Memorial Day Weekend Harmony, Outside My French Doors

The birds are playing outside my French doors. They even have a little percussion thanks to a woodpecker and the music makes one smile. What a great way to celebrate on a Memorial Day weekend, Harmony by nature. Yet, we humans, the most intelligent species, can't seem to stay in tune, even amongst ourselves.

This year, when you've got those two bare feet on the dashboard and are singing along with Chesney, have fun and take a moment to harmonize in a special way. Remember those soldiers who lie quiet listening to nature, perhaps their spirits will join in. Everyone loves a good song.

Kicking a Can - Outside My French Doors

Outside my French doors, a dogfood can has been gifted to me. This is from Cooper, my small rescue mix. She loves the morning ritual, MacGyver gets the contents, she gets the can to lick. Bounding, whirling, she leads from mudroom to garage, eyes on the prize. There she settles in to lick the very essence of food from its interior. This gifting of the can is a recent phenomena, and my mind pauses, puzzles the meaning behind the action. Why? What is the motive? Is there one? What does she want in exchange?

I pull myself up short. Why am I thinking this way?

Dogs have no motive. They are free givers of self, endless flingers of love. Someone asks and they shall receive from a dog, no conditions attached. I know this. So, why am I questioning this gift of love from my Mini Cooper? She does not resent the big dog, she focuses on joy inside herself.

Is it because I have been asked ‘why’ often the past few years, as to motive behind my actions? These whys caught me by surprise, because there was no motive. I was raised in the all you need is love era, not the what’s in it for me age. Someone asks, you can help, you do it, preferably unrecognized and as well as you can.

As I stare out at the small can, I realize that I have become cautious, a bit suspicious. I ask why now, instead of taking things at face value. I hesitate before saying yes, wonder what’s the end result going to be for me? I have become one who questions motive. That is not who I am and I don’t like the feeling. It is time, I realize to get back to the basics of a good life.

My hand reaches for the door handle. Cooper appears from around the corner and dances near. I thank her for my present. She cocks her head a bit confused by my words. The gesture done hours ago, it is already forgotten in her mind. There was no expectation of recognition, no motive behind her actions, except that she’d wanted to share the love of that can. I smile.

We go outside my French doors, and practice unconditional giving. Cooper dashes down the walk wanting to play, and I follow, nudging her gift ahead of me. I do not think about the why of my action, I simply follow my heart. That’s what a real life is about.

Go have a kick the can kind of day.

OUTSIDE MY FRENCH DOORS

Outside my French doors, dawn fight with the night over the coming day. A fiery sword flashes, a dark cloak counters. Though I know the outcome, I watch, fascinated by the battle. Why? What is it about conflict that attracts? We see it at sporting events, we are pulled in to the TV news like addicts when there is a disaster, between nature and animal, between the earth and man, and especially between clashing members of the human race. Why are we not more fascinated by love?

The dogs pay no attention to the war between morning and evening. Noses to the ground they follow the story of night time visitors, trotting along, tails wagging, tongues lolling.

Horses stand, warm shadows towers of meditation, still, waiting.  There is a lesson in their calmness.

A brazen squirrel tightropes the top fence board, then leaps into the deep dark blue and hangs swaying in the air from a branch I cannot see. He traverses the border between bright and dark with ease.

My gaze turns back to the eastern horizon. Morning and night are paused on the edge of indigo. A truce for the moment.

I turn away to seek the light. A story awaits my thoughts, my words. I will build a fire, and brew some tea.

This is the season when thoroughbreds are born. It brings back memories of when I was a Foal Watcher. I shall nestle within the images and see where they lead. Perhaps, they will lead to a tale of hope. Perhaps, I shall be fascinated by the love between a woman and a horse, while outside my French door the battle over dawn is coming to its inevitable end.

Go get 'em Pope Francis

This little bit is for the all encompassing thinkers amongst my friends.
You know, I'm not a catholic, not even very 'organized religion' oriented, but I do believe in a love bigger than our worldly capabilities are able to comprehend. Therefore, I've found the new Pope Francis, a refreshingly brave soul. He isn't afraid to speak of bigger truths/less dogma. Below is a small quote from a recent piece he wrote. All I can say is, "Go, Pope. God is with you."

"This church with which we should be thinking is the home of all, not a small chapel that can hold only a small group of selected people. We must not reduce the bosom of the universal church to a nest protecting our mediocrity."

POPE FRANCIS, in an interview in which he said the Roman Catholic Church had become "obsessed" with gay people, abortion and contraception.

McGyver

Outside my French doors, our Shepherd paces the length of the brick walkway, anxious, back and forth, back and forth. He's never quite sure where he should be when one of us is gone and one of us is in the house. His eyes hone in on mine. I can see the words behind them, "Do I come in and guard you, or do I stay here and watch for his return? He sighs and returns to pacing.
Such loyalty, such caring, he exhibits. I was lucky that day nine years ago, at Foothills Humane Society-Polk County, when a gangly pup came barreling from the outside run to inside my heart. Time for me to show I care. The bench on the front porch will be a good place to read and for him to lie by my side as we wait for Bob. Have a loving evening, all.

Tiny Bird Brains

Outside my French doors, life is full of surprises. Today, I went hunting with Green Creek Hounds. I was surprised, though I don't know why, that so many came after the night's/early morning rain. GCH has true fox hunting diehards as members. We had a blast and lingered afterwards, sharing snacks and stories.
Back at the farm as I was unloading my horse, I heard baby birds chirping. I looked up at the trees high above, over at the barn edges and could not find a nest. The babies sounded near, like they were in the trailer. I peered inside, though since I keep the trailer shut tight when not using it I couldn't imagine they'd be in there. They weren't. I was beginning to think I was developing a new form of ringing in the ears.
Using my not-so-keen hearing I crept around the trailer. I felt a bit silly, until, lo and behold, I found the nest in a most unlikely spot. Some silly momma made a nest behind the spare tire attached to the side of the trailer!
This is a trailer I use often, so those little puffballs have been traveling since they were laid. I can hear the babies, see part of the nest, but not all. The babies are not visible, but they are loud. I parked the trailer back in its spot and crossed my fingers.
I hope mom didn't have a heart attack while the kids were out cruising. The little peeps have quite a tale to relay to her. And, I imagine they lives are ruined. They will be speed freaks and not understand why they can't fly as fast as their mobile home. I can hear them now cheeping to each other. I'm sure they are saying, "Momma must be a real birdbrain."

But, not as crazy as this hummingbird, who stopped to read my husband's notepad!

Traveling Home

Outside my French doors the noon of summer shimmers in the air. Animals lull in the shade of century old oaks. Sweat darkens the horses sides. Moisture from last night's rain is no more than a heavy memory.
I cast my gaze upward, where I will be soon seated in a 21st century jet headed to Chicago. It makes me thinkof frying eggs on a sidewalk while people hurry from one air conditioned building to another. High energy sparks from women's heels, and heat wets the back of shirt and tie men.

My heartbeat rises, then settles as a slight breeze tickles the honeysuckle. I listen to the silence that surrounds me. My daughter will surround me with love while I am in the city. It will be fun, and in five days, I will come back to the Foothills of North Carolina. I breathe deep, absorbing home before I leave.
Have a nice weekend, all, wherever you may be.

Almost Ireland

From lime to deep forest, the greens have taken over the landscape outside my French doors. It's almost Ireland, except Ireland has fewer trees. Squirrels bounce from limb to limb scattering leftover raindrops from yesterday. The horses are munching on breakfast and the dogs are restless to play. My gaze wanders over our land and I soak up the happiness if gives me. They say green is good for you, don't they? Light pierces the deep foliage and kisses my cheek. I listen to my husband's footsteps moving toward me. It's going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day. Enjoy.

God Bless Us All and Thank Those who gave their Lives

The Symbol

Every Memorial Day I hang the flag that draped my stepfather’s coffin, every year except for one. That year I did not look forward to the holiday as I had in the past. I did not hang the flag on Memorial Day, for I had hung it on the front porch on September 11^th   of the preceding year and had yet to take it down.

That September 11^th was a nightmare of a day, and my heart ached as I watched the flag unfurl in the breeze. The reason I hung the flag was sad. The reason I owned it was sad. They both dealt with death.  The flag hung through a complete cycle of the seasons and throughout that year I would look out the window and see the flag twisted into a tight spiral. It seemed appropriate that Old Glory wound around upon itself since my feelings were also twisted tight within me.

There are no words for how I felt. It was as if my ability to express emotion was shattered in the explosions that shook our nation that September. I stared at the tangled flag and could not summon the energy needed to set it free. There was a void inside me. The internal essence of the United States of America, that treasured part of my identity, had been damaged and I was afraid. I grieved.

Then one day as I stared at the flag the wind changed and this special piece of cloth unfurled and snapped in the breeze as if irritated at having its independence stifled. In a wild, daring dance of red, white and blue it cavorted, made me grin in spite of my fear. I watched it and my heart relaxed, the pain eased. I smiled deep inside for the first time in months. You can’t kill a good idea, I realized.

The spirit of America is meant to be free, not twisted and confined. We are a people who dance upon the winds of our dreams. So today I will take a long moment to thank my stepfather for the flag that lay across his coffin. Then I will go outside, hang his flag, place my hand over my heart and salute the vision that symbolizes our country. I will twirl around, synchronize my movements with those of Old Glory and I will celebrate the ones who released me from fear. They gave so much for me. The least I can do is honor Memorial Day for them.

Always and Forever

A rainy, read a book kinda day outside my French doors. Of course, that won't stop me from slogging to the barn, throwing down hay, distributing grain and filling water buckets as horses drip over the fence, ears pricked waiting, always. I can see one from here trying to send me mental messages. Will he go in the run-in and eat hay? No. He'll stand there, watching me look outside, while he looks inside, those big brown eyes and quivering muzzle saying, "Feed me. Never mind that I have green, green grass, a dry place full of hay. I want grain." I give him my best glare. He doesn't even flinch. This staring contest could go on forever. Guess it's time to go find the rain gear. Time to take care of the creatures I love. Always.

Boston, may hope overshadow the sadness

I look at what I wrote four hours ago about the beauty and peace of a spring day in the South, and I am sad. Dark clouds of hate have burst forth in Boston since then. They've taken the gift of light from the day we'd been given. 
Please world of my fellow humans, at least the few my words reach, let's begin a movement of emphasizing the beauty of being alive. Let us send hope of a world without violence. Let us stop shouting about our differences and start finding our similarities. Let us love one another, at least here, in our own country. Let us not destroy. Let us focus on the wonderfulness of our world, not on the evil thoughts of a few. Let us reach out and hold the hand of peace. Amen.

Time to Leave?

Soggy. That's how my right side feels, above my butt, below my ribs, with a knife made for sharp stabs protruding from it. It's what I've gained from sitting, listening to the rain for too long, and typing gibberish about moments in time.

I cock my head at the airy tap-tap of tennis shoes headed down the stairs. His tread is lighter since the attack. Before, the steps were like rocks being dropped one at a time, huge breadcrumbs leading to destruction. I'd heard him, ignored the warning. Minutes wasted.

"Going running. Hi George. Leave that inside when you're finished." He says the words loud enough for our "good as it gets" neighbor to hear, happy enough to twist the knife in my back.

I try to get to my feet, but the planks of the floor smack my face. It hurts. It hurt when he was laying down new ones and hit me in the head with a 2x4 last year. I got up then. I can get up now.

My hands slip in the wet goo of my insides spilling on the hardwood. Eight quarts, two probably gone in the first couple of minutes. That leaves me about six to live.

"Linda?" George drops the rake he'd borrowed, envelopes me.

"No." I think I say the word, push at him, but he doesn't let go.

"Forgot my phone. What's happened? George, what the fuck have you done?" Boulders landing, unmistakable, right outside the evidence pool of red. "Hold on, Linda. I'm calling 9-1-1." He backs away. "Help. The neighbor attacked my wife."

"No." The word takes all my breath. It will take a minimum of ten minutes for EMS to get to our house.

Last time, he'd gotten in nine punches before then. Said I'd be dead, if he'd wanted me to be and he'd get away with it. Said keep your mouth shut. I'd told them all was okay. I figured they were too late to save me anyway.

He edges forward, smirks.

The scarlet pool spreads. I am ready to go. Not one quart at a time though.

"No." My focus shifts from the man outside the red zone to George the Good. I take his hand, press it to my wound. I hold on tight to the moment. It isn't quite right for leaving. This time, it's not too late.

Two Very Short Stories

My Wish

Happy Birthday! My wish, another year. They don’t come true if you tell. I say it anyway. I'd rather die than you not know.


Leaky Valves

Newly divorced. Wanted – one undamaged heart.