a year?

We decide it was good or bad? and, entering the next 12 months, we know just what it is we want out of those 365 days? are we so well informed? are we forgetting, when we say "glad that's over" that there were excellent days, wonderful times, premium moments? do we discount the best of days and maximize the memory (fuzzy?) of those negatives which did not eradicate us?

We "live" through the end of another year, celebrating the potential for new beginnings, hoping for we know not what.

The moments were the gems; the tiny segments of our lives the pinnacle-isms we didn't know we were privy to, we were showered by, we were gifted with == our Gifts.
Is it possible, somehow, to tune in to the pure delight even one moment can emit?

Simple things can create such pleasurable moments

Delightful, that day, during a quiet walk in the park.

How do we achieve understanding when

it's selective? The desire to understand's required, first of all. But before that, somehow it's important to realize we're not exactly connected. We can read all about hunger, poverty, doing without, and what they're supposed to be like, but until we realize we have little idea how an in depth experience of those things feels, we don't even know we don't "understand". '
At a moment of truth (experience), we might find ourselves wondering just "what was left out of the package I was supposed to get", like the child said at a less-than-superabundant christmas:
"Is this all?"
The majority of us have no idea at all. Hunger, to us, is missing one meal; poverty? it's losing in the stock market; doing without? not being able to get that second house or car or ipod or coveted piece of jewelry.
There are far too many individuals out there in our periphery who know the definitions intimately.

Six in eight

Counting today, six day-pieces (or pieces of days) left in 2008. Strange, saying adios to another year, knowing how mostly, time's not even acknowledged. Contemplating all the things we human beings take for granted is wipe-outish. It'd be priceless to be able to call up specific moments in time whenever, re-examining all the pluses and maybe-not-minuses-after-all in each moment. Might surprise us. Wish we were capable of full experience (maybe).

Guilty as charged?

How often we jump to conclusions, forming negative judgements when facts are completely unknown. Sometimes, those we're judging have made decisions based upon the most private realities with no other solution, (health, grief, loss, etc.).

Judging, in absence of the facts, is a habit to lose.

Narrow focus?

So many ads: Ten days 'til Christmas. Everything (almost) splayed in red or green. There are other holidays. Hanukkah's the end of this week! And what about folks who don't or CAN'T observe some grand celebratory event. Guess attention could be paid to the rest of the planet. X days 'til hmm. It's the commerciality that nags. On the same page a newspaper proclaimed the presence of the destitute flashed the gleam of banal bling.
Wonder. Does anybody notice? Or is it too uncomfortable?

December beginning..

Always a kind of beginning afoot, even at the end of something. Semantics at worst. No scenario to it. There's a December to everything. When I wanted to stay longer somewhere, not go home even though it was time, my mother would say "if you don't go, you can't come back" (if it never ends, it won't ever beginagain.) I'm still working on that one. She liked those little sayings. Not sure whether I did back then.

We hope for the Januaries, the new, the untested, the unopened door (maybe). The hope? Blind (or the denial of our) positivity overrides any realistic dread. But to ignore the Decembers? Missing out.

Last day...

of November, of Hurricane Season, of a great month, and it's sealed its goodness with a beautiful rain. And, another special birthday celebrantiasis. Happy birthday, chickidoodle. I know you enjoyed the raindrops. Hee.

Okay!

These two were inseparable when we first rescued them. Shown here, they've just had a wild workout (chase scene) and are resting up for the next one.

Nowadays, each does her own thing, but neither seems to try to boss the other, even though Rassie is almost twice the size of the Spriglet.

Who would have believed they'd be such a perfect match?

Uh oh.

Can't sneak around here at all. Ever since I posted the pic of Sprig's eyes, her shelter bud Rascal's been hanging around hinting bigtime. "Where's my picture?" or "I do somethin' wrong?" or "Whatd'y'want, money, to put my mug shot up?" No, Rascal. Just didn't get around to it. Here goes:
Now Sprig's gonna see this, and. . well, there goes the blog. I'll have to get them their own computer so they can . . you get it. Otherwise.......... Hafta add one thing we found out about female tabby cats. They're extremely rare. Wow. So now, Rassie, see? You're a special kitty. Known fact, anyway.

Every little being has differences. This particular kitten, one rescued from the shelter, along with a much larger cat, was labeled a "stray". From her behavior, she was no more a stray than the local rock star. Clearly, she'd been someone's pet, dumped on the shelter doorstep. We figured the dumping was because of her deformities (scrawny leetle back legs) which, keep her slowed down not one iota. She's duly into everything, and mega-inquisitive, even more so than her shelter bud. We named her "Sprig" because she's just that -- not a twig, but smaller, as parts go. She follows her own agenda, not interested in any other kind, but has been seen cooperating when the mood strikes her. Unique personality. Well, that's to be expected, for sure!

from florida sanderson, on the election .....

How I hate profiling, (having been profiled by age, among other things)..... I see it as such an easy pothole in which to foil forward progress.

Mr. Obama got my 73-year-old woman's vote. All the same, I will proudly wear my "Hillary for President "apparel, because this statement needs to be made: Men (black men included) were enfranchised well before women were, and yes, now, have succeeded in ceiling-crashing.
But, until gender as a "negative" measurement of qualification is put away once and for all (just as finally race seems to have been packed out) there will be those for whom profiling's "final frontiers" are the eternal holdouts. Such lame excuses, prejudices and "gotta-reject-something" (a.k.a. mindless choicemaking) will leave skidmarks on the underpants of history.

This old dame's proud to have rallied 'round the future, however frightening it may become. At least the vote counted and, right or wrong, I got to contribute my bit.

And that includes my contributions toward Hillary's campaign.

Change? Is it truly possible?

And from the trenches, we,
brushing off particles, layers, crusts
of a head-shaking past, shun nagging experience for
too-thready trust in a might-be future.

Something about hope never disintegrates.
And women cannot let that fact go,
whatever is taken from us.

that last november's

election year
disaster
this woman shaved her head
enraged that once again
mendacity
smirked and laughed out loud
at those of us who smelled the beastiness that bastard reeked.
and later, watched, we did
as our foretellings came to pass.
So now, the sidelines shelter her from
herself (to tell it like it is)
and keep her rantings caged.
That's not to say that fulminating fury's disappeared;
it's just that health demands her moderation, not
extremes, and what involvement calls for nowadays?
Just that -- Extreme.

Rage hurts too much,
expressed or no.

November 1 New Year's Day

She knows about this new year. It falls each fall
on her birthday.
The Rascal plays MonkeyBars under my new bed
and we
laugh.
Best way. No tears this year. We can face it without them.
Hope.

Happy birthday, Rowr.

15. It's Halloween !

And NO! It isn't hollow!
Hallow's it, despite the mispronunciation.
There's difference between hallow/hollow.
Eek.
But, maybe nothing much is hallowed these days
along the lines of history and language.
Happy October. Let November in the door.
Another new year.

14. and dry?

not gonna happen 'long as saltspray flies off the waves
and seagulls wee and tides come 'way in
although
hot days, parch wants in and
moistureless is the way things go
especially when it hasn't rained in a while
a long while.
skins can get burnt whatever color they started out being
and eyes prolongedly exposed get damaged.

gotta reserve a bit of damp to survive.

13. and when it rains, oh,

for the spirit?
no such cleansing elsewhere.
to walk Gulf-ward between howevermany drops
there are, soaked by some, missed by few -- and
know the happy chill of such touch -- the spirit takes flight
as if heron-taught, and floats
above all hints of things that mar release;

to test the textured changes underfoot
and smile at dry not really far beneath, or
mark the speckled surfaces where heartier plummets
tried for overt permanence impossible with life's tries;

to watch through blurry windshield-eyes as wet makes
dry forget its past (an enviable state for some?)
how much delight its freshness, what dedication to the task
it's got and shared with those of us out in it
prepared or not, with or without amenities of cover...
the rain's unparalleled, unique, enthralling,
never summoned nor sent off by our commands.

what special spirit food!
to miss such feasting ?
what great loss be that.

12. white sand, sand-white crabs

safer, ever-so-white and shadowless,
rarely seen, seldom sought,
their tracks distinctly theirs.

entryways (scratched alike) to
homes dug to size, furrowed out
sandslungwise -- their way -- must be fun

but must be tiresome too
to rehome every tide or every
human step or heavy windblow.

low profiles theirs. good thing. they've
kept their numbers up despite what counts
as enemies.
I hope that lasts
so they proliferate.

11. the morning birds

before dark's quite stood up
to trade vigils with this day
their waters-edge race-spree's on,
more joy than competition.
so quietly and numberless they tread,
stepsounds muffled by punctuating waves.
they miss nothing, take in every birdish thing
(thinking ahead toward morsels day will bring?)
and should thinking be not their thing (it's sure they
have a form of it) the beastilets know just where they
love to be,

earliest, the safest time, and free.
so free, so grand for me to get to see.

10. seaweed

variety itself:
somedays lots and others not
but always its way different
from krinkly pink to thready brown or
brittle black or green and slimy purple
wadded up collecting helpless creatures seeking
exits -- yikes! dead-ended by some shorebird's beak.

we haven't seen it all and won't, because it's always new
(and old) and evermore returning.

the laughter comes when beach-wheels hire at unreal
highest prices, a cleanup crew at tourist-time to rid the view
of kelp. and after all the work's been done and workers gone on home,
the water sneaks up at high tide depositing a ton.

9. but lightning, now,

that's something else
and nothing to ignore.
it has this friend accompanist that
plays when action's close enough to
let it
brandish lotsa muscle.

makes duck-for-cover one of those
essential unplanned triggered moves
a splay of brightest light announces.

that thunder's rude sometimes; both
grimace-making pals demand attention.

you'd think old thor had brought his megacycle
gang to town.
but no. it isn't thor at all.
ah, no.

it's us protesting stuff the world expects
from dames and broads and chicks and crones ---
enough! the lightning and the thunder?
Best pay attention, kids. We thrive on being
unpredictable.

8. ever watch

the stunts clouds try to pull off
in a perfectly clear sky?
starts with a puff or two so thinned out,
hardly visible.
next time we look up a crowd's gathered up there,
trying to play van gogh or somebody on a blue background.
all kindsa shapeshifting going on,
teasing our copy-cat mindsets into games of
"oh, that looks like a.." until the images change.
so much character-acting, from comedic lead to villain,
lights and darks with sometimes thoughts of rain
and sometimes storms that tire, then exit on cue
when the curtain's down and showing off proscenium-wise is
too much work.

7. sometimes it sleeps

the wind, that is.
is it, though? asleep? or like some child
playing hide and seek, waiting to see if we'll
wonder where it went?
does it enjoy watching sailboats slow to a crawl
or waves flatten out, become nondescript
or windmills still?
does it orchestrate its play? easing into gentle breeze
only to go whooshing around with our hair or a bunch of leaves
or laugh as the seagulls and pelicans test its lift? I'll bet
it does, else why so multifaceted?
you call its motivator god? where's the whimsy in that?
perhaps your god's the one so furious in hurricanes or
dreaded tornadoes, and not the wind-being at all.

think what you will, remembering that
so will each of us, since
none of us knows
the truth.

6. the wind today

isn't grandstanding.
seems happy enough to watch itself
move treetops and branches about (not to their limits)
just enough to give 'em exercise.

it does have its moods, oh, yes.
there's times it seems to sing, and other times
curse, bordering (and going beyond the borders of) violence.

when it gets on one of those tears,
best stay outta its way.

5. a kite or something

we'll fly,
maybe.
or perhaps we'll get to see a
certain happening or two
or maybe not.

but, long as we're on the move,
surely we'll find something to do.

at least
we can watch while
time flies its kite, urging us to grab the tail as it does,
swooping us, open-eyed or blind, into its vortex, helping us

forget
the big deal:
time's the ingredient in this mix we take for granted,
the great NOW's IT, and when it's past, its present can't be opened,

all that giftwrapped nourishment it fed us? only phantom aftertaste.

4. and the tide

not only pulls or pushes us
and every near or inside-it creature,
it symbolizes life,
our tenure here,
and how death's changes have
immortalized what life has been,
never quite eradicating us.
it symbolizes f o r e v e r
in forms we might not readily believe we see
for what they really are --
yet,
inspection carefully ventured
can reveal such intricacy
to the seeking eye, in depth of focus,
and show how
life continues,
pulses,
even dares to let us feel its breath.

3. could shells have imagined?

how many,
whole once,
failed to perceive value
in becoming
shattered,
scattered
all apiece,

not knowing how vital
every
particle
is,

not knowing how life's
just that . . . .

a grain here, a shard there, a tiny biticle
without which
there would be
no whole.

2. it's the intent to get up

no point wallowing
even in perceived (or not) comfort.

that getting-up intent
whether we succeed or don't
-- that motivation; that drive to m o v e --
keeps us alive
makes us well
and,
once up,
happy as hell to internalize

everything about
upright.

1. falling doesn't hurt so much

when the sand,
when there's enough
to make it soft,

it catches even the hardest fall
almost as if it knows
despite the best kind of getting-where-we're-going

we
are
gonna

fall.