Escaping the heat.

Yesterday was one of those days that made me wish that I was a better writer, a better poet. In the middle of a freakishly abnormal heat wave, I decided to drive over to the coast rather than melt and whine at home. It's only about 90 miles to the ocean. So close that I wonder why I don't go more often. I took off early in the morning with no plan other than to drive west until I saw the Pacific.

Not far past the outskirts of the metro area, one starts climbing the hills that lead into the Coastal Range. The range is small, as mountain ranges go. The summit is only about 1600 feet. But it is beautiful. With a few gaping exceptions. Sailing past the farmland that lies just below them, I felt my spirit lift as the trees began to close in behind and over the car. Frequently when driving in the hills here, it resembles nothing so much as entering a leafy green tunnel with the branches joining over the road allowing only random patches of sunlight to land directly on the road. I don't know that it was actually cooler there, but it certainly gives the mental impression of feeling cooler. Whether it is the unrelenting green or the sense of being sheltered by all of those trees, I do not know, but it never fails to improve my outlook.

What never fails to dampen my elevated mood are the clear cut areas. Driving through forests here always carries the possibility of coming across those areas leased to lumber companies, which have stripped entire mountainsides of everything taller than two feet in height. The devastation is sickening with stumps and branches strewn every which way and, all too frequently, no seedlings planted to replace what has been taken. The feeling is one of witnessing violence and there are no words adequate to describe it. Sometimes the companies leave a thin line of trees near the road in a futile attempt to mask what has happened beyond them. I know all of the 'rational' arguments about jobs and the need for lumber, but it leaves such scars. I don't get physically ill at the sight as I used to, but it still mutes the shine of an otherwise perfect day.

About an hour out from the city, deep into the mountains, there is a restaurant that we always stop at. Discovered it when the kids were little. It isn't a great gourmet place, it is a funky place modeled on a logging camp motif. (I know, ironic after the last paragraph.) The food is good and the feeders outside of the windows provide a variety of birds to watch while you wait. It's hard to imagine driving this way to the beach without stopping there. It's just part of the package.

Finally, I come out of the mountains and almost immediately there is the Pacific. Or rather, there should have been the Pacific. There were low-lying clouds covering the entire coastline. With no particular destination in mind, beyond not going to the usual places, I turned left to see what would present itself. Only occasionally did the sun power through to reveal blue ocean below. And I noticed that it is quite unnerving to drive down the coast highway, on the edge of cliffs that should be overlooking the ocean, and only see thick clouds below. On curves especially, it felt as though one wrong move and I could fall off the edge of the world entirely. There are many 'Scenic Outlook' sites along the coast and every one of them yielded a wide vista of clouds and nothing else. So I kept driving south.

I sped past all of the beaches and towns that I had stopped at before, still not sure where I was going to end up. The tiny little harbor towns seem much more appealing driving through them than they probably are to live in, but my fantasy of having a place by the ocean was running rampant. Little places like Garibaldi and Hebo which basically have one street, one grocery, one theater, etc. let one imagine a simpler and, perhaps, more real type of existence. Never mind the certainty that the reality might drive one quite mad.

When I had had just about enough driving for one sitting, I saw a sign that read "Nestucca Beach, next right." So right I went and drove the 3 or 4 miles to the beach. While there were occasional splashes of sunlight peeking through the clouds on the highway, down by the ocean there were none. The fog was so thick that the sun was nothing more than a hazy little ball overhead.

I walked about a mile up the beach and did a little people watching. Since it was 65 degrees on a weekday, there weren't too many people to watch which is why the ones who were there caught my attention. I wondered about the two teenage girls lying on towels in swimsuits attempting to get a tan. They must have been freezing. I watched a couple of chocolate Labs dashing into the water chasing a stick, which they then proceeded to carry together down the beach. I don't believe I've ever seen two dogs carrying opposite ends of a stick before, but it seemed like usual behavior for those two. There were a few intrepid souls in wet suits with boogie boards braving the frigid water. My favorite was a grandmother with a toddler. The toddler was running for all he was worth, collecting rocks and passing them on to his grandmother. Then, when she had enough, he would take them one at a time and attempt to throw them into the water. More often than not, he missed the ocean.

The beach itself was littered with the remains of the gulls' breakfast. Crab had been on the menu and I had to watch my step for a ways so that I didn't step on shells and pincers. There were also tire tracks despite the fact that I was far past the sign that said motor vehicles were not allowed on the beach. All the usual beach debris could be found, partial shells, bits of seaweed and the odd cigarette butt.

As I walked, I noticed that the tide was coming in, so I picked a spot and planted myself, waiting for it to come to me. I gazed out watching the variations of the waves tumbling in for the better part of an hour before the ocean caught me. The water was slate gray with only the white bubbles at the top of the waves relieving the color. I watched the near approach of the water for awhile until my focus shifted to the furthest waves I could see coming in. They couldn't have been more than a thousand yards away, the visibility was so short. Those tunnels of water collapsing in on themselves gave the barest glint of green near their crests before resolving back to gray. I continued to look outward, waiting for the water to reach me, with a fairly blank mind. Just watching. Just noticing. Once or twice, my mind skipped back to other times, other beaches, other companions, but for the most part it was just me, the ocean and nothing more. Or rather, nothing less.

At long last, the water reached out and slapped me. Nothing quite prepares one for the first touch of the cold water. It came up and captured my feet up to my ankles before it pulled back. It must have been undecided about wanting to play because it took another 10 minutes before another wave was brave enough to reach me again. I shifted my focus to the place where the water was striking and wondered with each new wave if this one would be the one that really got me. Childish musings perhaps, almost as if I was daring it to tag me. As the water became more consistent in its approach, I planted my feet more firmly, braced for the big one. No truly big ones arrived, at least not while I stood there. But I did enjoy standing in the low surf, comparing and contrasting the sensations.

After awhile, the grandmother and child came back up the beach. Their adventure apparently over because now the child was being carried. Too much excitement for one day, most likely. A woman bounced past, walking her collie. And one of the guys in the wetsuits had had enough and made his way past me and away. I walked back down the beach, more slowly than I had walked up it and made the climb over the dune that would lead back to my car.

I half thought that I'd go in search of another place, but I found that I was done for the day. I got all of the sand off my feet and pointed the car back towards the highway. I always tell myself when I go to the beach that I'm going to stop and get some saltwater taffy. And, as usual, this time I didn't do it either. I apparently like the idea of taffy more than I actually like taffy. So I brought no physical souvenirs from the excursion, unless I can count a sunburnt nose and aching calf muscles from the climb up the dune. Yet, somehow, it feels as though this particular day will be with me for quite some time.

Missing the Obvious

Spring came late to Portland this year. And as I've done every spring since I moved to my current home, I've eagerly watched for the camellia bush outside my kitchen window to bloom. Since it is on the north side of the building, it is usually the last to bloom. So as its sisters on the south side burst into lovely colors and smells, I stepped up watching for 'my' camellia to bloom. As the month passed, there were absolutely no flowers on it. It must have been trimmed at the wrong time last year, because there was not a single bud on the entire plant. I kept watching and watching, no camellias. I was so focused on the camellias that I almost missed out entirely on the azalea that is planted right next to it. It wasn't until the roses started rioting across the back fence that I turned my attention away from the camellia and its lack of flowers this year.

And this in turn made me consider what else I have missed while focused too closely on something else. The short answer is that I'll probably never know for certain. But it bears some examination so as to reduce the occurrence of it in the future. Like most people, I've spent the majority of my adulthood wrapped up in whatever task/person/event demanded my attention at the time, to the point of shutting out even the idea that other things could or should merit some of my attention as well.

I've been a master at missing the obvious most of my life. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, "it's as plain as the nose on your face," or "if it had been a snake, it would have bit you," I'd never need to work a day in my life. And that is not counting the times I have heard, "how could you not know?" I was always too busy trying to be a good daughter/mother/wife/friend to even recognize other possibilities that would have enriched my life if I'd but welcomed them in. There are a few huge ones that come to mind and I'm sure there must be dozens of others.

And don't get me started on the more subtle possibilities that I have let pass me by. They must number in the hundreds, if not thousands. I'm fairly blind as far as subtle things going on in my own life, my own possibilities. Which is odd because I tend to recognize the subtleties that occur for other people around me. The standard joke with me is that I wouldn't catch a hint if it hit me upside the head with a two-by-four. I suspect this might be a by-product of focusing on one thing and missing another. But part of it must be due to my preference for directness. So, what's to be done?

I'm happy to report that I've gotten better about noticing/recognizing some things that come into my life unexpectedly. I'm not to the level of awareness that I hope to achieve, however. And I don't think it is necessary to throw the baby of specific focus out with the bathwater in trying to open myself up to more possibilities and realities. The trick must lie in balancing the two, the question is how. I suspect that it demands a shifting of focus, a more deliberate observation of what is happening both around me and within me. Not focusing on the forest or the trees, but on both in a constant moving back and forth. It requires considerable discipline to avoid sleepwalking through life, to live deliberately and wide awake.

My long observation of the camellia wasn't for naught, however. For the first time since I have been watching it, I noticed that a song sparrow kept hopping along my window sill. And as the weather grew warmer, I saw that she was using the sill as a launching pad into the bush. Once it was warm enough to open the windows, there were delightful baby bird noises coming from it. So, my focus may have been misdirected for awhile, but there were rewards anyway. As there always seem to be, if we but recognize them.

Eavesdropping

I frequently spend time writing in a coffee shop or a pub. I generally do this when I become too distracted by everything at home. After all, I could do chores or knit or sew or read instead of my daily writing.

Most of the time, because I tend to go in the off hours, the cafe or pub is very quiet and I have the space virtually to myself. But there are those occasions where someone feels the need to speak just a smidgen too loudly about topics that would be better kept quiet or private. Naturally, I shamelessly listen in while appearing to be gazing into space in search of inspiration.

I have heard a couple of older gentlemen compare their nocturnal bathroom habits. I have heard all sorts of reprehensible bigotry expressed. I've heard way too much from young ladies about what they and their boyfriends are up to. And my most recent favorite was a clutch of little old ladies at a nearby table sharing their health difficulties. Who would have known that there were so many gory details to be related about getting one's toenails clipped!

I find some of my eavesdropping to be amusing. Other times I listen in total disbelief at what people will discuss in a public space. And I save up some of the tidbits for later writing projects. All of which makes me wonder whether these folks are assuming that people can't hear them or if they truly have no boundaries. Perhaps they are expecting others to have manners that they seemingly lack themselves.

Some people seem to believe that their physical bubble is somehow also an audio bubble which keeps other people from hearing what they are talking about. Similar to the way some folks think they are invisible in their cars, they think they have a cone of silence between themselves and everyone except the person to whom they are talking.
Or, maybe, they don't realize just how loudly they are talking -- too much life or too much iPod music having nibbled away at their hearing. Then again, it might just be that they permanently misplaced their manners. Perhaps it is different reasons for different people, but whatever it is it seems to be widespread and expanding.

One of the most annoying aspects of this baring it all in public frequently involves a cell phone. Many people seem to be constitutionally unable to lower their voice while talking on their cell phones in public. This is a nuisance because I really don't want to hear about the latest business deal you are making, or having to take your dog to the vet, or the ugly breakup you had with whoever it was that you were sleeping with last. I figure those topics are private business and can't for the life of me understand why anyone would loudly share the details with me. It's not that I don't find human behavior fascinating, because I do; I just don't care to hear a lot about it over food and drink.

I know, I know, one is supposed to ignore, or pretend to ignore, what is said at nearby tables. And I would, given half the chance. I'm a big fan of privacy. But in these cases, the people involved seem determined to make that extremely difficult if not impossible to do. Just a lowering of the volume would go a long way towards keeping your business to yourself. Or, even better, wait until you are in a private place to discuss private matters. And it isn't as though I'm making negative judgments on whatever is going on in someone's life, because I'm not. In fact, while it is distracting, it is also quite amusing sometimes. I just didn't come into the establishment hoping to know that much about strangers.

I realize there's nothing to be done about it. But if anyone ever hears me discussing my toenails, or God knows what else, in a public space please put me out of my, and everyone else's, misery.

Bad Hair Day

Having just endured yet another unacceptable haircut and knowing it will take a week or two for it to come close to being tolerable, I spent some minutes frowning at my image in the mirror. My haircut had garnered a few "cute" comments, but I certainly didn't see it that way and "cute" was not the effect I was hoping for. With short, blunt bangs and layers that flip out in random places, I think I look like a five-year-old going for the old Farrah Fawcett look. This is not a good look for a woman of a certain age with chubby cheeks. At least, I don't think so. But it got me to thinking about the images we present to others, how they see us and how that differs from how we see ourselves.

As I frowned at the mirror, I acknowledged that I am always harder on myself than anyone else on the planet would be. Whether it is physical attractiveness, inner beauty or some pleasing aspect of my personality, I don't generally see it and am always a bit surprised when others tell me what they see in me, pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless. So I freely admit that there are some areas where I am blind to some aspects of myself. I usually assume that there is a great deal that misses the mark.

I had always taken it for granted that no one could know me as well as I know myself, but I find myself doubting that that is completely true. It seems true that I can know what I think in a given moment, but I cannot be certain that I will hold that same thought or opinion should there be even the slightest change in the information that I have or the situation at hand. Also, I think that for the most part, I know more completely how I am feeling about something, someone or some issue than someone else could know. But again, that can be contingent too, depending on shifts of information surrounding the emotion. Bliss can shift to anguish from moment to moment, but I can recognize that sort of shift, so I still believe that I know my true feelings better than anyone else. But the self-image thing is a total crap shoot.

So why, I wonder, is this the case? And is this a universal or merely one of my little foibles? I can't speak for others, but I have some suspicions and it may be a different mix of several things for others. Part of this blind spot could be generational, which makes me nervous simply because I don't want to get into the habit of recalling "back in the day" or "the younger generation . . ." But I think those of us in the immediate post-boomer generation, still were raised with the notion of not being stuck on ourselves and not blowing our own horns, at least that is how it was in the Midwest. That could just be true for the females; I wouldn't know about men not having grown up male. We were expected to put everyone else's needs ahead of our own and many of us disappeared into the wallpaper without ever examining ourselves too deeply. Indeed, I didn't wake up to what I believe is my true nature until after I turned forty.

Perhaps it could be that we tend to internalize negative comments about ourselves so much that they drown out the positive ones. We fail to even hear them, much less incorporate them into our sense of ourselves. I know that when someone has touched me deeply with a wonderful comment of how they see me, I find myself hoping that they will repeat it or say something else equally good so that I might embed it more deeply into my psyche. Maybe when we are younger and have less depth of experience, we discount such comments as coming from someone who HAS to appreciate us. After all, your mom and dad have to appreciate you; it's their job. Or they come from our peers who have as little depth as we do ourselves and, therefore, the comments don't have the same deep truth as if it comes from someone we respect.

Primarily, I think we have to grow into it and that growing takes place on a fairly perilous field. Sometimes we find a comfortable place to stay and other times nothing will do but more in-depth investigation of who we really are. The need for growth and exploration continues even if we would rather not face it.

What I have come to believe is that we all have some sort of blind spot about ourselves. And that lack of recognition about something integral to our being can only be awakened by independent assessment coming from outside of our own view. In some very real sense, we can only truly see ourselves reflected in the discerning eyes of someone else. This can be a good thing or a bad thing depending on what there is to see there and how much we are in tune with ourselves to begin with. But we know when what they see rings true, even if we feel obligated by modesty to demur about the good stuff or struggle to deny the negative. We can recognize the truth of it and hunger for more if it is a goodness we have not recognized or acknowledged in ourselves before. And, if it is not positive, many of us will simply fortify the wall around the blind spot rather than examine it for whatever truth it might reveal. It takes a lot of will and energy to uproot those things that go deep.

So, I'm resolved to listen for and consider what others have to say about me. And, if it seems to have an element of truth to it, I will try to make it a part of my own self-image. But, in the meantime, I'm going to go looking for another hairdresser and, maybe, buy myself a hat.

Noticed

Last week, I had decided it was time to push my walking to a higher level. I was feeling a bit lethargic from staying inside due to the weather and I do have ambitions to double last year's weight-loss total. But me, being me, I waited several days to see if the feeling would pass.

Then, yesterday morning, in the throws of a monumental three day funk, I decided it was time to dive in. I chose a destination twice as far as I usually go and in a different direction and set off.

Given that I was taking a new route, there were lots of interesting things to look at and mull over. The first thing I found myself noticing was moss. This was a bit unusual for me. Not because moss is unusual, quite to the contrary. I don't know if Oregon is the moss capital of the world, but it is certainly in the running. So, for the most part, I just don't pay any attention to it because it is literally everywhere. But this time, I noticed and was a bit amazed at the variety. There is the bubbly sort that sits along the edges of the sidewalks. There is the feathery stuff that mixes in with the grass. There are the cascades of green that fall over the edges of stone walls. And there is interesting gray green stuff that randomly drops out of the trees in clumps. I could have continued making mossy observations, but there were other things to notice, both externally and internally.

I looked at the houses that I passed and noticed hints of the owners' personalities in the landscaping and exteriors. Some still had their Christmas lights up, but one had a couple of Valentine hearts surrounded by lights in the window. And, given that I've not been an external decorator, I wondered what that might say about the person hanging it, if anything. I noticed the various color schemes on the houses, mostly nondescript, but others quite horrendous. Robin's egg blue on stucco really doesn't speak to me. And, due to personal issues that I'm not going into here, I will never think that bright pink on a house is a good idea. Perhaps in climates with bright sunlight and heat, it might work. But here in the Pacific Northwest and it's blue-ish light, it is a bad, bad idea.

And what is with the lawn art? Cherubs pouring water into birdbaths not once, but twice, in the same small yard. Interesting little mosaic tiles plopped down in the middle of nowhere also made me wonder at their purpose. Lots of dilapidated and long abandoned benches hidden beneath rhododendrons that grew over them long years past.

As I waited for a crosswalk signal at a busy intersection, I watched the drivers barreling past me and wondered a bit about them. If their expressions were any indication, many of them seemed to be either angry or sad. And this made me wonder about the state in which most of us move through our days. Were they off on a distasteful errand? Or were they unable to put some earlier event behind them? Or had the years worn them down until they had forgotten how to smile? I don't know, but I found myself paying attention to my own expression as I walked on.

By this time, I had walked farther than I had before and was starting to feel the effects. The things I noticed became more sporadic as I slowed down a bit to accommodate my complaining feet and lungs. But I still noticed the thoughts that popped up.

I noticed that there are some very ugly and very expensive items in shop windows, and that sometimes they are the same things.

I noticed a pair of goldfinches chasing each other across the sky in search of the bird equivalent of romance.

I noticed that young people don't want to acknowledge you when they pass on the sidewalk, but that anyone over 40 will say hello.

I wondered how there could be so many people in all those houses and I not know any of them. Then I wondered at the miracle that I know the ones that I do.

I noticed that walking in 30 degree temperatures will make your eyes water and nose run no matter what. And that, if one is disposed to have one's eyes watering or nose running, it is a good cover to be able to blame the cold.

I noticed that walking by a bakery and smelling the aroma is probably a temptation straight from the devil.

I walked past a hedge and heard dozens of small birds chirping from within it and I wondered if they had lost their calendars and didn't realize it was still winter.

I noticed that I wished there were someone to walk beside me on my treks and, perhaps, hold my hand.

I noticed that when the fog lifted and the sun came out, everything looked different, even the moss on the way back home.

I noticed that the last 4 blocks back home are the easiest part of the walk.

I noticed that it always feels good to take off my shoes.

I noticed that I want to go noticing again soon.

Of bunnies and dust bunnies

Last weekend, I was attending the Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival. My entire ambition for the day consisted of meeting a few on-line friends in real life and to stay within my very restricted yarn/fiber budget. But, I hadn't counted on the fateful meeting that was about to occur.

While we wandered through the animal barn, I was mentally stocking my fantasy fiber farm. In very short order, the dairy goats that already occupied that mythical place were going to have to be segregated from the pygora goats that absolutely had to be added to the farm. I rejected the notion of sheep, despite my abiding love affair with wool. Buzzed right passed the alpacas and llamas. I obviously like the idea of them better than the reality of them.

Then we came to the bunnies. Their intrinsic cuteness vibrated through the entire area. Children and adults both were more animated in the bunny section. I oooo-ed over the lop-ears. I ahhhhh-ed over the angoras. And I almost escaped, ready to buy yarn, when the very nice lady said, "The little one is free." Within 30 seconds, she had opened the cage and I was holding this little runt of a rabbit that they were calling by the insulting name of "Hamster". I heard the tale of his being number eleven in the litter and kicked out by his mom, then being adopted by another mother and raised by a girl in 4-H. I was sunk. In nothing flat, he had let me know that his real name was Rupert.

I threw on the coaster brake long enough to wander around the festival a bit longer and even eat lunch. But, despite a lot of very desirable fiber on offer, I was on a bunny mission. So, I peeled off and went to collect Rupert.

Bear in mind, I had no notion as I got up that morning that I needed or even wanted a rabbit. I had never even contemplated a rabbit in my life. So it was a bit surprising to find that my weekend had quickly become bunny-centered. A cage, bedding, food, toys; all had to be procured. The apartment suddenly became un-bunny-friendly and had to be tackled. As the week progressed, cleaning up after Rupert led to increased cleaning everywhere. Now the evenings include the joy of watching a 9-week old bunny bound around the living room, skidding on the hardwood floors.

So, what might it mean that this little rabbit has found me? I'd been wanting a pet for over a year but I'd never considered a rabbit. I was fairly certain that I wanted a parrot. Is it true, I wonder, that people, animals or events come into our lives for a reason? It feels like it may be true. But those reasons could be anywhere on the spectrum from hellish to sublime. Whether Rupert will turn into a lesson in further responsibility or undiluted joy, I do not know. I suspect it might be both.

Folding towels

I pull an armload of towels out of the dryer. Their warmth seeps into the core of my body as I carry them over to the table. The combination of hot cotton and dryer sheet assaults my nose with a smell both comforting and false.

I begin to fold them; matching corners to fold in half and then in half again. The bath towels, in tidy squares, smoothed and piled together. The hand towels in their own little group of rectangles. Then stacked together, bath towels on the bottom, wash cloths on the top, with the hand towels sandwiched in the middle.

I carry them to the linen closet, burying my nose in the fading warmth. Trying to catch the last little whiff as the cotton cools. I straighten out some rumpled towels already there and neatly stack each category of towels with its partners.

The repeated actions lend a rhythm to the chore that echos another beat. I feel that these rhythms that feed my soul are part of and are reflections of the all encompassing rhythm of life which winds through all living things. And it is this connection with that larger rhythm that brings me satisfaction in the smaller tasks.

Colors Without Names

I was making muffins (what else?) over the weekend. The recipe called for a cup of jam. When I stirred it in, the batter turned a delightful color. A color that I had never seen before. A color that I have no name for.

It was cherry jam that I added but it didn't look like "cherry" as it is generally labeled. The flour, the buttermilk and all the other ingredients contributed their own nuances to the batter, so that it wasn't pink and it wasn't beige and it certainly wasn't "cherry". There were flecks of fruit throughout giving contrast to whatever color this was.

When the muffins came out of the oven, they were a different un-nameable color; closer to what we might call "cherry" but only if we mean the color of cherrywood furniture. They were a rich, inviting color. A color for a favorite pullover or a cozy chair. Something to envelop and warm you.

I've noticed the same phenomenon in handspun yarn. The spinner plys two or three seemingly unrelated colors and the resulting yarn is a wonderful, never before seen new color; rich with depth and feeling.

All of this made me wonder about the limits of language. We are visual creatures who take in massive amounts of information through our eyes. And yet, we cannot adequately describe what we see. We cannot share with any exactness the color of a thing without resorting to an endless list of adjectives or delineating what something is not. We say something is green. But what sort of green? Leaf? Olive? Emerald? Grass? Sage? Loden? Moss? Or some shade found only in one location at one time of day when the sun hits it just right?

Our perceptions are so clear that we can take in the feeling of a color but language limps when we try to share it. So I cannot describe the muffins' color, beyond saying that it was the color of jam muffin batter after I stirred in the black cherry Polander All Fruit. And it was very pretty.

Washing Dishes - View 2

I pop the baking into the oven and turn to survey the damages. Not too bad. I turn on the tap and fiddle with it until the water is pleasantly warm.

I begin with all the measuring devices; the spoons and the cups. Very small, very little effort. I look out the window and notice a hummingbird skirting around the camelia bush. I thought it was too late in the year for hummingbirds but there he is and then he's gone.

Next comes the mixing bowls. The flour-y one is quickly disposed of. The one that held the batter takes a bit more attention. A new bird grabs my attention; a flicker climbing on the back fence. I've never seen one this close before. I turn my attention to the various spoons and utensils that I used for mixing and then I'm done. I de-flour the counter and put away everything I washed.

Bing! And the baking is ready to come out. After it cools, I wash the baking pan and the cooling rack. I ask myself what is the difference between this washing up and the previous washing up. There is more of a connection to the action but why? Could it be that it isn't washing but part of the baking? Could it be that it was a controllable amount of washing? Or could it be that my mind was more open to being connected at this time? And, if that is the case, how do I become connected and opened to the less appealing acts of washing?

I strongly suspect that the answer lies within myself and not in the dirty dishes.

Washing Dishes - View 1

Every glass in the house is dirty and both the sink and the counter are piled with dishes. I could blame yesterday's migraine but the dishes got out of control without benefit of an excuse. So, with a heavy sigh, I turn on the hot tap and decide on a plan of attack.

The water is almost too hot, not quite burning my hands, but the delay in washing makes me want to attack the bacteria with murderous intent. The water flows unevenly through the tap making an irregular rhythm as it splashes over its targets. Adding the dish soap, I start in with the glasses, being the least disgusting items in need of cleaning. The slide of water and soap on glass is fun and soothing. There is no other adjective except soapy to describe the feeling of soap. It is its own unique feeling, sliding and slipping across the surface of the glasses.

Then I tackle the dishes, scrubbing away at a bowl with something orange stuck on it. What is that? Did we even eat anything orange colored? And now, scrubbing at something I can feel, but not see, smack in the middle of a plate. If I can't see it, why do I care? What could it hurt? But scrub I do. And, when it finally can be felt no more, I smile.

Bringing up the rear, come the pots. There are only a couple of them but they take more work inside and out. I add more soap to cut the grease and push up the sleeve that has dangled into the danger zone. I don't want to walk around with a soggy sleeve when I'm done. How in the world did grease get on the outside of the skillet? I grab the steel wool and get to work. I knew that I should have soaked this thing. As I apply the elbow grease to the skillet grease, my mind wanders away. Multiple passes with the scrubber before checking to see how much of the gunk is gone. Then back at it as I watch the bottom of the skillet slowly return as the food bits and burned bits gradually disappear.

As the dishes drain, I wipe down the counters and scour the sink. I fold up the towel and survey the results.

Now I get to cook and make a new mess.

Muffins

I've been bitten by a muffin bug. I like baking bread but don't always have the time necessary to do a yeast bread. So, how to satisfy the desire to bake? Muffins are a source of almost immediate baking gratification. But I've noticed it isn't as transitory as it might seem to be at first glance. There is a rhythm that quickly becomes mindless, opening the mind to other observations.

First, all the dry ingredients are combined and set aside. Then all the wet ingredients are whisked together. All of this while the oven is preheating to 400 degrees. Then the two sets of ingredients, wet and dry, are combined by folding the dry into the wet and stirring until everything is moistened. Watching the flour, sugar, baking powder and other "drys" disappear into the egg, butter and milk is strangely appealing. They spiral in clockwise with each turn of the spoon, utterly incapable of avoiding their fate and becoming more than the sum of their parts.

This is followed immediately by the filling of the muffin tins using the old reliable two spoon approach. Scoop up a spoonful, push off into the pan with the other spoon. Repeat until done. Then straight into the oven for a 20 minute tantalizing wait. The smells of the muffins waft through the house making the 20 minutes seem endless. Then the little tempters have to cool for 10 minutes before you can eat them.

So, I ask myself, what is the nature of this satisfaction I get from this small, perhaps insignificant, task of making muffins? The rhythm of the measuring and the mixing allows me to notice things and wonder about them. "Oh, look, I didn't expect it to turn that color." "I must scrape the sides of the bowl, some flour is attempting an escape." "Gee, grating carrots by hand is hard work." "Why does purple batter turn into brown muffins?" "Is the duality of wets vs. drys a metaphor for anything?" And on it goes.

And, given the fact that these muffins will last me 3 or 4 days, in each bite I re-live the satisfaction. Reveling in the knowledge that there is a bit of me, my thoughts, my effort, my spirit; in each one of the them.

They also taste good.