Anna Scott Graham's Blog

No Kings please

My new banner, finished yesterday, hehehe. Measuring at fifty-five by forty-five inches, the hearts are attached by a running stitch. I'll add more hearts as the need arises.

I just returned home from our local No Kings protest, the attendance of which was the largest I have seen yet! Arriving a few minutes before noon, the sidewalks around our county's courthouse were already crammed with people and amazing signs. Many of those present were under fifty, which was also marvelous to see. Families attended, folks in costumes, bands played, and our local media were spotted. While I wish we didn't have to assert our views in this manner, I am extremely grateful so many people showed their collective strength today.

Walking a few blocks away from the festivities, which were still going strong at two p.m., I saw this sign someone had left behind. The sentiments are vital, and I snapped a picture.

If you are wondering how a small town along California's North Coast feels about the wickedness happening in Washington D.C., let me assure you Humboldt County will put up one hell of a fight for liberty. Hopefully our battle against tyranny won't drag out the next three-plus years, but we are ready for any and all attempts to stifle democracy. Wishing you all a peaceful rest of the weekend!

For the love of literature

A shot from my childhood, the era close enough to that of 1971, when Home and Far Away takes place.

Sometimes a manuscript grabs my heart like no other. In a perfect world, this story would never have been written, the entire Enran Chronicles series based upon when my brother-in-law died nearly three years ago. Yet shit happens, and sometimes miracles do too. The miracle of of Home and Far Away staggers me, and while I'm reaching the end and don't want to include spoilers, these two short scenes between Sooz Noth, her employer Dr. Kevin Whitlow, and his receptionist Jane Hubbard call to my heart, begging to be noted. Okay, authorial heart, here you go.

 

 

Suzearrived at two p.m., but Kevin didn’t speak with her, clients waiting for herassessment. Within his head, he had employed the most clinical terms concerningher place in this practice, wincing when thinking of her possible absence, herprobable absence, he corrected himself. For as much as he liked her, Richardtoo, there was no way he could comply with Lund’s request. While Kevin didn’tknow much of Jumpville’s history, he was fully aware of how hostile some of theresidents were toward the black female doctor within the practice. Not thatKevin had been threatened with bodily harm; those who hated Suze, and nowRichard too, were smart enough to exclude the area’s white male physician fromtheir threats. Maybe Richard knew how serious were those who would love totorch his house or harm his…. If Richard married Suze, Kevin would tell theLunds to do more to protect themselves. If Richard married Suze, Kevin wouldhave to acquiesce to the strangest request in his still fledgling career. If,if, if…. Kevin sighed, then drank another cup of coffee. I’m never getting tosleep tonight, he grumbled inwardly.

Steppingfrom his office, Kevin approached Jane, but she was on the phone. He glanced athis schedule, then blinked; the rest of his patients had been erased from thecolumn. Jane closed the call, then sighed. “Another cancellation, what a crazyday.”

“Another?”he asked.

“Well,take a look. Everyone who was supposed to come in this afternoon has called toreschedule. I’ve called a few who were hoping to see you and even they can’tmake it.”

“Huh.That’s, uh, strange.”

“That’sone way to put it.” Jane shook her head. “Meanwhile, three people have calledwanting to see Suze. I told them you were free, but they, well….”

“Prefertheir own doctor,” Kevin smiled blandly.

“Theydo. Several asked if she’s starting maternity leave next month. She hasn’t saidanything to me, has she talked to you about it?”

“Uh,no, I mean….” Kevin sighed, then winced as broad laughter emerged from whereSuze was caring for a client. “Is she booked the rest of today?”

“Sheis.”

“Okay,well, I’m gonna catch up on paperwork. If she gets a break, ask her to cometalk to me. We’ll, uh, discuss maternity leave, or I’ll mention it to her.”

“Ofcourse. Dr. Whitlow, are you all right?”

“Uh,yeah.”

Janesmirked, then sighed. “I’ll tell her.”

“Thanks.”

“Certainly.”

Kevinnodded, but didn’t move.

Janeturned around. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Ohyeah, just thinking. Sorry, I’ll, uh, be in my office.” He quickly walked away,but slowed his steps by the exam room where Suze spoke Spanish in a ratherjovial tenor. He didn’t understand that language, though if he was smart, he’dtake some correspondence courses. He might be treating more of the Hispaniccommunity soon enough.

 

 

 

Anhour later someone knocked on his closed door. “C’mon in,” Kevin said.

Suzestepped into the room, her hair swept atop her head, but she wasn’t wearing herwhite jacket. “Jane said you wanted to speak to me?”

“Uh,yeah. Can you close the door?”

Shedid so, but didn’t sit. “Well,” she smirked, “what’s there to say? I stopped athome before coming in. Richard told me he told you.”

Kevinswallowed hard. “He told me some things I can’t accept as true. I mean,” hesighed, then smirked. “I guess if I did believe him, it’d explain a lot ofthings that otherwise I don’t have a rational answer for.”

Suzeclasped her hands in front of her large belly. “That’s one way to put it. Doesthat mean you’re willing to….”

“Ican’t, you know that.”

Shenodded. “Richard doesn’t know the pressure you’re under.”

“Itold him I just couldn’t….”

“Iunderstand,” she sighed. “Well, Jane said you wanted to talk about maternityleave. I guess we’re doing that. My staying in this practice would be toodifficult for you to….”

Kevinstood, then slowly approached her. “We can work it out, I just can’t….”

“Everythinghe said was the truth.” She sighed, then pulled something from the pocket ofher slacks. “This is the scanner he told you about. I do use it with some of myclients, those I know who won’t say anything about it. And yes, I am having a boy. MaybeLupe will deliver him.”

“Suze….”

“Kevin,if you won’t provide the necessary results for Richard and me, I won’t ask youto continue to lie on my behalf. I only hope you won’t, well….”

“Iwon’t what?”

“Ihope you won’t turn me or Chella over to the authorities.”

“I,uh, no, I wouldn’t…I won’t do that.”

Suzenodded, putting the device back in her pocket. “I’ll see the rest of my clientsthis week. Then I’m going on formal maternity leave. I’ll inform everyone,don’t worry about calling them.”

“Christ,can’t we talk about this?”

Shehad turned to leave, but she whipped around, her face in a scowl. “There’snothing else to say. If you don’t wanna believe Richard or me, fine. But it’sthe truth. And also true is that I am not leaving here, no matter how much itpisses off those who wish otherwise. I am a human being Kevin, and I have everyright to the same happiness as anyone else, no matter where I come from.”

She grunted, then stalked from the office, butdidn’t close the door behind her. Kevin remained on his feet, but he felt weak,then he tightly shut his eyes as Suze spoke calmly to Jane. Then Suze clearedher throat, calling in her next patient. Her client, Kevin corrected himself,wondering what he was going to do.

Coasters over time

New fabrics are on the right, and they back all the coasters. Those on the left were made a year or two ago, waiting for this exact moment to be pulled from the tote and turned into something wonderful. Thanks Past Me!

Kawandi-style stitching doesn't aggravate my shoulder. Good thing too, because I really wanted to sew some mug rugs and not deal with bindings.

Bindings might be the biggest reason I now avoid making things with my machine. Or finishing things with a machine. I don't want the noise of a walking foot or the hassle of negotiating even a small coaster under a presser foot. Instead I'd rather hand-sew whenever possible, and once I get the perimeter of the coaster done (the only part that makes my shoulder shout), the rest is easy-peasy.

I haven't done any serious evening sewing for maybe a month? Maybe. It was so lovely to sit the last few nights and stitch; how funny when something is removed from one's routine, then reinserted, as if the missing moments were a dream. And the results are adorable, if I say so myself.

Coaster on the right is for a sprite who truly adores mug rugs. Those two fabrics were a couple of my autumnal faves!

One is going to a little girl who LOVES mug rugs. The rest are for my youngest daughter's family, and all went out in the post today. Kind of a last minute-ish sort of project, seeing how Halloween decorations have been in shops for several weeks, but when I was a kid, decorating for holidays didn't happen until said holiday was right on top of you. Makes me feel a little aged noting that, lol.

I have one pinned to sew for myself, and a bit of the pumpkin fabric left for next year, or maybe next week if I feel so inspired. I don't buy a lot of holiday fabric, other than Christmas, but those pumpkins were so cheery and cute and I couldn't say NO. And now I have some mug rug love shared, and some evening stitching done, and.... And the necessary creative energy was spent on those who make me smile.

Hopefully these coasters will stir their grins and we'll all be happy! 

Twenty-five books

That's how many of my novels are available. Lol.

Six standalones, four series, two volumes of poetry, and one collection of short stories. DUDE! 

That's a lotta writing. I mean, that is a copious amount of literary collections. Excuse my loose vernacular, I just cleaned the chicken coop.

But yeah, when one tallies the output, after nineteen years of this fiction gig, it adds up. I won't include the two novels currently under the revision microscope, though I could squeeze in Home and Far Away in another few weeks. Hopefully I'll be releasing that book before the end of the month, but it's the twelfth of October already and, well.... We'll see, fingers crossed, whatever God has in store for that manuscript, 'nuff said.

Okay, enough stated about that installment of The Enran Chronicles, but I shall wax lyrically about the rest of my beloved books. Briefly. Um, yeah, lol! Oh wait, FACEPALM! What about Drop the Gauntlet?

Maybe this post should be rewritten, but I don't have time for that. In that I have Halloween coasters to prep, the bed to make, dishes to do, and I'd REALLY LOVE to lay out my Alexandria quilt having finished the last of sixteen blocks that aren't the last blocks I have to sew, but completing those was a big, slightly shoulder-achy WIN, and I want to see how it all looks. Not that I can do much past gaze at it because my shoulder is still messed up, but I can dream, right?

The loose hexagon blocks along the bottom and top are placeholders. Those right above and below them are the new blocks, hehehe. Blocks on the sides aren't yet stitched together. So much sewing (and basting of shapes) remains, one of these days.

Because that's all writing used to be, my dream. I was a wife and mum, and I was and still am thrilled with those activities. Yet I wanted to write fiction. I had (and still possess) more plots than sense, and what I wanted to do with all those crazy ideas was craft them into some cohesive prose.

Nineteen years ago I was on my way. My eldest daughter, then seventeen, mentioned a writing competition that I might be interested in trying. While National Novel Writing Month is now defunct, back in 2006 it was thriving. I thrived within it, finally achieving my dream of writing a novel. Drop the Gauntlet. Yup.

It's mediocre, lol, but it ushered in MANY MORE tales, some of which I've published. Twenty-two novels, two books of poems, and a group of short stories written with the Top Writers Block collective: Hot damn, that's one helluva dream come true!

Gratuitous shot of Owl and Nadia from a couple of mornings ago, very curious about what waits past this side of the coop, LOL. Are they dreaming of new haunts, hmmmm....

I guess what I'm saying is don't give up on your dreams. Sometimes the journey might feel wholly fraught with chicken poo, but shovel that aside and the road becomes less stinky, resembling the goal you have fostered for what feels like forever. Will I complete Alexandria? I very much HOPE SO (You hear that cranky shoulder???). But if I don't, I can still write stories, assuming I can garner enough free time and the mental wherewithal to get my butt in the chair and, well, DO IT. Loud guffaws resound from Past and Future Me, to which I smile. Because they have been with me on this writer's path, sometimes marked by facepalms, but often graced with the gift over which I cannot fully express the gratitude it warrants. If I am to write another novel, or finish the one I started in summer, I most certainly will, just like sewing Alexandria.

What I need to remember as I admonish you, dear reader, to forge ahead with your aspirations!  

So grateful to be a writer

Nineteen years ago here I was, writing my first book while we lived in Great Britain.

Lately life has been so full of distractions that I forget part of who I am, an author. Reading aloud for Home and Far Away this morning, I was pleasantly reminded of a marvelous section of my existence and how important that treasure is to share. Here's a scene from Chapter 10. If you're interested in more of Sooz's backstory, check out Far Away from Home: The Enran Chronicles Book Three.

Soozonly remained in her room long enough for Richard to fall asleep. Then shequietly went downstairs, collecting her novel and the dictionary from theliving room, taking the books into the front room. She preferred reading inthere because she could turn on the light without fearing she would alertRichard or Gilly to her nocturnal presence.

ThatChella slept as well as she did was a relief to Sooz, even if Chella requiredthe light, although Sooz had turned it off when she initially went upstairs.She was grateful Richard had been well paid for his days in Cloverdale, for hewas now supporting more than only his child. Sooz couldn’t imagine leavinghere; she had no skills other than one for which she possessed no outwardqualifications. From all she had seen in her limited exposure to television,women were expected to maintain the family home, only working if absolutelynecessary. There was certainly plenty for Sooz to do here, though if Gilly wasaway in school as long as Richard had insinuated, perhaps Sooz would need tofind a pastime.

Shedidn’t think about working with that doctor, but on Home and Far Away one female character knitted, while another wasalways making coffee for friends who sat at her kitchen table. Yet those wereplot devices, Sooz knew, finding in some of June’s novels similar settings forwomen who weren’t allowed to explore what life beyond marriage and motherhoodmight be. Characters on The Shining Sunwere much younger, then Sooz wondered if the plots were aimed at youths out ofschool for the summer. Maybe in September the storylines would shift to moremature themes.

Chellamight not be pleased, Sooz smirked, then she sighed. What would occur inChella’s life here that might be meaningful? Perhaps only that Chella had herfreedom mattered, yet she was tethered to the house or porch for much of theday due to the sun and heat. Sooz gazed out the window, the moon now largeenough to shed scant light, permitting Sooz to view the workshop, the tree, andif she squinted, she could see the mailbox along the road. This would beChella’s world, limited but perhaps Sooz could take up this knitting, thenteach Chella how, or maybe Chella would express her own interests, or….

Mightsomeday a human make an overture to Chella, desiring more than a companion?Sooz didn’t ponder that for herself, she had no wish for a relationship. YetChella knew what it was like to love someone, though her infatuation with Nothwas merely what the young people on TheShining Sun felt about each other, youthful escapades that humans seemed torequire. Sooz hadn’t spent much time with humans previously, but other speciesweren’t so engaged. Then she frowned, moving from the sofa, heading to thefront door. She opened it, standing at the screen door, hearing Max’s solidsnores. The yard was illuminated, but a cool breeze blew and she wasn’tinclined to go outside, though boots waited to the right of the door on theporch. Richard had bought them for her, as well as a new pair of what he calledtennis shoes. He had bought Chella a matching pair of tennis shoes, Gillyremarking she would teach Chella how to tie her shoes before going back toschool in the fall.

Tearsdribbled down Sooz’s face. If Amora had lived, she would be around Chella’sage, though that was merely relevant to Chella’s current emotional stage. Yetin experiencing a menstrual cycle, Sooz had been reminded she wasn’t as old asshe felt, or at least her body remained capable of…. She wiped her face,huffing softly. If Noth had been able to direct them to a specific time inEarth’s history, why had he chosen this era? Then she smirked; he’d probablyhad no such leeway, and any later might have meant their landing would havebeen discovered. One of June’s novels was about people from Mars invading Earthand the resulting tumult was exactly what Sooz, Chella, and Dardram hadn’texperienced. Was Dardram still alive, Sooz wondered, and what about the rest ofthem? What did it matter, she then clucked aloud, shaking her head.

Sheturned back for the front room, then gasped. “Oh, did I wake you?”

Richardrubbed his eyes on the second to last step. “Just thought I heard something.”

“I’msorry. I couldn’t sleep and….”

“Neithercould I, I mean, I kept dreaming then waking up. I need to apologize.” Hegestured toward the front room, then took the remaining step.

Sooznodded, then returned to her spot on the sofa. She moved her books, but Richardsat on the telephone seat. He cracked his knuckles, then gripped his knees.Sooz noticed that he wore shorts and an old t-shirt, his feet bare. His naturalskin color was markedly lighter than his forearms, which were nearly as darkas her skin. She clasped her hands in her lap as he inhaled, then exhaledslowly. “Why do you need to apologize?” she asked.

“Forbringing up your daughter. I know you wouldn’t tell Gilly about that.”

Soozalso took measured breaths. “But you’re right, she did seem moody afterlearning she wasn’t your first child.”

Henodded. “I guess it was good for her to know the truth, or better learning itnow than it coming out later like it was some big secret.”

“Likeme telling you about the multix?”

“Uhyeah, I guess.”

Sooznodded, then inwardly felt obliged to expand upon that revelation. Yet Richardyawned, then again rubbed his eyes. “You could probably fill her head with allsorts of details,” he said sleepily, “but for now, maybe it’s best to keep itvery simple.”

“Agreed.”

“Okay,well….” He stretched, but didn’t get up. Then he sighed. “I gotta go to Ukiahin the morning, but I won’t be gone long. Bank opens at ten, so I’ll definitelybe home for lunch.”

“Allright.”

“Fourthof July around here is a pretty big deal, even for this little Podunk town.Usually I take Gilly to see the parade, then we watch fireworks at the highschool. Think any of this sounds like something you wanna do?”

“Chellacan’t be out,” Sooz huffed.

“Well,not for the parade, but she might enjoy the fireworks. They don’t start tillnearly ten, and….”

“I’llconsider it.”

“Fairenough.” Richard stood, then yawned again. “If there’s anything you need, Imean, I can stop at the big store in Ukiah if you need any, you know….”

“Ihave all I require for now.” Sooz wondered if he meant additional hygieneproducts. “But I’ll let you know when that changes.”

“Uh,yeah. Actually I meant clothes, I mean shorts or different shoes. Anyway, thinkabout it. I’m not leaving till nine thirty or so.”

Sooznodded, then cracked her knuckles. “You don’t need to spend your money on us.”

“Well,I wouldn’t have made any of it if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on mydaughter. On Gilly,” he added softly.

Soozstood, then shrugged. “I’ll think about it and let you know before you leave.”

“Fine.Hope you get some sleep.”

“Thesame to you.”

Richardnodded, then left the room. Sooz remained standing until she heard a door closeupstairs. Then she retook her seat, pulling her knees to her chest. She closedher eyes, then allowed the memory of a melody into her head. For all those shehad considered lost to her, she had yet to ponder The Other. Now she permittedthat creature’s presence, weeping softly as a song she had heard on the radiosupplanted that unforgettable tune in her mind.

Slowly slipping back into my life

Drinking black tea, working on books, making something with fabric etc, etc, etc...

Welp, I read aloud three chapters today! Home and Far Away is back underway, lol, and wow it's a relief returning to that realm, not of the novel's setting, merely of my butt in the chair, working on revisions. I'm still adjusting to what I can't eat, like milk in tea and ice cream and cheese, but at least pouring through a manuscript is familiar.

And right now, familiar is WONDERFUL.

Sorbet is pretty nice too, a decent alternative to my fave Phish Food Ice Cream, sniff. When I enjoyed a bowl of sorbet outside yesterday, seating myself near the chickens, the chickens thought I was there to give them a treat, hahaha! Camilla paced back and forth as though searching for a break in the fence. The rest came and went, then finally all wandered off, realizing I wasn't there to give them anything but vocal attention and to treat myself with something sweet in the odd but marvelous warm October sun.

Blueberry/lemon and mango sorbet as the chickens waited for their share.

Afterwards I went inside and cut fabric; using a rotary cutter doesn't seem to harm my shoulder, woo hoo! I didn't ponder much other than how some selvedges eat into the yardage, but one of these days I'll use those not quite square pieces for a Kawandi quilt. I also pinned two small coasters to be stitched Kawandi-style, completing one last night, leaving the other for this evening.

But where does that leave a decent cuppa??? Oatmilk creamer is fine for coffee, and believe me I've enjoyed a few cups of joe with said creamer. Yet creamer is too thick for black tea and regular oatmilk is too, well, plant-like. LOL! But when in Rome.... Eventually I'll get used to it, I realize that, maybe after I can drink a few cups in a row. Currently I'm being careful not to ingest too much tea near a mealtime, as I don't want the tannins interfering with iron absorption.

REALLY? Past Me chirps. You're worried about iron absorption?

I nod, not wanting to give anything away.

Huh, she shrugs. Well, that must suck.

I want to roll my eyes, but again, spoilers.... Yeah, I say. It's, uh, kind of a drag.

That must be, she smirks. Then she stares at me. How old are you right now?

Fifty-nine, I reply, wondering how old this particular Past Me is. Is she still participating in National Novel Writing Month, I then wonder. NANO was how I got started in writing. It folded in April of this year, although I haven't done it in more than a decade.

Aren't you going to ask how old I am, Past Me then says smugly.

No, I answer, hiding a grin.

Huh, she mutters. But seriously, you can't put milk in your tea?

Breathing deeply, I realize this past version of myself is somewhere in her thirties, my age when we lived in the UK. I didn't start writing until shortly before we came back to America, after I turned forty. My goodness, that's a long freaking time ago, but as she continues muttering about no milk in tea, I tune out. My brother was dead already, that aged me significantly. Yet writing fiction managed to shave off the years, in part that one book dealt with my brother in a roundabout manner. And that writing was always my dream and there I was doing it and....

Hey, she calls, then clears her throat. How is it being that old?

I smile; she must be early thirties, a sibling's death notwithstanding. It's hard sometimes, but I'd like to think the acquired wisdom eases the arthritis.

Past Me smirks, then nods. Does it get easier?

I don't need to ask does what get easier. Yes, oh yes, I answer quickly.

Again she nods. Will life ever feel, you know....

Normal? I say.

She nods, blinking away tears.

My heart breaks a little, recalling how damn tough those months felt after my brother took his life. Yet so much good occurred, so much joy. What I currently need to keep in mind as my beloved home nation seems hell-bent on destroying itself. The pain fades, I say. The love you have for him eases it, oddly enough. Christ eases it too. Have you dreamed about the cassette tapes yet?

In noting that, I wonder if I'm giving away an essential fixed point within my history. She grins widely, wiping her damp face. I have, she smiles. He's at peace, if nothing else.

He is, I smile back, feeling like Future Me, handing down priceless admonishments. The dream to which I referred was a gift of God, letting me know my brother's suicide didn't damn him, but released him from some awful demon that in this corporeal world he couldn't excise. Then I'm reminded, but don't need to say to my past self, that life is a cycle of setting aside the miserable to find the kernel of utter joy, which explodes in our grasp to something so marvelous and pure that we are changed immediately if we can just breathe slowly, allowing that treasure into our hearts. Compassion, forgiveness, and love are combined into a balm that over time heals even the most traumatic wounds.

Then I wonder if Future Me is near; maybe we've morphed into one another. But it's only myself and Past Me, who is still wiping her face. She smiles, then walks away, leaving me with a strange sensation, not that another catastrophe awaits, only that I trod that ash heap and lived to write many tales. Not quite thirty years later, I'm still on my feet, thanks be to God.

Trusting one's heart

Written earlier today before the granddaughters woke. 

I foresee plenteous machine stitching in the near future. I tried some hand-sewing this week and boy my shoulder was cranky. I am in the treatment pipeline for said right shoulder, but medical stuff is slow as snot these days, yet I am hopeful to be back in my usual routine of nightly hand-stitching as soon as is feasibly possible.

(I might sneak in some surreptitious hand-stitching merely to have completed the necessary blocks to snap a photo of Alexandria quilt progress. Not that I am planning to tackle it as soon as I can sew with ease, but one of these days I'll get back to that beauty!)

January 2025; the long sides aren't sewn together, but the center is!

It's hard wanting to work on something that in the end causes pain. The grandgirls have been using my machines, which stirs within me the desire to don earplugs and headphones and create in a manner that defies belief, when one's belief is that sitting on the sofa with needles and thread in hand is the way to fashion a quilt. LOLOL! Yet it's best to do what one can, trusting that doctors etc will put my shoulder right and by resting it now I'm helping in that healing effort. That's what I keep telling myself: I'm enacting the correct course by not picking up tools that stir within my heart deep joy and peace. Why hand-sewing makes me that happy I cannot say, just the way I'm wired.

I am leaning HARD these days on trusting my heart, my soul. Heart and soul are kinda entwined, and I am heavily meshed within them, maintaining peace of mind as well as a calm inner realm when other notions clamor in my gray matter, like WRITING BOOKS, ahem. Or taking photos for book covers for novels I'll be releasing relatively soon. Not as soon as I originally considered, but WOW, things aren't happening to Past Me's expected timeline, and maybe that's just how life goes. Straight to the Heart came out a month late, Home and Far Away: The Enran Chronicles Book Four will be the same, and Part Four of The Hawk will probably follow. Semi-retirement beckons more loudly every day despite how my hearing has diminished. This visit with family has clearly shown not that I require hearing aids, but that I must be closer than halfway across the room to hear what the granddaughters are saying.

Yet this is not a Get Your Old Lady Act Together post, hah! This is a Take a Deep Breath and Let It Out Calmly entry. Because part of living is accepting getting older and not freaking out when this, that, or some other shite threatens one's equilibrium. The last few days I've been reading the first nine verses of Psalm 37. Verse 8 reads: Do not give in to worry or anger; it only leads to trouble. That's from my Good News Bible, Today's English Version, Children's Edition. In my New Revised Standard Version the same verse reads: Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret - it only leads to evil. That translation is fine, but I prefer the former, maybe because trouble is less threatening than evil, or maybe because I know the world is horribly corrupt and who needs to spell it out further?

Regardless of which translation one chooses, the essence is the same: Don't become traumatized by all the planetary hoo haa but allow your heart to rest in Love. I keep abreast of what I need to know and do, but to allow trouble or evil to overwhelm? No, I cannot do that. I can't inundate myself in that level of...sorrow, pain, misery. I will mourn with those who mourn, yet I will also rejoice with those who rejoice. I certainly can't create anything beautiful if all I am is mired in, well, trouble and evil. My journey on this corporeal plane isn't aligned to said corporeal plane. My heart and soul dwell within a different element that cannot be quashed, squashed, or defeated.

February 2025; the three blocks in dark blue and near black have been multiplying! The last of sixteen sits in the living room, awaiting completion. Then I'll lay it out and post a pic.

The marine layer has emerged, a little late, stealing the vibrant sunny morning. Sometimes that happens. Yet those murky clouds won't last forever, some striking portion of brightness will return. When and how aren't for me to fret over; there's that word, fret. If I became vexed because the sun slipped behind clouds, how could I function? Sometimes in this life clouds real and figurative rule. But not forever. Maintain that heartpeace, and make something beautiful occur in your world today!

A different kind of autumn

Cherish quilt top finished six years ago this month. A gift for my youngest and her husband, but where have those six years GONE????

Very little tea. Or hand sewing. And no dairy, red meat, and Advil. But LOTS of grace contemplation. And chickens. And twilight of my life musings....

October has brought a lot to my mind, as well as the last couple of weeks leading up to said start of autumn. We received over an inch of blessed rain and perhaps the end to the fire season, WHEW. Daylight is truly becoming less of feature, but then it is OCTOBER! Where has this year gone?

Not to be overly maudlin, but I can't help notice how I'm not as young as I used to be, lol. Recent health scares not pushed aside, although I don't want to dwell on them, dietary restrictions can't be ignored, and suddenly I find myself peering over the fence at who I used to be, maybe a year ago. Part of it is certainly the traumatic upheaval in my government; I never thought such peril could happen in America, but it is, and I'm trying to navigate that malfeasance as best I can. My remaining musings are those most people my age, give or take a decade, cannot avoid no matter how many supplements, plastic surgeries, hospital stays, or medical procedures we endure. Life ends as surely as taxes are collected, no getting around it in any shape or form.

All this came to me late yesterday morning as I drove into town, noting the gorgeous clouds, wisps of blue sky, light altered from high summer. The high summer of my life probably ended a dozen years ago, but I didn't realize it then, which is FINE. Better to face such truths with humility and wisdom, which I think I've garnered, haha! Yet I miss drinking milky black tea, oh my goodness! Decaf tea, black tea; both are absent in a dairy-tinted state and probably won't return. Heck, at this point I'd love to imbibe in tea whenever I want, but I'm still avoiding tannins, and that might be the case for another month or so. I feel good, so anemia isn't too disturbing, but health scares are scary for a reason, even if one knows a better place awaits somewhere down the road.

I never asked my older relatives what it was like getting older. Mom died at the age of sixty-seven and went so fast I barely had time to tell her I loved her. Dad's passing was.... It was the kind that makes you wonder how did he manage to live as long as he did, and how grateful I was for the time he got, but still I didn't press queries that might have enlightened me about my own aging journey. He did tell me long before he passed that time was speeding far too quickly, also warned me to take care of my teeth, hehehe. Yet he's been gone for ten years, Mom for seven, and that makes me, as the eldest, the next generation to, uh, yeah. Life ends. Corporeal life, but life nonetheless. I have faith in Christ and believe I'll continue on in some fashion, but without any real sense of what that manner is, all I can note is I need to do on this planet all I am called to do, then let the rest hover in better hands.

And with that stated, it's time to feed the chickens! More soon....

Chickens were fine, flying off their uppermost roost perch with some aplomb, lol. I'm not too old to raise chickens (nearly) ahem, but certainly I don't want more chicks. Unless we end up with a broody hen and maybe next spring we'll gift her with half a dozen sex-linked chickies, um.... That is DEFINITELY a Future Me issue, and she's nowhere to be seen. Just myself, Present Me, who is presently coming to terms with my eldest daughter finding on the microwave the Add Minute button that previously I hadn't noticed. Or her plowing into with all gears that AI thing, hmmm. Better her than me, I said as she built me some dietary restricted menus in the proverbial blink of a freakin' eye through AI. Or how she groused that both of her parents' hearing is cruddy, and I pointedly told her, "Just you wait!"

LOL! Because time waits for not one single person. Time marches right on ahead, dragging us with it occasionally or patiently allowing us a few extra minutes to get our acts together. That's what I'm doing right now, getting my old lady act together. DUDE!!

Okay, with that said, time to ruminate on what that means: Getting my old lady act together. Huh. Well, best I get on that. Have a lovely Thursday!

The changing realm of Camilla Chicken, or what happens as the world turns

Camilla Chicken from a couple days ago. Photo courtesy of my daughter.

It's lovely to have family present; my eldest and the grandgirls are here for the week. My oldest granddaughter likes checking on the chickens, while youngest grandgirl treks about with Grandpa on trails. Meanwhile I've learned about KPOP Demon Hunters, how AI can produce gluten-free, dairy-free, iron-fortified, red-meat free meal plans in the blink of an eye, not batting an eye in also excising seafood, tofu, and coconut milk from said menus. Definitely twenty-first century living even tucked away on the North Coast.

Rain has fallen, then was immediately sucked into the parched ground, more rain arriving today. Temperatures have been pleasant, sun shining even. The chickens weren't sure what to make of all the precipitation, and by last night my husband was wondering if Camilla, our largest and usually most confident pullet/nearly hen was experiencing a bit of an identity crisis. When he went to check that all chickens were done for the night, Camilla was jostling herself along the wall, then flew down to the coop floor, pacing a bit. She returned to the roost, then a Barnevelder flew down, then returned up. Yesterday I checked on them in the run; all were pecking about the grass while Camilla dust-bathed in a spot that hadn't been drenched. Part of owning chickens is the marvel of discovering their personalities and habits. What will this change of season mean for Camilla, and for the rest of us as well.

On this last morning of September, I am seated in the living room, a clear sky behind me, but clouds will muscle in soon enough, and yes, more blessed rain will make for an indoors kind of afternoon. Maybe some sewing; the grandgirls gleefully sorted through my Christmas fabric yesterday, planning copious projects. After an hour of using my machines, those ideas were lessened in scope, and I'm intrigued at what they might actually stitch together. I certainly can be distracted by an attractive shiny, lol, so they come by their enthusiasm naturally. Camilla is the most eager for treats, always scouting out the next possible spot when my husband distributes goodies in the run. Yet there is a benefit from being circumspect, in being humble. Expectations can alter as one examines the landscape, putting things in perspective. Easy for me to say at fifty-nine years of age, much harder for ten and seven-year-olds or chickens, who understand FAR LESS of the world than youngsters. Chickens are blessed with amazing instincts, but they hung out under an overhang yesterday as rain pounded the ground, too intimidated to return into the warmth and comfort of the coop until after the storm passed. And you can't admonish a chicken, lol. How they'll fare this winter, with all our Humboldt soppiness, will be a lesson for us all.

Camilla dustbathing yesterday afternoon.

Will Camilla remain as queen of sorts, hehehe. Cami, the Welsummer who looks much like Camilla but is smaller, is an independent pullet, and I think she always will be. In cleaning out the coop on Sunday afternoon, Cami was the only one who didn't sashay back inside, pecking the floor as straw was scooped out. A couple of times she approached the opening to the coop from the run-side, but only to see where her sisters had gone. The rest were fascinated by bits left behind, although as new straw was brought in, they scurried out, yet immediately returned to examine this new element. They like the new straw, where they will probably be for much of the afternoon today as that's when the rain is slated. Or maybe they'll brave the wet. Hard to predict are these chickens, much like trying to assess what will occur in our own day-to-day.

The beauty of this life is a mix of embracing the new and releasing the sorrow. Sounds like a recipe, trying to combine elements that might not swirl together as we'd like, yet what else can we do? Camilla might be finding her role as top chick altering, while I'm grappling with dietary restrictions. I'm not an AI fan, but I certainly appreciated how easily my daughter harnessed information. My granddaughters may not fashion Christmas placemats and coasters, yet I am sending them home with ones I made a few years ago, which might later pique their interest to create complimentary linens. And by later I mean years, lol. They'll recall the thrill of pairing fabrics, and we'll see how the memory of sitting at a machine, sewing practice seams, frames that reference.

So much we want to do; create beauty, instigate world peace, love one another. Write some books, ahem, get my shoulder sorted so I can return to hand-sewing, teach my granddaughters how to make their own cozies IF they desire to acquire that skill. I can't do jack for Camilla, other than observe how she fits into the evolving sphere of chicken-happiness, and unfortunately a lot of life is just as hands-off. Yet I pray for more love, more peace, more awareness that there is more to this life than KPOP Demon Hunters, even if I had to know what happened at the end.

In the end, after much hand-wringing and unnecessary violence for a movie aimed at kids, the good gals won, the demons were defeated. Another allegory for you, if you're looking for one.

Turning into Future Me

An uncomplicated pretty quilt top. Thanks Past Me for putting in the time cutting fabric, etc.

Sewing and walking slowly, Metamucil, and being happy about it all, lol.

Yes, this is how I felt today. Well, I was a little shouty on Bluesky, but that was the kind of thing that happens every once in a while because, well, I'm approaching the age where at times I don't give a fig. Where a notion pops into my head and it's like, "Oh yeah! And why haven't I thought of that previously?" Am I going to be a snarky old gal, hmmmm. Future Me is a wee bit...impatient at times, maybe not quite snarky, but certainly.... I just looked up the definition of snarky (critical, irritable, bad-tempered) and I'm not happy with any of those. Or maybe smirky is a better way to describe Future Me. Or some halfway point between the two.

Not that I can see Future Me smirking, she's actually not around. But as though I am stepping into her shoes, I feel that smirk creeping over my face, or maybe I'm inundated with Tia Sorenson; I've been reading A Love Story the last couple of days, and Smirk is Tia's middle name. Maybe I subconsciously based Future Me on Tia, or rather the other way around, lol. It's late, why am I even attempting to write a post? Because I finished a quilt top today, and I made the declaration below on my Bluesky account:

My question to Republicans, ICE, those who support the administration, RFK Jr., etc, etc, etc.... WHY DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD MAKING OTHERS HURT?

It's weird to start a post noting I'm happy, then insert the above statement. Cruelty is abhorrent. How can I be content with such malfeasance in my nation? How can I be jovial when such abominations occur around the world?

Within my joy, prayers are said for those suffering all over this planet. Contained inside my peace are missives for that calm to reverberate as far as necessary. Sustaining my contentment are the memories of being made to feel utterly worthless and yet here I am on this Friday evening, smiling at the falseness of those charges. Over forty years ago my biological mother hurled accusations in an attempt to destroy my self esteem. My survival is at times an ongoing search for the brighter side of life, but mostly I'm at peace with the past. I use it to extend love and grace, and while not always successful, typically I am grateful for my repaired heart, because as I often say, a healed heart is capable of great compassion and tenderness.

Gratuitous shot of Owl Chicken, who was bopping around when I photographed the quilt top. Owl continues to do well for herself, bless her poultry heart.

I'll probably never travel to Afghanistan, but I can pray for women there, men too. Someone was praying for me forty-five years ago, and as recently as last weekend when I was unwell. And, welp, I believe in the power of loving intercessions.

Sometimes when Future Me comes around, I forget she suffered all the same shite as I did. She seems so far past all that, smirking and at times a wee bit snarky. Mostly I feel like she's forever biting her tongue at my present-day antics, and while that could be because she doesn't want to give me unwarranted insights, often I think I'm trying her patience to the LIMIT. Do I make Past Me feel that way? She too seems annoyed by my intrusion, huh. Somehow my initial idea of what this post was going to be about has altered. Do I need to analyze myself this deeply? Isn't it okay to be happy even if one's nation is spiraling into a wannabe dictatorship? Can't I enjoy myself despite all the AWFUL things happening all over the freakin' planet? Doesn't God want me to be joyful?

Future Me just cleared her throat out of my field of vision. I'm sorry, she says, her voice contrite.

Quickly I glance around, and while I don't see her, I KNOW she's there. Sorry for what, I ask.

For making you feel so on edge.

Oh, uh.... I nod, because it's the truth, no use lying to my future self. It's okay, I say. It's a hard time to, uh, be us.

The smirk she's wearing rumbles ALL AROUND ME. Then she giggles, which makes me smile. She starts to speak, then coughs, then sighs. You're getting so close to me. It's weird.

The Metamucil, I query.

Yeah, the Metamucil.

It tastes like watered down Tang, I say.

Yup.

Yup, I agree. I drank Tang as a kid. Now as a fifty-nine-year-old grandmother of four, I'm drinking an older person's version of it. Sometimes I wonder how old Future Me is, or more rightly, how much OLDER than I am right now. And right now I think she's about three days older, like the veil between us is so thin I could sneeze and step into her shoes.

You could, she says softly. But don't, okay, she adds with a snort.

I won't. Because suddenly I am Future Me. Having been so sick just seven days ago brought home my mortality in a manner that only now am I grasping. That only around myself can Future Me let down her chipper guard, because she knew I was going to be REALLY SICK but couldn't tell me, and all the other hoo haa she grasps, and it's one thing to want to make others feel better, but how do we look at ourselves and say, 'Hey, slow down! Take it easy. Enjoy this day even if you know others are hurting like hell.' without sounding 1) like a complete idiot; 2) like we don't value others' sorrows; 3) so wanting to give warnings or advice but knowing we can't. All we can do is pray and bite our tongues and....

Yeah, all that, Future Me says in a voice that is more like a vigorous nod.

I nod back. So I'm to just keep staying the course, right?

She smirks, nods again, then smiles. And drink the Metamucil.

And walk slowly, I smile.

Yeah. And pray for more love.

She touches my shoulder as she says love. I nod. And that's the end of this post.