Category Archives: Thoughts

The Goldfinch Are Gone (43)

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My goldfinch have all but vanished. I realized it yesterday. I felt bad, being me, wondering if it was somehow my fault they were gone. And had I been too lost in my work these past two weeks to even notice? I knew the nyger seed was not disappearing like it used to, and then it stopped disappearing all together. This morning I saw one goldfinch on the tube feeder. I haven’t seen or heard another all day. Now the tube feeder hangs there empty in the late afternoon sun, swaying the tiniest bit in the breeze. What happened? The worst part is not hearing their song in the early hours of the day. It makes me sad I didn’t recognize the first morning it was gone. How could that silence not have cried out to me lying there in bed? I have let my work sweep me away again. I was so awed by the goldfinch, by their numbers, their good cheer, their lively chatter and singing making our home abundant in bird company so much sooner than I’d dreamed it might happen. Did they go somewhere else because there are new leaves now on the neighbor’s tree? Is the tube feeder too hot now in the sun where it has lived since we moved in? I can’t remember when the goldfinch arrived here. I know at our old place on Avenida Ortega they visited all year round, but never in the numbers we were gifted with here. I feel helpless. I hope they’ll come back again. Maybe in the fall? I still can’t help feeling like I wasn’t paying attention. I never knew, never wished them bon voyage. So I will say it now. “Vayan con diosa,” my little feathered ones. “Que les vayan bien.” May all be well with you. Come home soon.

More Musings from the Kitchen Sink (42)

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Sunday night I made a bold move. I retired my old scrubbie and Trader Joe’s kitchen cloth to a home beneath the sink, relegated now to dirtier tasks. Monday I am washing dishes with the new pristine scrubbie. I feel exuberant with morning energy, new day joy. The perfect aqua kitchen cloth sitting wet at the edge of the sink makes me happy, too. Should I take a picture of this one, like the yellow one? I imagine a series of photographs of kitchen cloths lined up at eye level across a white gallery wall. I don’t know how many have come between this delicious aqua and the famed yellow one. I know the last one was orange, probably the last two since I cut them in half. When I decided to splurge and spring the new ones from the drawer, I actually had to think about it first. The old ones weren’t terrible yet. As I run the new soapy scrubbie inside one of the cats’ dinner bowls I think about how this level of frugality came from having an immigrant mother. I am so white, so middle class, I forget I am the daughter of an immigrant. It shapes you, makes you different. Today my mother probably wouldn’t think twice about switching out her kitchen cloths, but it came to me when she was young, when she was new to this country. I think about how frugality is good, how not being wasteful is important for the environment, too, the right thing. I even picture my old scrubbie and cloth in the landfill. Then I tell myself these are small things. I try to be careful. I’m not dumping a television set. I finish washing the dishes, run a dry cloth along the edge of the counter. I think about how the sight of the aqua cloth beside the sink makes me happy. People will think I’m crazy. There she goes again, that odd, twisty woman and her kitchen cloths. But I’m glad I liberated the new ones. It seems like a small indulgence for all that goofy pleasure. I decide to be reckless and retire this new pair at an even earlier age.

Being a Writer (41)

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The other night when I was walking it came to me I really am a teacher first. All these years, I’ve kept trying to reverse the sequence. I put “writer, teacher, artist” in my profile. But I put teaching first. How can I not? Right now I’m in the middle of the second week of a two-week intensive online training I am leading with one of my favorite colleagues. Today I am proud of myself because I manage to get my “morning” chores done only two or three hours later than usual. This is the first time in ten days. I lay the walnuts in the glass pan, put them in the toaster oven. I wash the strawberries, have them drying on a kitchen towel by the window. But I don’t make time to eat. When I finish making my third or forth set of rounds, answering questions online, I plummet. I feel sad and discouraged for no reason. I have the sense to eat my breakfast. It is almost 2pm. I realize I feel trapped inside my obsessive online checking in. I get afraid for going forward. How will I ever be able to be a writer if I let my teaching work gobble all my time? I remind myself in the past I was able to carve out more time for my writing. I tell myself I can do this again. I can. I am. I refuse to believe teaching and writing have to be mutually exclusive. But a voice hisses. “Are you sure?” They are such different modes. Writing asks us to surrender. But I won’t give up my dream. Being a writer is who I am. I’m a writer who’s teaching. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer who teaches less.

From Stark to Lush in Less than a Year (40)

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sunflower volunteers, wild patch of garden

I have just ridden my bike home from the farmers market. I unlatch the redwood gate, still straddling my bike, and position myself to waddle through. The gate opens inward, and as it swings open, my courtyard is revealed in a slow arc of color. For that span of time, the gate in slow motion, the hidden life coming into view, I have this lovely sensation of coming into a lush garden. The sweep of the gate opens to our palo verde, the wild patch of volunteer sunflowers from the bird feeder, the crazed dandelion “bush” I’ve been harvesting. What was once all stark concrete and pavers now holds this wash of color, these vibrant beings. The feeling seems to mirror my experience the other night walking in the dark, more an awareness of the body than the mind. I take in the surprising whoosh of life with the wonder of a child. Then my mind catches up, and I place this feeling beside my sadness of the other night. Maybe this is where our beginning layers of aliveness live, I think. And I feel grateful for our home with our secret courtyard garden. May she burgeon on.

Walking in the Dark (38)

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I keep running out of daylight, so I’ve taken to walking around our trailer park at night. I study each home. I like to see what people have done, the choices they’ve made depending on the configuration of the structure, the orientation of the lot, the emphasis on indoor versus outdoor space. I have years of wandering my neighborhoods at night. I love seeing windows lit up. They used to make me feel lonely but not anymore. The other night when I was walking, an odd awareness came over me, almost more physical sensation than actual thought. It lasted several paces, maybe half of the short block I was walking, heading west in the dark. I was struck by how rich in life these homes felt. The rows of colorful handblown glass, bottle after bottle stretching across all the windowsills I could see from the road. A covered patio, pristine, with artwork on the walls, bright abstract designs, the bicycles stowed just so. The sounds of music playing, TV, the opening and closing of cupboards, the clank of metal on metal, pot to the stove, someone preparing dinner. All these homes seemed so much more alive than my own. I felt a little awed, a little sad. Later, I wondered if what I sensed was an accumulation of life over time, that row of bottles spanning the years. I bet it began with one bottle on that first windowsill. A fresh coat of paint on the patio wall, the impulse to hang the abstract. I can almost see them now years ago in my mind, before life was laid down, these small acts of love, layer after layer.

Bad Friday (37)

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I was cranky on the phone with my mother in the late morning. I blame it on hours of outrageous droning machinery that began before I was awake. They are putting in the pool at the house on the corner. In the afternoon I’m writing in my daily notebook. I can hear the construction workers yelling to make themselves heard over a new machine, an incessant whining at one of the houses closer to me. There is a small breeze. I want to savor the way the air feels against my skin. One lone dove is enjoying the birdseed in the big tray feeder, but I can’t hear her over the noise. The sound drills holes in my head. All day I brace against it. Even when I try to surrender, to let it wash over me and away, its teeth chew on me. Even now, when I turn to admire a goldfinch perched on the fence, the machine, the yelling, intrude. Now there is another sound, an endless grinding from the house nearest me. Polishing the cement? My right temple throbs. In the unexpected gap between assaults, everything softens. I hear the quiet sounds of the doves pecking in the feeder, two of them now. I hear the pwitter of dove wings, two more flying to the neighbor’s carport, queuing up for their afternoon meal. I take the first full breath I remember taking since the day began. I sink more fully into my chair. One day the construction will be over.

Will You Be Your Valentine? (33)

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4 tissue paper layer hearts, red/orange and blue/purple

All my cells are dancing today, thrilled to be on holiday after this last big push ended at one o’clock this morning. They are tired, too–my cells, my muscles, my bones–but the joy is oozing through them, inspiring their salsa steps. It’s smoggy and too hot, but it doesn’t matter because every other thought today is alive with relief and pleasure. I grin again and again. Lying in bed this morning, I remembered I’ve always wanted to make valentine cards for people, maybe even move my annual “address” from Christmas to this day of love. I can see the cards in my head, potato prints, artsy water colors of hearts, wild colors. I’ll get paint on my fingers, and they will cover every horizontal surface of the trailer while they dry. I’ve dreamed of them for years. Late last night I sent out animated valentines, my best for 2014. And now, for you, my readers, I send these scanned tissue paper layers of hearts to wish you happy Valentine’s Day. And this morning while I watched the mountains change color with the growing day, I decided this year I will be my valentine. I will tend to me all day with kindness and delight. Will you be your valentine, too?