Does this have to do with the mythical power of oak?  Oh, http://www.answermethispodcast.com, I love you wildly.

I’m dealing with an issue at work that I can’t explain here but is giving me a lot of stress.  Stress, you know is liable to make your hair fall out and and make you eat things you shouldn’t and in this case, there’s absolutely nothing to be done about it and I am doing all I can to set it aside and remember that I both need to and can write my words without, you know, dying?

Life is remarkable.  I’m trying to keep my peripheral vision open to strangeness and let it seek out new aesthetic terrain, let it feed on images and kindness and unexpected connection.  My boss has returned home from vacation and brought us little bud vases with blue glazing on the rim and that cobalt color, tripped a string of memories of the old house we used to live in – one I drive past most days – and the kitchen my father installed and the little island where they put in ceramic tiles.  They were mostly white except for a couple where this cobalt blue.  And then I think of that kitchen and running through it as a child, waiting for supper, flying in and heading outside and there were summer evenings there when school was out when the light would come in from the west so gold and gentle and light up the trellises and that little stage that was really the wooden coverings for the unused well and you’d turn the corner and there was the snowball bush beneath my parents’ window and then the crabapple tree by our window and the compost heap we’d put eggshells and coffee grounds and grass clippings in and we would stir every now and then stir it up and a big waft of steam would rise up from all the hot decay taking place at its center.  Everything breaking down into delicious, ripe, life that would break up the red clay that my mother had to fight through and roto-till to make the garden take root.  But she did and there were stargazer lilies and Nellie Moser clematises and nasturtiums for my grandmother and roses and California poppies and peaches and cream verbena and daffodils by the glass house and dianthus and grape hyacinth and little pansies with their faces that I would name and talk to quite importantly and make a part of all the stories I acted out when I thought no one was watching.

I don’t know why I remember that just now, but it was a beautiful place.  We took care of it when we lived there – a far cry from its current owner’s take – and it’s sad to see it so overgrown and unkempt.  It feels like an absence of love.   So unfair a fate for a place that carried so many dreams for so long, that was so long a home.

All I can do is love what I do have, where I am now.

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