Creating Time.

Sometimes, we've all just got to get out of the everyday blur and into the minute by minute. Behind me I hear the tick, tick, tick of the clock reminding me that life is moving whether or not I am on the move.  

Speeding through life doesn't make more minutes.

It just seems that way to me. As I whiz through my usual life, checking off my list, I feel energized by my productivity. I'm getting things done: food purchased, weeds pulled, dust dusted, steps counted. But it's an illusion. And although I know it in real time, the speed and motion keep it in the background.

Like my step app, life moves forward whether I click on it or not. 

Taking a vacation slows it all down. I sit and sip and watch the squirrels scurry up and down the trees. I see the sun shift and the grass move. I wonder and wander through the pathways outside the condo and inside my mind.

I slowly, very slowly let go of routine and begin to explore. 

What? Where? How? Why? It's all turned over and examined. I'll admit, I am always trying to learn from the past whether it's my own history or the evolution of the world around me. There are always connections to be made, causes and effects, lessons to learn that can launch new thoughts, understandings and bring revelations into the present.

Seeing from the past to the present gives me hope for the future. I explore new paths while holding onto the old. Will my life or work or love change? Probably. But I can't and don't need to see all that now. 

I only have to be aware. 

Hearing the tick, tick, tick of time and move with its beat trying as best as I can to create in tune with my heart.

 

   

Rain, rain, don't go away. Again.

I live in Oregon. It rains a lot here or so people think.  But actually, rain totals here used to be about as much as the Midwest city I grew up in. The big difference is that there it really only rained in the spring and here it drizzles and sprinkles and rains almost all year round.  

Except for this year.  We've just had 90 plus days of dry, hot summer. It's not my Oregon. 

So when the rain began to fall, I could feel my body drinking it all in, washing away dust from the sidewalks and my soul. I watch the drops hit the window and slide down catching the light. The crisp, clear smell mixes with the soft patter to create a peaceful resting place. Sleeping as the rain falls is so blissfully cozy and I realize how much I need the relaxing rain. 

Now, I can get out my new clay and play. 

I had to slow down and come to a complete creative stop in August.  The hot, dry weather is not a good climate for porcelain clay. It drys too fast. It cracks. It's frustrating. I did manage to get bisque firing done on the one cooler day but again, those pieces are still sitting on the shelves, waiting. My kiln is outside, but with temperatures in the 90's, it's still too hot to do a glaze fire.

Inside my studio, I'm unpacking from a show, setting up my shelves and moving onward, hopefully. I've bought some new clay and I actually have a few new pieces drying. Another reason, I'm so grateful for the weather change. Slow, slow drying time means happy, healthy new pieces.  

Now I know the season is changing. 

I always have mixed feelings about fall. Change itself is never easy but this year as the water rains down, thunder booms and even, lightening sizzles, I am embracing this lovely shift into a new season. 

Suddenly, I can't wait to put up the leaf wreath. Trim back my lavender for drying. And cook up the last of the tomatoes. I'm sitting here sipping a chai tea and watching the last of the rain drops burst through the screen as the sky slowly shifts and lightens. 

Rain. Rain. Please, oh please, don't go away!  Not today. 

Creating Calm.

Two hundred year old trees burned to the ground. Black sooty ash blew on the hot, humid wind dusting the garden, window sills, table tops inside and out. The sun turned orange and the air thickened with smoke. Across the country, hurricanes and tropical storms and earthquakes have devastated lives, homes and whole cities. 

The President promised help some people but refused to help others and hundreds of people were forced from their homes and fire fighters risked their lives battling the flames in my own state. 

Even if, like me, your home is safe, you feel the fear too. 

We are all connected on this planet. We feel the pain of the trees and animals and the people. Unlike our President, I don't deny or blame or hide from that fact. I try to breathe, embrace and help in whatever small way I can. 

I realize I can't do much. I can't stop it or fix it or wish it away. But I can, in my own small corner of the world create some calm. I can sit with that calm, letting it flow through me, around me and like a soft, sweet, clear breeze sweeping past me out into the world. 

Carrying with it my hope, my love, my heartbeat in a rhythm of a meandering, babbling droplets of water that pool, then trickle softly and spurt hopefully reviving us all.  

Life is a Roller Coaster.

This week has flown by. It's been a roller coaster ride of events and emotions, bad and good. 

We had a scare 3 years ago, when the vet told us Jilly, our sweet yellow Lab, had 3 months to live. Last week, at this time, I thought Jilly was dying. Now she's curled up at my feet snoozing in her normal, easy rhythm. Once again, my Jilly proved to me that miracles are possible. 

Down.   

When I watched Jilly's labored breathing and weakness, all I could think of was death and loss and sadness. I worked to get her to drink water and broth and eat a little rice. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Mostly, she slept and I watched and worried. 

In almost utter despair, I took a walk to my woods, to my favorite tree seeking solace. As I leaned into this old, giant cedar, I immediately felt energy tingle my spine but what I didn't expect was the forceful push from the ground, up through my feet. It was almost hot and so abrupt that I almost moved away, yet I knew better. My cedar was sending me a strong message: don't give up. The life force being literally forced up through my body was not for me. The message was clear: Jilly's life force was strong whether or not she stayed with me in the here and now. 

I felt lifted, calmer and tired as I walked home. I didn't expect improvement but I felt now, I could handle whatever was ahead. 

Up. 

When I walked into the house, Jilly lifted her head and looked straight at me. Her eyes were aware, awake, almost normal. Her breathing was calmer. Her energy had shifted. 

My husband and I helped her up and outside using a towel under her belly for support. But on the way back in, she jumped up the step on her own. We were surprised and glad, but cautious. She was still weak and not eating. We didn't expect much. 

Over the next two days, she began to eat handfuls of dog cookies. She drank more water. She got up and outside on her own. She was breathing more normally. And she was moving around to her usual spots for naps. Monday night, after my husband had gone downstairs and let her out for the night, he turned around and found her on the upstairs landing waiting to go bed as usual.

Encouraged, I made her a batch of homemade dog food and pureed chicken livers. She laid on the kitchen carpet watching my every move. When I was done, I put a cup in her bowl. She gobbled it up. I fed her 2 more times that day. She gobbled up more. 

Everyday since, she's gotten better and stronger. She's alert, wagging, barking and her usual sweet self. She's drooling for her Sunday bacon waffle. Yes, Jilly is my miracle dog, once again. 

No, I don't like roller coasters but seeing my sweet snoozing, living, breathing Jilly at my feet makes it all worth it. 

Again and again, I learn how much I don't know. How much I assume. How much I fear. How much I love and how much I refuse to let go. And now, how much I need to see and breathe and appreciate all the little things that make up the everyday living of life.

Even the dog hair all over my floor is a beautiful thing.