Unitarian Universalist Fellowship (WHUUF, Portland, OR) established a forty year tradition of Sunday services titled This I Believe. Members take the time and opportunity to share beliefs, inspiring animated response and exchange like, “I had no idea this Is who you are, what you have done, who you have been!” This unique opportunity invariably brings deeper understanding and friendship with one another.
I recently presented a This I Believe I am weaving into So I See, suggesting you consider your beliefs, write them, sharing them and please send So I See brief responses I can quote…
This I Believe
According to my dictionaries, Belief is something one accepts as true Truth: a fact or belief.
This is my fourth This I Believe. The privilege of presenting is the growing
awareness that life and time changes my beliefs and helps keep me up to speed
on who I believe I truly am.
Since 1991, WHUUF has been my University of choice because of my belief in it’s Motto, The Seven UU Principles: • justice, equity and compassion in human relations • acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth • the free and responsible search for truth and meaning.• the right of conscience and the use of the democratic process .• the goal of world community with peace, liberty and justice for all.• respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. I believe the seven UU principles are a great topic for on going conversation.
My inner laboratory, located inside my Self, is a place where I study and work
on a hypothesis devoted to the importance of equalizing my body, mind and
spirit in all matters inside and outside. Inside is where I find my truth when I give
equality to my thoughts, feelings and beliefs.
I believe the good I can do for others is to let go of my projected judgments of
what is right and wrong for another person. I believe knowing as much as
possible about humanness and human diversity helps me understand suffering
and joy. I believe, as I study myself, I am also studying others and I learn by
listening talking and trusting the moment.
As a parent, I believed my job was to “grow” my children into something, at least
resembling myself or their father. It wasn’t a good idea because it was not
possible and could cause unhealthy discomfort. I choose now to recognize my
discomfort by admitting it, naming it, taking responsibility for it and changing the
conditions causing it. My offspring have been my best teachers in this area.
Today’s This I Believe cohort and friend, Carole Price, gave me The Force of Character by James Hillman last year for my birthday. James is literate, scientific, theological, intellectual, philosophic, and creative, making his book a hard read for me. However, it has embedded a new belief–I’m not sure if it is his or intrinsically mine. This is how I read and understand it.
I was born with a cellular birth-imprint of natural, innate, character. No two
people are born with the same imprint–unless we are cloned which is a
possibility from now on. I am uncovering my birth characteristics–three of which
are curiosity, humor and abstraction all of which distort my communication. I can
be misunderstood when making assumptions from curiosity, humor or
abstraction. The trouble is those characteristics can be, more fun than factually
dependable.
Jame’s message to me, is that birth-print characteristics insist on taking a major
role in our elderhood-80s, 90s,100s if we are lucky enough to be here. Natural
character is is altered in life by childhood, parenting, education, social structure.
However, It can show up, later, frustrated, emerging as cantankerous, irascible,
unacceptable behavior. Among those, I am noticing, impatience and
intolerance, I tend to welcome because I believe they support the beliefs I’ve
needlessly subdued for a long long time.
Sometimes curiosity makes me ask you who you are, how you feel or what you
want and think. You may consider it none of my business. I will consider your
honest disclosure about that, kind, just and compassionate. I believe in honest
self disclosure coming from the natural, human trinity of thought, feeling and
belief.
My current passion is writing. It talks to me, tells me who I am. It’s the harbinger of my Self. If I were to use the pronoun, She, as I describe me, it would help detach my Self from her dreaded Ego. However, what I write and read is relentlessly all about me and the Ego I have hosted for 86 years, and own unequivocally–almost, unapologetically.
I think about death more often now. My image is a dried leaf falling from the tree and becoming dust. I’d rather not be pushed around by an air blower and put in somebody’s truck–of course I have no control. The best thing about aging is noticing I like myself now–that’s a surprise. Here’s the song I sing to myself sometimes changing the word “you” to “I”. “S’wonderful by George and Ira Gershwin…
‘S wonderful, ‘s marvelous You [I] should care for me! ‘S awful nice, ‘s paradise, ‘s what I love to see. You’ve [I’ve] made my life so glamorous, You [I)]can’t blame me for feeling amorous! Oh ‘s wonderful, ‘s marvelous, That you [I] should care for me!
I hope you will all come to this podium for your This I Believe. Take this opportunity to express and enlighten us with the wonderful, unique, intrinsic Self Life is giving you.
I’ve been sitting on So I See for some days, wondering where to go now. I have 100 or more vintage Jottings from years past and assumed I would uncork them on So I See even though Now is always getting in way, wanting to be expressed…
It occurs to me I need to define the word, “Jottings” which I use but do not own. “Jottings From 5th and G”, is the original title of an article in the Lake Oswego Review beginning in 1970s, or earlier by reporter and First Addition resident, Peg Patterson. Sometime later, it became a generous publishing collaboration from the Review and Lake Oswego Adult Center for senior writers. JoAnn Parsons, recently retired from the valued historical list of Jottings organizers as she moves forward with a new book. Writer, Cherie Dupuis is now in charge. Thank you both from the hearts of us Jottings writers. Here’s a couple more Jottings…
The
Visitor
Marge Stein was the
real receptionist and this was her day off. Stepping into Marge’s
place at the front desk was like stepping into my very own ocean
liner and steering the museum through this rainy Monday in 1956. The
thick, half-round, hand rubbed, oak desk, built high off the polished
marble floor is where the public echoes from Tuesday through Sunday.
Marge looked like a
museum receptionist should look, thick, straight, Burnt Umber hair,
long enough to sculpt snake shapes around the back of her head.
Makeup, as if applied by Johannes Vermeer; her figure mirroring the
bronze Venus by Aristide Maillol standing in the foyer. She gave
tailored suits, knit shifts and belted tunics a reason for being fine
art. I was no visual match, not well- designed, yet–an art student,
working to keep herself afloat .
The under-counter
fluorescent lit-up me and the whole front desk. The museum people
arriving for work waved, winked and nodded. One, not noticing I
wasn’t Marge, asked, “Did you play Bridge at Carol’s on
Wednesday?” I imagined I was Marge and said, “no” in two tones.
Checking the desk’s
cubbyholes to see that the stamps, envelopes, rubber bands and
miscellaneous were in order, I read Marge’s note from yesterday,
swoopily scripted in cobalt blue ink. It said, “Dora, Susan Levin
will deliver Igor to the front entrance at 11 a.m. Be sure Max is
there!”
Dora Oaks was
secretary for Museum director, Max Sullivan. She told me when to
mimeograph announcements, polish the samovars, dust the collection
racks or, the best job, attending the front desk. Dora wasn’t
there, yet. So I left the note on her ink blotter with the morning
mail and ran back to answer the flashing phone, letting the caller
know that Edward Steichen’s photographic portraits of New York and
Hollywood’s famous-types were on view through November.
Back at the desk, the
museum was still, dark, except for reflections of the wet, gray day
on the polished floor and the lit up reception desk. The light/heavy,
stopping/starting rain tones on the sculpture court skylights beat a
bluesy sound track for this morning.
I was free to swivel
in my maroon, worsted wool, desk chair studying Chaim Soutine’s baker
in a white hat and coat leaning on thick red cadmium above the; South
Gallery doors; to the shelf of Ming Dynasty bowls in the glass case
near the umbrella stand. A hundred and eighty degrees from the bowls
was the huge, black and white abstract, “Painting # 7” by Franz
Kline–teacher-in-residence that year.
At exactly eleven
o’clock two dark bodies blew into the foyer – talking loud like
sailors in a squall. My spine uncurled from the back of the chair.
One tall man, one short, popping, shaking, spraying umbrellas, horn
piping out of their tailored overcoats.
The shorter man said,
“This Portland weather, it is like a storm at sea!” – trilling
all his rrrrs. The tall man said, “Yes, I’ve lived here five
years and I’ve grown to expect a certain amount of stormy weather.
I’ll take you to the upstairs gallery and show you how it
influences some of our Northwest painters. But first, Igor, follow
me, Dora has a hot drink waiting for us in my office.”
As they passed the
front desk Igor winked at me. I wondered if Dora knew that plans had
changed. It was Max, not Susan, who delivered Igor Stravinsky to the
Portland Art Museum that day to view his portrait in the, South
Gallery, Edward Steichen exhibit.
Norma Edythe Heyser (If there are any readers who remember the Portland Art Museum in the 1950s and 60s, please contact me with your stories or a photograph of the front desk, the elevator, or maybe a story about Polly Illo, Bob Peirce or anybody–thirsty for the olden days! soisee.org)
Oil Bath
My
apartment bathtub is a white, size small, plastic box into which my
size large parts do not entirely fit. I have avoided bathing until
struck with an unrelenting desire to fix my dry, itchy skin with an
oil bath. I don’t know if there is such a thing but I imagined it
through and decided to prove it’s effectiveness. Since the little
white box doesn’t attract elegant bathing, there is no particular
sentiment concerning its condition or inadequate function.
The
idea haunted me for several weeks when, at Bale’s grocery store, on
10% Off Tuesday, I spotted a tiny bottle of Crisco Oil for $2.46.
which inspired action. Its label reminds me of mother’s pie crust
made with Crisco shortening which may inspire further action at
another time.
Late afternoon, on 10% Off Tuesday, seemed just right–the world outside cold, blowy, wet. Drawing the shower curtain to the back wall, I turned the water full on to nearly hot, threw in three fists full of Epson Salts and a generous third of the Crisco bottle content. The bathroom fan with its bright, warming–orange globe gave a crystal shimmer to lovely, four inch, floating ovals of undulating grease lighting up the steamy stage for a thrilling adventure.
Crisco Oil undulating in the bathtub
Before
entering the tub, I hooked up the Sony boom box playing Chet Baker
and Strings, dimmed the lights, lighted a votive candle for the edge
of the tub and, taking time to acclimate to temperature, slowly
submerged myself into the treatment.
In
seconds the oil bonded to every part of me. I became shiny, slimy,
slick, sliding throughout the dimensions of the box without
volition–no longer sitting but rolling side to side. All concern
aside, laughing out loud and fully accepting the situation as is–it
was fun until my inner adult suggested, This may be unstoppable.I should have a telephone. Would 911 consider a Crisco Oil bath an
emergency?
Taking
time to slip around, soak, feel warm and think about how greasy hands
and feet are useless on plastic, I remembered discovering, on a slimy
roof, that a Turkish Towel is a no-slip panacea. Both the wash cloth
and bath mat fit the definition and are within reach at this critical
time when the water is cooling.
Yes,
it worked perfectly. I carefully planted the wash cloth under my foot
and very bent leg; folded the bath mat over the tub-edge capturing
one hand and one foot. With benign help from an adjacent slippery
cloth-bar, I stood strait up, stepped out, slowly, successfully and
thanked the Great Creative Source–wondering if anyone from the
Ottoman Empire knew the full value of Turkish Towels.
My
skin is making a remarkable recovery and asking for more. Am
currently planning the next oil bath adventure–perhaps tying wash
cloths to my feet and maybe, thereafter, using my hands to engineer a
Fuji Apple pie–thanking both to Crisco.
For months, growing into years, I have been engineering a blog out of relentless desire and ruthless ignorance. Yesterday, I learned how to make it Public. Now, I’m tip-toeing into the scene, inviting you to help grow So I See by creating a reading/writing relationship.
I have used OLIVE: Her Life and Times With Norma as a launching pad and would love to hear from those who do, or do not have snail experience to write about.
Now, could someone remind
me to check in on my own blog? Norma Edythe Heyser
My offspring say I should have a dog. I say, “No”. Two sons, two dogs, three cats for 18 years, plugged up my nose. After a shameful dependence on Afrin nose spray, I was told I was breathing danders, assuming they were little white bugs until my anatomy coloring book explained epithelial skin cells.
I have a bevy of wonderful dog
friends in the neighborhood who wiggle and smile at me from almost a
block away. I wiggle and smile back and when we finally get close, we
touch and love for approximately 60 seconds–the thrill lasts until
the next dog comes along.
I have expressed a bit of
lonesomeness lately. A new friend, Devon, artist/poet/Snail Expert,
convinced me a baby snail would be practical, affordable, modestly
demanding and good company. Three weeks ago, baby Olive was delivered
in a 12 oz, Mt. Olive (Since 1926), Kosher Baby Pickles jar with 22,
carefully placed nail holes in the lid.
Devon created a lovely terrarium
with tiny rocks, organic soil, weathered sticks, moss and lichen
varieties and a crispy, curled up Laurel leaf–the kind the kids in
my neighborhood tried to smoke in grade school.
Three weeks ago, I could hold
Olive on my pinkie fingernail. Now, she hardly fits on my thumb.
Today, she appeared to be somewhat depressed–sleeping most of the
time in her curled Laurel leaf. I woke her up with nudges and a
squirt of water for an exploratory trek through a forest of potted
Cyclamen and a healthy, gastric elimination.
A lovely, one gallon Mayonnaise jar awaits holes in its lid to house Olive’s bigger body. I asked Devon if Olive needs a mate. She says Olive is likely to have babies without a mate. The web says, “Most snails are considered to be hermaphrodites and have both male and female reproductive organs.”…hmmm, well.
Another reason I don’t have a dog is, I don’t want to get too involved–you know, stay free of responsibility so I can write a lot and ignore everything else. Snails don’t wiggle or smile either. I’m not sure Olive cares if I’m around or not. Little does she know I worry and care if she eats her lettuce, or not.
I need a pet who worries about
me and wants to be sure I eat my lettuce. Boyfriends don’t do that
anymore either–especially when they get old. I just worry about him
eating his lettuce.
Maybe I’m too old for a dog, a snail or a boyfriend?
1/2019
Olive Update
In April, I decided to give up caring for Olive, my pet snail–in the spirit of altruism, of course, detecting her depression in that over-sized mayonnaise jar. She kept trying to bury her growing self in only an inch of soil–no place to hide–the soil organic, of course.
I sincerely believed she could take care of herself and considered Olive a lovely gift to my Fellowship’s memorial garden–a whole new environment, a place to bury herself, including fellow snails and other sympathetic creatures. I would be encouraging and supporting a make-over; an opportunity to re-invent her life.
In May, I requested a sort-of-Bar Mitzvah-type celebration with organizational assistance from for the Sunday School children, believing it was a wonderful idea! However, quite unexpectedly, Olive and I were denied access by the experts including the Reverend minister, Olive’s surrogate mother, the Portland Audubon Society and resting my final hope on a trip to Pendleton seeking permission from my Walla Walla Indian friend who gave me the final, “No”. They all believe Olive is dangerous to the State of Oregon. More than one expert suggested, heaven forbid, she could eaten–that’s dangerous to Olive!
Now,
I would like to hear from the experts on the larger question of
migration and immigration. How is a snail dangerous to the earth, no
matter where she comes from? If Olive, who is likely to come from
France, is dangerous to Oregon, what then, are humans who come to
Oregon from other places–like Paris? Plastic and bombs are
dangerous to the earth, Olive is organically made.
Truth is, in April, I may have wanted to get rid of Olive. In fact, in biological ignorance, I was starving her of the protein she needed to expand her Self. With fresh Cuddle Bone and egg shells, Olive perked up, began remodeling her shell as I watch the awesome process. Her job, as a snail, is to expand her space–creating it out of her own juices. She still buries herself in a scant half inch of soil, but continues to grow beyond the size of the mayonnaise jar and eats her lettuce profusely–organic, of course.
It’s July tomorrow, what do I do now?
6/2019
Olive and Her Friends
Two neighborhood Snails came out to play, or something, on the walkway this morning, making silvery slime in partnership. Olive wasn’t interested. She slid over them and the pink plum seed headed for the English Ivy patch to make another plum tree.
It wasn’t the meet-up I had expected. Perhaps she has learned to be a loaner. Wonder if isolation is her thing?
She just headed back to her Mayonnaise jar as if it were where she wanted to be. I wonder if I shouldn’t worry about her so much–its just something I like to do.
