Come Visit the New Blog...

He's baaaaack! Come visit me and my new crew in my new digs...

The Idea Garden

Hope to see you there.

P.S.

One last thing, for those who may be depending on the Daily for this information:

March 20, 1:48 a.m. EDT

Farewell, Gentle Reader!

It's time to move on. I think I've exhausted this format for myself (though hopefully not so much for you!) and it's time to A) take my more personal musings private, and B) explore other formats and venues. Something will be forthcoming, though not sure when. I will post info here on where and how to find me; check back in a couple months if you like. Or let me know, send me an email, call, whatever and I'll be sure to alert you if there's something to see. You know I am Roger at the rrbrand address in the dot-com domain. Mid- to late-May might be a good time to check, to see the new Utah photos — southeast this time, Cedar Mesa.

All of these ramblings will still be here if you ever want to browse them again; there are a lot of brilliant "gems of others" to be found here! Meantime, I've been reading one Mary Oliver poem every night of late, and so will leave you with these two...

The Ponds
by Mary Oliver

Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them —

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided—
and that one wears an orange blight—
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away—
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—
that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.


Morning Poem
by Mary Oliver

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Take A Minute To View These:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/02/11/mccainobama-parody-like_n_86017.html

Look at both of them. Well worth a couple minutes.

Yes, you can!

Note to self...

...I may need this again someday. Or you, gentle reader, may need it now:

Reinventing Date Night for Long-Married Couples

From the New York Times. An exerpt:

"And recent brain-scan studies show that romantic love really can last years into a marriage. Last week, at the Society for Personality and Social Psychology conference in Albuquerque, researchers presented brain-scan data on several men and women who had been married for 10 or more years. Interviews and questionnaires suggested they were still intensely in love with their partners. Brain scans confirmed it, showing increased brain activity associated with romantic love when the subjects saw pictures of their spouses."

The Daily Crisis

"Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out."

— Anton Chekhov

Which will it be?

"Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope."

— Edith Wharton

Me, too, Edith. Me, too.

In Slovakia

Can we deny what the tea leaves say? Or other signs?

In Slovakia they grow potatoes
and cabbages
and women with strong backs and hearts.

The gypsy woman with her breasts pushed up pale
through a baggy dress printed with flowers
and a faded fringed shawl
takes his hand in hers and spreads it wide.
Her crooked finger traces his lines.
From underneath the knotted scarf
(that holds her golden hair off her
pale aquiline face and the gold hoops
of her earrings;
odd
this gypsy milky white and fair-haired)
her eyes narrow and she sighs.

It is not quiet here. There are
night noises, insects, dogs,
and on the other side of the wooden wagon
near where the horses are tethered
laughter and singing and a mandolin.
The fire crackles, too, nearer, and casts an unstill
glow in the gypsy's eyes.

"What?"

Her eyes look into and through him and then,
away.
Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head.

This ending isn't quite right yet, I know, though I've tried several things. I'll keep working on it.

Prostrate in Prayer

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

— Rumi

Speak in Me

Speak in me this day, God
Echo in my heart
And resound through all creation:

Voice of Love
Voice of wonder
Voice of praise
Voice of thanksgiving
Voice of kindness
Voice of patience
Voice of encouragement
Voice of blessing
Voice of truth.

Snow

IV.

No sound
Where sound always is
Snow falling.

Double-Good Day!

What could be better than a no-drive day, except a no-drive day spent watching six inches of snow fall?

This town is beautiful, and strikingly so in the snow. I walked up to the cemetery to watch the snow and the night fall. Deliciously quiet. I could see the lights of Taneytown, and Oz (the Lehigh plant in Union Bridge), but not the trails at Liberty.

The darkness descended ever so quietly — there was no space between the day and the dusk and the dark — even as the snow stopped falling.

You Go, Girl!

"The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for."

— Maureen Dowd

I, Slovak...

Interesting (from The Writer's Almanac, where else?)...

It's the birthday of novelist, short story writer, and playwright Karel Capek, (books by this author) born in Bohemia, now part of Czechoslovakia (1890). A writer of novels, visionary romances, travel books, stories, and essays, Karel is best known for his plays, especially R.U.R. (1921), which introduced the word "robot" to the world. He got the idea when he was reading while riding in an automobile. He looked up from his reading and suddenly the crowds looked to him like artificial beings. At the premiere of R.U.R., audiences and critics were both fascinated and terrified by its vision of a technically advanced society unable to control its ultimate labor-saving creation, the robot.

Why, why, why?!?

"The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order."

—Eudora Welty

Happy New Year!

Look to this day,
For it is life,
The very life of life.
In its brief course lie all
The realities and verities of existence,
The bliss of growth,
The splendor of action,
The glory of power —

For yesterday is but a dream,
And tomorrow is only a vision,
But today, well lived,
Makes every yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day.

—Kalidasa
India, 4th century A.D.

2008: The Year In Review

It was the best of years and the worst of years. But then aren’t they all?

The kids are doing well, and that’s the best.

The family is getting by OK despite health problems of my siblings, and Mom is doing well.

The dogs and cats are good; the dogs are wonderful, actually, as always, though they’re showing their ages. Charlie’s snoring and wheezing is unreal.

It was the (second) best year for love (2006 was better, or was it 2005?), but ended up being the worst. All the king's horses...

It was the best year ever for Double R Brand, way beyond expectations. So I’m closing it down. Makes sense, right?

It was the best year for travel. Utah is the memory of a lifetime. I hope soon it will stop being so painful.

Good old friends are still around, and that’s the best, a blessing. To quote one, “It's easy to have good friends...but much harder to have old friends.”

It was an excellent year for new friends and neighbors.

It was the best year in the garden for peppers, but not so great for tomatoes. The figs pulled through in the end, sweet jewels.

It was an OK year for dancing — at least a start. Hoping this year, starting with Salsa again, will be better. Not ready to give up yet.

It was the best year ever for gas mileage, and 2008 will be better still.

It was the best year ever for company in Uniontown; there were more people at Brambly Hedge over the holidays than in the entire two years prior. (It’s nice to have the quiet back, though.)

It was nearly the best year for hunting. The freezer is full, and the wealth is spread around.

It was a lousy year for writing. Nothing significant accomplished, other than these feeble missives on the Daily.

So here's to the year about to begin: May it be the best ever for you, gentle Reader! May your life be blessed with health and love and contentment and prosperity enough.

Happy New Year!

Tragic Ending...

It would be disrespectful not to salute and bid adieu to Benazir Bhutto. I don't know what kind of leader she was — it looks like mixed reviews to me — but she certainly inspired the love and admiration of many people. And her beauty, the dark hair, the dark eyes, the heavy make-up typical of the elite classes of central/southwestern Asian Muslim women, was just breathtaking.

The Pakistani leadership has certainly learned something from the Bush playbook. If they repeat "Al Qaeda" enough, they can count on the media mindlessly parroting it, and it will become de facto truth. Shame the media can't figure out for itself and repeat, "Musharraf, Musharraf..."

May she rest in peace. And may God help the people of Pakistan, and all of us.

Photo: T. Mughal/European Pressphoto Agency, as published by The New York Times.

"Choosing A Dog"

by William Stafford, from The Way It Is. © Graywolf Press, 1998. Reprinted without permission, stolen from The Writer's Almanac.

"It's love," they say. You touch
the right one and a whole half of the universe
wakes up, a new half.

Some people never find
that half, or they neglect it or trade it
for money or success and it dies.

The faces of big dogs tell, over the years,
that size is a burden: you enjoy it for awhile
but then maintenance gets to you.

When I get old I think I'll keep, not a little
dog, but a serious dog,
for the casual, drop-in criminal —

My kind of dog, unimpressed by
dress or manner, just knowing
what's really there by the smell.

Your good dogs, some things that they hear
they don't really want you to know —
it's too grim or ethereal.

And sometimes when they look in the fire
they see time going on and someone alone,
but they don't say anything.

Solstice!

See you bright and early tomorrow, 12/22, at 1:08 a.m.

Interesting...And Oh, So Timely!

Today's Scorpio Horoscope
October 23 - November 21

The thing about new beginnings is that they can be kind of scary sometimes! If you are entering into any new relationships, new business ventures or new journeys today, you can expect a bumpy (but very interesting) ride. Do not let this dissuade your from moving forward, however. You are entering a phase where challenges will enrich you like never before. Remember that forewarned is forearmed and take comfort in the fact that you can handle any curveball that is thrown your way!

RIP, Dear Rumi

It was on this night in 1273 that Rumi died.

A Voice through the Door

Sometimes you hear a voice through the door
calling you, as fish out of water
hear the waves, or a hunting falcon
hears the drum's Come back. Come back.

This turning toward what you deeply love
saves you. Read the book of your life,
which has been given you.

A voice comes to your soul saying
Lift your foot. Cross over.

Move into the emptiness
of question and answer and question.

— Rumi

Of Figs And Frost

Sometimes I actually do learn my lessons. The fig I planted in 2006 barely survived the winter, but rebounded to produce a late, sweet crop of luscious fruit. I almost learned the hard way that Ficus Celeste is not cold-hardy in this zone. So today, I wrapped her up in landscape cloth, wrapped the tallest branches in bubble wrap, then made a square cage of landscape cloth about a foot out, and filled in between with leaves. Added a tall spike as a tent post, then draped the whole thing in a tarp anchored with rocks at the bottom. Hopefully, that will keep her warm enough.

Jake helped me for the last few parts, which was nice because it took four hands. Afterwards, he convinced me to get my bow out, and he ran and got his. I had not shot in a year, and I have never shot with Jake. I shot three rounds of six arrows each at 20 yards, and all but two or three were bull's eyes. Whew! Preserved my status.

While we were shooting, neighbor Bob offered one of his pumpkins that was headed for the compost heap as a target. So we killed it good.

(Sigh.)

...Alas,
some goodbyes are like death;
they bring the heart to earth
and teach it how to die.

— George Johnston

I Want One of Those Shirts...Any One!

Murdani Usman/Reuters

U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-moon and President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono of Indonesia at the talks in Bali.

Yes, This Is The Challenge...

"It is so easy to chatter about the Beautiful. But it takes more genius to say, in proper style, 'close the door,' or 'he wanted to sleep,' than to give all the literature courses in the world."

— Gustave Flaubert

And on another note, he wrote:

"To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost."

Ah, for the sweet bliss of ignorance!

Listening

Listen, and feel the beauty of your separation,
the unsayable absence.

There is a moon inside of every human being.
Learn to be companions with it.

Give more of your life to this listening.

As brightness is to time,
so you are to the one who talks
to the deep ear in your chest.

I should sell my tongue and buy a thousand ears
when that one steps near and begins to speak.

— Rumi

What the EPA?!?

Wow!

The way the instrumentation is set up on the Hybrid, you can see what kind of mileage you're getting on any given trip via the "Eco-Meter," but it pegs at 42 MPG. (You get real-time feedback via an analog gauge, but that's not terribly helpful.) So you never know how well you're doing if you're doing better than 42...except when you fill up — which I did for the first time this morning — because then you can check the "tank average," which is one and the same as the trip average for the very first trip you take after gassing up. So...

This morning I filled up and drove down to Baltimore and got:

48.4 MPG!

Wow.

Happy B-Day, KG!

You shall be free indeed
when your days are not
without a care nor your nights
without a want and a grief,
but rather when these things
girdle your life and
yet you rise above them
naked and unbound.

— Kahlil Gibran, born 1883

Doing the Right Thing

I guess sometimes the right thing involves a car payment, but I have no regrets. Seems like the payback will be real, and maybe happen even faster than I calculated. It’s a Camry Hybrid, and it is one fantastic car, for the same money as a similarly equipped Camry SE. I’m able to routinely peg the “eco-meter” at 42MPG (getting rewarded with a flashing “Excellent!” when I turn the…I mean push the button to stop the engine). I intentionally drove it harder today to make sure I’m not babying it too much during the break-in, and still pegged a 42 this morning, and got solidly in the mid-30s driving aggressively back from Baltimore tonight. I was a bit skeptical, since I never logged below 31MPG in the 02 gas-engine Camry. But I am a believer now!

And the car is just beautiful. It rides so smoothly and sooooo quiet! Coming home tonight, on electric power through the 25MPH section of Uniontown Road, I could actually hear my watch ticking while my hand was on the steering wheel. It's not much noiser when the gas powerplant is operating. And it does so much thinking for me. It unlocks the door. It turns the heater on at the right time when the engine has warmed. It turns the lights on when it's dark. It dims the mirror when headlights are shining in. The built-in Bluetooth is a real luxury and safety essential, with clarity that beats the handset and earpiece by a mile, with push-button operation on the steering wheel. Of course, it turns the stereo off automatically whenever I make or receive a call.

And the icing on the cake is it qualifies as a Super-Ultra-Low Emission Vehicle — emitting less than 10% of the pollutants of similar vehicles — and earns the EPA’s SmartWay Elite designation.

It's the ideal vehicle for anyone doing serious commuting; high MPG and you still feel like you have a substantial vehicle around you.

So humor me this bit of gloating. Seems like win-win-win-win to me. Except for that dang payment!

The Sweet Taste of Grief

I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow
and called out.
It tastes sweet, does it not?

You have caught me, grief answered,
and you have ruined my business.

How can I sell sorrow,
when you know it's a blessing?

— Rumi

Happy Birthday, Woody!

"Life [is] full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly."

— Woody Allen (appropriated from The Writer's Almanac, as usual)

PA Season Finale 11/28/07

The Rites of Autumn

The forecast for opening day of the Pennsylvania whitetail deer season was not good: near-100% chance of rain and temperature in the 50s. There were four of us for the morning hunt, and since Dom III was here, I was not in my usual stand (since it is his stand). Instead, I ended up in the “penthouse,” a tall tree house next to a pine with good command over the furthest field that slopes down to the bottom.. It ended up being a great place to be, since it had a roof. I was in by 6:10, an hour before sunrise. I kicked back in a nice resin patio chair with a cup of black coffee. This was not bad at all. It was warm — I never did zip my jacket up — plenty of room to spread, and the patter of rain on the tin roof. Quite luxurious hunting accommodations.

I followed my usual routine: when it was light enough to see the breech and bolt on my rifle, I snapped in the clip. When it was light enough to see a bit into the field, I chambered a round and checked the safety. Dawn was steely grey with just a light rain.

Before long, from above me out of the treeline where my stand was, a nice-size deer walked into the field. I could see even from 100 yards or so that it was a buck, a glint of white marking the curve of its antlers, though they were none too big for a pretty much full-sized deer, probably a two- or three-year old. He was headed straight across the field to Dom III’s stand (where I so often hunted) and he made either me or Dom and broke into a trot, curving around in front of me toward the sugar road that leads into the bottom. I struggled to frame him in my scope — with my eye first too close and then too far from the reticule — and finally he was in the crosshairs, but he was moving and my position was not all that stable. He paused and turned just before melting into the woods. I shot without much hope of hitting him, and indeed I missed completely.

Another cup of coffee, more rain on and off. A group of five does come in from the same spot as the buck and headed straight across the field, through a little hedgerow and into the oat field in front of Dom’s stand. I watched them curve around and pass right in front of him. He didn’t shoot. I texted him and as I guessed, he was waiting for a buck. Isn’t it odd, these modern-day hunters texting each other from their treetop perches?

More time passing, more rain on and off, and sometime around 8:30 I heard rustling in the leaves to my left, and turned to watch three does come out of the woods into the field. I positioned myself and put the crosshairs on the largest one and tracked her as she took a few steps, turned this way and that, then took a few more steps and turned broadside. I breathed halfway in and squeezed the trigger. They all jumped and she bolted about 20 yards and crashed. A prayer for forgiveness and a prayer of thanksgiving. We will cherish many meals of this gift from heaven.

The evening was somewhat clearer, though still spitting rain off and on, and still warm. This time I was in Dom’s stand; he had gone to my ladder stand just inside the woods at the base of the mountain. I watched two deer come out of the treeline where he was. One went back into the woods at the corner of the field, then came out below me by the pond. He browsed on some twigs, then wandered up and under my stand and then in front of me. He was a little spike buck with two tiny prongs; you would not have been able to tell if he had not been so close. I could have shot him with my bow. He browsed around in the oat field for ten minutes or so, then wandered down to the bottom field, where Dom II shot him.

Dom III and Stevie each also took a deer. It was a long and productive day.

We took two of them over to Pocahontas to a part-time butcher who works with Dom. It was a windy, hilly ride on back roads, and nice to get a bit of time to spend with Dom, catching up.

Back home last night, there was thunder and lightening and the wind really kicked up. This morning, it was hard to go out. The temperature was down in the 30s and the wind was hard. But we went anyhow; back to the penthouse for me. It was cold but not unbearable. The dawn was foggy and dark and the wind was unrelenting. I heard some turkeys and crows and that was it. Three shots in the distance. The only thing stupid enough to be out in this weather was hunters.

It’s sleeting and snowing off and on now, nothing much to speak of, and the wind seems to have died down, but just a bit. All the visiting hunters are gone save me. Hopefully Dom will go out with me when he gets home from work, and I’ll see if I can fill my buck tag.

If You Knew

by Ellen Bass

What if you knew you'd be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line's crease.

When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn't signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won't say Thank you, I don't remember
they're going to die.

A friend told me she'd been with her aunt.
They'd just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt's powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked a half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.

How close does the dragon's spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?

From The Human Line
© Copper Canyon Press, 2007
Stolen from The Writer's Almanac
Reprinted without permission

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Each morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all.
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Rumi

Rituals of Thanks

The pumpkin pies are in the oven and the sweet potato soufflé is ready to follow. One for each dinner.

It’s a beautiful time here in Uniontown, my home town. The tiny leaves are long gone off the mimosa out back, leaving a fanned skeleton of many trunks, which now catches the yellow maple leaves falling on top of it, giving it a whole ’nuther round of leaf dropping. It’s nice to have second chances at things.

Yesterday, that glorious warm surprise, I picked the last two figs and ate them in the yard. They weren’t quite ripe, but still a treat.

I’m thankful that at Thanksgiving, I am still enjoying my homegrown tomatoes, and an abundance of gourmet greens. Not much longer now, though, I’m afraid.

My ritual reading of The Bear has also begun, but this year with a twist: I’m reading it out loud to Jake, a little bit at a time, every evening. And that’s a good place to begin my list of thanks:

I’m thankful for Jake, who takes care of me like no one else.
For my wonderful children, and that they are OK, today.
For my wonderful family, my foundation and strength.
For my wonderful dogs, constant and faithful companions.
For all the people I’ve known, all the people I thought I knew but didn’t really, and for the people I don’t know anymore, and all the ones I may come to know.
For the deer that feed my family.
For everything that grows, and all the flowers and fruits.
For forgiveness and patience and understanding, without which I would be dead.
For hunting.
For cars and computers and cell phones and all the other technology that makes my life rich and miserable.
For sun and moon and stars and clouds and fire and water and earth and metal.
For books. For poetry. For prayers.
For all the graces given me, undeserved, and for the rich abundance that is my life.
And for every other thing in the world.

Happy Thanksgiving, all! I thank God for you everyday.

With my love and prayers,

Guilty As Charged

"We resent other people for the things we don't say to them."

— Heard in Florida. There was another father here, a Persian man named Roger. How is that for irony? (This was not his quote.) Older than me, and he seemed somewhat dogmatic in his opinions (but then, I'm sure I do, too). I used all four words of Farsi that I know (no, not the fifth); he did not seem impressed. I hope I'm never tempted to dye my hair.

No end of good cheer...

"Our business in life is not to succeed, but to continue to fail in good spirits."

— Robert Louis Stevenson

Born this day in 1850
Appropriated from The Writer's Almanac

Happy Birthday...

...Fyodor Dostoyevsky! 1821. Maybe someday I'll read 'ya.

Heard at the Pour House

"I am a naked angel, bleeding in the snow..."

(add some minor chords, acoustic bass and guitar)

Health Alert: What Price Beauty?

This, from Dr. Weil:

Some Lipsticks Contain Lead

Lipsticks manufactured in the U.S. and used daily by millions of women contain “surprisingly high” levels of lead, according to the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics. The consumer advocacy group released test results on Oct. 11 that showed more than half of 33 name-brand red lipsticks tested contained detectible levels of lead, ranging from .03 to .65 parts per million. The group said one-third of the tested lipsticks exceeded the FDA’s 0.1 ppm limit for lead in candy - a standard that was established to protect children from ingesting lead. The FDA has not set a lead limit for lipstick.

Obviously, lipstick is seldom eaten like candy, so it may not be appropriate to hold lipstick makers to the same standard as candy makers. There is, in fact, no evidence that, at these levels, lipstick poses any danger to those who wear it, and I would also like to see independent confirmation of these lead levels from another laboratory.

Nonetheless, lead is a proven neurotoxin, and it is probably better to be safe than sorry. The good news is that these tests, if accurate, indicate it is possible to make lipstick without lead: 39 percent of the lipsticks tested had no detectible levels. For more information, including a list of tested lipsticks, see www.safecosmetics.org.

**********
To check the lotions, potions, and beauty aids you use for safety and toxins, click here and visit

The Environmental Working Group.

They have a great search/database function. You can search by product or brand (they even have Anthony Logistics for men, my fav new products; yes, mostly safe!), and it offers recommendations for safer alternatives to the bad boys (have to change my shampoo). Why wouldn't you pick the safest?

Love Dogs

One night a man was crying, Allah. Allah.
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said, So. I have heard you calling out,
but have you ever gotten any response?

The man had no answer for that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep
where he dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick green foliage.

Why did you stop praising? Because
I've never heard anything back.

This longing you express
is the return message.
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.

— Rumi

This explains so much...

Nov. 5, 2007 | A young woman sat on the subway and sobbed. Her mascara-stained cheeks were wet and blotchy. Her eyes were red. Her shoulders shook. She was hopeless, completely forlorn. When I got off the train, I stood on the platform, paralyzed by emotions. Hers. I'd taken them with me. I stood there, tears streaming down my cheeks. But I had no death in the family. No breakup. No terminal diagnosis. And I didn't even know her or why she cried. But the emotional pain, her pain, now my pain, was as real as day.

Recent research in neurobiology would explain my response as the automatic reaction of a kind of brain cells known as mirror neurons. On Nov. 4, neuroscientists announced that mirror neurons had for the first time been directly identified in humans. Previously their existence had only been inferred from primate research and the observation of human brains through fMRIs (functional magnetic resonance imaging).

From a story by Gordy Slack in Salon.com

Read it here.

Ah, so it IS possible...

Gate C22

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching —
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn't look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after — if she beat you or left you or
you're lonely now — you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

by Ellen Bass, from The Human Line. © Copper Canyon Press, 2007. Reprinted without permission

Lord, It Is Time

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big.
Lay thy shadow on the sundials,
on on the meadows let the winds go loose.

Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Yes, what he said. No need for anything more from me — except perhaps to note that walking at the cemetery is no longer an option, so the dogs and I are left to wander this avenue, up and down, up and down, as the leaves blow.

Stay tuned, gentle reader, and we'll see what letters post.

Great Sticker!

Rolling Around Town

Resurrected the bike from the basement yesterday and went for a spin. Today I rode 5 miles at lunchtime, 30 minutes. It's nice to get a little ways outside town, down to the other cemetery that's too far to walk to; the sunset there was beautiful yesterday, over Camp David. I forgot what a nice bike it is! I used all 24 gears at one point or another, although I must say sometimes it's nicer to just do the old-fashioned standing up to pedal on some of the hills.

Enjoying the last of the garden bounty this week. The last tomatoes, peppers, onions. The salad greens should be coming for a while still, they have been beautiful. Something really ate the kale, though, and I am not happy about it.

The scale would have me believe that I have lost 14 pounds since I started my new cholesterol-lowering regimen about four months ago. That's more than I planned, and I'm not really trying anymore. I would have been happy with nine. But I'm not complaining.

Happy Autumn!

And so another season begins. The last evening of Summer found me at the Uniontown picnic. Still trying to get over that excitement! Hah. I'm happy to report that my peach pie brought $15 in the dessert auction, the second highest of any of the desserts.

While I'm patting myself on the back, let me say, it must be working. The other day, daughter unit said she had a hard time recognizing me from across the field hockey field — I looked tall, and thin, and well-defined. Aw, shucks! The proof will be in the cholesterol test, though, which I am going to schedule for about 4 weeks from now. If this program has not worked, there's really nothing else I can do...well, one more thing, maybe, short of going on meds. We'll see.

Need to pick some greens for Mom. She liked them, which surprised me, because my mix is heavy on arugula among other things, and packs a bit of a kick. They're all growing so well now; I guess the weather has been perfect for it. I wonder if I'll have time to do the makeshift cloche I've been thinking about, to extend the season into November? Come pick some!

Hope your Summer was a good one, gentle readers, and that your Autumn is beautifully exciting.

(Garden) Note To Self

Turnips and salad greens do not good companions make; the turnips attract bugs that eat holes in their leaves, and they're happy to sample the lettuces as well. No big problem this time; there's plenty of greens on the other side of the aisle, and it was mostly arugula (Roquette) next to the turnips, and there's still plenty of that, if somewhat perforated. I took five bags of greens to the family Sunday.

Sunday (sigh)

I think I need a new strategy. It’s always been hard for me to be alone on Sunday afternoons, probably because they were such a special family time when I was growing up. Lunch was always (and still is) a big home-cooked meal, more like dinner. And afterwards, a drive out to the country to visit my uncles (country then, suburbs now), or to Dundalk to see Aunt Mary and Uncle George, who would give us Cokes (!). Sometimes my Dad and I would just drive down to the waterfront in Baltimore and look at the big ships; once I remember we walked all around the deck of an old abandoned freighter, God knows how we got onto it. Of course, they were safer, less barbed-wire times then. And sometimes we’d make the long drive out to Finksburg to visit Detzinka and Streetchek, on their real farm, at the end of a long dirt road that wound past a tiny cemetery plot. It had cold running water and a wood-fired stove and a nice flower garden and apple orchard and black walnut trees. Detzinka, who then must have been in her 70s and smelled of earth and fire and sweat, would kill copperheads with a spade. (Odd that I ended up living in Finksburg for a time; I remember house-hunting there, and feeling the spot where that farm used to be, a hint of the stream and ridge and a grassy road I remembered, but more than that, a spirit, probably Detzinka herself tapping me on the shoulder.) The road, 140, to that farm was the same we would sometimes take to Gettysburg, and in either case there was a stop at Twin Kiss for soft ice cream and homemade root beer in frosted glass mugs. And Sunday night was always pizza from Gil’s, except when it was corned beef sandwiches if Dad and I were downtown and stopped on Lombard Street; he had his favorites, this deli for bread, that for pickles, and another for the corned beef.

Nowadays, it’s as often as not a long, lonesome ride home from the old house in Overlea after lunch on Sundays. But I’m happy to still have that tradition, that sense of family, if only for a short hour each week. And I’m sure glad the dogs are here when I get home.

Got Them No Blueberry Blues

Darn. I tried to order some new blueberry bushes to replace the ones that were lost to the drought, and everyone was sold out for the season. Next spring, I guess.

On a brighter (greener) note, I enjoyed some delicious turnip greens from the garden with my dinner. And this weekend will be enjoying salads with fresh baby greens and tomatoes and peppers. The fall planting is doing very well. I'll be packaging up lots of greens — lettuces, arugula ("the rocket plant"), European greens, kale — to take to la famille on Sunday. Sometimes it's nice to have a gardener in the family, when the crop is good!

Officially...

5:51 a.m. EDT/9:51GMT, Sunday, September 23rd.

Although it's surely in the air already. Looks, feels, and smells like it. But I will sit by as the opening of archery season comes and goes this Saturday, with no place to hunt in Maryland. And no time anyway.

Oh, well, 9/22 should be a good night to burn that brush pile that's been accumulating, a nice official send-off to summer, and welcoming of autumn. Think I'll do that.

As If We Didn't Know...

Organic Tomatoes are Healthier

A 10-year study by the University of California at Davis found that organic tomatoes have higher levels of key nutrients than their conventionally grown counterparts.

The study, published in the Journal of Agriculture and Food Chemistry on June 23, 2007, found higher levels of flavonoids - substances that stimulate health-protective antioxidant activity in the body - in tomatoes grown organically. The study found that the flavonoids quecetin and kaempferol were on average 79 and 97 percent higher, respectively.

from DrWeil.com

Sunset-Moonrise, Kodachrome Basin, Utah

Phallus, Kodachrome Basin, Utah

Indian Paintbrush, Calf Creek, Utah

Kiva Koffeehouse, between Escalante and Boulder, Utah

The Polisher

Whatever love wants, it gets,
not next year, now.

I swear by the one who never says tomorrow,
as the circle of the moon never agrees
to sell installments of light.
It gives all it has.

How do stories end?
Who shall explain them?

Every story is us. That is who we are,
from the beginning to no-matter-how-it-comes-out.

Those who know the taste of a meal
are those who sit at the table and eat.

Lover and friend are one being,
and separate beings, too,
as the polisher melts in the mirror's face.

— Rumi
from A Year With Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks

Thor's Hammer, Bryce Canyon, Utah

Approaching Bryce Canyon, 3 weeks ago today

Tree, East Zion, Utah

Rattlesnake, Kolob Canyons, Utah

Me, Kodachrome Basin, Utah

The Grim Statistics

Lower Falls, Calf Creek, Utah

Slot Canyon, Boulder, Utah

Moonrise, Kodachrome, Utah

Moving back in time...

Last night, horses. I do ride, though I wasn't in the dream.

Interpretation? In this case, perhaps the "daily residue" theory. The mare up at the end of town had a foal. So beautiful together! There was a foal in the dream, too.

Momentum

No airplanes — flywheels. Odd thing to dream about. A reminder of the importance of momentum...and how challenging it becomes when it's interrupted.

Dreams, Crashing

Been having a lot of dreams about trains, lately, including a big crash. And other transportation themes...

Two nights ago, I dreamed I was driving a convertible. Last night, a motorcycle. Tonight a plane?

On an unrelated note (perhaps), I picked raspberries in the yard this morning for my oatmeal. A literal reminder that all sweetness comes with thorns.

On an unrelated note (perhaps), I've secured a supply of horse and/or cow shit (my choice) to add to my garden this Fall.

Ruminations

1.
Where is a foot worthy to walk a garden,
or any eye that deserves to look at trees?

Show me a man willing to be
thrown into the fire.

2.
In the shambles of love, they kill only the best,
none of the weak or deformed.
Don’t run away from this dying.
Whoever’s not killed for love is dead meat.

—Rumi

Moore's Law

Love him or hate him, you need to go see Michael Moore’s latest, Sicko. This country needs an honest, straightforward, soul-searching debate on our healthcare system. We spend twice as much as anyone else, and come up miserably in healthcare rankings, including longevity and infant mortality (yes, yes, McDonald’s is as much to blame).

A university professor on the radio tonight put it well when he said something to the effect that, the problem is, we don’t have insurance, we have unsure-ance. That’s my biggest worry. I got a potential glimpse of my future in the 89-year old man Moore showed, working a janitorial job so he could have health coverage and pay for his and his wife’s prescriptions.

Argue whatever you may, but I think these two truths should rule any argument:

1. Health care should not be a capitalist enterprise governed by the exchange of money; people should not be required to have a certain amount of money to know that they will benefit from the medical knowledge and skill that can care for them.

2. We have an obligation to all our people, as a society, to see that everyone has equal access to a reasonable level of care; that what can be done to save lives and improve the quality of lives, short of ridiculously expensive or exotic treatments, can and will be done.

Let’s start the debate. Let’s find a solution. Thoughts?

Oh BTW, just prior to writing this I got the bill from my daughter’s initial visit to the allergist. $600+. Still haven’t met her deductible this year.

The Lure of the Sea

As hard as this may be to believe, on Monday I walked on a beach for the first time in 11 years. And what a magnificent beach it was, at Half Moon Bay south of San Francisco—beautiful green water and a tumultuous surf, wide white beach, sharp bluffs. I ended up spending a long time walking and sitting. I had it practically to myself; I saw maybe 6 people and 3 dogs (and introduced myself to all the dogs, of course!).

As I sat and gazed at that beautiful water, for the first time I could look across the Pacific and imagine that land far away that has brought such treasures to our shores and to my life—the rich culture, the delightful food, an ancient sensibility about the universe. Most of all, the joy of Luke, number one son, who traveled across that ocean to become so close to my heart.

I thought, too, of how little I knew, those times that I sat and gazed across the Atlantic Ocean, what joy and treasure would come into my heart and life from so far away in that direction—from ancient Persia, further even than my ancestors traveled to arrive here a century ago.

Worlds of joy, come to me across two oceans, and I am so much the richer for those journeys!

Marking the Solstice

June 21
18:06 GMT
14:06 EDT

In the name of God...

(I hope it's not a sin to steal from The Writer's Almanac. This from 6/19:)

"It's the birthday of mathematician and mystic Blaise Pascal, born in Clermont, France (1623). He wrote a lot about religion, and attempted to convert skeptics to Christianity. But he also said, 'Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.'"

Visit From a Master Gardener

A few weeks ago, on a Friday morning, I walked down to the end of town where a sign advertised a yard sale. I was the first customer, and a nice elderly woman was sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway. I recognized her as the Uniontown “tax collector,” the lady who collects our money to pay for the street lights. I picked out a few candles and a couple pounds of fresh asparagus from her garden. Of course, I noticed her garden, particularly her immense vegetable plot.

So after a little small talk I said to here, “C’mon, show me your garden,” and she was surprised but seemed happy to oblige. Turns out she is a “Master Gardener.” There is a program offered in the counties to become such a gardener; my friend and client from the evidently defunct Garden Chat blog took it, but it was too much of a time commitment for me. Anyway, we talked about the various things she was growing and the problems and successes, and she showed me her greenhouse (“got it used, you know, has to be historically authentic”…this is Uniontown, after all) and she offered me this and that kind of seedling which I politely declined, not knowing where I could put anything else in my mess of a yard. I did get excited about one plant, Nigella damascena, “Love in the Mist,” and happily took two small plants from her. Fortunately, I finally got around to planting them a few nights ago.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. I had finished mowing, and giving Trixie a bath, and was coming in to get Charlie for his bath only to find him barking at the front door. I didn’t know who it could be; I hadn’t seen any German cars parked in the driveway. Well, it was Mrs. Neighbor Master Gardener (do you like how we preserve anonymity here on the Double R Daily?) bringing me the brochure for the Carroll County program. We chatted on the porch for a minute, and then with a little trepidation I offered, “Do you want to see out back?” Her “of course” was enthusiastic.

I did a lot of apologizing for the mess, the 1/3-finished patio, etc., etc., and she did a good job of understanding. We looked over the perennial bed, which thank goodness was looking pretty good, and discussed the fig and the lily problems, and I showed her the vegetable patch. She was very enthusiastic about my tomatoes. ☺ Of course, I had to confess that my mother’s were better, but she still was full of compliments. So we talked about the different stuff we grow and the ways we like to fix and eat it and it was very nice. I heard about her husband and her son (who turns 50 this week), etc. As we were finishing up she observed, with a bit of skepticism in her tone, that she didn’t see a compost pile anywhere. So I pointed it (them!) out to her, way down the bottom of the yard, and thus passed the final test.

On the way out, as we chatted out front, I remembered to ask, “Hey, do you grow orchids?” And she said no, don’t they need special moisture, etc., etc., and I invited her into my quite messy house to see my one lone orchid and its 53 — yes that’s 53 — blooms. I think that sealed my status with her as a “serious” gardener.

It was so nice to get that orchid as a present last year, for no special reason at all. What a sweet gift it was, full of sweet memories now.

Long-Distance Father's Day

I got calls from both of the kids today — one 1,000 miles away, one 5,000. And a hand-made card from #1 son yesterday. God bless those kids! But no other calls from near or far with Father’s Day greetings.

I took some flowers from my yard — hydrangea, lily, yarrow — to my father’s grave, and thanked him for everything he did for me, everything he made me, for being there for me, for what he taught me about being a father and a human being, and asked him to keep helping me, because I need it. Today was his birthday, too; he would have been 95.

And I prayed for my friend and her family, whose father died just last week, and for the others I know whose fathers have passed on to a bigger existence, and for the fathers and their children who are separated for whatever reason.

And it was good to see the new fathers in my family, bringing on the next generation. Little Stella Rose even sat on my lap without crying, a Father’s Day gift to me. My brother is such a good grandfather.

There were not as many flowers as I thought would be up at St. Paul’s Cemetery, there at the end of Uniontown, when Charlie and I went for our sunset walk.

A bittersweet day. This is how it seems to me: One morning you wake up and you realize there are no second chances. The beliefs, the hopes, the dreams, the thoughts you had that were not realized or went awry, you realize now are gone. So you hope for not a second chance, but a different chance. Unfortunately, that same morning you might wake up and realize the different chance…well. You end up just being glad you’re a father, and you keep working and working and working at it.

Ten Surprising Nutrition Facts

Stolen from Dr.Weil.com, as culled from presentations at the "Fourth Annual Nutrition and Health Conference." Bring on the garlic!

Bad News:

1. Hunter-gatherers in the Australian outback today live on 800 varieties of plant foods. Modern Americans live principally on three: corn, soy and wheat.
2. One third of Americans get 47 percent of their calories from junk foods.
3. The average American is eating 300 more calories each day than he or she did in 1985. Added sweeteners account for 23 percent of those additional calories; added fats, 24 percent.
4. Vitamin D deficiency is widespread. The following health problems have been linked to vitamin D deficiency: type 1 and 2 diabetes; multiple sclerosis; rheumatoid arthritis, osteoarthritis, periodontal disease, increased susceptibility to infection; osteoporosis, low birth weight infants; low seizure threshold; cancers of the breast, prostate, colon, pancreas and ovary; non-Hodgkin's lymphoma; hypertension, myocardial infarction, stroke, congestive heart failure; wheezing in childhood, and compromised muscle strength and falls in the elderly.
5. In real dollars, the price of fresh fruits and vegetables has risen nearly 40 percent since 1985. In real dollars, the price of soft drinks has dropped 23 percent. The reason unhealthy foods tend to be less expensive on average than foods such as fresh fruits and vegetables has much to do with American farm policy.

Hopeful News

1. Ten cups per day of green tea delayed cancer onset 8.7 years in Japanese women and three years in Japanese men.
2. Three meta-analyses of randomized, placebo-controlled trials found a 5-12 percent decrease in cholesterol levels in hyperlipidemic patients after at least 30 days' treatment with 600-900 mg of garlic extract.
3. Maternal limitation of seafood consumption to less than 340 grams per week during pregnancy did not protect children from adverse outcomes. In contrast, this observational study [Avon Longitudinal Study of Parents and Children] showed beneficial effects on child development when maternal seafood consumption exceeded 340 grams per week, with no upper limit of benefit...
4. "I see a lot of hopeful trends, including the rise of alternative agriculture: organic, local, biodynamic...There are now over 4,000 farmers' markets in the U.S. The number has doubled in 10 years."
5. Chocolate...may have a mild hypotensive [blood-pressure lowering] effect.

Long-Delayed Posts

What patience you have, gentle reader, for wandering back here after so long. My apologies. Life is so filled with busy-nesse these days. And I have added a consistent (albeit lightweight) fitness routine to my days, still another thing that has kept me away. Exercise, a more rigorous diet, supplements…I am on a kick to get healthy and get my cholesterol numbers down. I don’t know that my nurse practitioner has the patience to wait — she has sent me a prescription for statins — but I am going to call her and beg for six months. Meantime, I’m off to make my morning gruel: old-fashioned oatmeal with white raisins, sprinkled with ground flax seed, cinnamon, and turbinado sugar. Then I will tell you about my garden, if you care to hear.

Out In The Garden...

Ah, the garden! Modest though it is, it warms my heart and spirit to be in it. I broke down and bought an A-frame for the porch swing, so now I can sit and watch the tomatoes grow and the moon rise.

The tomatoes are, indeed, looking fine. The stems are getting strong, they are about 18” tall, and getting lots of blossoms. Maybe this is the year I pick one before my mother does! I started Better Boys and Yellow Pears from seed, and Pineapple (although late, as the seed was backordered; I ended up buying a few plants). From Dana’s I got Cherokee Purple and Green Zebra (and way too much other stuff!). Also in the vegetable garden, starting to eat salads; cukes, cabbage, onions, and kale are all doing well.

The bulbs are a mixed bag. I was seduced by the good prices at Costco and bought too many (surprise, surprise!). The dahlias are coming up, about 6 or 8 of them, and the glads; out of a couple dozen Asiatic lilies, maybe 5? And none of the Caladiums; perhaps I planted them upside down or something. And the Chocolate Cosmos I ordered special from Wayside is nowhere to be found. Ugh.

I thought I had lost the fig, but there is green growth from the base. The branches though, are producing nothing. I’m wondering if I should prune them off and let it take over from the bottom. Thoughts? So much for cold-hardy.

The rest of the perennial border is in nice second-year shape. Achillea and salvia are blooming, Petrovski is looking strong (and smelling wonderful!); rudbeckia, bergamot, and the santolinas are looking good. Of the old (pre-me) plants, the roses, irises, and tulips are bloomed out; the hollyhock is getting ready to bloom; the yucca has not yet sent up its spikes.

Oh, very important! I planted a blueberry hedge as a divider and entrance-way to the lower garden room; eight plants. That should be exciting next year, and more so the year after.

This morning, after last night’s wonderful storms, was perfect for weeding. I pulled a good 5-gallon bucket full and then some…after my morning coffee on the swing.

Needless to say, with planting (even though it is modest by any standards) and general clean-up, the patio project has gone nowhere. I’m out of excuses now, so I’ll have to get started on it again.

Meantime, we can still use more rain…

Twilight: After Haying

by Jane Kenyon from Otherwise: New & Selected Poems, swiped from today's Writer's Almanac

Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?
The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)
The moon comes
to count the bales,
and the dispossessed—
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
—sings from the dusty stubble.
These things happen ... the soul's bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses ...
The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.

For want of a kiss...

(Insert poem here.)

Correction: Seven Years

Jumped the gun by a day. Happy anniversary, Double R Brand...on April 3.

Seven Years

Happy anniversary, Double R Brand!

Happy Birthday, Vincent!

"I have a terrible need of — shall I say the word — religion. Then I go out and paint the stars."

— Vincent Van Gogh

The Art of Disappearing

by Naomi Shihab Nye
from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems

When they say Don't I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say We should get together
say why?

It's not that you don't love them anymore.
You're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

A New Record!

March 1st! Who woulda thought?!? I'm going to bring the boxes down from the attic this weekend and pack the ornaments away. But I don't know about actually taking the tree down. The equinox is just three weeks away. Wouldn't it be great to have a tree from solstice to equinox? We'll see how dry it is. Stay tuned...

House For Rent

Interested? Know anybody?

Uniontown: Charming brick Federal-style home for rent. Lots of historic charm. 3 BR, 1.75 baths, hardwood, modern kitchen, nice yard, lots of windows, family room. Pets maybe. Security deposit; references required.

Just Stop Buying!

I'm in. This from the New York Times, 2/24/07:

By M. P. DUNLEAVEY: "It sounds like something that would happen in San Francisco. In 2005, a few friends gathered for dinner and started bemoaning the fate of the planet, the environmental impact of consumer excess — and ended up challenging one another to not buy anything new for six months...

Yet for such a simple and not terribly sexy idea — to buy nothing new, other than food and other absolute essentials — the Compact has managed to build a groundswell of supporters."

You are allowed to buy new socks and underwear, as needed.

Read the whole story here.

The Power of Roses

Amazing how a dozen (or 14) roses in a vase can accent the clutter in this house. Makes me want to clear everything out so their beauty can have the full stage without distraction. At least got me to pick up a little.

I knew it!

Regular Midday Snoozes Tied to a Healthier Heart

By NICHOLAS BAKALAR

Published: February 13, 2007, New York Times

Taking a nap after lunch may be good for your heart. This splendid news arrived in the form of a study published Monday in The Archives of Internal Medicine.

In a study of more than 23,000 Greek men and women ages 20 to 86, researchers found that napping at least three times a week for a half-hour was associated with a significantly decreased risk of death from heart disease. After controlling for factors like smoking, body mass index, physical activity and diet, the researchers found that people who regularly took a siesta had a 37 percent lower coronary death rate than those who never napped. The effect was even greater in working men.

The Blind Leading The Blind

Take my hand. There are two of us in this cave.
The sound you hear is water; you will hear it forever.
The ground you walk on is rock. I have been here before.
People come here to be born, to discover, to kiss,
to dream, and to dig and to kill. Watch for the mud.
Summer blows in with scent of horses and roses;
fall with the sound of sound breaking; winter shoves
its empty sleeve down the dark of your throat.
You will learn toads from diamonds, the fist from palm,
love from the sweat of love, falling from flying.
There are a thousand turnoffs. I have been here before.
Once I fell off a precipice. Once I found gold.
Once I stumbled on murder, the thin parts of a girl.
Walk on, keep walking, there are axes above us.
Watch for the occasional bits and bubbles of light —
Birthdays for you, recognitions: yourself, another.
Watch for the mud. Listen for bells, for beggars.
Something with wings went crazy against my chest once.
There are two of us here. Touch me.

by Lisel Mueller
from Alive Together: New and Selected Poems
© Louisiana State University Press

Microwave Your Sponge!

This was covered in one of my very first posts, and now there's more research to confirm it. It does make you wonder, though, what microwaving might be doing to your food. This, from Dr. Weil.com:

Microwaving Decontaminates Sponges, Scrubbing Pads
No doubt about it, sponges and scrubbers are common carriers of bugs that cause food-borne illnesses. Kitchen pathogens from uncooked eggs, meat and vegetables get from the foods onto countertops, utensils and cleaning tools and from there to the sponges and scrubbers used for cleaning. Now a new study has demonstrated that zapping your kitchen sponges and scrubbers in the microwave will kill any bacteria and viruses they may harbor. Researchers at the University of Florida soaked sponges and scrubbing pads in dirty water containing a disgusting mix of fecal bacteria, viruses, parasites and bacterial spores, including pathogens that can survive efforts to destroy them with radiation, heat and toxic chemicals. They then zapped the filthy, wet sponges in an ordinary microwave for various lengths of time. Results showed that two minutes at full power killed more than 99 percent of all the bad bugs (however, hard-to-kill Bacillus cereus spores needed four minutes). The researchers advised microwaving your sponges and scrubbers every other day. Make sure the sponges and scrubbers are completely wet before you zap them. The study was published in the December 2006 issue of the Journal of Environmental Health.

So How Much Would You Owe Us, W?

Bush: Link exec salaries to performance

By BEN FELLER, Associated Press Writer 32 minutes ago

NEW YORK -
President Bush took aim Wednesday at lavish salaries and bonuses for corporate executives, standing on Wall Street to issue a sharp warning for corporate boards to "step up to their responsibilities" and tie compensation packages to performance.

Can he be serious!?!?

Take this eating test...

Still haven't read that article?

I've come up with what I think is a pretty reliable way to measure the health of the diet around here: How often do you empty the kitchen compost bucket? It you're eating well, it's often. I'm emptying mine at least twice a week, and sometimes every other day. That means lots of vegetables and fruits are being prepared.

Don't have a compost bucket? Then you need to ask yourself a question: Why not? Anyone, anywhere, can compost. If you're feeling challenged or need some tips, post your questions.

One thing that doesn't seem destined for a compost heap anytime soon is our Christmas tree. It's still drinking plenty of water, and dropping no needles to speak of. This makes me happy. I was just reflecting the other day how tragic it is to cut a tree down to honor it only for a few short weeks. I think I'll beat my Valentine's Day record this year. Wouldn't it be great if it lasted all the way 'til Spring!?

By way of explanation...

"It's a nervous work. The state that you need to write is the state that others are paying large sums to get rid of."

— Shirley Hazzard
Short story writer

Hurry Up and Read This!

...before the Times moves it into the premium area. The best, simplest wisdom yet for what to eat, and what not. An excellent, if long, article by Michael Pollan — author of last year's hit, The Omnivore's Dilemma — on the American diet, nutritionism, and the food industry.

Read it here.

Dr. Weil's Daily Health Tip

Breathing as Meditation

In Buddhist and yogic traditions, people claim to have reached an enlightened state by doing nothing more than paying attention to the rising and falling of their breath. What easier way could there be to reach such a state? Especially since breathing - following the ebb and flow of your breath - is an intrinsic part of meditation. By paying attention to your breath, you will rapidly change your state of consciousness, begin to relax, and slowly detach from ordinary awareness. Try to focus on the dimensionless point between your in-breath and out-breath, and glimpse the elements of enlightenment in that space.

Correction

Thank you, kind reader!

On Pain

And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."

And he said:

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,

And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

Gibran

Joy & Pain

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy.

— Kahlil Gibran

Radio-Free Uniontown

Yesterday was a rare and blessed "no-drive day," when I didn't get in the car at all. I treasure these fleeting gems. I highly recommend giving it a try, if you're one of us who always have kids or work or shopping or some other reason that pulls us into a car everyday.

Driving home from Sunday lunch at Mom's, I thought maybe when I got home I'd try to go "radio free" for the rest of the day, including all passive forms of electronic entertainment — no radio, no music, no TV, no DVD. Just the hum of the refrigerator and furnace and computer fan — oh, and my brand new vacuum cleaner! I can't really swear off the computer since I have to work.

It's only been what? Five hours? But it is a challenge already. I always have Internet radio on while I'm working, the background drone of New Age (elevator music), classical, or classic jazz. It's different. Quiet.

That new vacuum, though, man! It really sucks. And it's "convertible" — you can press a latch and pull the main sucker off the chassis to use as a canister vac, great for the steps. It's the first time I've had one with one of those clear dirt cups. I'm amazed at how much it pulls up, so quickly. I'm even dirtier than I thought. It's incredible what they've managed to do in the vacuum world in the last 15 years or so since my last new one, onboard tools and all that. I'm loving it. HOWEVER...

They still can't get the frickin' cord right! There's at least 12" to work with between the cord spindles — that seems like a lot of margin to me, and how many ways can you wrap a cord between two points? Yet, the way I wrapped it (straight, no crossover), the plug clip ends up right at the bottom of the curve where it's nigh impossible to clip. So yeah, maybe if you do the math for me, you'll tell me that crossing over each loop can easily suck up 12". I try it and let you know.

Anyhow, thanks Mom, for the Christmas cash. Bissell and Costco thank you, too!

What's In My Journal?

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.

by William Stafford, born this day in 1914
from Crossing Unmarked Snow
© University of Michigan Press
stolen from The Writer's Almanac (as usual)

Another Bushticker Spotted...

20 January 2009
The End of an Error

Yet Another Bushter Sticker

"Fermez le Bush."

On the Eve of the New Year...

"Hope smiles on the threshold of the year to come, whispering that it will be happier."

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Great Bumper Sticker

"Frodo has failed...
Bush has the ring!"

Just what we need...another blog!

But hey, this is a good one! We just started it. Tell all your gardening friends! Check it out at:

http://gardenchat.blogspot.com/

Write something dirty!

Merry Christmas from Uniontown!

Xmas Buck 2
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

Christmas in Uniontown

I have to say, in this, the year of the inflatable front-yard snowglobe, the tastefully restrained decorations in Uniontown are quite charming. The preferred "historically authentic" decorum is fresh greens and a single candle in each window. A few folks couldn't restrain themselves and wrapped white lights around their evergreen garlands, but that's OK; a few with independent streaks on the edges of town put up colored (!) lights. But by and large, it's a very elegant, cheerful display. As for myself, my wreath actually made it onto the door this year, though I don't have candles in the windows. I was about to buy some, but fiscal panic set in before I did.

Here at Brambly Hedge, the presents are wrapped, the pumpkin pies are baked and the sweet potato souffle is ready to go in the oven in the morning. So gentle readers, as the clock is about to strike midnight on Christmas morning, I hope this day brings you things that are good for you, and that your hearts are filled with the peace and joy of the season. Good will to you all, and to all, good night!

Such beautiful ornaments!

ornaments.jpg
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

I've got a nice collection now. It's always nice to unpack them and enjoy the surprises of the ones you forgot. Only had to use a few traditional colored balls to fill in the gaps.

Another view...

xmas tree 06-b.jpg
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

We're just about all done getting ready for the holiday here in Uniontown, not that much was done besides put up the tree. The dogs have gotten their Christmas baths. The shopping's all done, just need to wrap. The wreath is still sitting on the porch waiting to get hung on the door. (Last year as I recall, it never did make it onto the door.) Wrap, make the sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, and I'll be done.