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I was carrying a big sloppy bowl of compost out to the heap in the back yard this morning when I noticed that now that we eat a mostly vegetarian menu, the compost looks a lot like the food. It was one of those sobering moments when I paused to consider that what I throw out as waste here would in some places be considered a meal.
We have become aware of how easy it is for a black person, especially a male black person, to be killed for no reason at all.
Along with that awareness comes the realization that the killing has been going on ever since there were white people on this continent, and black people whom white people thought they could kill with impunity.
Suddenly it became autumn, but it was not so cold or inhospitable on the kitchen porch this morning that the dog and I could not sit there staring into space and thinking deep thoughts.
I was supposed to write a column today. I meant to, I planned to, but then I got a message from Marie, Jim’s sweetheart, that Jim Hutcheson died today, and the news blew me sideways.
After writing so exhaustively about the grief process after my husband died, it hardly seems fair not to write about how it’s going after two and a half years, because things have changed.
So. I was out in the yard picking up garbage. Not just any garbage, mind you. This garbage consisted of the mangled wrappers of all the food my dog, Marley, has pilfered lately.
In my late thirties I experienced an adult call to faith in Jesus. My adult conversion made me a member of what I’ve heard called “the community of the silly grin.”
I read the other day that when a mother is pregnant with a boy, some of that boy’s DNA is shared. It travels in the blood up into the mother’s brain, and moves in permanently, kind of like the kids do in their twenties.
It is the duty of the young to confound the old.
Last night my grandson told me that he is now a vegetarian. Apparently I am the last one of his family and friends to know this.
On a typical day around here, there is a cloud cover that makes the sky look white. When writing to friends in, say, Australia, I have often found myself reporting that the weather today is the usual high white overcast.
Lately there has been a foofaraw about where transgender people go to the bathroom. Some people have this idea that if transgender people are allowed to use the bathroom of the gender with which they identify, male pedophiles will put on dresses so they can go into women’s restrooms and abuse little girls. At least I think that’s the argument.
A while back it occurred to me that my days needed some organization.
I sat down with pen and paper, ruler and colored pencils, and drew my week. I listed when I get up, and when I go to bed, and then I listed everything in between through each day of the week. I blocked out the hours and colored in the blocks.
I have been pondering lately how little control I have in my life. Sometimes it occurs to me that not being in control is not a personal fault of mine. It is simply the way things are.
I was writing a letter this morning. Yes, a letter, with a pen, on paper.
Yes, children, before computers and cell phones we had to write letters, and mail them, then wait days or weeks for an answer.
I keep saying that I want to get things out of my house, not bring things in, but you know I hit Granny’s Attic at least once a week. There are certain people I see almost exclusively at Granny’s. It’s a social thing, and a time of relaxation and fun, browsing the second hand selection.
Lent is upon us. It is a Christian season of the year, forty days and nights, not counting Sundays, marked by prayer, fasting, and self-examination, with the intended purpose of repentance and improving oneself, one’s behavior, and the practice of one’s faith.
This past weekend a folk singing retreat called Rainy Camp was held in the foothills of the Cascades, out beyond Maple Valley. The attendees were mostly people of a certain age – my age, or thereabouts, although there were some younger adults in attendance.
The dog really likes the new bed. The new bed has a full-sized mattress. This mattress came to me as gift because I was griping about my wonky back and my old mattress that was causing the wonkiness.
About twenty-four years ago I was enrolled in an Episcopal course given by the Diocese of Olympia called Formation for Ministry. It was meant to equip lay people to live out their call.
As I write it is the week before Thanksgiving, and I am thinking about things for which I am thankful, and how hard it is to feel thankful when the brokenness of the world seems to be anything but a gift. I turn my attention from woes to gratitude.
The gigantic head of a Star Wars storm trooper was approaching me in the oncoming lane. I knew that couldn’t be right. Turned out it was a white Kia Soul. For a few seconds, though, I was definitely in a galaxy far away.
It’s a good thing to work on improving yourself, in my opinion. If you are of the, “I want to be a better person” persuasion – and I like to believe most of us do think and feel that way – life will knock you around in ways from which you learn how to be and do better.
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