Influenza by Any Other Name...

Today is Day Seven. What I mean by that is that it is the seventh day since the onslaught of a vicious flu known affectionately as the Swine Flu. Or, more accurately, the Seventh Day of the relapse of Swine Flu. The first round lasted five days with almost a full week off for good behavior before descending upon me again like wolves.

Day Six I would not have been able to write. Day Seven is that day where the world seems possible again. And it happens to be the first day without a fever. Hence a few cooked brain cells are making their weak and feeble way to the forefront.

Today the farmhouse is hunkering down to avoid being swept away to Oz by the gale winds that are lashing through the trees. A strong wind advisory for the island has been issued and there is not a single leaf left on the Grandmother Tree. I think that the wind snatched that fever and took it somewhere else.

I knew I was mending this morning when I woke and thought about planting bulbs.

There is something, a kind of intense clarity, that comes after an acute illness. After everything is burned away. The colors seems a bit more vivid. Decisions that had been wrestling with themselves, just seem to sort it out and a deep feeling of gratitude wraps around you like a blanket.

Granna always said it is healthiest to "burn clean" and I know she meant in terms of moods and grief and anger...but there is something about a high fever that has lasted for days. The murky daze and glaze of sweating and chilling. Of burning up. And so today, charred to my marrow, I am moving slowly through the day rediscovering my own breath, my skin so sensitized that I feel the air move around me. And somehow I feel cleaner. And rather sheer and see-through.

And alive.

Changes in Light

The clocks have fallen back. The light has shifted. Everyone has had the extra hour of sleep. The wee goblins and fairies have all trick or treated.

I love this time of year. And today is one of my dearest friend's birthday.

Which made me think about all the people who touch our lives and where would we be without them? I try and remember to be a good friend. To ring them and chat and be present and listen through loves and births and deaths and laughter and weeping. But sometimes I forget. I get too busy. I forget about myself is the real story. And when we forget ourselves, we forget those who've shaped who we are.

So today I am thinking loving thoughts for my dear Jennie's Celebration of Life. And how grateful I am to her for enriching mine.

At the Root of the Matter

I have a tendency to lift off. Granna would say I have my heads in the clouds. And she is partially right. I have my head in the clouds, in the leaves, in the blossoms, in the moonlight, at the tips of branches, in the rain...you get the idea. And when difficult things happened, when I was blanketed with grief, I would always fly away, barely aware of my feet touching the ground.

Over time I have learned to love the ground. There are a myriad of things to wonder at. New buds, dirt teeming with life, rocks, digging and planting, fallen leaves...And it isn't as if I still don't dance in the clouds, but that I've learned to dance on the earth as well.

It has everything to do with heartbreak. Which, for the record, I'm not saying is a bad thing. I can't help but be awake and open to all the unfathomable beauty of the world. And if you are paying attention, really listening and awake, your heart breaks regularly. How could it not? I believe our hearts are made to break, to burst open time and again so that it can hold more; and then some more.

It's the Little Things

A glass bottle filled to the brim with syrup shattered and while mopping up the mess, I managed to get an infinitesimal sliver of glass in my finger. It wasn't the bleeding or the fact of it, but the invisible pain. The fact that I couldn't find the darn thing and, well, it hurt.

It's not the big things that get to you much of the time. Last night the wind lashed against the house and I could see the white caps in the storm out on the water. The windows trembled and moaned and the kitties and I cuddled close hoping the power would not go out. But I was fine (I admit I love a good storm) and eventually fell asleep feeling brave.

So here I am with a wee puncture wound with some mean spirited piece of glass hidden in there and I am suddenly five years old. I can hear my Granna telling me to soak it in hot salt water before trying to get it out. I can imagine her capable hands taking care of it briskly with a minimum of fuss. All the way to the tsk tsk and the stinging peroxide, band aid and a cookie. And I would marvel at how she could find and conquer the invisible enemy and make it better.

Now left to my own devices, I shall soak it in salt water, find it (hopefully with a minimum of fuss) and pour peroxide over it, get the band aid on and if I'm very lucky I will hear Granna's tsk tsk and remember how often she just took care of things. I don't know if I always thanked her... then. But I do now.

Visits From Princess Cupcake

One of the greatest joys of my summer was visiting with a very special eight year old, known to a select few as Princess Cupcake. She brought along her beloved and trusty coach driver, Jennie.

On one particular day, we built rock sculptures at the beach and had a picnic. It happened to also be a day where I saw two bald eagles on land, dancing around one another (I'm certain they were singing "Getting to Know You" from The King And I). Right in front of us! Jennie took stunning photos with her new camera and a merry day was had by all.

On another day we ran around the farm blowing bubbles and chasing the wind. And discussed fairies and very special sock monkeys and favorite books.

At the end of Summer, after Princess Cupcake flew home to the city of angels, Jennie found and shared some writing and pictures our little princess had left and shared them with me. Too wonderful to keep hidden, I share them now with you.