crows_roost: (ZOOM)
I've gone and done it but someone else was already corva. That is a very odd thing to say...

So over there I am found at crows_roost.

Who else?
crows_roost: (Default)
Well, so here I am.
crows_roost: (Ashley's Jen)
From February 20th

By the time I was five I had been kidnapped by each of my parents in turn and then left in the custody of my grandparents because neither of my parents were able to care for me. My grandmothers were more mothers than my mother could or would ever be, She and I are very dear friends but role reversal is a long standing part of our relationship.

My Gramma Martha passed away today, after nearly a year in hospice and several months in twilight where she spoke mostly to the Night People (her parents, her husband).

I hadn't seen her in many years but we remained very close. I am her only grandchild.

I had a dream last Friday night. I picked up the ringing telephone, and old heavy one with a handset and rotary dial and all. Martha was speaking, telling me about her day (grocery shopping, making dinner). She didn't seem to hear when I replied but carried on for a while and then was silent. I filled the space with I Love You and I Miss You. More silence followed and I thought she had put down the telephone.

Then she told a many times told story from my childhood. She and my Grampa Al drove up from the City to visit me and my mom and dad when we were living in a little house that had once been a chicken coop, up in New Paltz I think. I was maybe three or four. When the few days visit was over, they said good bye. I kissed and hugged Al, patted his cheek, and said, "You go home now" then turned to Martha Mekul and said, "But you 'tay here"...weeping I told the Martha in the dream that is was okay, she didn't have to 'tay here anymore; she would always be with me no matter what, that I understood that now.
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
This month:

I will be both the lead presenter and a panel member at an annual state-wide conference in my field (animal welfare). Both presentations are about community: reaching different groups, engaging them, working together in creative ways. A quote of mine, related to compassion fatigue, was printed in a nation trade magazine too. Through an apprenticeship, I am striving to both stretch my skills and get back to the roots of what brought me into this career in the first place, companion animal behavior/training and the human-animal bond. This is mostly in self-defense but also as a way to seek future relevance and service.

A windfall project came into my household late last year that generated some much needed cash. We live month to month, check to check, and as renters with pets...seemingly always in fear about our housing. Not a week after the payment came in for this project, our car threw a rod and took out its engine. At first I was all about, "Every blinking time we get a little extra, something (car, health crisis, etc) slams us, empties what might have passed as a bit of safety savings, and leaves us running on empty again". I got over myself. While yes, this does seem to be a rather shockingly predicable pattern over the past 12 or 15 years, if you flip it over it turns into, "Just before a serious financial hit comes, some unexpected money is earned to cover it" the world is suddenly a better place.

Find the right perspective; it is world changing.
crows_roost: (Ashley's Jen)

Hanging up the telephone, I think about these tenuous connections, how fragile and yet tenacious our lives are! These bonds that we are blessed with, rooted soul-deep and heart-nourished, may give us some directions when we're lost, if we allow them to. This route was not well mapped out. I'm trying to find my way by the lines of old postcards and the memory of someone's hand in mine.


Mar. 23rd, 2016 06:57 pm
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
There is a process of stripping away layers of you and your practices, of what you decided needed to be true.

It could start with the teeniest of emotional itches. You might scratch at it just a bit and find some loose corner to tug. It might take days or months or rubbing and stretching to pull it all off or it could be done in one terrifically painful jerk.

Layers of should/could/would/MUST NOT BE can take a long to notice, let alone remove. You might find yourself making slow unconscious circles over one small uneven patch of you, drawn to the wrongness of it, for years before figuring out its origin.

I’ve grown some like calluses slowly and organically, others happen suddenly like plastering fist-hole in a wall.

But what is underneath, so long apart from the rest of what is: raw and new, fresh and clean, or some other thing, maybe better forgotten?
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
There is wood-smoke and dampness in the air. The night isn't chill enough for me to for me to fire up the stove but soon. The soft wet on my face is almost rain. Beets and their green over brown rice fill my dinner bowl. This is a waiting, in between time wrapped in reflection.
crows_roost: (Default)
I was up before dawn but home before dark. My shoes and socks are off so I can walk on the rain-damp ground. The last rose of the season was a bud for what seemed like weeks but the blossom is passing within just a couple of days.


Sep. 27th, 2015 07:38 pm
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
I am out on the deck, in the not quite dark, with the not quite settled dogs. There is a old radio on the top of the fridge now, bought at an estate sale down the curvy mountain road for five bucks. There is a deep memory rightness about it being there in the kitchen. I can hear guitars and a man's voice singing but I cannot make out the words. The crickets are racous loud. My hearing is going and my knees are stiff. I'm drinking an autumn beer and waiting on the lunar eclipse.
crows_roost: (Ashley's Jen)
A year ago today, she was alive. A year ago tomorrow she was killed.

I am in no condition to try to untangle myself; it will be more than enough just to ride this through.

She took that picture of me. I was looking at her when that image was captured. It remains utterly unsettling to think of never seeing her sgain.


Sep. 23rd, 2015 06:36 am
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
I trundle out with the dogs, twilight this time, generally early morning light. They sniff about what the night brought through and I sip my way through my first cup of coffee.

The cats get fed their kibble; the dogs get cookies.

Other than those, the beginning of my day's communications are: the check my page, my son's page, my dead best friend's page, and work page plus work emails.

Oatmeal on the stove (dried berries now that it is autumn) is making breakfast.

Waking up, moving on through...
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
I am enthralled by the darkness and the sounds of the night, the soft shift of the dry September dirt under my bare feet and the cold burn of the stars above. Three dogs explore these moments with me, led by their noses through a shared world similar to mine. A moth shivers across my arm and I follow the flutters shortly out of sight. Over my shoulder, light pours out of my kitchen window, around a silhouette; I am watched by a cat. Inside the house, a book about evolution, invasive species, and distant ancestors of me and my dogs is waiting on a low table made of Redwood burl. A handle-less cup, Touched by Rain, still holds a sip or three of tart white wine.
crows_roost: (Default)
Mort & Touched by the Rain

1) smallish, plastic, bulldog sort of dog skeleton, with glowing red eyes from Costco
2) carefully crafted, cut with looping patterns, fits snugly in my palms held together, cup...finish was marred before firing because it was near the window left open during a storm
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
Relax your eyes on the twilight sky and the stars begin to appear. The sounds of the day, the last of the cars heading home on the road behind, are overcome by the rising of the night. The hills are defined by the angles of the tree tops, now that the colors are gone. Inside, an open bottle of red wine and a purring orange cat are waiting.


Aug. 30th, 2015 08:36 pm
crows_roost: (Snufkin)
Slept in, then watched the morning a while through the Redwoods
Spoke to my father, my half-brother's mother, my mother, and my Gramma
Visited with the landlord and his wife, across stream, in the home they just finished building in the old orchard
Cleaned house, not top to bottom but straighten/dusted/and comfortable
Washed three dogs
Indulged in Chinese take-out
Walked three dogs
Listened as the night came on
...rocking chair with book next up!
crows_roost: (Ashley's Jen)
Not nearly twilight yet, just the day drawing in here. Across the creek and up the rise, a young velvet buck raises himself to his hind-legs to pick late spring apples. Two rascal jays, one Steller and on scrub, land on far ends of the porch railing: head tilts, pause and motion, a few seeds sampled, flights back to the Redwoods. The last cup of this morning's pot of coffee is in my hands. I am leaning much of my weight on my elbows and thinking I ought to go do my physical therapy, feeling the pain in my lower back. This week, a friend tugged playfully at the silver in my hair and told me that I was too young for it. I am proud of it, proud to have made it this far and long.
crows_roost: (Ashley's Jen)
I was so certain, for just a few moments, that I saw you driving a slate gray pickup truck, yesterday downtown. It wasn’t just how much his features looked like yours or the way he wore his hair. There was something of your playful grace in the way he left one hand on the steering wheel and raised the other one to wave to me, when he caught me staring at him.

Loving you shaped my heart. We were so tangled up in each other that pieces were left inside the other when we tore away. Those were bindings that I could always count on, tethers to a when-ago; they are a rosary of sorts to young love, too soon, to crazy, too much. When you left us, nearly a lifetime in the past now, you didn’t allow goodbyes. I wouldn’t have given you these parts back; they are mine now. The me that I left in your keeping though, where is she now?
crows_roost: (Goddess)
Living up in the Santa Cruz Mountains again, back beneath the forgiving spread of the mighty Redwoods, I find different rhythms are moving my days.

This funky old cabin grew from the bones of an older farmhouse, moved twice, then at last disassembled and rebuilt in a different shape. The kitchen is the heart of this place; having a living room with exposed ceiling beams and many windows, a small bedroom with an off-kilter closet door, a teeny maybe-office space, and a once porch/now walled into a small sunroom - all radiating from the cooking/eating/settling in the evening room. There is no machine to wash your dishes; they are done by hand and dried with a cotton cloth or left to dry until morning the next day. A large, rectangular table takes up the center of the room; it was build by the prior owner and I don't think is likely to be able to be moved out even if I were not enchanted by it.

A long clothesline stretches across the little ravine and the seasonal creek. There is a funny cheep and squeal to moving it along, clothes moving in the breeze, catching a bit on the rhododendron bushes that no one planted. Clothes feel more real, dried in the air coming the valley instead of heated and blown by a device.

It takes longer to do household chores but they are somehow more mine this way.

There is an apple orchard of a few dozen aging trees on the other side of the rise, where our landlord/neighbor is building his retirement home. His family name is Wolfe. Other fruit trees had started to bloom a week or more ago. That orchard was slow to awake even in this strange warm year. Is it the hollow where they grow? Their age? Or the antiquated varieties (when asked what kind they were, he waved his hand and vaguely said, "lots")? Yesterday in the dawning, I saw petals there.

Earlier this week, I unexpectedly met a local living uninvited in our place. Stepping out of my hot shower, I went to wrap my hair in a towel, and a HUGE spider dropped out and skittered around the bathroom floor. The cats were very intrigued. I was running late that morning, so at first I slid over a bag to protect the bug from the beasties and went on with my routine. I stopped myself, walked to the kitchen for a cup and paper for relocation, and captured the eight-legged dude and escorted him outside. It was wrong of me to make him wait, in possible fear and certain danger, but I am relieved that I made the right decision to make the time to come to his rescue. I have shaken my towel before using it since then.

I am working at the animal shelter, down in the coastal city below the river valley where I live. I was welcomed back from my year of exile.

I am home.
crows_roost: (feathers)
I find that I am experiencing odd levels of joy from finishing off containers of household items. I used up the last of two kinds of tea today and over the past week I have been working on emptying (from use of course) a variety of skin and other bath products that haunt my cabinets. Expired medications have been disposed of. Brown paper bags of items of clothing that I don't really need have been sent on to hopefully be others treasures, boxes of boxes will start the same journey soon.

Another jar of rocks will be set free in the river tomorrow.

Lighten the load, spring is coming, motion and change are in the wind blowing everything around out there!
crows_roost: (ZOOM)
It is time to start shedding.

This morning, I tossed a short pile of old clipped-from-the-newspaper comics that had yellowed with age; it was a token start to the process. I will be combing through the stones that I have taken home and kept, tomorrow. The following day I will let most of them free again to the river. Clothing drawers are next to be culled. I am working my way up to the bookshelves.
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