Village of Ordinary

Autumn

2010-12-03T14:40:00.000-08:00

California mule deer
Odocoileus hemionus californicus
Image courtesy Photohiker

Late afternoon sun illuminates the meadow across the way, brilliant backdrop to the shadows already darkening my upstairs studio. Here, shaded by the ancient walnut, the window glass reflects my spotted smock and long brush as the afternoon quickly fades to evening. Frustrated in my attempts to capture on canvas the play of yellow light smudged with darkening shapes, I pause to listen to Tracey's lilting harp. The notes stream pure and clear across the path. Were I to turn to the eastern window, I might peer through the branches of the maple and down into the cathedral windows of her two-story living room, watch her graceful fingers plucking the strings, her arms gliding in arcs as she strokes the chords. Perhaps her mother, Merilee, sits on her low stool, spinning wool, as she does so often when Tracey plays.

But I choose instead to watch the fast-changing light, play with the pigments on my pallet, mixing a little more ivory with the yellow, trying to get the tint just right to record this moment. As elusive as the light is, it is impossible to capture the gaity of Tracey's music, Parry's Sonata in D, dancing in the air, tickling my toes. My brush dances across the canvas, sprightly, but not enough. I drop it into the murky water jar, wipe my hands on my smock and return to the window.

How old is Tracey now? Seventeen. She'll be leaving us soon, off on her roundabout, to learn the ways of other parts of the world. I'll miss her music, as will my dear Cheyenne. With luck, she'll return to us after her two years of exploration and settle in our little village. Cheyenne has long thought Tracey an ideal candidate to succeed her as village maestro.

Movement catches my eye. Across the clearing, a mule deer and her barely weaned young, one male, one female, forage among the oaks near the stream that feeds our lake. I know this family well. They come every afternoon. From now to dusk they'll nibble fallen acorns. When the shadows deepen, they'll follow the trail to their favorite spot along the creek and dip their heads to drink. The mother, ever watchful for the bobcat who likes to hunt this time of day, will keep an eye on her young. She'll butt them with her nose against the neck now and then, reminder to be wary.

By spring, her babes will be grown and on their own, and she will be heavy with new life, thanks to one of the rutting bucks vying for attention these past few weeks. They've not been round the last few days, suggesting she accepted one of her suiters. Dam and young amble deeper into the wood, obscured by brush and darkness. A flash of white as the young buck bounds away is the last I see of them. To the northwest, the low southern sun sets the hills alight with yellow fire. Apple trees glow softly on the near hillside, as if lit from within, all the brighter for the chasing shadows.

____

All text and images, unless otherwise noted, copyright L. Kathryn Grace.

2010-05-18T17:19:00.000-07:00

American Robin (Turdus migratorius)
© Elaine R. Wilson
Creative Commons Deed (Attribution-ShareALike 2.5)

"Can anyone tell me why we compost yard trimmings?"

Hand high in the air, fingers splayed, Nell mouths, "Pick me, pick me!"

"Yes, Nell." She sits taller, chin up, shoulders back, eyes sparkling.

"So all the good stuff in the leaves and branches can turn into dirt." She fairly spits the last word, clearly enjoying the dramatic effect on the younger children. She's growing so fast. Six going on seven.

The other six and seven year olds nod in agreement. Four year old Jimmy, like his younger age-mates, doesn't seem so sure. He cocks his head to one side, and taps a stick, hard, three times, on the deck.

"Miss Rose," Jimmy says, "How can a stick turn into dirt?"

"Good question, Jimmy, and we're going to find out today! Miss Ruby has three carts waiting for us. We'll fill them and push them to the compost bins, where you can see for yourselves."

After yesterday's storm, the play yard outside the nursery is littered with leaves, twigs and other debris. It's a perfect day to teach composting to the little ones. Overhead, a robin trills, his song sweet, lilting. The children turn their heads at his call, spy Miss Ruby, plain old Mom to me, and jump up, rushing to greet her.

"Hugs all round," she laughs, stooping to greet each child. Then, "Nell, Cathy and Nigel, would each of you take a cart and help the younger children don their gloves, please?" Ruby hands a pair of pint-sized garden gloves to each child. "Jimmy, Sarah and Lionel, each of you pick an older child to work with today."

Cousins Nell and Jimmy pair off right away. Jimmy, who tends to run hot, is tangled in his jacket, one arm in and one arm out. "Miss Rose," he turns to me. "My zipper is stuck. Please?"

Ruby smiles and winks as I bend to help Jimmy, then shifts her eyes to Cathy and Nigel. At her call, both raced for the yellow cart, their younger charges close behind. Cathy, slightly taller, beat Nigel by a hair to grab the handle with both hands.

"I saw it first," Nigel says.

"But yellow is my favorite color!" Cathy spreads her feet wide, blocking the cart.

"Let's think about this a minute." Ruby takes each child's hand. Cathy keeps one hand on the cart. Smart girl. "Both of you want the yellow cart. How can we decide who gets it today and who has to wait till next time?"

"It's my favorite color, Ruby! I want yellow all the time!" Cathy stamps her foot and crosses her arms, chin jutting toward Nigel.

"I saw it first!" Nigel strikes a similar pose, fists balled, one foot thrust toward Cathy.

"Perhaps the two of you should take the cart and work together," Ruby says. "I will help Sarah and Lionel with the green cart."

"But I want to show Sarah how to make compost," Cathy stamps her foot again. "This is my first time being the big kid."

"Being a big kid is a lot of responsibility," Ruby says, stooping to eye level with the children, one knee on the damp grass. At eighty-six, my mom is nearly as agile as I.

Cathy nods. "I'm a big kid, and I know stuff the little kids don't know yet."

"You want to share what you know," Ruby says. "Maybe show the little kids easier ways to do things?"

Cathy nods. "Yes, like how to break the twigs into smaller bits before you put them in the compost bin. And, and ..."

"What about things you've learned about getting along? About sharing, maybe. Do you think sharing is important for the little kids to learn?"

"Oh yes, Miss Ruby." Cathy's eyes are big. She tilts her head slightly, gazing into the tree branches above, as if remembering her own lessons about give and take. "Sharing is real important because when we share our toys, it doesn't mean we are giving them away forever. We're just borrowing them for a while. I mean ..."

"You mean you lend a toy that belongs to you for a short while?"

"Yes."

"Later, you get the toy back and can play with it again."

"Yes." Cathy inches closer to the cart, slowly wraps the fingers of one hand around the handle once more. She knows what's coming.

"Would you like to show Nigel and Sarah how you can share the yellow cart today, even though yellow is your favorite color?"

Cathy casts a lingering look at the cart, then smiles and lets go.. "I'm a big kid! Little kids don't know about sharing yet, but I do!"

At that moment, three-year old Lionel touches Nigel's arm, leans up to his ear and stage-whispers, "I like the green cart. Can we take the green cart?"

"Sure, kid," Nigel says, standing tall, puffing out his chest. "Why not?"

Cathy's shoulders rise almost to her ears, her mouth opens wide, and with a squeal she grabs the yellow cart again, Sarah close behind.

"Yay! Yellow cart! Yay!" Little Sarah claps her hands.

"Okay! Let's get started!" Ruby picks up a few wind-dropped twigs and places them in Cathy's cart. "Big kids push the carts and help collect. Little ones gather the twigs and leaves."

There. Jimmy's zipper is loose and the jacket off. "Thank you Miss Rose." Jimmy gives me a big hug and turns to find his cousin. She's holding a twig of Oregon Grape. A small cluster of dessicated berries, last summer's fruit, missed by pickers and birds alike, dangles tenaciously. "Miss Rose," she says, "How do the berries get on the bushes?"

"Another good question, and one that is fun to answer, Nell." We both glance up this time as the Robin tweets his merry song, high in the branches above our heads. The air is fresh with the scent of damp soil, leaves and something else--whole wheat buns baking nearby. "I tell you what, Nell. I know where some jelly made from berries just like these is waiting to be smeared on some hot buns. After we finish the yard, we'll ask the bakery for some of those buns, and I'll tell you all about the berries and how they grow on the twig."

"I wanna come!" Jimmy grabs my hand.

"We'll all go, Jimmy. You, Nell, the other children and Miss Ruby. We'll fetch the buns and eat them with mint tea. How does that sound?"

"Yum!" Jimmy and Nell rub their tummies and run to fill their cart. A drop of water hits my face, square on the eye and cheekbone. I turn upward. Ah! Mother robin spreads her wings, flaps in place, ruffles her feathers, stamping about on the branch overhead. She's the culprit who knocked moisture from a tangled knot of leaves. She has a bit of vine in her beak, about to lay it in her nest. Housekeeping.

Beyond the tree, the sky is overcast, but to the West, a streak of sunlight. We'll have blue skies by noon, and the earth will steam under the sun's warm rays.

All text and images, unless otherwise noted, copyright L. Kathryn Grace.
All rights reserved.

Glow

2010-02-17T06:11:00.000-08:00

Fuchsia-flowered gooseberry
Image courtesy jkirkhart35 / CC BY-NC 2.0

Charcoal clouds hover, too high to drop their load just yet, but they darken and grow heavier with every step I take. Soon. The clouds barely move, and the air here, on the ground, is still.

There's something about the light on an overcast day. Every leaf, twig and flower is vibrant with texture and color. Tiny gooseberry blossoms, dangling from their twiggy branches, glow bright red in this light. Tomorrow, if the sun comes out, I must pass by again to see if I can catch hummingbirds flitting about the bushes. Who knows, I might spy one or two gathering bits of fluff and fur for their tiny nests.

The golden current, cousin to the gooseberry, won't bloom for a few more weeks, but its leaves are popping out. My mouth waters at the mere thought of wild gooseberry jam and fresh-churned butter on Janine's black current scones. I must be hungry. Time to run back to the house and dish up the potato-kale soup I made for Cheyenne and me this morning. We've been housebound with flu and colds all week, though I've managed to steal away for a walk nearly every day.

Murgatroid The Cat, spies me coming up the path and trots out with a greeting, motor running. "Hey, Murg, how's our patient?"

"I'm just fine, thank you." Cheyenne pops through the porch door, but the cracks in her voice, barely audible, thanks to the virus we share, belie her tale. "We came out to watch the sky. Looks like a storm brewing."

The first fine drops mist my cheeks.

"Soup's hot. I made corn bread," Cheyenne smiles, knowing her skillet-baked corn bread is one of my favorites.

"Smells scrumptious. You must be feeling better."

Murgatroid snakes her body around my leg, then bounds across the street. What is she after this time?

Cheyenne laughs at Murg, and turns her soft smile again to me. "I am better," she says and grabs my hand, tucking it under her arm just so. "Let's eat."

Hush

2007-10-21T05:43:00.000-07:00

Murgatroid the Cat and I slip from the bed, careful not to wake Cheyenne. It is dark, still, and even the birds are silent, though dawn can't be long in coming.

Murg pads silently through the open door to the screened porch. I follow, wrapping my sweatshirt-soft kimono tightly to keep in the bed-warmth. The gibbous moon, not yet full, set hours ago, and I make my way in the dark by habit.

The polished terra cotta tiles are cold under my feet. Murg growls, a low rumble. Something skitters under the brush outside. I open the screen door, and she is off in a flash, her dark, shiny coat catching little light as she streaks across the path and into Merilee's back yard.

The breeze is brisk. I pull my robe closer, tightening the sash, but the stars are compelling, and I stand in my bare feet, shivering on the step, awed by the glimmer and sparkle.

A meteor shoots across the sky, followed closely by another. A little trill of delight passes through my body and, involuntarily, I exclaim, a single syllable, "Oh!" A second later, Cheyenne is beside me, her warm arm circling my waist.

"You're watching the Orionids?" she asks.

"Yes, but by accident. I'd forgotten about them."

"Hold on," Cheyenne says, and disappears silently as a cat inside. She returns almost instantly with our big quilted comforter and a wool blanket. We spread the blanket on the grass, to keep us warm and dry from the dew, and wrap ourselves in the comforter.

"Cozy as bugs in a rug," Cheyenne says, and giggles, knowing what I'm thinking. We both love clichés, when they are just right, and hate them when they're off, even a tiny bit.

We snuggle under the bright, starlit sky and another meteor arcs from one side of the sky all the way across to the other, out of sight behind our house. Across the path, we hear Tracey's excited whisper, "Did you see that one, Mom?" and Merilee's response, "Shhh, Darling. You'll wake the neighborhood."

"Don't worry, Merilee," Ralph calls in a stage whisper from his rooftop next door. "We're all up, watching the show."

Cheyenne puts her arm around me and pulls me closer, giggling again. She smells deliciously of strawberries. "Let's stay quiet," she whispers into my ear. "Even though we all know we're out here, let's stay quiet and watch like we're the only ones on Earth."

Occasionally over the next hour we hear others gasp and exclaim when a particularly bright light swoops across the sky, some so low it feels as though we could touch them. The air is crisp and clean. I dart my tongue out to taste it and draw it back immediately, cold. The sky between the stars is so black I feel as if I could fall into it, but the ground beneath us is solid, anchoring.

"Wow! Wow! Wow!" Cheyenne says, forgetting her intent to be silent. "Wow!" A burst of meteors explode across the sky. Tracey claps with glee. Ralph says, "Well I'll be!" Merilee laughs out loud. Across the village, simultaneously, our friends and neighbors erupt with glad exclamations of awe and wonder. "Did you see that?" "I've never seen anything like that!" "Wow!"

We chatter a moment, calling across the way, "Yes, we saw it too!" "Amazing!" Moments later, we all fall silent, watching, waiting. Snug in our cocoon, I feel drowsy. Murgatroid returns from her rounds and curls up on the blanket at our feet. Sated, she purrs loudly enough to warn away the most unsuspecting of her prey.

The sun is cresting the hill when next I waken. Cheyenne opens her eyes and smiles into mine. Birdsong heralds the new day, and somehow, all the way up here, I smell bread baking.

Xianne

2007-07-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

"I remember the day you were born," I tell Xianne. "Your mama was sipping broth in the morning when Ruby and I, baskets full of raspberries and herbs, came by to wait with the women for you to pop out."

We’ve walked the twelve miles to Central Village—Ruby, Cheyenne and I. Several other friends from Ordinary are here, too. Xianne grew up in Ordinary and moved to Central after she and Rupert did their hand-fasting ceremony and built their cottage. We join their friends in Central today to celebrate Xianne’s birthday.

Ruby laughs. “You were a scamp that day, Rose! You wanted to stay outside and pick more berries. Your face and hands were stained red as the birthing blood that would later stain Darla’s sheets. But you had asked Darla if you could come when it was time, and I knew it was important to you, so I dragged you along anyway.”

“I was scared,” I say, my voice small for a moment, like the seven-year-old I was then. I smile, and the smile becomes a deep-throated giggle. “I had seen the cows birth calves, and one of the Mama kitties even let me lie down beside her when her kittens were coming, but I’d heard women in the birthing rooms before, and they weren’t quiet like the animals.”

“Not all of them. That’s true. Some let out good healthy grunts and groans when they’re pushing, and some holler quite a bit, too,” Ruby says. “But I knew that Margaret and Jess had things well in hand with Darla. Darla was strong, and we didn’t expect any trouble.”

“She didn’t give any, either,” Darla shakes her white curls. “Xianne gave me no trouble in her birthing, and she never gave me a speck of trouble after, either. Not a teensy, tinsey bit!"

“Jessica wasn’t quite old enough to take the baby when she popped out,” Margaret says, eyes focused somewhere on the ceiling. She’s sitting in the rocking chair Rupert made when he and Xianne were expecting their own first babe. The soft redwood glows with a patina from the oils he tenderly rubbed all those years ago, and from years of oiling and cleaning and using.

I imagine he spent many a winter evening smoothing and rubbing the wood, visualizing the child to be, how it might feel to hold the baby for the first time.

“So when Xianne’s head started to crown, I called you over. You were absolutely fascinated. I thought I might just have another midwife-in-training on my hands.”

“She went around for weeks after, telling everyone she saw about the birth and that she had decided to become a midwife just like Margaret and Jessica,” Ruby smiles.

“And Grandma Jess! Don’t forget Grandma Jess, who taught Mama everything she knows,” Jessica says, pulling her red hair up into a knot and securing it against the heat. Secure is a loose term where Jessica’s whispy hair is concerned. It will be falling out, haloing her face in no time at all.

“I could never forget Grandma Jess,” I tell her. “After Xianne was born, she let me shadow every birthing she attended. For such a young one, I held an awful lot of babies while they’re mamas got up to wash.”

“You did indeed,” Margaret chimes in. “I thought for sure you’d become a midwife, right alongside Jessica.”

”But you didn’t,” Xianne says. “Why not?”

“You know, this really isn’t about me today,” I tell her. “What I really wanted to say is that the day you were born was special even before I knew you were on the way. It felt special the moment I heard the robins singing. It sounded like a whole choir of them, and they were happy and singing to each other in a way I’d never heard before! I couldn’t wait to get outside.”

”That’s right,” Ruby says, eyes closed, voice soft. “I remember that, too. I walked onto the veranda to listen more closely, and you were already there, in the early morning half-light, your tiny face turned up to the sky, eyes shut, and an expression so blissful I could hardly bear it.”

She pauses, hugging her knees against her chin, her own face blissful in the memory.

“We stood silently, neither of us daring to move a muscle, while the light slowly crept over the hills and gradually draped itself down their sides until it was shining on your own sweet face.

"The birds, spent perhaps, busied themselves in the grass, nipping beetles and errant worms basking in the morning dew. I never saw such a spectacle before or since.”

“That’s why you were both standing there like that when I ran over to tell you Darla’s baby was coming,” Jessica claps her hands. “I had never seen so many robins in one place before, and there the two of you were, standing still as statues, the sun lighting your faces like two miniature suns, and all those birds, chirping and hopping on the ground. I felt like I’d stumbled onto holy ground.”

“That’s exactly what you said, too,” Ruby opens her eyes slowly, raises her head and takes a breath as if coming up for air. “Do you remember? You were only four at the time.”

“I remember trying to say it and feeling like I didn’t have the right words.”

“No, you did! You said, ‘Holy ground. The birds are eating holy ground.’”

Laughter peals across the valley, echoes off the canyon walls against which the cottage is set.

Rupert picks up Xianne’s hand. “My angel,” he says. “You were born on the day the birds ate holy ground.”

“Every birth is special,” Darla says. “We celebrate every one with such gladness, but I have to admit, the day you were born did seem especially joyful. The whole village seemed to feel it.” Xianne's daughters and sons-in-law step from the kitchen then, bearing trays of iced tea and lemonade. Behind them, Cheyenne maneuvers Janine’s chair.

For once, Janine is letting someone help her with the chair as she carefully balances a candle-laden cake, fiery even in daylight.

“Happy Birthday Xianne!” We sing out in unison. “Happy fifty-two!” “We love you!”

I give thanks for this day. I give thanks for the beautiful woman I have loved for fifty-two years, from the moment she popped into view, from the first moment she was placed gently in my little-girl arms to hold in awe and wonder. I give thanks for the joy she brings to all our lives. May all the moments of her life be as blessed as this one.

Happy birthday, Xianne, sister-friend.

Wings

2007-04-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

"We're thinking of trying again."

Balboa says this quietly, without looking up from the bridge of blocks and books she is helping five-year-old Linnea and six-year-old Tommy build across the imaginary River Blue, named for Balboa's sky-blue scarf meandering across the nursery floor.

At breakfast, Ruby said she needed to gather herbs today. Alone. She said it rather pointedly, her sharp eyes on her granddaughter. Balboa had not looked up from her plate, studiously carving a bite-size morsel from her fritatta. She put down her fork, picked up her juice and in one long, dainty, glub-a-glub, drained the glass and set it down.

"I'll take your nursery shift today, Ruby" she said. "It would be nice to have some time with Mama Rose."

If Balboa was a little chary of seeing the wee ones, it lifted the moment she walked through the door and Linnea grabbed her hand.

"C'mon Balboa!" she had said, pulling my tall daughter across the room to the block cupboard. "Show me how to build stuff! I want to be an arc-i-teck just like you when I grow up!"

Balboa laughed, and before you knew it, she and Linnea and Tommy had built an entire town under a bluff. Now they're constructing the bridge to connect this town to one they plan to build on the other side of the river.

They've built foot-high supports adjacent equally high cliffs made of books. The supports are narrow blocks, piled one on top of the other, and none too stable. Gingerly, Balboa lays a 12-inch ruler on top of one support piling and brings it down to rest on the other. It barely stretches, with half an inch to spare on each side.

"What do you think, Kids," she asks. "Will it support my car?" She pulls a cylindrical block from the construction pile and raises it to the bridge.

"Wait!" Linea squeals, bringing her hand up like a traffic cop. "It's gonna fall! I know it is."

"Yeh," Tommy says. "It'll be neat! Come on, Balboa. Put the car on the bridge and see if it falls."

"First, Tommy, I'd like to hear why Linnea thinks the bridge won't hold."

Linea sits back on her haunches and studies the bridge. She lies down on her belly and skooches over so her head is almost under the ruler.

"See," she says. "The pilings are jittery. They're not solid like a real bridge. When you put your car on the ruler, it will make the ruler creaky, and when the ruler gets creaky, it's gonna wobble, and when it wobbles, the pilings will wobble, and when they wobble, they're gonna fall down."

"I see," Balboa says. "Like this you mean?"

She sets the car just barely onto the ruler, back far enough that most of its weight is supported by the piling. The column wobbles, but it doesn't fall.

"Well, it would fall if the car tried to cross the bridge," Linea says. "The pilings are holding it up now."

"So the pilings can support the weight of the car," Balboa agrees, "but you think once I move the car onto the bridge all will come tumbling down? Like this?" She sets the cylinder a little further onto the ruler, just barely away from the piling, and sure enough, the bridge collapses. Only a few blocks remain stacked on one another.

"I know! I know!" Tommy says. His face is flushed with eagerness. "See how the down-low blocks stayed? What if the bridge were only that tall? I bet you could put the car further out before it fell."

"Hmmm. Let's try it." Balboa helps the children remove books until their cliffs are the same height as the surviving pilings.

Quickly they reassemble the bridge, but clever Linnea speaks up. "It still won't work, Balboa. It's still gonna fall. We should build the bridge right off the cliffs. See? Like this."

She shoves the piling blocks aside, moves one set of books a few inches closer to the other, and spans the chasm with the ruler. This time, about three inches of ruler sit on each cliff.

Tommy picks up the cylinder and sets it on the bridge, picking it up and setting it a little further along till it has crossed the span. The bridge holds.

Linnea smiles, but down on her belly again, scrutinizing the setup, she is clearly thinking of the next step in the puzzle.

"What if we move the cliff back a teeny bit," she asks Tommy.

"Yeh, let's see how far we can pull 'em apart before the bridge falls again," he grins.

"I'm going to sit with Mom while she rocks little Rosalie." Balboa ruffles Tommy's sandy hair as she picks herself from the floor. He and Linnea are so busy moving the cliff, they don't notice her leaving.

"My budding engineers," she says, taking a seat in the empty rocker next to mine. She pulls it closer. "Rosalie asleep?"

"Yes. I suppose I should put her down so I don't wake her too soon, but I feel such joy when I hold her. She smells so sweet."

Nodding toward the children working out the many ways they can build their bridge, I tell her, "You're wonderful with them."

"We are, you know," she says, looking me in the eye, a bit of smile in her eyes, around her lips. Of course she's not talking about how wonderful anyone is with Tommy and Linnea. Her eyes are clear, but reveal a hint of the suffering she's been through these last months.

"We're going to give it another go. We want more than one child, and we waited so long to settle down and start a family that we don't want to waste any time now, but I'm scared, Mom."

"I know, Sweetheart. I'm a little frightened for you myself."

"Bettina says there is no reason we shouldn't be able to have a dozen children if we want, but I don't know what I'd do if we lost another baby."

There is the tiniest hint of a quaver in her voice and her eyes fill with tears, then she laughs out loud as in unison we spout the phrase we both learned at Ruby's knee:

Life's nothing without risk!

"This is a lot bigger than a scraped knee from jumping off the tool shed roof," she says, "though I remember screaming like I hadn't just barely missed the tines of the pitchfork we'd left lying on the ground!"

"Thank goodness all you got was the wind knocked out of you. It could have been much worse! What were you thinking when you jumped off that roof?"

She laughs. "Well, I was gonna fly, of course! I just knew I could fly. All I needed was someplace high to start with and I'd be a bird! It wasn't only that day, y'know. I'd tried before, and I kept trying because I knew I could fly. I got the wind knocked out of me so many times, and worse a couple o' times, before I finally gave up and submitted to the twin facts of gravity and a wingless body."

"Some things don't work out like we expect, no matter how hard we try do they? Is that what you're afraid of? That this might be like flying?"

"Yeah, maybe." She bites her lip.

"Thank goodness you have a strong woman's body that was built for birthing, then!"

She laughs again, her whole face lit with a glow that has always been exclusively and perfectly Balboa's. My heart swells with joy and love for this woman whose very being is one of life's greatest gifts.

She throws back her head and laughs harder. The children look up and smile. Baby Rosalie raises her head from my shoulder and sleepily looks around, then lays back down, gurgles, heaves a big sigh, and falls heavily to sleep again.

"You're right, Ma," Balboa grins, eyes full of mirth, not tears. "I may not have wings, but I surely do have a woman's body built for birthing."

She rocks back in the chair, gently setting it to and fro. Eyes closed, smiling widely, she whispers, "Maybe we'll have half a dozen."

Balboa

2007-01-17T05:29:00.000-08:00

I waken to light flickering into the bedroom from the porch. There is a fire in the chiminea. Carefully, so as not to waken Cheyenne, I creep from the bed, don my kimono, and slip through the adjoining door.

Balboa is lying on a blanket Janine weaved for her bed when she was a little girl. I keep it on the porch now, to warm us when there is a chill in the air. She lies prone, on her back, her head nearest the chiminea, arms at her side, palms up. Her chest rises and falls steadily in deep, even breaths. She is meditating. Good.

She does not open her eyes when I lower myself to a corner of the blanket. I sit tailor fashion, my hands on my knees, and breathe, present for her if she needs, but wishing even my breath so still it cannot disturb her.

From time to time, I add a log to the fire, then return to meditation. Cheyenne slips in, sits on the opposite corner of the blanket, near Balboa's feet. She places a quilt over Balboa, the one she made for Jasmine's bed when they were small. We make eye contact briefly, then close our eyes.

How is it women of the village know to come? But they do, one by one--Ruby, Merilee, Betty, Sena, Cathy, Jessica and her mother Margaret, who taught Jessica the craft of midwifery. My eyes overflow with tears when the twins, Kami and June, enter, quietly as kittens.

No one speaks. We sit. We sit with our love for Balboa, with our memories of her childhood, moments of laughter and tears. We breathe. We are present.

In that hour before first light, when the birds begin their morning calls, the chiminea glows red with the hot coals filling its belly, and Balboa stirs. Her knees jerk to her chest and a cry escapes her throat, guttural. Blindly, she drags herself to my lap, grabs my hips and holds on as if drowning. She cries out again, a sound so deep, agony from the very core of her. It is the sound of birthing, grunting and sorrow wound together as I have never heard before.

It is as if all the pain she has held in her body these past days must come out and she is helpless to hold it back. I am aware of another cry, equally deep, and it is my own throat, my own lungs, my heart that is bellowing. Cheyenne weeps, and others, so full of Balboa's loss and suffering that none would try to hold back this aching, wounded bitterness.

We cry until we are, every last one of us, spent. Balboa loosens her grip on my hips, lays her head in my lap, snuffles into my kimono, curls up in a fetal position, and falls asleep. Blessed sleep. Cheyenne, who laid her head on Balboa's hip and wrapped her arms around her while she cried, now moves again to her feet, places her warm hands on them. I know they're warm because her hands never fail to be Reiki hot when there is a need. Still, she sits silent, lips moving slightly in prayer.

Ruby rises and moves into the house, returning after a time with two teapots and a tray of sweet breads and fruit and cheeses. We are spent, and she serves us silently, careful not to disturb Balboa's rest.

Then, as quietly as they came, the mothers and grandmothers and daughters of the village slip away, one at a time. Cheyenne and Ruby and I sit with our beloved daughter and granddaughter and pray that she may sleep long and waken with hope in her heart.

Mira

2007-01-14T10:01:00.000-08:00

We buried Mira today.

My heart is sore, my eyes and throat red and raw, but I am breathing easier than I have in days. The sky is a brilliant blue, clouds lofty, cumulus and white. Pink buds are opening on the plum trees.

Last month, Balboa and Packer arrived, all the way from the Village of Jasper, to spend the winter holiday with us at the lake in the Sierras. It has been wonderful having them here. We knew of their visit, but they surprised us with Balboa's swollen belly and grins so wide we thought their faces might break.

Balboa wanted her child to be born in Ordinary, where she was born, where Cheyenne and I were born, and Ruby, and grandmothers going back on one side or the other for longer than anyone can remember.

Her fathers, Beryl and Ronnie, surprised us further by tagging along, so we were all here, the whole family except for Jasmine, our oldest, who has been across the ocean with her husband and daughter so long.

Packer loved the forests of the Sierras. He said, yes, he could spend a few years here, learning the ways of this land and its creatures, and so they will stay, raising their young one. Bliss.

Then, two days ago--can it be only two days ago? It seems like a century--Jacob came to the door. Something is wrong with Balboa, he said. She is crying, and she hurts. Another time, I might have asked how he knew, but Jacob seems always to know when someone in the village is suffering.

We rushed to the guest house, Cheyenne and I. Jessica, the midwife, had already called for the regional physician, Bettina. "I think we're going to lose the baby," she said, her face grim. "Bettina will know whether there's anything more to be done, or whether, at nearly five months, we can save the child."

But it was not to be. Perhaps the physical agony of premature labor took Balboa's attention from the emotional pain for a few hours, but I cannot take comfort in such speculation. She would not speak afterward, nor would Packer, or if they did, I do not know to whom.

Packer took off to the hills, striding away on his long legs, his boots leaving deep marks on the moist path around the lake. Last night he returned with a small, moss- and lichen-covered log. He had cut the log in half lengthwise and hollowed out the pith, then lined it with beautiful green and gray mosses. He must have climbed very high in the trees to get so much clean, new moss. Cheyenne had begun a quilt for the baby the day they arrived, and Balboa asked if she could wrap the tiny body in the unfinished square.

"Seems right, don't you think?" she said, her sad eyes soft in the light from the partially covered window.

So we washed and wrapped the lifeless darling and kissed it. Balboa held her and crooned a lullabye I didn't know she remembered and handed her to Packer, who placed her in the log. He'd attached the top half ingeniously with a leather hinge the length of the log. Painstakingly, he laced together two additional strips of leather, each attached to one piece of the log, top and bottom. When he pulled the laces taut, the leather was almost entirely inside the log, and so it was sealed.

Packer carried the tiny coffin, remnant of the life-cycle of the forest, and we walked, the village, all of us, even Balboa, to Strawberry Hill. We buried the baby, whom Packer and Balboa decided to call Mira, in the heart of the cherry orchard, where just last fall Sena and David and I had dragged out the stump and roots of the oldest tree, dead after more than seventy-five years of bountiful service, and prepared the ground for planting.

Rains had come before we could plant the new sapling, but today the ground was perfect. So we buried Mira and planted a brand new cherry tree next to her grave.

I do not know why Balboa must suffer like this, why Packer must suffer, and all of us who love them so. There is no way to explain these things. But Sena knows, and Jacob, and Betty, and anyone who gardens or works with animals knows that nature, so bountiful in her gifts, so free with her burgeoning life, is also about death. Without death, there would be no decay, and without decay, no new life springing forth.

And life does spring forth. Always. Everywhere. It is impossible to keep it down.

And so, once again, I sit breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

We are strong women, Ruby, Cheyenne, Balboa and I. We have known sadness before. We will know it again. I would take this sorrow, this body memory from Balboa if I could, for her heart is broken, and she cannot speak to me of it, perhaps speaks to no one of it.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I cannot bear to see my child suffer.

In.

Nor can I take this from her.

Out.

And so I pray.

In.

And I breathe.

Out.

Cool air in.

Warm air out.

Life in.

Life out.

I give gratitude for the strength of my body, for the strength of my mind, for passion and compassion, for life that will not be put down.

In.

I give gratitude for the strength in Balboa and Packer, for the strength of their love, for the strength of all who love them.

Out.

I give gratitude for time that will dull the pain, can dull the memory of pain, once healed.

In.

I give gratitude for breath.

Out.

In.

Out.

May you be free
May you be happy
May you be at peace
May you be at rest
May you know we remember you*

*Alice Walker from "This Was Not an Area of Large Plantations: Suffering Too Insignificant for the Majority to See" in We are the Ones We Have Been Waiting For

Dance

2006-09-15T02:58:00.000-07:00

Cheyenne winks at me as we roll out the dance floor and snap it into the stretchers. It takes six of us, evenly spaced, to roll the floor, and I strain with the exertion.

"Breathe!" Janine challenges from the sidelines. "It takes oxygen to move muscles!"

Ah, she's right. I was pushing so hard I forgot to breathe.

It’s ingenious, this floor. The carpenters and sewers designed it together, which is not so far-fetched, when you think about it.

Whether joining wood or fabric, you need to measure and cut carefully, then seam the pieces together. Nails, screws, and bolts stitch beams and walls. Pins, needles and thread, hooks and eyes do the same for quilts and shirts.

The dance floor is thirty feet by thirty, large enough for squares, rounds, jigs, and line dances. Made of tiny slats of bamboo, the floor lies perfectly flat when pinned in the stretchers, and rolls up neatly for storage.

To keep it stable on uneven ground, the sewers made a sub-floor of canvas stuffed with firm cotton batting, softer on the bottom to dip and swell with the earth, firmer on top to provide a stable surface for the bamboo. The edges of both subfloor and floor slip into vise-like stretchers on all four sides. Well-spaced pegs anchor the stretchers to the ground. The result is a firm, smooth surface for happy feet.

“Save a dance for me,” Cheyenne whispers, pecking me on the cheek.

She is playing bass fiddle in the band tonight. I love to watch her hands stroking the long neck, plucking the strings. Too in love with making music to be self-conscious, she is oblivious to the thrill I feel watching her dance with the instrument, a secret I have kept for twenty years.

Cheyenne and the other players tune their instruments while the rest of us finish stringing the lights and setting the refreshment tables.

Dusk is settling to dark on this cool September eve, and the first star hangs low and bright in the sky, twinkling with our cheery strands lighting the perimeter of the dance floor. More lights along the yard's edge reflect off the smooth surface of the pond.

Crickets sing, along with the tree frogs. The mockingbird adds its evening call.

As the first strains of music spill into the air, someone touches my elbow. “May I have this dance?”

“Jacob! I would be delighted! My goodness, you are as tall as I am! Have you grown another six inches in the last six weeks?”

He flushes from his neck to his ears, and I regret my comment immediately, but his grin is wide when he answers.

“Yup. Pa says I’m keeping the weavers and sewers busy at least two days a week all by myself, just to keep me in britches and shirts. C’mon!”

He bows a gentlemanly bow, takes my hand, and leads me onto the floor in a fast-paced two-step to You Never Can Tell.

Jacob is unexpectedly smooth, gliding us clockwise round the floor. He holds my hand gently at just the right angle and guides me neatly with the slightest pressure on my back.

“Jacob, when did you learn to dance like this?”

“Pa’s been teaching me. I wanted to try it out on you first, Rose, ‘cause I knew you’d be honest with me. Am I doing okay?”

His face is earnest, his eyes dark under reddish-brown brows.

“Jacob, only your Pa could teach a young man to do the two-step like a seasoned dancer. In fact, I’d say he’s the only one in the village who can guide a partner more gently or confidently.”

Jacob lets out a long breath. I hadn’t realized he was holding it.

He flushes again, all the way to his forehead.

“You planning to ask someone else to dance tonight?” I am deliberately coy, only because I feel like a favorite aunty who can get away with anything.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, flushing deeper.

He misses a beat, recovers immediately, and I catch Cheyenne’s eye as we round the floor nearest the stage. She winks, and runs her right hand down the strings of the bass in the final riff of the song.

I hide a smile as Jacob bows again and walks me to an empty table. Unexpectedly, he sits too. We catch our breath together in silence. He fidgets, rolling the hem of his shirt back and forth against his leg.

“What it is, Jacob?”

“I’ve never asked a girl to dance, Rose. Not, well, not a grown-up girl, I mean, a girl that I liked. You know.” His eyes are lowered. The chair squeaks as he shifts in his seat.

“Hmmm. Someone you like a lot . . .”

He glances toward the refreshment table, where Elizabeth is pouring punch. At just that moment, she lifts her head and their eyes meet. She flashes the smile of a girl infatuated with a boy and he lowers his head, ears flaming red. Mournful eyes look deeply into mine. I stifle an inappropriate, unwelcome giggle.

“I never felt like this before, Rose,” he says. “My insides hurt when I look at her. I feel all quivery. When she smiles like that, I want to smile back, and I want to run as far as I can, all at the same time.”

“What does your Pa say about it?”

“He says that’s exactly how he felt when he was courtin' Ma. He says it’s natural and I should get used to it because I’m fast becoming a man. But I don’t feel like a man, I feel like, like, I don’t know what!”

Tenderness wells in me for this boy I once found sleeping with a family of mule deer, far from the village, and who can call blue birds to his hand.

“What should I do, Rose?”

“Jacob, remember how you felt the first time you found an injured animal and nursed it back to health?”

“The goshawk we found with a broken leg when I was four. You showed me how to splint it. We fed her and exercised her until she was ready to go on her own again.”

“Do you remember how you felt when we found her?”

“I, I couldn’t catch my breath.”

“You shook like the leaves on an aspen.”

“I thought she would die!”

“Do you remember how you felt when we released her and you watched her soar?”

“I felt big! I felt like we could do anything! I felt as if I were flying with her. It was like I could see through her eyes--see us back on the ground, waving to her.”

“Love can be like that, Jacob, a little terrifying at first, because you don’t know what is going to happen, but when you nurture it and let it go, it can blossom into something that leaves you breathless and exhilarated, and completely at peace all at the same time.

“Sometimes you become good friends, down the road. Sometimes, like your ma and pa, you become life partners. Who’s to say? This is your first love? Treat it with care, nurture it lovingly, see where it grows.”

“Hello Jacob.”

We both turn to Elizabeth, balancing two cups of punch on a small tray of goodies.

“I thought you and Rose might be thirsty.”

Elizabeth includes me by name, but her eyes are for Jacob.

“Thank you, Elizabeth, but I promised a dance to Cheyenne, who is about to take a break from playing. Would you mind keeping Jacob company?”

Neither is listening. If Jacob’s face were any redder, it would catch fire. Elizabeth sets the punch coolly in front of him, and the other cup in front of herself as she takes a seat.

“Would you come by tomorrow and look at our kitten?” Her voice is strong, with just a hint of quaver. “She’s avoiding her food the past few days.”

Jacob sits up, all shyness gone at the thought of an animal in distress, and begins asking questions.

Wise girl.

Neither notice when I step away to Cheyenne, who is waiting discreetly, just out of earshot.

“What was that about?” Cheyenne asks.

“First love,” I smile, squeezing her hand.

“They’re playing our song, my own dear first love.”

She grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor where we sway and bend to the strains of one of our favorites, and Cheyenne sings softly, into my hair.

Do you still get a thrill
When you see me comin’
Down the hill,
Honey now do ya?

Do you whisper my name
Just to bring a little comfort to ya?
Honey now do ya’?

Honey I sure do,
Still love you
. . .*

*© K.T. Oslin?

Tadpole

2006-06-16T12:29:00.000-07:00

It is a gorgeous evening--one of those perfect spring eves when the air is sweet with scent, the sky is clear blue, wisps of cloud portend showers later in the week, and birds fill the air with chirping and cheeping.

I'm strolling the pond, loosening the kinks in my neck and shoulders after shoveling compost all day. The sandy path feels good, cool on my soles. I round the bend and there, under the thorny tendrils of a wild rose bush, lie the bottoms of two bare feet, tiny and black with dirt.

Lifting the cascading branches gingerly--Thank goodness my hands are calloused and tough!--I follow the line of a very short body to the water's edge.

"Ariadne, what in heaven's name are you doing lying half in the stream!"

"Shhhh, Rose", a mud-smudged face turns toward me just long enough to place a finger to its lips and whispers, "I'm watching the tadpoles turn to frogs."

She turns her face carefully to the water again and measures her breath slowly, not moving, though it hardly matters. When I raised the vines, the tadpoles darted about frantically, but they've already settled back to their work, cleaning the pond of algae and growing fatter.

"Look Rose," seven-year-old Ariadne whispers. "Some of them have almost lost their tails. See? They have legs. Look at that one hopping!"

She points to a tiny tree frog, small as her thumb, leaping from a blade of grass to a leaf floating on the water.

"They're Hyla regilla, Pacific tree frogs," Ariadne says proudly. "I looked them up in the library. In the fall they'll make so much noise, Mama says I'll wish I never heard of a frog!"

Ariadne scoots out from under the rose bush. "Don't tell anyone right away about the tadpole hole, will you, Rose? Please? They're not ready for a lot of kids to come crashing and stomping around. Can you keep the secret? Please, Rose?"

"Yes, Ariadne, I will keep your secret," I tell her, laughing as I help her straighten her bunched up jacket. "Good grief! How long have you been lying under there? You have twigs in your hair, and clumps of mud."

"I know. Mama will be fe-yur-ious!" Ariadne's eyes are bright with joy and discovery. "But mostly she'll just be glad I'm home before dark."

She races down the path, legs spinning as only a child's can, calling back to me as she goes. "Don't forget, Rose! Secret!"

A warm glow spreads through my chest as I meander round the pond. I stroll more slowly, enjoying the breeze, pausing to watch the Great Blue Heron fishing for his supper. In the dimming light of dusk, I step carefully, watchful for tiny creatures that may be crossing the path.

Something leaps from the water, out of sight, but not out of earshot--that quick, wet sound of a body breaking the surface, snapping a fly, perhaps, in mid-air, and just as quickly, "schlup," sliding under again.

The sky is yellow and mauve and blue. Honeysuckle and night jasmine mingle with the muskier scents of the pond. In the distance, I hear laughter, and the strains of a guitar tuning. There will be music in the village tonight.

Moon

2006-05-17T01:05:00.000-07:00

"There! Did you see it?"

Janine points, tracing the arc of the shooting star already disappeared from the brilliant canopy above our hillside. The stars are so bright tonight, the hills glow, though the moon will not rise for another hour, well after midnight.

I inhale deeply, taking in the scents of lilac, jasmine, and cottonwood. A breeze whips strands of hair around my face, stinging my eyes. I shiver, but I am warm in my sleeping bag, tucked next to Cheyenne's.

"There's another!" Sena's alto tones carry the excitement of a child as she cranes her long, graceful neck upward. The silhouette of her face, dark against the starlit grasses, is classical beauty--well-rounded cheekbones, straight nose, high forehead.

We are miles from the Village--Janine, Sena, Cheyenne, Ruby, Merilee, Betty, and I--on our first campout of the season. Minimalists, we sleep on bare ground, our bags zippered close for warmth, thick trampled grasses beneath for cushion.

Our bellies are full of stone soup and pan-baked cornbread hot from the coals.

Earlier this afternoon, dusty and soaked with perspiration after our long morning's trek, we slaked our thirst and cooled our aching muscles in the crystal waters of the stream, rushing full, swift, and cold from the High Sierras.

We rinsed our dusty clothing in the stream, too, and laid it to dry on shrubberies while we baked naked in the late afternoon sun. By the time we donned our garments, the sun was lowering in the sky, and its stored warmth through the cotton and flax was delicious on our skin.

The scent of sun-dried textiles and dyes is almost intoxicating. I wasn't the only one hugging my sleeve to my nose, and taking whiffs of my collar as we bustled to set up camp and light the fire.

Cheyenne yawns and twists in her bag. One arm under her head, she reaches the other across, searching for my hand. Our fingers twine, warm.

"I don't know if I can stay awake till the moon comes up," she says. "I keep drifting away."

"Go to sleep, Darling," I tell her. "I'll wake you if it's extra special."

"Don't you dare," she laughs, and rolls over. "G'night everyone," she calls.

"G'night, Cheyenne." "Good night!" "Sleep tight!" "Don't let the bed bugs bite!"

Giggling, and chortling at the childish treacle, the one or two still up settle into their sacks. I listen for awhile to the quiet voices as here and there someone calls out another shooting star, or tells a tale of childhood camping trips. Wildlife skitter under the brush. A coyote barks in the distance.

And there, just as I can hold my eyes open no longer, the waning moon slips above the crest of the hill, casting light so bright, I can almost count the hairs splayed across Cheyenne's shoulders.

Tears well in my eyes. My heart is full.

May all who lie under this moon this night be blessed as I.

May all beings feel this peace, this comfort.

Blessed be.

Sena

2006-03-22T01:50:00.000-08:00

"If I had to do this all day every day, I would be bald and have no teeth left!"

Sena's shoulders are high and rigid. She runs a hand through her nappy hair for the umpteenth time and clenches and unclenches her jaw, but her eyes sparkle and her voice is full of mirth.

I laugh with her.

"How do Noah and the rest of the librarians stand being cooped up in this airless room?" she asks?

We are closeted in a long, narrow, windowless vault in the heart of the library, cataloguing tapes for the oral history project.

The tedium and confinement are near torture for my rugged friend, more at home in the wilderness than these walls.

Powerful and graceful, tawny in clothing, complexion, and hair color, Sena reminds me of a caged wildcat. If the space permitted, she would pace.

"They don't even notice," I tell her. "They get so engrossed in these tales, that they forget everything but the stories. They love it like we like hiking in the far hills alone all day."

"Do you think they're as miserable planting tomato and pepper seedlings in the gardens as we are sitting here?"

"Actually, I don't. It's a perfect spring morning. The air is crispy fresh, the sun is shining, the soil is fresh and fragrant.

And who doesn't feel a huge sense of satisfaction looking down a straight row of seedlings they set in the ground themselves?"

"We do give them the best gardening chores," Sena says, but she is smiling and bears no rancor. No one loves sharing the wonders of Nature with the "wild-challenged," as she calls them, like Sena.

Farming is heavy work this time of year. Even the hardiest of us ache with the labor.

For weeks now we have culled the deadwood from the orchards and village trees, cleared flower beds and vegetable plots, turned and raked the soil to make it ready for seeds and seedlings, and set saplings--some twelve or more feet tall with root balls bigger than a bushel basket.

During these weeks of pruning, plowing, and planting, we take our hour or two of daily chores mostly indoors, a welcome respite for our aching muscles.

Other villagers--such as the librarians and communications squad, elders and children--get a chance to make a lasting contribution to the vegetable gardens, planting the seeds and sprouts that will become much of our food for the next year.

Unlike Sena, I love hearing the old-timers' stories in their own voices. And the children! What a delight to see the village from their perspective.

Still, the air in the library is stifling, more so in this small room with its flickering computer screens and whirring electronics.

Pushing a stack of tapes away, Sena camouflages a yawn with a stretch so wide her arms span one wall to the other.

I have to smile. I bet she thinks I can't see her roll her eyes from this vantage point.

Yawning unabashedly now, she stretches her long fingers wider and touches the wall at her work station with the flat of one hand and the shelves on the opposite wall with the flat of the other.

Sena's hands.

Knobby with calluses, broken here and there with cuts and scars, nearly a foot from little finger to thumb, her strong hands are as adept at healing as they are providing food and fibers for the village kitchens and mills.

Lowering my head to my work, I hide my smile. I have a surprise for her.

"What are you grinning at," she says, flashing a perfect set of teeth in a lopsided grin of her own.

Caught! Before I can reply, Cheyenne peeks her head round the door.

"Did someone call for music?" she asks.

"A concert? Here?" Sena says. She jumps up to peek around the corner and bangs her shin on the low table.

"Yup. We're setting up right outside your door. Rose thought y'all could use some distraction while you work."

"And how!" Sena rubs the back of her neck, ignoring her shin. "Thought I might have to run a couple of laps around the park if I didn't get some breathin' room soon."

"It is stuffy in here," Cheyenne says, sniffing.

Strains of a violin and viola tuning filter through the door, with another more melodic river of sound.

"Is that a harp? Did you bring Tracey?"

Cheyenne smiles at her own little surprise for me, and says only, "Get back to work you two."

Sena flashes another grin, bright white against her butterscotch skin, and her umber eyes sparkle.

I blow Cheyenne a kiss and hunker back to task.

The moment the melody begins, Sena's shoulders drop, and she reaches for a tape. She hums softly, in tune. Her face so agitated moments ago is serene now, as if in meditation.

The power of music. Pure magic.

Bless you Cheyenne and your merry little band.

Babies!

2006-02-07T14:17:00.000-08:00

"I used to hold you just like this," Ruby says, cuddling my namesake, Rosalie, in her arms.

Rosalie is asleep now, Ruby having worn her out cooing and playing patty cake and sandman and half a dozen other games grown-ups play with wide-awake, well-fed babies.

It is a gorgeous, sunny day in the nursery. Gauzy white curtains flutter at the screened sills. The windows across the western wall are thrown open, letting the spring breezes through--and the scents of fresh laundry flapping on the lines and apple pie baking in the kitchens.

Mama and I have taken nursery duty together all my life. Well, almost all. There were a couple of years when I was ten or so that I wanted nothing to do with Mama and the nursery. But I loved being with the babies so much that my little rebellion soon gave way.

"It's always been our special time," Ruby says, tenderly stroking Rosalie's perfectly shaped head.

"As strong as you were in the fields and orchards--digging holes to plant saplings since you were but a mite yourself, wielding pruning saws, dragging and chopping limbs bigger than you were--you always had that tenderness with the wee ones."

Ruby smiles, and I want to tell her I got it all from her, my big-boned Mama, strong, durable, and possessed of a gentle touch and knowing eye that understood my soul and never accused. But we've had this conversation before.

"I'd have had ten babies myself if it weren't totally irresponsible," I say instead.

"Well, this way you got to have all the fun of babies and miss most of the sleepless nights!"

"Hey you two."

It's Noah, in from a walk around the park with little Jordan.

Noah rocks back and forth on his heels as he adjusts the weight of the baby carrier on his hips.

Jordan is 13 months old and loves riding on tall Noah's back. Now he too is asleep, his shiny curls all I can see of his head above the cushioned rim of the carrier.

"I guess I should put him down," Noah says, "but I love feeling him so close. He's growing up so fast!"

"They certainly do, Noah," Ruby looks at me, and though I'm 57 years old, I know she is remembering me in some other time, bouncing around and driving her nuts, probably. "You can never give your son enough attention, waking or sleeping."

Then, out of my mouth comes that tired old phrase that only parents of grown children fully appreciate. "Enjoy him while you can."

"Oh yes," Noah says, simultaneously knowing, as young parents do watching their children change before their eyes, and not knowing, as no one can until the years have passed, how fast little Jordan will become a grown man. "We certainly do. Did you know he has four teeth now?"

Rosalie shifts in Ruby's arms and makes a contented little sound. She will waken soon, rooting for her mama's nipple.

"Good thing Jessica is due in any minute," I say, rising to tend two-year old Nell, my charge for the day, stretching and looking around sleepily as she wakes from her afternoon nap.

"Jessica knows her baby's patterns very well already," Ruby says. "She is always on time for the next feeding."

"She was telling Betty just yesterday what a treat it is to get back to teaching for a couple of hours a day," Noah says. "You can't imagine how much she appreciates your being here and taking care of Rosalie."

"Oh yes we can!" Ruby and I both laugh, remembering the freedom a couple hours away from the baby can give to a tired, worn mom.

Noah laughs too.

"I guess I don't have to tell you two what it's like.

"But you know," his eyes turn serious, "No matter how tired Betty and I get with all the responsibilities of a small child, we both feel as though we can never get enough of him. We always want a few more minutes of awake time, a little while longer in the rocker with him sleeping on our shoulder, or like this, on my back."

"Yup," is all Ruby says.

I would give up three hours of painting for one hour with these sweet ones, my Mama, and old friends any day of the week.

Thank you, Spirit, for this afternoon of quiet joy.

Thank you for love, for soft baby cheeks and tufted hair, for parents who love their children more than breath, for the person who invented rocking chairs, for sunshine and blooming plum trees and soft breezes through the open windows.

Thank you for Nell, perfection herself, wanting to know if there is anything to eat, and can we go look at the ducks by the pond, and when are we going to go play in the snow again?

Thank you.

Amends

2006-01-21T06:15:00.000-08:00

It has been raining for hours. Rain pellets the skylight. Water streams from the eaves in sheets. Wind shakes and rattles unhinged doors and loosens screens.

Cheyenne and I are hunkered on the porch futon. The chiminea glows brightly, the fragrant apple wood crackling and spitting as it burns.

I am re-reading Susan Schwartz's Silk Roads and Shadows. Alexandra is battling a killer sandstorm and demons--inner and outer--halfway across the vast Sahara on her way to save her ancient city and her heritage when Cheyenne's toe finds its way to mine under the comforter and tickles me.

"We have company," she says.

Sure enough, through the heavy slanting rain, huddled together under a useless umbrella, race the Twins.

Cheyenne is up before me and has the door open just as the girls reach the steps. A gust of wind and rain slam in with them, and I am already helping them strip their wet windbreakers while Cheyenne pulls the door shut.

"Whatever are you girls doing running around in this weather?" I chide, handing them each a woolly afghan to drape around their wet heads and shoulders.

Shivering, June laughs. "We have a present for you, Rose."

"But first we gotta dry off," Kami says, shaking her wet mop of curls.

I run into the bedroom and pull two sets of sweatshirts, pants, and socks from the dresser, stopping at the linen closet for a couple of towels. By the time I return, the girls have their shoes and socks off.

"Take these into the bedroom and change your clothes. Bring everything back out here and we'll hang it to dry by the fire."

Kami pulls a bag, one of Janine's hand-woven designs, from under her sweatshirt and lays it on the rattan table next to the futon. Somehow, soaked as she is, she kept that bag dry.

When the girls return, glowing with the exhilaration of running in the rain, I pour tea from the pot Cheyenne and I have been sharing this afternoon, but they are already warm and quickly set their cups aside.

"We came to apologize for the other day, Rose," Kami says.

"And to tell you we're sorry we broke the bowl," June finishes.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, to tell them it is I who should apologize to them, Kami continues.

"We forgot, you see," she says. "After you left, Janine wheeled her chair over, raised herself as high as she could, and picked up where you left off."

My head swivels back and forth as the two tell their tale, finishing each other's sentences.

"She said we should have known better. . . "

"We forgot that yesterday was the day Marita died."

"Not the day, Silly, the anniversary of the day. . ."

"You know what I mean," June continues. "We forgot. We know how much she meant to you."

"We loved her too, Rose. Really we did. She was always so kind to us. Whenever we got on everyone else's nerves, Marita would just laugh and give us one of her great big hugs and invite us in for cookies."

"Marita taught us how to make kites . . ."

"And took us all up on the hill . . . "

"All the kids, every one, and showed us how to fly 'em."

"Remember Rose? Remember when the whole village made kites and flew 'em?"

"I do," I laugh at the memory. "I laughed so hard that day that my face and belly ached half the night."

"The kites were beautiful," Cheyenne says. "I remember yours especially, Kami. Yours was a Phoenix, and you would not stop chattering about how every time it lifted, someone's dream was lifting with it. Do you remember?"

"Yes." Kami actually blushes. I don't believe I have seen her blush. "My first kite didn't turn out so well, and I wadded it up in a ball and threw it at June, 'cause her kite was so pretty."

"Yeh," June says, "Marita picked up the ball and tossed it in the fireplace. Then she winked at me, and grabbed Kami's hand. She said they were gonna make a Phoenix rise from the ashes."

"'Because everyone's dreams can take wing if they get a little lift,' that's what she said," Kami finishes.

June grabs the brightly colored bag from the table and pulls out two oat straw dollies.

"We've been saving them since the harvest over in Central Village," Kami says.

"We were going to return them to the field in the spring, like the ancients did, but we want you to have them instead, Rose."

"They're absolutely beautiful!"

"We know!" the girls chime in unison, but it's joy in the beauty, not pride I hear in their voices.

I turn the dollies over, one at a time. Only young, nimble fingers can braid the long oat fibers so daintily.

"But Rose," June says, "You know how Ralph is always saying that nothing is permanent?"

"Especially oat straw dollies," Kami says. "Plenty of Central Village children made dollies last summer for the fertility festival this spring. No one will know our two dollies didn't make it back to their fields."

"We decided to give them to you, Rose," June again. "We're sorry we were careless and unmindful yesterday."

"What June means is, we're sorry we forgot that you,"

"And most everybody else!"

"Were remembering Marita, and maybe feeling sad."

"Corn dollies are beautiful, but just like people are fragile and don't always live out their lives, and, well, the corn dollies might not make it till spring either." June turns to Kami. "You tell her."

Cheyenne puts her arm around June. Kami leans in to her other side.

"We thought," Kami seems embarrassed, "well, maybe it's silly, but we thought maybe you could plant them in the garden or something, to show that you forgive us, and as a reminder that, that . . ."

"That things always grow back if the ground is well-tended, or something like that!"

I am momentarily speechless, so deeply touched at the girls' sensitivity.

"You want to have a ritual of some kind to show your love and remembrance for Marita and 'bury the hatchet' so to speak?"

The girls nod, their eyes bright, and the near-irrepressible grins hover around their mouths, waiting to return.

"I have an idea," Cheyenne says, glancing to see if I agree. "Let's toss the corn dollies in the chiminea and watch them burn. Like Marita, they will burn brightly for a moment and be all too soon gone."

"And so will any sense that any of us owes the other an apology for our behavior yesterday. What do you say, Girls?" I wink at Cheyenne, who nods her approval.

The Twins grab Cheyenne's hands and pull her to me.

"Group hug!"

We hold each other a moment, each in our own thoughts. My mind is flashing with images of the Twins and Marita, their mutual exuberance, at times so exasperating, at other times so full of joy that we mere ordinary folk could only observe, laugh, and enjoy ourselves to the fullest.

Kami pulls away, hands me her straw dollie. I admire its beauty one more time, then toss it on the fire, followed closely by June's.

The fire flashes. The straw crackles and snaps. The brightly colored ribbons that decorated the dollies flare on their own, then wither to ash.

I hug the girls, each in turn, while Cheyenne heads to the kitchen. The lid of the cookie jar clinks, and Cheyenne returns quickly with a plateful of white-frosted ginger cookies.

"Mmmmm! Our favorite!" June grins, and pops one nearly whole into her mouth.

"This is the real reason we came over," Kami says impishly.

"Yeah," June's words are muffled. "We smelled the ginger baking yesterday."

I glance at Cheyenne over their heads, and say a thank you prayer to Marita for her goodness and love, and another for the generous hearts of these two young women.

May the village ever be blessed with ones such as these.

Red!

2006-01-16T13:42:00.000-08:00

I don't know what got into me today. I stormed from the kitchen in a fit of pique.

Oh sure, sometimes I let the Twins get to me with their high-energy goofing around--teasing each other mercilessly or playing catch with everything from carrot sticks to china cups.

"We won't break Mary's pretty bowl, Rose, we promise!" Kami laughed, deftly tossing the blown glass to June who, momentarily distracted by my ire--I admit--missed and watched in horror as the bowl crashed to the floor.

Usually, I enjoy their enthusiasm and unbridled zest.

Today I snapped at them. Didn't they understand the hours of training and work that Mary had endured to make that beautiful piece for our kitchen? What were they thinking? Had they no respect . . . on and on until I realized what I was doing, dropped the biscuit cutter, wiped the flower from my hands, and left.

You would think a woman my age would have better control of her emotions. But here I am, stomping across the meadow with no never-mind, as Aunt Rind used to say, paying no heed to the tiny florets popping their heads through the winter grasses, no care what rabbit or titmouse I am starting from the brush.

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! I jab the dry winter ground hard and loud with my heavy garden boots. I'd like to squash something right into the ground. Smear it to nothing.

What is wrong with me today?

I stride at break-neck speed past the harrowed fields, past the plum trees blooming pink in the upper orchard, hardly giving them a glance, past the old dam long since abandoned, and a good five miles from the village.

Good lord, have I slogged five miles already?

Turkey vultures circle overhead. Some poor coyote or deer probably got suckered by a mountain lion. Well, it was her time, that's all. When it's your time, it's your time.

Cold.

I stop cold. Sweat drips from my hair into my ears. It is warm this sunny January morning, 67 at least, but it is not only the exertion that causes me to perspire. I'm having a hot flash. Yet, here I stand, shivering in my sweat-soaked clothes.

Why didn't I think of it sooner?

A huge weight sits down on my heart, hard, and heavy as a cast-iron griddle.

I plop to the ground, grunt painfully as the sharp edge of a rock the size of my fist scores my backside.

I deserve that.

Chest heaving, I crumple all the way to the ground, sobbing into the thin dry grass, overcome by a grief I thought long suaged.

I grasp at the few wispy blades of grass, dig my fingers into the hard-packed soil surrounding their roots and cry out loud into the dirt, not caring that I taste it, gritty on my lips and tongue.

Then, momentarily lucid, I smell scat--fox. Where? I raise my head, but the tears come all the more. Alone here on the open hills, I wail, and on the in-breath, that scat again.

Nostrils wide, I concentrate on the fresh scent in a vain attempt to distract myself from this pain. Still, the guttural sobs come, from deep in my belly, forcing themselves up and out, and I give way at last, to a retching so violent I fear I'll break a rib.

Marita, I miss you so. I had forgotten today--anniversary of your death. Dear friend. How long you've been gone. How far away.

Jacob nearly a man now, though still a child--those awkward years between bright-eyed innocence (his lost too soon) and striding adult. He works like a man, with his father's broad shoulders.

Ah, Marita, but he has the heart of a healer. No one more gentle than your Jacob.

I pour my sorrow into the ground and, finally spent, fall asleep where I lie until something tickles my nose.

My own sneeze, rude and harsh, wakens me. Jacob's face is next to mine, his eyes at once sad and mirthful.

"You're crying for Mom, aren't you, Rose?" he says.

I'm ashamed he's found me so. I sit, brush my hair back.

He reaches to pull a tiny clod of dirt and a ladybug from my hair.

"She's still in quasi-hibernation," he says, placing her tenderly in my palm. "No aphids for her to eat yet."

The ladybug lifts her wings and takes flight on the breeze that lifts my shirt-tail as well.

My shirt is askew, a button loose on its thread. Fiddling with my clothing, I do not speak. Then I reach over and give Jacob a bear hug so tight I might break both our ribs.

"I wish I knew her the way you did, Rose," he says. "Tell me something about her. Anything you want." His voice is strong, deep, momentarily lacking the familiar adolescent crack of recent months.

A shock of red hair, so like Marita's, falls across his left eye and he brushes it away distractedly, the gesture also hers.

"Oh my god, Jacob," I say, swiping at a fresh slab of tears on my face. "So many things."

"Her laugh. That's what I liked best. Any time you were near Marita and Jonathon, there was laughter. Your mom laughed from the belly, without apology. She laughed with her whole body. She was a hearty woman, Jacob, filled with the joy of life! I never understood why she had to be taken from us like that. It infuriates me to this day!"

"You loved her," he says simply, leaning back on his elbows.

Lazily, he lifts one long arm and points to the sky. "Look, a red-tail hawk."

"Your mom's favorite bird. She told me once that when she saw a red-tail hawk, she always imagined, for a tiny second, that she could fly. She said it was a body-memory. She said she could remember flying. She wasn't the least bit apologetic for that either."

Jacob does not move, nor does he take his eyes from the raptor circling overhead, but his voice is cottony when he speaks.

"Long as I remember, whenever she saw a red-tail, Mom stopped what she was doing and watched until it was out of sight. She told me once that I would always know she was watching over me when I saw a red-tail."

"Do you feel that way, Jacob? That she is watching over you?"

"Let me put it this way," Jacob sits up, straightening his spine and lowering his voice in the self-conscious way of young men whose vocal chords have become unreliable. "More than once when I was little and alone on the hills, a red-tail hawk saved me."

"Why Jacob, I didn't know! Tell me!"

"Well," he runs his fingers through his hair, "once before I knew better, I was out here somewhere running through the grass. It was summer. The grass was high as my chest, and I was a horse galloping on the prairie.

"I was just a little kid, see, and I still pretended a lot," Jacob twists a small stick in his hand and scratches at the ground with it, his face lowered. His cheeks are redder than usual when he raises his head to watch the hawk again.

"A red-tail spiked down in front of me from nowhere--I swear it wasn't there until that second--and grabbed a rattlesnake. Right there, Rose. Right in front of me. If I had taken one more step, I'd have been bit for sure."

"And there were other times?"

"Lots of them." Jacob jumps to his feet. "Gotta go, Rose. I'm glad you're okay. Scared me seeing you on the ground like that. Thought maybe you fainted or somethin'. See ya'."

He lopes away on his gangly legs, across the meadow, past the stand of live oaks. I watch him disappear up and over the crest of the hill.

You have a fine son, Marita.

Snow

2005-12-13T20:35:00.000-08:00

"Ouch!"

I press my mittened hand against my face instinctively, and get a stinging faceful of ice crystals.

Cheyenne's snow ball hit me square on the cheek, and I am temporarily blinded.

For a moment, I taste the snow, each individual crystal bursting as it melts on my tongue. My mitten smells of wet wool and cold.

Spitting ice and laughing, I bend over, scoop a handful of snow, and before I rise fully, hold a solid ball ready to pitch toward my agile, round-hipped adversary. But I've already missed my chance. Another rude missile slaps my backside, just high enough to knock the wind from my chest.

By far the better athlete, Cheyenne has me beat in any sport requiring speed, skill, aim, and precision.

Still, I've managed to lob a few good ones her way.

Full of happy-tired energy, we are coming down from the high of our afternoon cross-country ski through the woods of the High Sierra.

Exertion warms my muscles and heats me through. I sweat in my down vest and woolen leggings, though my face stings with the sub-zero cold.

Melting ice drips from my hat band and eye lashes, then freezes again almost instantly when it hits my collar. An uncomfortable icy buildup chafes my chin, and I'm having too much fun to care.

Every winter a number of villagers make a pilgrimage to Annie and Jefferson's remote lodge, here, against the backdrop of a pristine alpine lake, and spend the weeks surrounding the Winter Solstice in high camp.

By day, we cavort in the snow. By night, round the lodge fire, we tell our winter tales, carefully drawn and wrought during the long spring, summer, and fall.

In return for much needed supplies, artwork of every ilk, and two solid weeks of uproarious company, Annie, Jefferson, and their brood provide us with clean beds, plenty of aromatic firewood, hot soups, fresh-baked breads, tasty dishes, and tender salads--these last picked from carefully tended plots in their solar-heated hot house.

"Hey you two!" It's Merilee, churning off-path through knee-deep snow. "Sun's going down. Come up to the lodge. There's a big pot of hot chocolate on the stove, and another of mulled cider."

I glance at Cheyenne. Her hand, like mine, is behind her back. I can't stop my grin in time.

"Oh no you don't," Merilee says, ducking.

Cheyenne and I take aim. Merilee steps backward, tries to turn, and spills over, forgetting her feet are buried in 10 inches of snow. Covering her head with her arms while we pelt her with bombs, she is up in a trice, molding a huge wad of snow in her big sculptor hands.

I dash behind nearby shrubberies, their twiggy branches naked under a layer of hoarfrost, and Cheyenne takes the first heavy blow.

We scoop, pack balls, laugh ourselves drunk, and bombard each other until the loud "Awwwk! Awwwk!" of the largest raven I have ever seen stops us in our tracks.

She swoops and dives toward us, a heavy, black shadow in the thinning light. Arms limp at our sides, snowballs forgotten, we watch as she lifts her enormous wings on the faintest breeze and soars easily to a limb high on the Ponderosa pine above us.

The last wedge of sunlight just catches her, turning her shining feathers indigo. Long, clustered pine needles glow in sparkly golden puffs round her. We stare until the brief light passes, not saying a word.

Morn

2005-10-14T04:42:00.000-07:00

I waken early. The air is still, save for the faint rustle of breeze in the big maple outside the east window.

I lie on my back, giving myself a Reiki treatment where the pain in my stomach lives. I waken with this pain nearly every day. Slowly, the Reiki heat begins to flow under my hands, so faint that at first I think I may be imagining it, then spreading through my adbomen, warmer and warmer like the radiant heat from a hot water bottle.

The pain subsides, my muscles untense, and soon I am smiling a Buddha half smile. Calm. At peace.

Breathe.

In
Long and slow

Out
Slow and long

The pain in my stomach is gone. I take a deep, cleansing breath, move my hands to my eyes, which ache these days.

Too much sun perhaps, too much reading. A vision comes, of walking in the hills with no purpose but to enjoy the day, watch the sun rise, take in the colors and textures of Fall, scan the long, wide vistas, lie back against the earth, eyes closed, and let the sun's warmth penetrate.

My palms begin to sweat, signalling time to move on. The ache in my eyes is gone. The first thing I see when I open them is a bright kalaidascope of stars through the skylight above our bed. I smile and stretch out long.

Murgatroid The Cat stirs, stretches across my feet, then pads gently up my torso and settles on my chest, her face nearly in mine. She purrs so loudly Cheyenne stirs, reaches a hand to my leg. Her hand is cool from resting outside the covers, contrapoint to my hot hands and Murg's warmth.

Murgatroid's heat penetrates my chest, suffuses my heart and lungs, and I breathe more deeply.

Cheyenne turns over, facing me, opens one eye. "Hi Murg," she says, reaching to pet the cat.

"What shall we do today," Cheyenne asks.

Today is Sunday. Neither of us has village chores and had agreed last night to enjoy a totally spontaneous day.

"I was just thinking of taking a long walk across the hills, lie in the grass, stare at the clouds. I would love to see the sun rise from the top of the butte."

"Good idea!" Cheyenne is out of bed and in the shower in a trice.

"Well, Murg, guess we should move on too."

Murgatroid looks me in the eye, settles her body deeper onto mine.

"Okay, a little more Reiki."

I place my hands on either side of her body. She purrs louder. My hands tingle, and I wonder if their heat flows through her body the way her heat is flowing through mine, slow as pahoehoe.

Murg closes her eyes, smiles, then leaps away as quickly as Cheyenne moments ago.

I stretch again, give thanks for this moment, this cat, this healing, this day, throw back the covers and set my feet on the cool slate floor.

Suddenly I feel the presence of my grandmother--her voice, her sweet lilac scent, her favorite rise-and-shine mantra:

This is the day the lord hath made
I will rejoice and be glad in it

Evening

2005-09-28T23:28:00.000-07:00

9:00 p.m.

Bedtime. It has been a good day. We harvested the last of the September peaches--two flatbed trailers loaded with heaping bushel baskets.

For three weeks, at every meal, we’ve enjoyed huge crockery bowls full of sliced peaches with fresh cream, slightly sugared. No matter how many or how full the bowls, there is never any left over.

This week, the kitchen crews have been working amid steaming pots, canning peach nectar, preserves, and sliced peaches for tasty winter treats. They’ve prepared and frozen dozens of pie fillings, ready to thaw and pop in pie shells.

We all have our favorite peach concoctions, of course.

I like to blend a peach picked fresh from the tree with unsweetened yogurt, vine-ripened berries, and fresh squeezed orange juice for a breakfast smoothie or mid-morning snack. Frozen in ice cube trays or small jars with a stick, this beverage makes a delicious pop sickle for the little ones too.

Of course, the best peach treat is one picked fresh from the tree, so ripe it drops into your hand at a touch, so full of sweet juice that when you bite into it, you have to lean out, mouth over the ground so the juice doesn’t spurt onto your shirt.

The tastiest peaches are messy. You don’t just lick your fingers, you lick your hand, and if no one is looking, maybe your wrist, getting every drop of nectar.

Right now, I can hardly bear the thought of one more peach. My muscles are so tired from climbing up and down ladders and hefting bushel baskets that all I want to do is sit right here on my soft bed, pillows tucked round me, and drink this cup of soothing mint tea.

The air wafting through the porch screens is cool-warm, with the scent of rain after a too-hot day. My fingers smell of bruised mint leaves, picked from the herb garden beside the stoop not twenty minutes ago.

The trick with fresh mint tea is to pour boiled water, slightly cooled, over the leaves and remove them immediately. Mmmmmm. I inhale the delicate aroma. I can feel my pores opening as I hold the steaming cup close. The sweet taste of honey and mint almost tingles on the back of my tongue as the warm liquid slides down my throat, warming me to my toes, which curl with pleasure.

Near the open porch windows, Cheyenne sits yogi fashion on a cushion, pursing her lips as she does when absorbed in her work. She is weaving a pine-needle basket.

“The kitchen sorting baskets are limp and shabby,” she said earlier. “I’ll make new ones this week.”

She’s working on a sturdy potato basket, using grasses and pine needles she has collected from the hills and river banks. I love this pattern, a simple one, handed down to her from her grandmother, who got it from her grandmother.

Perhaps Cheyenne will teach the pattern to Balboa and Packer’s child one day. Balboa says they hope to conceive soon.

Which of course brings me back to the wedding. Noah pesters me daily for more on the wedding and the Village of Jasper. I tear my eyes from Cheyenne’s deft hands and glossy hair and return to task.

Not that I mind. There's so much to tell! I haven't enjoyed a celebration so much in years. It was one of those absolutely serendipitous weeks when everything clicks into place as though it had been designed that way.

But again, where to begin? The customs of the Village of Jasper are not so very different from ours, though there were a few exotic practices that delighted us.

As in Ordinary, young people in Jasper frequently choose to live in a communal apartment building. Balboa and Packer had lived for nearly five years in the semi-privacy of Jasper’s small complex.

There, nine private apartments consisting of a living room, sleeping loft, efficiency kitchen, and bathroom form the outer semi-circle of a compact and ingeniously layered structure.

Unlike most of the buildings of Jasper, which are of log or wood frame construction, the communal apartments are built of soil cement—much like many structures in Ordinary. This apartment building is a legacy of Balboa’s early years in Jasper, when she was an apprentice architect and introduced the concept of building with soil.

The building and grounds are constructed in adjoining arcs that fit the natural shape of the hill. The apartments are above and outside, in a large semi-circle on a hill which slopes toward the great Jasper Lake, so-called--like the village--for the vast veins of jasper found in the region. Each apartment has a generous view of the lake and the cascading vegetation before it.

The semi-circle is completed with terraced plantings stepping from the apartments in a gorgeous array of verdant shrubberies and luscious blooms.

Packer says you can find something blooming somewhere on the terraces every month of the year. Even in winter, he says, if you know where to look, you will find snow bells raising their heads through the icy snow.

The second semi-circle houses the communal rooms--music, art, reading, play, a small theater. Where the apartments are tall, with high ceilings, deep windows, and a sleeping loft, the communal rooms are single story.

Arbor-covered walkways link the buildings, their lush growth in summer shading the walls from the hot western sun. Sloping downward, like the hill, from the apartment arc to the communal arc, the arbors extend the vision of a terraced hillside, blending the earthen structure with its surroundings so you almost imagine you are in the woods as nature made it.

At the heart of the complex is a courtyard with delightfully whimsical settees, tables, sculptures, and other artwork made over the years by the residents, and tucked among flowering fruit trees, small maples, shrubberies and flower borders.

Balboa says, because this is one of the first soil-cement buildings in the region, people come from villages for hundreds of miles to see the structure and learn how to build from the earth.

She and her building crew regularly teach classes on building with soil cement, cob, and adobe. She shared portfolio after portfolio of beautiful designs. Most of them so simple and elegant that her students can go home after a week of classes and build their own.

“We love living here, Ma,” Balboa said, as we toured the art and music rooms. “I will miss hearing Charlie’s guitar or Laurie’s dulcimer when I step outside the door. I’ll miss taking my morning coffee to the table under the honeysuckle and having a quiet chat with the other early risers who like to watch the sun up with me.

“But Packer is not as social as I. He grew up in the forest, where the loudest sounds were the roar of the wind in a storm, or the thunder of a herd of elk across the meadow. He needs a home at the edge of the village, where he can hear the trees breathe.”

Balboa smiled at the thought of Packer listening to the trees.

A few faint lines creep near the edge of her black eyes. Her wide, deep smile comes as readily and mischievously as ever. My darling daughter! So wise, so full of ambition, love and life.

“But I want a home now, too, Ma,” she said. “I love how we build homes in Ordinary from mud and straw, and that is what I wanted here. I miss that cozy womb-like feeling. I need to burrow!”

Log or wood frame is the custom in Jasper because trees are so plentiful in the forests there. Before Balboa brought her soil-building skills, the people of Jasper had not thought about building cob or adobe homes.

“And I want the climate control that thick walls and domed ceilings provide. These wood houses are hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter!”

“Ah,” I said, winking artlessly. “So you miss the moderate weather of our southern clime?”

“Do I ever!” Balboa laughed. “Though I am much more acclimated to the heat and cold than I was. The cold is easy, really, because you just bundle up more. I love the snow and skiing! But you cannot escape the summer heat.

“I’ve been teaching the builders how to incorporate passive heating and cooling into their homes so they do not have to waste so much time and energy creating a comfortable environment.”

For two hours that day, Balboa showed me her ingenious designs, many of them taken from ancient architecture around the world.

Indeed, I had enjoyed the marvelous cooling properties of the house she designed for Beryl and Ronnie. The temperature was over 95 degrees while we were there, but inside, though there was plenty of light and fresh air, the house was always cool.

“Your buildings are your sculptures, like Cheyenne’s baskets are hers, or Janine’s tapestries hers,” I said, “but you work on a larger scale.”

“It’s true, Ma. I often think of the buildings, especially the ones made of cob or soil cement, as sculptures. I’m so grateful for all that Merilee taught me growing up, about the properties of clay, and how to coax a beautiful shape from an inert blob. Most of the time, I’m just a big kid playing in the mud!”

She grew silent a bit, while we pored over her drawings.

“Packer and I are going to start a family right away, Ma,” she said, smiling shyly. “By this time next year, you and Cheyenne may be grandmothers.”

“Lucky Beryl and Ronnie!” I say out loud to Cheyenne, dropping my pen and laughing out loud at my envy, “to live in the same village with the children and grandchildren.”

“Guess we’ll have to get used to taking more trips,” Cheyenne says. “You enjoyed the flights, didn’t you? You were like a little kid, watching the patterns of the earth change below us.”

“I do like to watch the earth from the vantage point of the clouds,” I smile, remembering the stark brown hills as far as I could see for miles and miles through the tiny airplane window.

“Despite the barrenness of the desert, it amazes me how many tiny lakes there are, all across the land, so late in the year! There must have been a huge snow pack last winter to leave so many puddles in that withered landscape.”

“Yes and the people who choose to live so far away from other villages,” Cheyenne says. “Do you remember how, wherever there was the thinnest trickle of a stream greening the clefts between the hills, you could just make out a tiny farm--a house, one or two outbuildings, and a long, lonely stretch of track leading up to it across the plateaus and through the valleys.”

“Aye. The loneliness!” I pick up my tea cup, inhaling a long breath of mint and wild honey before I sip another satisfying slurp that trickles down my throat in a hot ribbon.

“But imagine the stillness. The quiet must be profound, with only the wind and a wild animal or bird call to break the silence.”

“And the drone of a pesky airplane overhead,” Cheyenne smiles and winks, setting aside her reeds and tools.

“I’m tired,” she yawns, covering her mouth with her broad, blunt fingers.

I had intended to write about the wedding, once and for all, but I am distracted as Cheyenne slips into bed. Her hair is fragrant with my favorite scent, lavender, and her fingers smell of pine needles.

I switch off the light and set the notebook aside.

Breathe.

I give gratitude for this peaceful day, for the soft hint of light staining the evening sky behind and through the maple tree, for the friendship and love of this dear woman, so soft beside me.

Waterfall

2005-09-14T17:49:00.000-07:00

2:00 pm

Today is a deliciously cold, gray day. I am curled up on the porch futon, tucked under the red plaid throw. The chiminea glows white around the edges with its little apple wood fire, the wood just fresh enough to release delicate fragrance as it burns. Occasional sparks spit onto the slate floor and sizzle before dying to ash.

Most of the weeds around the house gardens are pulled, chopped, and turning to compost. Yesterday, I gathered fat rose hips and made two batches of jam, not too sweet. I set the little jars in the kitchen window, eight of them, to catch the light, like stained glass.

My muscles are tired, and I'm ready for a long sit, so I'll tell a little more about the wedding.

Noah is anxious I not forget, since the fete occurred in a village so far away, where customs might differ from ours.

"We need to build more of a sense of connection with the other villages, Rose," he admonished. "It is too easy to settle into our comfortable lives here and pretend the rest of the world hardly exists."

It was that sense of connecting that was so amazing about the wedding. There we were, people from villages far and wide. Not so many people, but enough to tax the ten apartments in the guest house at Jasper. Packer and Balboa are well loved.

What amazed me was how easily we settled in with each other during our week together.

Chey, Ruby, and I, of course, stayed with Balboa and her fathers. We had a lot of catching up to do. And oh my goodness, you should have seen Ruby with Beryl's father!

Ruby had flown in the week before to help Balboa and Packer find just the right greens and flowers to decorate the hall. (I'm sure she wore the grandchildren out, traipsing over the hills like a mad woman, exclaiming over every unfamiliar variety of shrub and tree.)

Turns out Rocky, Beryl's dad, (did I mention his wife, June, died a few years after Beryl and Ronnie moved up to Jasper?) is a gardener extraordinaire himself. His knowledge of native plants and animals is legendary far beyond Jasper.

By the time we arrived, he and Ruby were pattering around arm in arm, laughing giddily at odd bits of conversation, and twitching and twittering at the least provocation. You would have thought they were the bride and groom.

No one was surprised when Ruby extended her stay after the wedding. She said she needed to learn more about the flora and fauna in the North Country.

I hope I haven't lost my mom to Jasper, along with my daughter, but I have to say I smile every time I think of my big-boned, no-nonsense mama acting like some kind of addle-pated, heart-thumping teenager.

Why is it I cannot stay focused on the wedding? We had a whirlwind week of people pitching in to decorate the bride and groom's new home, and cooking dinners for each other, sharing recipes and exotic foods. I sampled a wild currant and gooseberry pie that I wouldn't mind having another piece of right now, tart and fresh.

On the second day, Balboa, Packer, Ronnie and I hiked for hours up a rugged ravine to a narrow waterfall that pours directly from a glacier high on the mountain. We cupped our hands and leaned into the stream, sucking the icy cold water directly from our palms, delicious and teeth-numbing. I of course was completely soaked afterwards, but the hot September sun soon dried my hair and tunic.

Wild geraniums were still blooming in the underbrush on the edge of the forest. We found and ate a few bland thimbleberries direct from the vines. I like their cousin raspberries so much more. I did try a couple of huckleberries, but they were not quite ripe and made my mouth pucker. It's too cold now for them. The fruit sets on, but does not get enough warm hours in the day to ripen. Too bad. We don't have huckleberries at home, and they are delicious.

Packer lived up to his name and girth and carried each of us, one at a time, across the rushing mountain stream on his broad back. We climbed a little further, next to the stream, above the first waterfall, and across a golden meadow full of mariposa lilies. There the stream meandered gently. Deer nibbled at the tender plants under the heavier grasses.

Across the meadow, and round a huge outcrop of granite, we heard the upper falls before we saw them--two high ribbons, one far above the other, glistening water cascading down a sharp escarpment.

There we picnicked and Packer told of his childhood growing up in these mountains. His father and mother both loved the wilderness more than company and built their cabin at the edge of a meadow similar to this one, he said, where game was plentiful and the soil and sun rich enough to grow a few herbs and vegetables during the short summer season.

He told of an early winter storm that caught his father unaware, and how he had taken shelter in a cave, so exhausted and blinded by snow that he didn't realize until he woke hours later that he was sharing space with a sleeping bear.

Packer is wonderful young man. It is clear he loves Balboa dearly, and she him. They've been together too long to have that moon-eyed look of new lovers. There is a sense of intimate awareness each of the other, an awareness that is neither invasive nor demanding.

Balboa lazed on her elbows in the sun, her head thrown back, listening to the trill of a meadowlark. Packer, who had just cleared our picnic and tucked it neatly away in the backpack he had carried, rubbed the back of his neck slightly, turning his head side to side as one does to loosen a crick.

Balboa's eyes were closed at the time, but she must have known somehow that Packer was uncomfortable, for she rose languidly, rubbed her hands together as if to heat them a bit, and laid them gently on Packer's neck, just where he had been kneading a knot moments before.

While she massaged Packer's neck, Balboa answered the meadowlark's call, and did it so well, the meadowlark sang back to her.

"Packer taught me," she smiled, and trilled the call again.

Journey

2005-09-09T01:19:00.000-07:00

6:00 am

So much to tell. I seldom travel so far.

Cheyenne, Merilee, Cathy and Mitre, and I drove to the small regional airport in one of the three solar-powered mini-buses the village maintains.

It was one of those incredibly hot late-August days. We were constantly rolling the windows up and down, first craving fresh air, then needing the quiet of windows-up to talk.

Thankfully, Cheyenne is as interested in the landscape and wildlife as any of us and never pushes past 35 or 40 miles per hour on our little-used gravel roads.

Long lost, the youthful desire for speed. Now we enjoy the opportunity to watch the changing scenery unroll before us.

We counted two foxes, fourteen deer, three bald eagles, an osprey over the wetlands, and I am absolutely certain, though others disputed it, that I saw a mountain lion standing on the bluff overlooking the roadway as it curved down into the big valley beyond the Village of Adriene.

I love the big cats, as you know, and can smell them long before I see them. Her sillouhette against the shimmering air was unmistakable. One moment she was there, and then she was gone, leaping into the underbrush.

Along the way, Mitre regaled us with stories of his youth, growing up far to the north where the summer days are so long darkness barely falls an hour or two, and temperatures are rarely as hot as this.

In no time at all the three hour drive had passed and we were climbing aboard the small, sleek jet that would take us not so far north as Mitre's country, but far enough, to the Village of Jasper, where our daughter Balboa and her beloved Packer live and had planned their wedding and built their home.

Balboa and her sister Jasmine grew up with Ruby, Cheyenne, and me in Ordinary. For many years, their fathers, Beryl and Ronnie, remained in the village as well, and were active in their daughters' lives.

All four of us choosing to parent, Cheyenne and I took turns, one pregnancy each, three years apart, through artificial insemination. Beryl and Ronnie, wanting to feel each was the father of both children, combined their sperm before donating, and none of us have bothered to have the girls tested to see who is the biological father.

When Beryl's parents, who lived all their lives in the high mountain Village of Jasper, yearned for their son to live near them, he and Ronnie moved back to his childhood home.

A few years later, missing her dads, Balboa chose to do one year of community service in her father's home village.

All young people do community service in villages far from their birthplace. Most try out several villages over a period of years, usually in regions remote from one another, to learn the ways of others, to enrich their vocabulary and experience, and to share the knowledge and experience from their home villages as well.

Balboa stayed in Jasper one extra year, then two, then three. Eventually, she came to love Packer. They have been together five years and decided last year to wed.

Living so far from her, I miss Balboa terribly, like an ache in my body, and long to see her face, feel her long, smooth fingers in my big, gardening hand, far more often than is practical at this distance. Still, she is happy and well loved. For that I am ever grateful.

I'll tell more about the wedding, which was small, joyful and blessed with the weather of the gods beside the bluest lake I've ever seen, tomorrow perhaps, if I can tear myself from the weeds and the burgeoning harvest.

Away

2005-08-31T00:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Noah,

I have been remiss with the journal of late, involved in preparations for my daughter's wedding. I will be away a week or more, as I must travel far north.

We are so looking forward to the celebration--a small wedding beside an ancient, deep blue lake high in the mountains. May it only be cooler there than here these past few days!

You know how poorly I travel, Noah. I must harness all my strength for the trip. Still, I promise to take notes and catch up a bit upon my return.

Oh joy! I can't wait to tell you all about it.

May you and the village be at peace,
Rose

Solace

2005-08-19T20:28:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. You would think after a lifetime, I would be used to the death of an animal, used to the viscera and bloodletting.

Whether it is an animal we have raised, or the rare occasion I have come across a fresh carcass in the wild, I am newly surprised each time at the shock to my senses.

Yet I am mindful of the story Jonathon told, at Jacob's prompting yesterday, a story ancient in their family history, handed down from parent to child for perhaps thousands of years.

Our Bonnie is so like the antelope who taught self-sacrifice to the People, encouraging them to take his flesh for meat and his hide for clothing.

This morning, images of Bonnie streamed through my meditation, and I did little to stop them, observing, keeping the breath, and holding on nonetheless.

The memory that has stayed with me today is repeated again and again, as it was all Bonnie's life. At milking time each day, when the crew went to the fields with their pails and stools, Bonnie chose her milker.

The other cows might look up to see who was coming, turn their heads lazily about, eye the laughing, chatty group. Bonnie would be waiting.

More often than not, Bonnie would choose the youngest child, just learning to express milk from a long, knobby teat. When the first drops pinged into the pail, Bonnie would turn her head toward the child and give a gentle snort, then lower her mouth to the grass. Watching, you would swear she smiled.

Sometimes Bonnie picked an older child, or one of the adults. She would have no one but the one she ambled to when she saw the milkers coming. She would step close to her mark and shove her nose into the armpit. This elicited a giggle without fail. Bonnie knew how to tickle. If you held out your hand to pet her, often as not, she would give it a big slurp with her long, wide tongue.

At breakfast this morning, every table was alive with memories of Bonnie. Everyone had a tale of being The Chosen One.

Usually, we were quiet after milking Bonnie. We tended not to talk about it. When she picked you, it was because you needed comfort, or calming after a row. Today, the floodgates opened. Every table was raucous with voices, laughter, and tears.

Merilee told of the time Tracey had been sick for three days with stomach flu, her worry that something more serious might be brewing, her exhaustion. When the milkers went out, Bonnie refused them all. Standing at the edge of the village, she raised her head and called in long wailing "Ooooooooooos" until half the village stood watching.

Hearing the racket, Merilee stepped outside to ask a passerby what was wrong. The moment she understood that Bonnie was calling for someone, she said, "I knew it was me. Somehow, way out in the pasture, Bonnie sensed I needed her, needed to lay my head against her hairy side and cry for awhile."

Leaving Tracey in good hands, Merilee approached the pasture, where "Bonnie did a little dance! I kid you not! She tossed her head and pranced. I've never seen anything like it."

"What happened next, Mom," Tracey asked, eyes wide, though she has heard this story dozens of times.

"Someone handed me a milking stool and a pail. I sat down on the spot. At first, my hands were shaking, I was that tired. Then I laid my head against her warm flank, and the tears started to come. I was so worried about you!

"Bonnie swished her long old tail around and caught me right on the cheek. Some of her hair went up my nose, and I sneezed. She lifted her head from the grass, gave me one of her long, 'Get on with it already' looks, and switched that tail again!"

We all laughed. Most of us had experienced Bonnie's tail.

"I started milking her--squirt, squirt, squirt. You know, you can't be upset when you milk a cow. Your hands don't relax enough to stimulate the let-down. When those first three squirts hit the bottom of the pail, I knew we were going to be all right. You were going to be all right.

"There's something about the smell of fresh sweet milk, still warm, the fat not yet separated. Comforting."

Merilee's voice trailed off and someone else spoke of their times with Bonnie.

Through the exhaustion, through the tears, I feel so blessed today, having had these hours with our friends to remember Bonnie and all she was to us. We will talk of her again. Noah will see to it that more of her stories are recorded.

For all of this, for the bounty of my life, I give thanks.

Bonnie

2005-08-18T00:46:00.000-07:00

5:45 a.m.

"Bonnie is dying, Rose."

Betty, the village veterinarian, stands at the foot of the lanai. We've just begun morning warmup exercises after sitting meditation.

"Can you come?"

"Of course. Let me just roll up my mat. I'll be right down."

Moments later I am striding with Betty to the barn. Her shoulders are square, her arms swing freely at her side. She is easy with this passing, despite the sadness in her face.

Bonnie is the matriarch of the village cows and has provided milk and calves to the community for years. Most residents of the village know each animal intimately, having grown up with them, raised them, or cared for them in chore rotation.

Bonnie is especially loved. Many's the villager with a tale about trudging into the hills filled with loss, anger or sorrow and being confronted--or more often nudged in a delicate place from behind--by old Bonnie.

I myself wept many hard tears into her neck during Marita's illness and after her death.

Bonnie always knows who needs nurturing.

We find her in the barn now, her head in Jacob's lap. Animals roam freely on the hills behind Ordinary, coming to the barn only for shelter. Weakened by illness, Bonnie must have sought comfort.

Jacob strokes her ears and snout tenderly. He is singing to her, ever so faintly. I can't make out his words.

Betty sits, fearlessly, between Bonnie's legs, and begins rubbing them with salve, pulling in long, slow, delicate strokes, ropey tendons standing out in the strong muscles of her arms.

For a moment I wonder if Bonnie might kick Betty in her distress, but somehow I understand that even in a dying spasm, she could not hurt one of us.

I sit near Jacob, grateful for the hours of yoga training that keep me flexible. With my right hand, I make the Reiki sign, Cho ku Rei. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and wait for the heat to fill my hands.

When they tingle, I sense where on Bonnie's body to lay them. I start with her spine, near her head. Her breathing is labored, ragged. When my hands tingle again, I shift them further down her spine.

After a few minutes, the three of us sitting with her, Bonnie's breath comes easier. I feel singing in my body and hold it, letting Jacob's sounds fill me instead.

My hands tingle and I move them again. Bonnie sighs long, a deep cleansing breath. She shudders and I lift my hands, separating them now, one almost under her here, above the hip bone, the other on top, just below her lungs.

I feel the music again, my mouth opens unchecked with song, joining Jacob's. I don't know why this happens sometimes with Reiki, the urge to sing as strong as the urge to push in childbirth. I tone more than sing--Ah's turning to Oh's to Eees and back to Ahhs.

My hands tingle and I shift one more time, both hands on Bonnie's belly. Jacob holds her head gently between his hands.

I feel the Reiki heat, not just in my hands but in the air between us, around us. The music swells, welling, and though my eyes are closed, I feel Jacob and Betty smiling as I smile.

I am at peace, with three great friends, and I cannot tell where one of us stops and the other begins.

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

After a time, I hear singing again, outside the barn. News has spread. The villagers are singing for Bonnie. I open my eyes. The barn door is filled with people, keeping a respectful distance, and singing their love for this old friend.

Bonnie lifts her head, it seems she makes eye contact with each of us, looks to the door, lets out a low "Moooo," and drops her head.

Minutes after her last breath, we continue the Reiki, feeling her with us still. Tears run down my face.

A hush falls. Next I look their way, the villagers are inside with us, seated on the straw-strewn ground, on bales, anywhere they can find a perch. The entire village is meditating. Tears come again, and I close my eyes.

There is a moment in every Reiki session where my hands lift involuntarily and I take a long cleansing breath. The session is complete.

Today, Jacob, Betty, and I simultaneously lift our hands. Hearing their long exhale, I glance up.

We smile, fold our hands to our chest and bow.

Namaste.

Bonnie is gone.

We bow to her body, bow to her friends outside the door.

"I will stay," I tell Betty.

"And I," Jacob says.

Betty understands, gathers her veterinary bag and can of salve, and walks to the door. Some villagers huddle round her, hugging her.

Noah puts his arm round Betty's waist, and they walk out together. He will draw her a hot bath, bring her tea, and massage her limbs as tenderly as she massaged Bonnie's.

The remaining villagers remain silently erect, in sitting meditation.

We have work to do.

Jonathon, who has done this many times before, brings a block and tackle and lays it near Bonnie. Gently, he rigs a harness round her hind quarters so the tissues won't tear as she is hauled up.

She will be drained of blood, her skin and entrails removed, and her flesh portioned for the kitchen if found to be free of disease. Though she is old, Bonnie has led a comfortable, grass-fed life on the farm, and her meat will be welcome food for some.

No villager would knowingly harm an animal, for food or otherwise. Those who eat meat, wear leather, or use bone tools rotate through butchering as through any Village task, upon the death of an animal. Only those who choose not to exploit any part of our animal friends' bodies upon their death are excluded.

While I do not eat meat, I choose to wear and use leather and bone. I also fertilize with bone meal, blood, and other offal.

Though I experience discomfort, and no small conflict about our practice, I attend every butchering. It is my personal need to say prayers of gratitude for the lives of old friends and for the gifts of their bodies after they pass.

Not everyone feels as I do, nor would I expect them to. My way is not yours is an easy way to show acceptance when understanding is absent.

The butchering team is quiet and respectful. Bloodletting and skinning require time. We sit vigil while the crew does its work.

We breathe. We sing. We weep.

Here is where a human being recognizes the animal in us all, experiences lust, greed and hunger.

Here the foul and sweet odors of death and illness overpower some, and vomit and bile add to the mix. My eyes smart, with more than tears.

There is a property in the scent of large quantities of blood. You taste iron. Your mouth is dry with iron.

The sound of skin being peeled and scraped from the flesh grinds my teeth. I cannot close my ears to what I choose not to see.

When at last I open my eyes, what I see first is Jonathon's face, streaked with tears.

Jacob rises and goes to his father. Jonathon removes the leather butcher's apron, his hands covered in Bonnie's blood. Jacob hugs his father,long and fiercely.

"She loves you, too, Papa," he says. "There is nothing to forgive."

"She asks me to tell you that she freely gives of her body. She asks me to remind you of the story of her cousin, the antelope. Do you know a story of the antelope?"

Jonathon stares at his son a moment, nods, drops to a bale of hay, and sobs, his great shoulders bent over his body. At last, he takes a rough breath, and looks up, to Jacob.

"My great grandfather told me the story of the Antelope," he says. "He told it like this.

"Long ago, the First People were cold and hungry. They did not know how to feed and clothe themselves, for the great sheets of ice had come from the north and covered the earth."

Jonathon stops, takes a long, slow breath. "I haven't thought of this since I was a child," he says.

"Antelope came to the People and told them to take his flesh for food, his skin for clothing.

"Because of Antelope's sacrifice, the First People survived the long ice winter."¹

"I wasn't sure," Jacob whispers, looking at his feet. "I was afraid to tell you what I felt."

Jonathon reaches for the boy, pulls him down on a bale next to him, hugs him to his great chest. "You did right, son. Always trust your knowing."

In that moment Jacob does what I have never seen him do before, not through the long months of his mother's illness, not after she died, nor any time since.

He leans his head into his father's blood-stained shirt and weeps. He weeps until the last sobs and shudders have cleansed his body and his heart of a grief so long held that perhaps he no longer knew the difference between the pain and himself.

My hands, hot with Reiki these long minutes, cool at last and I take another deep breath, letting go. Letting go.

¹I first saw a version of this story in Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams and David Carson, St. Martin's Press, NY, 1999.

Sweat

2005-08-04T19:24:00.000-07:00

10:30 am

Sweat trickles from the band round my brow into my ears and down my cheek. The back of my hand, as I wipe my face, smells of dirt, more sweat and the oils of well-used, well-kept tools.

A starburst of sunlight through the branches of this tall, old tree blinds me momentarily. Perched on the tenth rung of the cherry-picking ladder, where it narrows to barely a foot wide, I struggle to get the blades of the long-armed pruner around a torn limb six feet higher.

David, Sena and I are pruning the orchard, a loose term for the asymetrical planting of fruit and nut trees on this south-facing hillside.

Many of these trees are 50 years old or more. We love them as old friends. From this cherry have come pies, jars of delicious preserved fruit for winter night snacks, and thousands of pounds of dried, pitted cherry raisins for salads and sweet and savory dishes.

Last week's storm tore branches off and left others dangling from peeled skin at odd angles. We are culling the damaged and sealing the wounds to keep pests at bay.

I grunt and give the sharp blades a last, slow push. They reward me with a clean cut through the branch and a satisfying cheur-ook as the limb drops to the ground, lifting a cloud of dust and leaf mold that makes me sneeze.

Giving my right shoulder a much needed break, I slip the pruner's leather thong over a hook on the ladder and turn to scan the vista.

This hillside slopes to a wide, meandering valley where the stream that feeds our few irrigation ditches ambles gently through a winding corridor of native oak, ash and shrubberies.

A red-tailed hawk circles over the recently mown hay field below. Catching the updraft, the hawk spirals lazily higher and higher until I can no longer see so much as a speck in the blue sky above.

My left hand tingles and burns hot with Reiki. Fingers together, I cup my aching right shoulder. The heat flows from my hand and spreads deep into the muscle tissue. The ball joint heats, and the pain in the shoulder subsides. The Reiki heat flows through my body, spreading gently, like warm caramel poured slowly on a flat tin to cool.

There is a peace that comes over me when I am with Reiki. My body seems to expand. I cannot tell, quite, where I stop and the ladder supporting me begins.

If I close my eyes, I feel bigger, as though I have nerve endings extending far from my body, touching the other trees, touching Sena and David, dancing with the molecules of the air.

The birds hush. I smell a wild animal, fur and dust and musky oil. Deer perhaps. Beside me, a leaf spirals into view and lazily down, the air so still I hear the dry edges make contact with its kin already on the ground.

The rounded rungs of the ladder are hard against my back, and I shift. Thirsty, I sling the gourd of water from its hook under the upper rung and take a long, cool drink, glugging greedily. Water spills from my mouth and down my shirt just as a breeze whips through the trees, feathering the dampened cotton against my skin.

I am warm with Reiki heat, cool with Earth's water and wind. What more can anyone ask than work that stretches the muscles, strengthens the bones, a clear sky overhead, good friends nearby, and a cool breeze on moist skin?

July

2005-07-26T23:29:00.000-07:00

After noon

It is Tuesday. My village chores are done. I've left Cheyenne blissfully engaged in experimenting with dyes for her basket weaving, a project she quite mysteriously wants to keep from my eyes.

It is one of those gorgeous July afternoons when the sun is hot and the breezes cool, in our ripple of hills a few miles from the sea.

Earlier, I packed a lunch, grabbed a gourd for dipping water, and a couple of pails for picking late raspberries and anything else I could find along the trail.

The pails could carry more, but I gorged myself on the way. I'm sure if I had a mirror, I would see lips stained purple as my hands, for I found early blackberries in the brambles.

I'm deliciously full and sticky, lying here on the grass beside the stream, my hat over my face, filtering just enough of the sun. I've dozed off and on for long lazy minutes.

Occasionally, I hear the munch, munch, munch of the deer savoring the more tender grasses at the edge of the wood, the quick click-click of dragonflies darting here and there, the meadowlark trilling.

The earth is firm and slightly undulating under me, the soil and sod uneven. Somehow, my plump body has found the right places to dip and swell with the Earth, and I am quite comfortable.

The air is fragrant with berry juice, my own sweat, and musky and sweet whiffs of scents on the breeze--moist clay from the stream bank, pine bark resin warmed by the sun, a strong-scented flower I should recognize. Mother would know!

Butterflies and dragonflies flit about, hovering just above the pails long enough for me to get a good look. I have not seen this bronze colored dragonfly before.

Soon I'll rise and dip my dusty feet in the cool stream, take a drink of the fresh, pure water, rinse the berry juice from my hands. Soon. Now, I laze under the wide blue roof of the sky, breathing.

Breathing.

Breathing.

I give thanks for this glorious day, for the peaceful pleasures that are mine, for the peace in all our lives.

I give thanks for these berries, ripe and sweet and bountiful.

I give thanks for the hush in the air, so still I can hear the deer chew fifty yards away.

I give thanks for the creatures, large and small, who trust me as I trust them, knowing we will not harm the other.

I give thanks for the abundance in my life.

May all beings be free from suffering.
May all beings desire peace.
May all beings experience joy.
May all beings be glad of heart.
Namaste.

Rain

2005-07-17T21:24:00.000-07:00

2:30 p.m.

"It's raining!"

Cheyenne bursts through the kitchen door.

"Yes, it's raining!"

"Hurry!"

"I'm coming!"

The moment I was sure the rain would last more than a few minutes, I covered my easel and began cleaning my brushes.

It has been a long, hot week. The air smells wonderfully of moist soil. The eaves are already dripping into the storm drains, plut! plut! plut! and filling the clay-lined reservoirs situated at the lowest corner of every structure in Ordinary.

"Come on!" Cheyenne yells from the bedroom. "Get your stompin' clothes on!"

I'm halfway down the hall when she hurries from the bedroom, red kerchief on her head, bib overalls rolled above the knee.

I race to change and join her on the stoop.

"Come on!" Cheyenne says.

We grasp hands and run like school children through the rain, our faces tilted up, tongues out to catch the fresh, cool drops.

Almost everyone is racing to the north end of the barn. We turn the corner and Cheyenne pulls me back just as a big forkful of hay plops to the ground.

"You almost wore that!" she says.

"Always wanted to be a blonde," I wink.

We are in an enclosure roughly 20 x 30 feet. A bamboo fence surrounds this end of the barn, the gate wide open. In dry weather, a finely woven net covers the space. The net lets in sun and air, keeps out birds and critters. The netting has been rolled back now, and three strong-muscled villagers are pitching clean straw from the loft.

The rest of us leave our sandals outside the fence and step barefoot onto the muddy ground. Some jump in with both feet, risking a slippery spill.

I step in gingerly. I have to warm up to the idea of muddy feet. But then it feels so good--gritty, cool, squirting between my toes.

The mud makes a "gloock" sound as I lift first one heavy foot, then the other. Rain drips down my nose. I lick raindrops from my lips.

Someone shouts out the first bars to an ancient work song, and soon we are stomping mud and miming the motions of the words in rhythm, exaggerating the long notes.

I've got a mule and her name is Sal
Fifteen years on the Erie Canal.
She's a good ole' worker and a good ole' Pal,
Fifteen years on the Erie Canal

We've hauled some barges in our day,
Filled with lumber, coal, and hay . . .

Cheyenne loses her footing and grabs my arm, nearly pulling me down with her. Jessica grabs me round the waist in the nick of time. Somehow we all manage to stay upright.

Jessica has a big splotch of mud on her red hair, sliding onto her cheek. I think to wipe it off, but my hands are already gooey with mud.

She smiles and turns full circle, arms raised, jazz hands wiggling hokey-pokey style, never missing a beat.

We're tramping the straw into clay and sand that were carted here after the last rains. If the rain lasts long enough, we will have enough dauble to finish the exterior walls of Peter and Livia's cob house.

Peter and Livia are getting married in September. We erected nearly two-thirds of their house during the last hard rain in April. With this downpour, we should have more than enough to finish the job.

Already, the building crew is wheeling away barrels of sticky mud, long straws poking out this way and that.

Later, Merilee and Cheyenne will assemble a crew of teens and younger children. They will show them how to sculpt and smooth the edges around the door lintels and windows before the cob sets hard.

If there is enough mud, the builders may build some interior walls or shelves, and the students will have an opportunity to carve and sculpt designs in them.

Peter and Livia, who have been planning their home for many months, have chosen patterns for the designs and unique window shapes they prefer. The builders, with Merilee and Cheyenne's help, will see to it that the children's creative energies are channelled toward themes pleasing to the young couple.

"Mom!" It's Tracey, Merilee's daughter. "I can't feel my feet!"

We all turn. Tracey is wobbling on one leg, half buried in the mud. Barely able to hold the other above the surface, she's grown six inches of mud foot.

Jonathon steps over, scoops her up in his big, hairy arms and rubs the mud off her feet in one motion like it was whipped cream. He sets her down, shakes the mud from his hands, and rubs the residue on his overalls.

"Holler when you need another foot wipe." His grin is wide.

It is good to see Jonathon happy again, his face free of the pain that marked it for so long.

Despite the downpour, it takes some time to thoroughly moisten the deep layers of sand and clay and trample in enough straw to hold the mixture together when it hardens.

I am grateful for the heavy rain, continuously washing away the sweat and mud from my arms and face.

Just as our band begins to show signs of fatigue, Beryl, who is supervising the house construction, steps inside the enclosure and gives the signal to the loft that we've enough dauble to finish the house. The loft crew set aside their pitchforks, give the thumbs up and disappear, soon reappearing at the barn door.

Dry, they recoil a moment from the rain, then wave good naturedly to our muddy band and head toward Peter and Livia's home site. They will help the building crew mold the walls and set the glass for the windows.

My legs ache from stomping the sticky goo. They itch too, from the mud and minute straw cuts. The children are still having fun. Some of the teenagers have taken to mud fights and wrestling.

Merilee, Chey and I decide to take a break and head for some bales of hay in the dry barn.

"Whew! That wears me out!" I plop down hard, knees giving way too soon.

"But it's so much fun," Chey says. "Look at Ruby! Eighty-three and stomping like it's a rain dance."

Ruby is my mom. Through the barn door, I see her, sure enough, holding up her skirt in a slow motion mud-foot dance. Seeing us, she waves and keeps on dancing.

"She's smarter than we are," Cheyenne says. "Paces herself."

Ruby likes the outdoors more than in. Until just a few years ago--after her eightieth birthday!--she would take off hiking before sunup and return after sundown with a knapsack bulging with roots and herbs.

"That's my mom," I smile, loving the tall woman with the strong, calloused hands who can run circles around me to this day.

"The sun's coming out," Merilee says. "Let's catch a rainbow!"

By the time we reach the barn door, the rain has trickled to a drizzle and the sun is lighting everything northeast with a yellow and white glow. The air is heavenly fresh.

"There it is!" Tracey shouts. We turn and watch the rainbow grow from faint to brilliant, it's arch expanding gradually till it spans the valley.

"Wow," someone says.

"Wow," we all say.

I inhale deeply.

Sudden hush. All I can hear is the steady dripping of rain off tree branches and eaves.

Breathe out

I give thanks for this day, for this joy, for this rain.

Breathe in

Cheyenne takes my hand, then circles my waist.

Breathe out

I give thanks for this loving woman next to me.

Breathe in.

Tracey takes my other hand, and pulls her mom to her, who already has her arm around Ruby's waist.

Breathe out.

In front of us, and to the left, Jonathon puts an arm around the shoulder of his son Jacob.

Breathe in.

I give thanks for the love in the world, for the joy, for the peace that is ours every single day.

Breathe out.

The infinitely sweet notes of a meadowlark trill across the yard and, miraculously, the colors of the rainbow deepen.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Jacob

2005-07-12T22:14:00.000-07:00

3:31 am

I waken to stillness.

My hands tingle, hot with Reiki energy. Cheyenne sleeps soundly. Something wakened me. What?

There. On the porch. In the starless, fog-shrouded darkness, the slight sillouhette of a head. I recognize the shape, the slightly irregular thatch of hair.

Rising, I lift my well-worn kimono from the foot of the bed, wrap the supple fabric tight, pull the sash, and gently push open the screen door. Moist fog touches my face, each tiny droplet engaging a nerve ever so gently. I inhale deeply.

Thirteen year old Jacob sits in silent meditation, does not stir at my approach.

He knew I would come. A zafu lies next to him on the slate floor.

I grab two afghans from the chest under the window, drape one over Jacob's knees, and take my seat, pulling the other over mine. The wool is instantly warm.

It is not yet light, the air still. The fog rests against the earth, holding yesterday's warmth close.

I close my eyes, spine straight, stretched tall, my shoulders easy, palms slightly cupped on my thighs.

Breathe in.

Images flutter through my mind. Jacob's easy birth, his mother and father panting together, pushing together.

Breathe out.

A picnic in the hills, Jacob mesmerized by brown-striped newts sunning themselves on hot rocks.

Breathe in.

Marita's long illness, Jacob carrying trays of soup and bread, festooned with shells and feathers he has collected.

Breathe out.

Jonathon's grieving.

Breathe in.

Jacob standing at the kitchen door, silent, holding a kitten, a bunny, a turtle. Sometimes the animal is injured and we tend to it together.

Breathe out.

Jonathon's frantic call to villagers to look for Jacob, again and again, after he's wandered alone into the hills.

Breathe in.

Finding him so often, sitting on a rock in rain, beating sun, high wind, or seemingly airless days, sitting, listening, watching.

Breathe out.

Almost always there would be tracks--sometimes it would appear an entire flock of quail had circled him. Others, we would see the tracks of a coyote or wolf, and sometimes a mountain lion.

Breathe in.

Once, the unmistakable imprint of a rattlesnake in the soft dry soil next to the boy.

Breathe out.

Focus on the breath.

Breathe in.

Feel the breath cool against the tip of my nostrils.

Breathe out.

Feel the breath slightly warmer passing again the nostrils.

Breathe in.

I quiet my mind, letting go of all thoughts, letting them pass through like water.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

When he is ready, Jacob reaches for my hand, as he has done since he was a mite. His hand is warm, dry, the skin thick and slightly callused. His fingers are long and thin, not quite the hand of a man yet, but close.

Breathe out.

His breathing shifts, long cleansing breath.

I follow with one of my own.

"What can I do for you, Jacob?"

He is silent a moment more, then: "Mountain lion."

Breathe in.

The cat in the dream.

Breathe out.

"I watched her birth her cubs tonight. Three of them."

Jacob turns to face me then, withdraws his hand. "Rose, it was the most amazing thing! I think she knew I was there. She didn't seem to mind. She let me watch! Oh, Rose, they came out one by one, slowly. She grunted once, and that was the only sound. It was a-may-zing!"

"You are amazing, Jacob. How did you know she wouldn't hurt you?"

"She needed me, Rose."

He doesn't try to explain more, trusting me to understand, though I don't entirely.

No one in Ordinary has the affinity for animals Jacob has. None of us has experienced the closeness to them he does.

He is silent again, his eyes closed, his breath measured.

I too close my eyes and breathe with Jacob until long after I feel the sun on my face, the fog having lifted to another glorious day.

I do not open my eyes until he is gone, quietly slipping away to his morning chores.

Dream

2005-07-07T19:09:00.000-07:00

9:00 p.m.

I set the book on the nightstand. Cheyenne's eyes are closed. We've each taken a turn reading. I'm tempted to read on in silence, but I love the sound of the words out loud, especially Cheyenne's voice, mellow and sweet.

I scooch down in the bed, tuck the pillow under my neck just so, bring the cotton comforter up around my ears, and spoon against Chey. She settles into the S of my body and I, already, I dream.

It is spring. I know this because the apple orchard is pink with blossoms. The sky is clear spring cerulean blue, the blue before the earth begins to release its summer filters of gas and farm dust.

I walk on the spongy orchard soil, twigs and leaf mold giving way to green and yellow grass shoots. I am wearing a long dress, itself sprigged with apple blossoms so lively I imagine I could pluck them. In my fingers is a blue sash from which dangles an oversized straw saucer hat.

Mother will chastise me later for the hint of sunburn on my skin, but I turn my face to the glow now and soak in the brilliance.

There. The biggest, oldest, gnarliest apple tree of all, the one that was there when my father and mother settled this land, before there was a house, before there were barns, before the orchard.

Before.

Stood that tree.

I embrace the tree, the bark and knobby trunk against my face, against my bare arms where the sleeves of the dress fall away. It breathes with me.

Still dreaming, knowing it's a dream, I waken, my back against the tree, legs outstretched in front of me, hat in my lap. Before I quite open my eyes, I smell cat. Musky. Big. Tawny. Wild. She is purring--loud Cougar purr.

I am afraid to open my eyes. I have had this dream before. If I open my eyes, she won't be there.

I lift one eyelid, heavily, hesitantly. Through the lashes, I see her. I will myself to take my breath long and slow, but it catches in my throat. Too late. She knows I've seen her.

She gets up. Stretches her strong, muscled body long, longer, her front legs far out in front, almost touching my toes. She widens her paws and flexes her claws, each one big as an eagle's beak. She licks my toes.

Where are my shoes? And in that moment of looking away, she is gone.

I do not wake from this dream right away. I curl against Cheyenne again, hugging her gently and close. In the air, I catch the scent of a big cat. Cougar air. Murgatroid growls. I do not wake from this dream just yet. My toes are moist.

Nest

2005-07-06T18:08:00.000-07:00

6:30

Cheyenne and I say good night to our dinner mates and head up the path toward our bungalow. The air is redolent with Jasmine and honeysuckle. I breathe deeply, pulling in the fragrances, the cool evening air through my mouth, my nostrils, my ears and pores.

Cheyenne tucks her arm around my waist and I lean my head on her shoulder.

"Aren't we about the luckiest two people alive," I ask.

"No, we are!" Sixteen year-old Jason and Tawnya skip past us, hand in hand, flush with youthful love. They run down the path and out of sight, toward the stream, where very likely they will do more than look at tadpoles.

Cheyenne and I turn to one another and smile, eyes twinkling.

Ah! These summer nights, cool after a warm day, the fog rolling in and out, trying to decide whether to stay and give us a few cold days, or move on and let the sun out in the morning.

Cheyenne yawns. "I'm sleepy!" she says. Let's go home, snuggle into bed, and read aloud to each other."

We are re-reading an old favorite, The Mistress of Spices. It is set in a time when the world was not yet as peaceful as it is today, when hearts were not as soft or as comfortable in their skins. But the rich language, the textures and mystery draw us again and again to the story.

At home, comfy in cotton knit jammies, I open the bedroom windows wide. Fully screened, running nearly floor to ceiling, and spanning the east wall, the windows let in first the delicious evening air, then the last call of the big, fat robins, singing to one another as twilight begins to settle.

Murgatroid paces on the porch outside the screens, her nails clicking against the cool slate floor. A breeze stirs the clematis and wisteria vines.

Already in bed, Cheyenne begins to read:

I am turmeric who rose out of the ocean of milk when the devas and asuras churned for the treasures of the universe. I am turmeric who came after the nectar and before the poison and thus lies in between.

Sup

2005-07-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

5:30 pm

At the community building, Janine playfully blows me a kiss, then propels her chair up the ramp and scoots to the head of the line, where she is greeted warmly.

Making way for the people who plan and prepare the meals we enjoy at Ordinary is one way we show our gratitude.

A light fog rolls in from the west as I wait my turn for the soup tureens. I sniff the air. Co-mingling aromas of garlic, oregano, thyme, basil, and fresh tomato broth call to me the moment I step inside the door. My taste buds tingle.

Tonight I’ll have a large bowl of Benjamin’s minestrone with buttered hunks of homemade, whole wheat sour dough bread.

“I said, you’re a thousand miles away, Rose!”

I turn to Noah, gently touching my arm.

“Noah! It’s true. I was savoring the food smells and the way the fog lets me see the air moving, how it obscures and softens the lines of the hills, changing everything!”

“Always the artist, Rose. How’s the journal coming along?”

“Well, I have to say I am grateful we only have to log one full day. I haven’t minded keeping a journal for the oral history project, but if I had to go around talking into this recorder all day every day, I’d have to think again!”

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” Noah smiles, his beautiful wide mouth only slightly open, his dark eyes soft. “Believe me, we all tried it ourselves before we asked other villagers to keep a log for a full day.”

Noah is the village librarian. Not only does he provide access to a whole world of literature, art, and music, but he is also responsible for maintaining the historical archives. That includes cajoling villagers into accepting journaling assignments for the oral history project.

“How is the project coming, Noah?”

“We have twenty-five days so far, all from randomly selected villagers and dates. When we have a full year, we will have a wonderful mosaic of village life for generations to come.”

Catching Cheyenne’s eye, I wave to her, already seated, and apparently keeping the table in stitches. Laughter erupts from their corner again and again.

“Noah, Cheyenne has saved me a seat at cook’s table. Won’t you join us?”

Noah’s mouth opens to a full grin, his buttery-chocolate face rosy with pleasure.

“Sure, Rose. Betty is helping Jacob nurse Mollie’s calf and I'm on my own tonight.” He winks, taking my arm. “You know I’ll talk shop.”

“I’m counting on it, Noah." I lean my head into his--conspirators. "Now what’s the latest in the world of cello. Cheyenne’s birthday is coming up.”

Gifts

2005-07-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

4:15 pm

The village bell sounds, signaling the close of quiet hour. Napping after meditation, I waken to Cheyenne's sweet head against my chest. I marvel anew at the softness of her hair, like the finest silk--a tactile delight--and so unlike my coarse, wavy mane.

She opens her eyes and smiles. We snuggle a moment longer, then she is up and on her way to the kitchen to help with supper prep. She’ll save me a seat at cook’s table so we can dine together tonight.

Yawning as shamelessly as Murgatroid, I stretch luxuriously on the cushions, warming my muscles before rousing to prepare for Janine's visit. A thrill of pleasure runs through me as I imagine the rich textures of her weaving.

Janine uses natural textiles from the village and surrounds. Perhaps she will have added some found objects, bits of twig, odd buttons, ribbons from gift wrappings.

Now which of my paintings will she want in exchange? I uncover my latest works, and one or two older ones I have seen Janine admire, then make a pitcher of fresh lemonade.

Mmmm. The sharp citrus scent wakens me fully. Easy on the sugar, I use just enough to cut the tartness, and drop in a tray of ice cubes.

Across the way, Merilee’s daughter Tracey is practicing her harp. A natural musician like Cheyenne, twelve-year-old Tracey has dabbled in guitar, violin, piano, and flute. I suspect the harp will become her passion. She strokes the strings with an understanding of the instrument beyond her years. Her solo during the noon concert today arrested the entire room. People listened with forks frozen mid-air, and I nearly overflowed my water glass.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

I turn to find Janine wheeling herself up the path. Preferring to propel her chair herself, Janine eschews using the power chair unless she needs speed.

"I love watching the children grow their talents."

“And not just kids like Tracey who have some innate talent for music or art, but what about Jacob, with his amazing rapport with the animals, his ability to call even insects to help with the crops!”

“Do you ever wonder, Rose, why it took the human race so long to get to this point?”

I laugh. “Yes, of course! What were we thinking? Why didn’t people give each other room just to be?”

Wordlessly, without hesitation, Janine and I bow our heads, each saying prayer in her way for the gladness to live in this time, to enjoy the beauty of this world.

I know she is practicing, as I am, letting tension flow from her body into the ground, feeling the warm light of the sun, the beauty of Tracey’s music, flow over her, from head to toe, washing away any distress we may carry.

I give away all pain

I give away all sadness

I take this moment, this light, this day, this sun, this music filling my ears and my heart with delight

I take this friend into my home to share, each, our gifts

Opening my eyes, I touch Janine’s hand. “What have you got there,” I ask, gesturing toward the tapestry on her lap, folded inward so the design is not yet apparent. “Come on in and show me!”

She laughs, tossing her head. Her black curls glisten in the late afternoon sun as she wheels herself through the double doorway into the small kitchen of our cottage.

Janine reaches round for the backpack attached to her chair. There she has stowed the three sections of a long dowel for hanging the tapestry. She pulls out the sections and screws them together.

On her instruction last week, I mounted brackets in the wall above the long, low cabinet that houses our music system.

“Your task, Rose, should you choose to accept it,” she says to me, winking, as she carefully inserts the dowel into the tapestry without opening the finished side to my view, “is to hang the tapestry without actually seeing it. I want you to see it fully for the first time after it’s up. Can you avert your eyes while you’re hanging it?”

“I’ll try,” I laugh, struggling not to see what I can’t wait to see. But I manage to concentrate on keeping my balance as I climb the ladder, then on keeping the tapestry rolled till I've set the dowel firmly in its brackets. Studiously looking at my feet, I step down, collapse the stool, and turn from the wall.

“Tell me when it’s safe to look!”

“Silly. Turn around now!” Janine says.

“Oh my gosh, Janine! It’s perfect! Absolutely beautiful! Are those real gold threads? But so subtly inserted that it’s not flashy, just rich in texture! Oh my gosh!”

Janine smiles at my pleasure. She has woven the greens, browns, and yellows of the hills, the muted colors of the woods on one side, and the brilliant splotches of the flowering meadows in front. I have the entire western vista on my living room wall! I don’t know how she’s done it, but I can smell the rich moldy soil of the woods underfoot and the crisp drying grasses in the summer heat. I kneel beside her chair, hug her long.

“I’m so grateful for this, Janine. How can I ever repay you?”

“Oh, you’ll pay me all right, she says,” laughing again.

I love the sound of her laugh, full, bubbling almost uncontrollable.

“I already know what I want, and it is none of these,” she gestures toward the array of paintings I set out earlier.

“But I don’t have anything else,” I tell her, puzzled at the smile dancing around her mouth and in her eyes. “Janine, I wouldn’t even attempt to outdo you with something new!”

“Rose,” Janine says, raising her eyes and not her head. “Rose, what I have coveted since I first saw them, what I have so deviously coveted as I watched you watching the hills, as I chose the threads, as I drew the preliminary design, as I wrapped the warp and wove the weft,” she pauses, twinkling with unconcealed joy, “is the triptych above your bed.”

She laughs out loud then and I with her. The three paintings she requests are of the same scene as the tapestry, each of us having rendered it in our unique perspective and medium.

“Done! And happily so! With this in my living room, I won’t even miss them. Come on, I’ll take them down and carry them back to your place on the way to dinner.”

The first bell announcing dinner sounds on cue and we laugh again while I wrap the pictures carefully and secure them with the carrying harness young Jacob made for me after I helped him nurse a wounded bobcat back to health last winter.

Rest

2005-06-30T21:53:00.000-07:00

3:15 pm

The mid-afternoon bell sounds, startling me from my reverie. Engrossed with pigment and shape, I lost track of time. Murgatroid, asleep on her cushion, stretches lazily and opens her mouth in a big, pink yawn.

“Hey, Kittie,” Cheyenne smiles, reaching to scratch Murg just behind the ear. “How you doin’, Murgatroid? Keeping Mom company?” She gives me a quick peck on the cheek.

“Wow!" she says, admiring the painting. "I can almost smell the rain in the air! And you’ve captured the fragility of the petals just as they were that day! How do you do it?"

“How do you make five strings sound like a whole orchestra?” I laugh. "And when did you come home? I didn't hear you."

“Just got here. I came to sit afternoon meditation with you, if that’s okay,” she smiles, reclining into the cushions and teasing Murgatroid with a piece of string. “Then maybe a nap?”

“Sure. Let me clean my brushes first.” I rinse and put away my tools, close the paint chest, and move the easel close to the window. Arm in arm, we move onto the porch and take our seats on the firm cushions.

All over the village, people are settling down for quiet time. Whether we nap, read, meditate, stroll through the gardens, this is the time of day we show gratitude for our bodies’ service with an hour’s rest. For some, the hour is too long and they honor the rest by taking up quiet work that stirs the air little. Others, like Ralph who rises at 4:00 every morning, will sleep till the dinner bell sounds.

For Cheyenne and me, this is a time of quiet reflection together. In silence, hearing only the sound of each other’s breath and our own heartbeats, we experience our selves together yet separate.

Paint

2005-06-29T21:43:00.000-07:00

12:45 pm

Back in the cottage, I pop a CD in the player, and the soft strum of Cheyenne’s guitar fills the room.

While I wait for the tea-kettle, I play bandit with Murgatroid, then, teacup in hand, open my paint chest, and move the easel with my latest work closer to the north window. This watercolor is of a colorful patch of bubble poppies alongside the path leading to the top of Seafoam Knoll. Just at the crest of the hill, storm clouds suggest danger for the poppies, but in this moment, they are bright under the not-yet hidden sun.

Apology

2005-06-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

11:45 am

The lunch gong sounds. I clean and put away my tools, wash up, and head for the dining room. The teen orchestra are tuning their instruments as I wait in line with Merilee. We will have a concert today!

Cheyenne waves from across the room and gives a big OK with her thumb and forefinger. She is grinning, excited about her students' progress and the music they are about to play.

"Show off!" I mouth.

Lunch is a spread of salads and a choice of vegetable or beef ragout over the Kaiser rolls Janine made this morning. The spicy ragout looks and smells delicious, and my salivary glands kick in. I wink at Cheyenne, who winks back as she steps to her place in front of the mini orchestra and raises her baton.

Strains of Mozart drift through the room. A hush settles as Little Tracey begins a solo on her harp. I step to the water bucket and ladle another mug of fresh spring water pumped to the kitchen--and all our cottages--by two of the few motors in constant use in Ordinary. Back at the table, I dig in. Fresh mint in the apple pear salad crunches slightly under my teeth. Mmmm.

My table mates chat amiably, then hush suddenly at a particularly sweet violin solo. I am in heaven.

Finished with her day's work, Janine wheels her chair by our table before leaving for her free afternoon.

”Great lunch, Janine,” Merilee purrs. “Do I detect a hint of nutmeg in the ragout?”

“Secret out!” Janine smiles. “I love cooking for your delicate taste buds, Mer.”

Merilee pats her tummy and grins before taking another hearty mouthful, and Janine turns to me.

"May I drop by later today," she asks. "I finished the tapestry."

Janine’s hand-woven tapestries are legendary far beyond Ordinary. Months ago, at her suggestion, I agreed eagerly to an exchange.

She would weave a tapestry for the wall facing our front garden windows. In exchange, she may choose from any of my paintings for her home.

"Oh, yes! I can't wait to see it!" I pause then, subdued. "Janine. I need to apologize for my anger yesterday. Please forgive me. And please, how may I make amends?"

Yesterday, Janine had spoken sharply to a child who had run through the kitchen just as she was lifting a steaming kettle of apricot preserves from the stove to the counter. The child knocked against Janine’s chair and narrowly escaped causing a spill that would have scalded them both.

Empathizing with the child, who knew immediately what she had done and was clearly horrified, I took her part, not realizing how shaken Janine was.

It is easy to forget that much of Janine's strength comes from her will and her careful attention to every movement. As physically strong as she is, her body does not respond to an emergency as quickly as yours or mine.

"Oh for Pete's sake, Rose," she says now, hands on her hips. "A little spat never hurt anyone. If I didn't see some passion in you now and then, I'd think you weren't human! Amends? Promise me you'll always speak your mind. I count on you for that."

Embarrassed at the tears in my eyes, I reach to hug her. Her hair smells of rosemary and lavender, and her cheek is soft. Lifting her chin to signal a wave, she rolls herself from the room.

Sow

2005-06-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

10:00 am

Back in the garden, I plant a new row of bib lettuce, one of radishes, and another of green onions, my mouth watering at the thought of the tasty salads to come.

This will be the last of the tender, early crops. Summer's heat, which ripens tomatoes, beans, squashes, and corn, is fatal to all but the onions. Those will grow as big as I'll let them, but this variety is sweetest when picked no bigger than my thumb.

The crumbly dark soil smells rich and fertile. A big, fat earthworm all but hops away from my spade. I jump and laugh out loud.

The well-prepared ground requires little more than scratching a furrow with the edge of the hoe. On hands and knees, I make three slow laps up and down the garden patch, firming the soil over the seeds with my fingers just enough to keep them from washing away before they sprout.

Murgatroid steps across my hands, brushing her bushy black tail under my nose. But she doesn't like the loamy soil. Dirties her paws. She soon retreats to the edge of the grass, where she plops down, spreads her forelegs back and over her head and exposes her underbelly to the morning sun.

"Hedonist," I chortle. She ignores me.

Finished with the seeding, I've just enough time to deadhead the weeping rose bushes in the front borders. A breeze dries the perspiration on my forhead and neck. "Thank you," I smile, to the blue sky and high white puffs of cloud.

Overhead, a robin sings in the maple tree. I drag my weed hopper around front and cull the wilted, spent blossoms, carefully saving any unbruised petals for potpourri bags. The rest pop into the hopper, along with the occasional errant weed.

On the south side of the house, I check the incubators in the sandy border next to the root cellar door. Nine quart jars stand in a row over naked rose stems. Delight! A few have sprouted their first leaves! Removing the jars, I check the new growth carefully for disease or pests.

The stems, picked abloom from favorite bushes in their prime, first brightened tables throughout the village, then came to me for rooting. The tender new leaves testify to healthy roots below. Soon the plants will be strong enough for transplanting to someone's garden. When they are ready, I'll carefully package and label each one and carry them to the nursery.

Weed

2005-06-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

8:30 am

Thoroughly watered yesterday morning, the garden soil is soft, giving up the weeds readily. Tossing them in the rolling hopper as I go, I sing an ancient garden work song:

Inch by inch, row by row, going to make this Garden, grow

Merilee, working in her garden across the way, joins in, her lilting soprano harmonizing a third above my alto.

A gaggle of nine and ten year olds passes by on their way to morning chores. I pantomime the song to them, and they join us in the chorus, laughing.

Before they begin their studies today, the children will rake leaves and debris that clog the storm gutters and drains along the curbs.

Village children have plenty of time to play and pursue their dreams in Ordinary. They also are taught responsibility from an early age. Everyone in Ordinary does one-half to one hour community service six days a week.

Weeding finished, I pull the hopper to the community compost pile and empty it into the mulcher. Swaying with the rhythm of the well-oiled handle, I turn the gears that spin the cutting blades. It feels good--the symmetry of body and machine--my strong arm wakening the greater power in the inert metals.

The scents of iron and machine oil mingle with the stronger odors of freshly cut greens. The verdant aromas tickle my nose, forcing a sneeze. I breathe deeply. How can anything so delicious be thought garbage!

Over the next few weeks, the coarsely chopped leaves and stems will break down quickly in the compost, turning a rich black--best possible food for the garden.

Before I've quite finished, Merilee pulls up with her hopper. She transfers the weeds to the grinder, and I cut them while we chat.

Pulling the mulcher away from the pile, we sprinkle lime over the top, pour on a quart of manure tea, give a quick toss with pitchforks, and stroll back to our gardens, muscles warm, conversation animated.

Merilee is teaching a sculpting class to the children after their morning chores and is disappointed that her clay is too wet. She had been looking forward to helping the children discover the plasticity of clay.

"Might as well add water and show them how to make soup!" she says.

"Why not give them a life lesson," I suggest. "You keep workable clay in your studio, right?"

"Of course!" Merilee claps her hands. "I'll give them each a small piece of malleable clay along with the too-wet clay. We'll talk a little about clay and water molecules and how they hold together--I have a model of the molecules I made in college--they'll love it!

"We'll play with the wet clay--see whose sculpture collapses first. It will be fun!"

"And they'll learn how the unexpected can become a gift . . ." I smile.

Merilee hurries off to her studio to dig out the model and grab a brick of her hand-gathered, well-kneaded clay, her long, straight-legged trousers flapping at her ankles.

Eat!

2005-06-20T21:44:00.000-07:00

8:15 am

The serving crew has everything under control, keeping the trays and urns filled as quickly as villagers deplete them. When the last flat of eggs and potatoes is scooped off the grill, the last vat of oatmeal poured into the serving crock, Janine, Ralph, the Twins and I fill our plates and relax at Cook's table.

Strains of Vivaldi stream almost too quietly from Cheyenne's cello. She loves playing in the early morning. Says her fingers are most limber then. I catch her eye and wink.

My heart blooms in my chest, and I feel anew the wonder of her in my life. Seventeen years. Serene pleasure.

At table, we don't say much the first few minutes. I suspect the others are as hungry as I. We nearly disgrace ourselves slurping and gorging.

My oatmeal is delicious--not too soft, and with just enough texture to require a little chewing. Fully cooked, the freshly milled oats are fat and substantial. The bananas and home-dried raisins I've added shoot little bursts of flavor across my tongue with each bite.

Yum.

Finishing quickly, Jenine rolls her chair away from the table, her eyes twinkling.

"I've a little surprise for later today," she says to me. And sails away before I can empty my mouth and speak.

"What?" I say, mushily, to the Twins, who are giggling.

"We'll never tell!" in unison.

"Ralph?"

"I haven't a clue," he says, reaching for another apricot muffin. "She didn't say anything to me."

Finished with breakfast and the day's chores, Ralph, the Twins and I head out the door. On the way, I stop and give a peck on the cheek to Cheyenne.

I'm on my way to my gardens. Ralph is off to prepare for his morning class, and the twins to the village school. Later, they will tutor younger children.

Today Ralph is working with the teens, including the Twins, helping them discover how energy flows in, around, between, and among humans, other animals, plants, and "inanimate" objects.

Like me, he prefers a good deal of solitude, which he uses for private meditation and energy practice.

The only villager who routinely rises earlier than I, Ralph is up at 4:00 every morning to meditate and practice Qi Gong in the cool dark hours. A master of the chi arts, he teaches the rest of us.

By 2 pm, school out, he will likely be far down the stream, lying on his belly, watching the new frogs. Or perhaps he'll hike up the western scarp and sit among the rocks, waiting for a cougar or coyote to befriend him.

Chores

2005-06-17T20:30:00.000-07:00

7:00 am

I've nearly finished mincing the garlic, chopping onions, and cleaning potatoes. Jenine, head cook for breakfast and lunch today, sings as she kneads bread for the Kaiser rolls over which she will serve a delicious ragout for lunch.

While the bakery produces all the breads and pastries for the village, making bread is one of Jenine's pleasures and you will almost always find her kneading an extra loaf or two on her shift.

Two other cooks, each with a team of three, are preparing additions to the breakfast menu. As shift head cook, Jenine has the privilege of coordinating the menus, selecting the produce and groceries, and choosing her team from the duty roster.

Just as gardeners garden (that's me), weavers weave, and builders build in Ordinary, anyone who loves to plan, cook, and assemble meals can choose more time in the kitchen. Those who have passed apprenticeship, including village taste tests, rotate through the shifts as head cook.

The rest of us pull duty as our turns come up, as all villagers do for any of the myriad maintenance, cleaning, and production operations that nourish and sustain our way of life.

No one takes another's work for granted. Because we all help one another at one time or other, we understand and respect the skill, experience, forebearance, and love we bring each to our tasks.

At the moment, I'm respecting the work of the twins. Hands dripping with juices, the twins are washing and slicing grapefruit, bananas, strawberries and early apricots for the fruit bowl. The aromas of the fresh-cut fruits tickle my nostrils and make my mouth water irresistably.

I snatch a half round of apricot from the bowl and pop it into my mouth. Cool juice spurts across my tongue. The fruit is so ripe, I hardly need chew, but I do anyway, slowly, savoring the textures and flavor.

Ralph has a gallon vat of water boiling eggs for the rushed eaters while he beats fresh eggs for his cheesy scramble, a favorite of the sit-downers.

Jenine sets her yeasty sponge to rise, covering it with a clean, home-spun cotton towel. I've finished chopping the onions and garlic and slide them onto the grill where the potatoes are already carmelizing. Grabbing a fresh knife, I clean and cut parsley for garnishes, snatching bites of the fresh, pungent herb. Its curls tickle my tongue.

The servers move in and out of the kitchen, filling pitchers with cold milk and cream, setting out sugars--brown, raw, and white--raisins, fresh-shelled nuts, and other condiments.

Our movements are fluid as a dance. We speak softly if at all, enjoying the morning peace.

Not all mornings are like today. I have spent many an early morning singing raucous rounds as we worked, and not a few of the villagers are expert at keeping the rest of us laughing so hard we must put down our knives, if we are using them, before we injure ourselves.

But today is sublimely peaceful. Even the dining room crew is hushed as they set the tables, carefully aligning tableware, plates, and glasses.

No one would let the others down by doing a sloppy job, even at something as mundane as setting the table, for beauty is as important to our health as nutritious vegetables and clean, clear water.

Through the pass-through, I glimpse Merilee arranging flowers, low bowls of peonies--last of the season--and old-fashioned roses. She's sprinkled fresh sprays of lavendar among the large, delicate orbs. The subtle pungence, combined with the delicious food smells, will energize sleepy stragglers.

Behind Merilee, where I can hear but not see her, Cheyenne tunes her cello. We'll have music with our coffee today.

Run

2005-06-16T19:27:00.000-07:00

6:00 am

Eager for the day's tasks, I eschew the morning workout and head for the community kitchen. This week is breakfast duty.

On the way, Ralph lopes from his garden and slows his pace, two-stepping to my one till I notch my speed up a gear.

“Morning, Rose.”

“Mornin’, Ralph.”

That’s all it takes. We jog wordlessly around the village perimeter, then scoot to the garden path that skirts the commons before crossing to the kitchens.

The rhythm of our breath, footfalls, and the steady shushu of Ralph’s windbreaker link us as surely as rope. Along the way, I point to the Great Blue Heron standing in the rushes at the edge of the pond.

A moment later, Ralph giggles as I deftly sail over Eloise, Merilee’s ancient Pekinese.

Eloise likes to sit at the edge of the shrubbery-lined walk, still as a statue, till a passerby steps too close. At the last second, she darts out a dainty paw toward her mark's leg, barely grazing it, and yips ferociously.

The preoccupied and unobservant jump and yelp, startled into the present moment, right here, right now, this path, this watery-eyed dog, this spot, this breath. Most laugh at themselves, at the dog, that they've let Eloise catch them one more time.

Satisfied, Eloise emits one last sharp bark and retreats under the shrubbery where, feline-like, she licks the fur on her jabbing paw. If you see her in time, as I did today, she omits the barking and the retreat and goes straight to licking.

Reaching the kitchen gate, Ralph and I bow to one another, hands folded before our chest.

Namaste.

Ralph's eyes are soft, his smile gentle, reflecting my own. Making my way through the herb garden to the kitchen, I stop to pluck a bit of lemon thyme and crush it against my nose. Mmmmm.

Sit

2005-06-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

5:15 am

A pale hint of dawn flows just above the Eastern hills. Finishing my tea, I put away pens and notebook, brush my hair, and step into the garden and down the path toward the lanai on the Commons.

First to arrive, I lay my zafu on the smooth cedar deck and take my seat in my favorite spot, front row, middle, where I can feel the sun's rays on my face and eyes when it crests the hill.

Silently, other villagers make their way to the lanai and take their seats. I relish the sound of each shallow breath, turning deeper and deeper as they find their spot, sink to their cushions, and turn their attention each to his or her own breath.

Yellow finches twitter and tweep in the honey-suckle and wisteria-clad lattice. The tiny birds flutter up in a rush at the sound of the twins, Kami and June, full of adolescent exuberance, rushing up the path. Giggling, forcing themselves to slow down, they shush one another and tiptoe onto the platform.

Catching Kami’s eye as she lowers her lanky limbs to the bare floor, I wink before closing both mine and taking my first long, wide breath.

I give thanks for the twins, for this day, opening calm and sweet, for each one of the villagers, for a peaceful world, for this most beautiful Earth, for Spirit who helped us all to learn compassion and to grow peace in our hearts.

Breathe.

Wake

2005-06-14T21:57:00.000-07:00

4:30 am

I waken gently from a dream of wildflowers blowing on the hillside. Murgatroid’s soft paw rests against my cheek. The room is dark under the new moon. Cool air lifts the gauzy curtain at the window, a graceful spectre. I lie still a few minutes, save for my hands, stepping slowly from crown chakra to base. The rejuvenating warmth of Reiki fills my body, energizing.

Careful not to waken Cheyenne, I slip from the covers. Murgatroid The Cat pads ahead of me to the kitchen where I clean and fill first her bowls with fresh food and water, then the kettle for tea.

While the water heats, I wash and dry my face in the lav just off the kitchen. I breathe deeply in the folds of the soft, absorbent towel. The scents of home-grown cotton and indigo dye are faint but present after many washings. Gratitude wells in me, as it does every morning, for this simple pleasure, thanks to the unscented soaps used in the village laundry.

Tea cup in hand, I cross to the screened porch, scissor cross-legged onto cushions, and pull my drawing journal, pens, and markers from a nearby basket. Anything goes here. Anything comes. Anger. Sadness. Hurt. Joy. Laughter.

This morning, I draw spirals, lines circling in, circling out, circling in. I add shading, pattern upon pattern, engrossed in the repetition, differences emerging, ever-changing, ever the same, like a river, like life.