The Wanderer

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One of the four led an attack,
loosed the yarn from the skein.
Unraveled thus she flew to the woods
to sort her heart from her brain.

Pinesap and toadstools welcomed her home,
in treetops she spotted birds nests.
It was here she need not think too hard,
here where her heart found rest.

Did the four influence this wandering child,
friend of the thing with feathers?
For in the woods is where she sensed hope
a place where she was untethered.

Don’t Overthink It

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Let’s face it, anyone can overthink things. Especially when it comes to de-cluttering.

How about going with the heart instead?  Finding the things in your house that spark joy?

That’s right.  Joy.  Pull out all the stops.  Open your dresser drawers, your closets.  Pull out all your clothes.  Pile them on your bed.

You could start with t-shirts.  Does this one spark joy?   Or is it crammed in a drawer that wants to spill out like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s waistline? 

And what about the t-shirt you did not know you even had?  The one a friend gave you — I Heart NY.  Yes, a Keeper.

Can you tell that I have read Marie Kondo’s book, The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up

Not only that.  I recently invited a young woman who is working to obtain her Marie Kondo certification over to my house.   That’s right.  A Marie Kondo certification.  Who knew?

I invited the YW to our house, and then told my husband he needed to disappear for the initial consult.

He scratched his head.  Did as he was told.  Wise man.

The YW was prompt, well-organized, neat and sparkly.  She is a former urban planner  who used to work with my niece.  Ah, family connections.  So important.

We chatted, discussed my goals.  “What are your Touchstones,” the YW asked me.

Simple — fun, blogging, writing, book club, creating vintage greeting cards, Fairy Tale Theater, travel, photography, collage.  “These are a few of my favorite things,” I said, channeling Julie Andrews.

We laughed at the vintage cards created from my family’s photographs:

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The super-focused YW explained the Kondo process.   We started (and have not finished) with clothes, then move on to books, papers and sentimental items.  We agreed to meet every three weeks.

And the husband? I asked her.  

I was hoping to lock him in a closet from the get-go. 

Let me ‘splain:  I do not relish the idea of his dominating the conversation with logic and problem-solving.   I want a deep dive into the heart and intuition of the house and in my opinion women are better at this. 

Then I realized:  Whoa, sister.  We are both the hearth and home.  He is part of this too.  After twenty-five years together, you could say we both fall into the sentimental items category.

I asked the YW about her home and family.  Turns out that she and her husband have two children, six and nine years old.  And they live in a tiny coach house.

A coach house!  When I was single, I dreamed of living in one.  Forget  McMansions.  Give me the garret, the small space.

But this is a family of four and their coach house is only 750 square feet!  She and her husband roll out a Japanese-style mattress every night and pack it up in the morning.  The kids have bunk beds.

They are living the Kondo dream.  Sure hope it works.

I know that me and my sentimental  item will never attain such a spartan lifestyle.  Still, it is fun to dream about a coach house.

 

 

 

Gullible’s Travels

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Riding high, Alki Beach

Hi.  My name is Gil.  I am a seagull who wised up to the world and this is the story of my travels.

First, a little background.   While still a hatchling in the nest, I used to tap on Mom’s beak for feedings.  The menu?  Vomit.  Seagull regurgitation.  Not exactly the variety my dumpster-diving siblings brought home:   chunks of pizza, French fries, Cheetos.  Once, my sibs even brought home parts of a deer leg.   They fought over it.  Screamed morning till night while I, the little hatchling, was still on a diet of Mom’s vomit.  I adapted, became used to these behaviors.  When Dad hung a shingle on our nest that said Safe Place, I believed it.

Still, after a few months I wanted to stretch my wings.  There was a great big world out there I wanted to explore.

As I soared in the clouds above my oceanic watering hole, I felt a rush from the tickling breeze and believed that the world was my oyster.  Forests, mountains, sea — it was all mine.

Suddenly a disciplined white air force of fellow gulls screeched and swarmed around me.  We were being dive-bombed by an eagle.   Shit bombs explode.  Danger, Danger, my amigos called out.  The raptor snatched a fellow-gull and carried him to the top of an evergreen.  I had evaded the eagle’s hungry eyes.

It was my first lesson in communication and cooperation.  Though we scream at each other — and at you human beings — we know there is safety in numbers.

Since I’ve mentioned humans, why do you folks act like we are snarky when we scream or go after the litter you drop?  Why do we have reputations as walking garbage dumps – we’ll eat anything that moves and a lot that doesn’t —  when you’re the ones tossing that hunk of beef jerky on the pier?

Did you ever stop and think that maybe you are the snarky ones?  To survive in the wild, yes I will even go after Styrofoam cups and cheese wrappers.

I need to come clean about that beef jerky.  I snatched it away from Peg Leg.  Peg Leg is a one-legged gull.  That’s right.  One leg.  I did not ask him how it happened.  No.   TMI.   All I know is that he was hobbling over to the beef jerky and I snatched it from him.   The peeps back home in the nest trained me well.  That’s the thing about sibling rivalry – it teaches you how to be bad-ass.   Man that beef jerky was good.

So with my fill of protein that day, I was flying high.  Maybe too high.  For suddenly, an amigo is cruising along with me in the fluffy clouds babbling to me about foreign object debris.  He points his beak at one of those proud birds with the golden tails.  You know – one of your human contraptions – a jet airplane.  He warns me about colliding with a plane’s windscreen, getting sucked into engines.  Really?

But hey, knowledge is power.  My trust in fellow gulls increases.  I dip away from the airplane, land on the beach to rest.  After a decent sleep, I spot a clam saying “Eat Me.”  I down it, but five minutes later puke it up.

A bummer, you say?  No.  A hidden talent that I would not have learned about if I hadn’t left the nest.  We gulls have superpowers:  we can sense paralytic shellfish poisoning before it’s too late.  Bet you can’t do that!

The brush with the toxic clam leaves me thirsty.  And so I fly over to my favorite watering hole:  the Pacific Ocean.  How many creatures do you know who can drink salt water and live to tell about it?  Sharks, crocodiles, maybe.  That’s gangsta, son.  Another instance of Gull Super Power.

I strut my stuff on the shore, fly over to some beach grass where I find a discarded lamb chop.   Thanks to your beach litter, I am learning your chops.

Sated and content, I fly to a tree limb to rest.  But as I tuck my bill into my feathers, I hear cries from a neighboring tree.  To my horror I witness a mature, fellow gull with a chick egg in his beak.  He just robbed a nearby nest of its newly hatched Gull.  I hear the delicate eggshell crack, and watch the mature one feast on its victim.

What? 

I thought I was gangsta, but this?

No.  This was just too much.  I suddenly felt yearnings for Mom.  And so I flew back that very night to the parental unit.  Is it true, I asked Mom.  Do we eat our own?

To me, this was a simple Yes/No question.  But not to Mom.  She would not give me a direct answer.  Instead, she regurgitated some of the same old pablum for me to gobble up.

 “Oh, Gull, just eat your food,” she said.

“The name’s Gil, Mom.”

“No.  From this day forward I call you Gull.” 

“Huh?”

“C’mon.  Mangia, mangia.”

As for my siblings?  They stared at me with the hungriest eyes I have ever seen.

Waving Goodbye

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Nightfall and she waves goodbye from her lace-curtained window.
I hold the wave in my sight, round a corner of the city street.
A family custom to gesture from windows.
A sadness at parting, a not-letting-go.

The tinsel draped fir tree, cranberry garlands and bulbs hidden deep.
My fingers comb the nap of her red velvet couch.
The click of my heels and the tock of her Black Forest clock.
Melted, disfigured choir boy candles sputter out their flame.

Her face shows in tatted, round doilies, antique mirrors.

When I am out at night, I wave to her, I wave to the moon.

 

Alone

“He travels fastest who travels alone.”
From Rudyard Kipling’s poem, The Winners

Alone

This is an homage to Alone.  She has travelled with me from Chicago to my home in Seattle.

An ancestor painted Alone based on a copy from an original illustration.  I know nothing about the ancestor.  The painting has been in the family for approximately 100 years.

It seems fitting that I inherited Alone.  She was a formidable presence in the home of my childhood.   My sisters were not in my play arena.  They are 15 and 11 years older than me.  I joke with the eldest one that when I was growing up, I was an “only child.”

“No you weren’t,” she says.

But it felt that way.  And so while my sisters hung out at the Sugar Bowl with pals, I made up imaginary friends.  One of them was Frosty, pictured here with me, Mother, and sisters:

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Later, in the basement of our house, I constructed my own wooly home made from blankets draped over cabinet doors where I snuggled inside to make believe this was my fortress which no one in the family could storm.
Eventually I re-potted myself and moved to Seattle and married.

But Alone is still with me.  She helped me locate my imagination and realize that “home” — even if attached — is the domain of each individual to seek in his or her heart.