all in the family

How do you begin to document a day so meaningful as the wedding of a baby brother? I have spent the day pondering the weekend festivities and wondering how in the world I can possibly convey the intense significance of this event for us all. Frankly, I cannot. So instead of making some vain effort at telling you all how wonderful my family is, how beautiful the day was, how loved the bride and groom are, I will offer a small substitute, a snippet of a memento . . .
This arbor under which the two were wed was built by my brother. It was simply one of the countless details contributed by a couple with immense creativity: every where we looked over the past few days was another thing that wowed us all with the caring attention paid to the day, to the memories, to the guests. And this carefully constructed arbor is one of those. It is one of the reasons that I am such a gut-bustingly proud big sis . . . of a handsome young groom and a stunning new sister :-)

a pane

This one was my second door-pane installation, and decidedly better than the first. But I still have room for improvement . . . perhaps the third time will be the charm [not that I would welcome the need to replace another, mind you!]

a rose is a rose is a rose

Stereotypical, perhaps, as far as photographic subjects go. But so lovely I simply could not resist!

things of beauty

While snapping this shot of Sugar I had a chance to chat with a friend, who also happens to be her owner :-) Our conversation has left me with a bit of realization-in-progress: I have been inordinately needy for beauty lately. And when I am drawn to, am surrounding myself obsessively with, all things beautiful, there is generally an underlying reason for it.
And I am terribly sensitive to the emotions of those around me. So this evening, as I saw the distress in Lynn's eyes as she spoke of her fears, it occurred to me that the flowers and photos that I give are a way of fighting such fears.
Our world is a frightful one, and these days are full of fears: financial, political, relational . . . people are afraid. And the fear I see in others frightens me.
My way of fighting my own fears is by doing the only thing I can think of to alleviate it in others. Beauty soothes me. It also captures my attention, in that I have found in myself a tendency to notice details that not everyone sees. So recently I have been giving small gifts of beauty to those around me. As one with little influence, power, or wealth, all I have to give is that which calms my own fears. It leaves me vulnerable to others, easily wounded by insensitivities, but I do not mind. The deep joy of seeing the rare moments when my small gifts can mean something to another far outweighs the pain of when they do not.
So here is another glimpse of one of those small beauties :-)

just one

The gardenia bush my mother planted is magical: everything, I suppose, that her green thumb touches, is similarly blessed. This particular shrub's magic manifests itself in the way it habitually blooms as it should, in late summer . . . and then continues to sprout surprise buds at "random" times of the year. It seems to me that each of these surprises comes at some significant time, or day, of the year: so that I benefit from the brightened soul and lifted spirits that a solitary bloom invariably delivers. This particular one now occupies the space reserved on my piano for those of its kind, floating in the glass globe similarly designated :-)

modeling sugar

Once the day's duties were done and my lawn-mowing completed, I had a mission this evening: a quite simply one, really . . . a photo shoot with Sugar. As you can see, by her "come hither" expression, she's quite the natural!

once-solid rock

This is the sight that greeted me this morning, causing me to gasp and lift my hand to my mouth in one of those involuntary reactions. At some point over the night, it seems, a vehicle careened into our street's marking stone pillar, leaving pieces of the car strewn about the road, and leaving this disaster of what used to be a solid block of stone. Having seen this marker without thinking about it for some 18 years now, it is a strange thing to see it so suddenly demolished . . . a sad and somewhat frightening reminder of the inherently ephemeral nature of so many things, both those inconsequential and those of great significance, in our lives.

a family treasure

So maybe he's all growed up [as we say down here in the heartland ;-)] what with a sweet new wife and countless life accomplishments in his young man's lifetime . . . but he's still my baby brother. And consequently my big sister heart was proudly warmed just now at the discovery of this school assignment from many many years ago:

I am thankful for my home. I am thankful for my grandparents because they love my. I am thankful brother and sister.

Coincidentally, I claim the liberty of assuming that he was temporarily grammatically challenged, rather than the less appealing alternative that he was only thankful for one of us "sister"s . . .

when the clock strikes 12

As I walked in to visit a neighbor, I asked her about the "cinderella shoes" near the front door entry. Perplexed, she asked what I meant and, when I pointed them out to her, Lyn laughed. "Looks like my daughter came over last night . . ." Came and went, leaving only this picturesque trace.

subjective objects

Sometimes I am caught off guard, stopped in my tracks by rather ordinary objects that are, for whatever reason, strikingly beautiful to me. In this case, a first venture into a friend's backyard made me return later in the evening, camera in hand, so that I could capture this colorful trio.

photo finish

Trying to decide what my photo of the day would be on this all-important final day of the 31 photos project, I for some reason, unbeknownst to me, wanted to shoot the pool water. So I ran with the inspiration and carted my camera to the pool. Once there I snapped a few photos of the blank water and then decided it would be kind of cool to get feet along with it. So I called a random swimmer over and asked him to do me a favor. He obliged as I had him swim a lap of freestyle directly underneath my viewing window. Thanking him, I started to leave and, on the way, stopped to chat with one of the neighbors. She was assuming my photography was for some sort of newspaper article or write-up . . . for good reason: it turns out my "random" swimmer just happened to be the 50-yard freestyle champion in the city meet this past week! Fitting finish for last daily photo of the month, I think :-)

next stop: sakeji

today's lesson

a rain puddle. a pink parasol. and a sisterly hug. perfect

art lesson leftovers

Sometimes the mess is just too nice to clean up :-)

connor's pickle

Connor happily showed me his garden again this evening. And as we inspected further, we discovered not just two . . . there are, in fact, five pickles in his garden. I, however, am particularly partial to the toes that also have been known to be found in Connor's garden :-)

what does your garden grow?

I met my neighbors the other day, thanks to my bold curiosity about her gardening prowess. This evening, as I crouched on the ground to capture this stunning sunflower [and I didn't add a thing to this photo, so far as color or other touch-ups go!], their young son poked his head up from the vine behind me and made a proud announcement [he had already granted me permission to take photos in his garden]. "Hey! You can take a picture of this one too . . . we have a pickle . . . Wait--we have two pickles!!!"
Wow--I wish my garden grew pickles . . . .
Young Connor kindly consoled me for my lack of a pickle-growing garden . . .

pecking order

Watching the hummingbirds this evening, we wondered out loud as to the fact that there were only females flitting about. Then we realized why: a solitary male approached, and was promptly shoved out of the way by a female . . . he did not persist in his efforts and nor, it seems, did any other of these northern hummers!

line of sight, take 2

So today's machine of choice was admittedly less productive--and decidedly more fun--than the last one featured! A post-service outing afforded me the occasion to have my first go at four-wheeling on the pastor's toy. Don't be fooled . . . preachers can wheel [and deal?] with the best of them :-)

line of sight

Yes, this is, in fact, a lawnmower. And yes, I did, in fact, take a photo of it today. Why? Well, it made perfect sense to me: for after spending the afternoon with this particular view, I realized that I was quite fond of it . . . and what is more natural than to want to capture the image of something you are fond of? Ok, so maybe it is the end result that make me so fond of this machine, but it doesn't need to know that, now does it?

project do-it-herself

This was the day's DIY home repair project. And while it was certainly no work of fine craftmanship, done as best as I could figure out how to do it, I was proud of my work all the same. I was also amused by the fact that, as I crouched on the floor with putty-covered hands and concentrated push-point-placings, two burly athletes sat watching me. One took his mother's phone call, arguing good-naturedly about when he would make it to their family vacation; the other concentrated on his cell phone, cursing his large hands when he accidentally texted an unspoken message to an unintended recipient. And I contentedly carried out my solitary project to its satisfactory completion.

the one

No doubt you wonder why I would be so interested in this, apparently mundane, sort of scene. The reason is a simple one--silly, even: it reminds me of a painting I clipped out of a magazine back in high school. It was an impressionist scene, of a girl lost in her delight, flying high in a swing such as this one, suspended over a forest spring. The depiction captivated me at the time so that I longed to be transported into the middle of it. But I have no idea who painted it, and have not seen it since high school, so who knows what that particular piece of art was, or if it would have the same impact on my now . . . in my cynical old age ;-)

still [not] the one

so this is yet another "side" photo: a glimpse. a gasp. an i-must-capture-that moment. another photo i took when i was out intending to take the photo that i have not yet posted . . . oh, the suspense :-)

the photo that almost wasn't

this was not the photo i intended to take this morning. it was another sight that inspired me to grab my camera and dash out while i still had good morning light. and i did take a shot of the sight that had so inspired me . . . and then i saw this. and it was simply too lovely to pass up. so here you have it. i'll post the intended photo later ;-)

fly away home

This morning's sun glinted off the dew drops, catching my eye and making me kneel down to see what this was lying in my path in the cemetery. And then I was delighted--with its beauty, clearly, but also with the fond childhood memories that it brought to mind . . .
My girlfriends and I at boarding school in Zambia used to rescue dragonflies from the boys, as they were wont to torture the creatures with dismemberings and the like. We would do as best as our 6-year-old brains could conceive of to do in order to nurse them back to health, imagining them happily flitting off into a future of freedom and long-lived prosperity. Perhaps this particular wing belonged to one of those rescued creatures, carrying it across many oceans, years, and adventures, until it finally lay to rest in a little graveyard in the heart of the Southland . . . :-)

diner divinations

We celebrated my uncle's wedding this past weekend at a deli near their home and, while there, I had an odd encounter:
As we walked from our table to the salad bar a man approached me and asked if he knew me from somewhere. Before you suspect stereotypical "approaches," I should reassure you that this particular man was an smartly dressed elderly gentleman. He was clearly trying to rack his brain for the source of the acquaintance as he looked up at me with a kind expression of inquiry. I couldn't help but wonder at his height, since my barely 5'6'' frame seemed to tower over him at the time.
At any rate, after a few minutes of conversation as to possible acquaintance sources, we figured out that he had been one of the 140-odd residents at the facility where I was a social worker last year. He was not one of the ones I had regular interactions with--if we spoke at all, it was merely a passing greeting.
So I was surprised when he looked at me more reflectively and commented, "You love the Lord, don't you? I can tell."
Frankly, I was more touched by this comment that I would have expected, and I told him as much.
Then he began a strange sort of oracle. Or maybe it was an exhortation . . . I'm not quite sure. What he said was:
"You don't feel like you can make a difference in the world. Not as much as you want to. But you can. You do. And you will. Just wait, and see what the rest of this year will bring."
Then he bid me farewell. I stood there and tried to hold back my tears. In this "transitional" period of life, I was hungry for such affirmation of my purpose. And I was, and am, intrigued at the meaning of such an odd interaction, at what the future might hold . . .

normal?

I wipe a bulldog’s butt every night. Strange? Surely. But the oddest part of it is probably the fact that it has become a perfectly natural part of my evening ritual, not fazing me in the slightest. As a matter of fact, I dare say I’ve gotten pretty good at it, developing a speedy swipe-and-wipe routine that doesn’t even seem to faze the dog much, either. Funny the things that can become a “normal” part of one’s day . . .

reach for the light

Since first passing these wild blooms in the cemetery, I have found myself returning daily to catch a glimpse of them. I find them inspiring, in a bittersweet sort of manner, as the reach for the rays that so briefly touch them each day from over the hilltop that shadows them. So I have taken up an odd little ritual of greeting them each morning with little words of encouragement in the efforts to “reach for the light.” Who knows, maybe it helps :-)

i still believe . . .

Rather than bemoan the lack of hours in the day, I decided today to simply make the time to do what I awoke inspired to do: it occurred to me that it would be great fun would be to play “herb fairy.” So I plucked several bundles of varieties like this Italian Basil and made my rounds . . . sometimes "practical" errands just have to wait :-)

the day's delight

One of the perks of my present home and pet-sitting stint has been the luxury of tending to[and eating out of!] a lovely garden. So today I allowed myself the joy of turning a few of these gems into a wildflower bouquet that became a spontaneous gift for a friend.

a dead bolt & a door jam

Is a dead bolt an odd thing to photograph? Maybe so, but it seemed appropriate for me, as I am particularly proud of this one. Every time I figure out how to do something new, it seems fitting to document it, if the task is successfully accomplished, that is . . . in this case, I have spent yesterday and today purchasing and installing new dead bolts, so I am feeling that thrill of handy-woman accomplishment. Mind you, one is still in progress, as I found out I had drilled the holes slightly off. Back to that drill . . .

"Dear Author . . ."

As I had only a transcribed version before, I requested a photocopy of the original from the archives . . . so have just received this cheery visual aid for my previous post about the young doctor-to-be and her author inspiration :-)

p.i.?

This afternoon included a visit with one of the elderly residents I had grown especially close to during my time as a social worker. As he showed me some of his old photographs, he noted that the photo on this card was of his 1st cousin Arthur. Then he asked me if I recognized his face. While I looked more closely--and with decidedly more curiosity--Mr. Bradley continued: "You know the 'don't squeeze the Charmin' guy in those old commercials?" I nodded, impressing myself with my rare media-knowledgeability. "That was him," he said. Eyes widening, I could think of nothing more sophisticated to say than Whoa--how cool!," which still seems sufficiently eloquent to me.
As Mr. Bradley happens to be one of the most honorable, kind-hearted men I know, I am quite certain that this is the truth. But for the sake of you all who do not know him, I shall try to do some sleuthing, for the sake of official verification . . .

under the sea [?]

This week has been another camp adventure, including my first attempt at having the students do a mural. We opted for an "Under the Sea" theme, rounded out when one other goofy counselor and I regaled [tormented?] them all with a dramatic rendition of "Part of your world" . . . and yes, if you are wondering, I am afraid I must admit to knowing the song word for word! But back to the mural: it all went, er, swimmingly? The inspired youngsters undertook such creative feats as Octopi, Mermaids, Jellyfish, and . . . Spongebob Squarepants?!?

putting the pieces together

I was so stunned to actually hear a live voice answering that I stumbled over my words until she interrupted to kindly request that I "get to the point" of the phone call. But I had grown so accustomed to wrong numbers and undeliverable email addresses that, as I dialed one last number yesterday, I had almost forgotten what I was going to ask. Once I had sufficiently collected myself, however, we determined that, though she did not remember it until I described the circumstances, this Doctor was indeed that little girl writing a letter to an admired author. She even told me that she still had some of Ms. Estes' books in her house, while still not remembering writing the letter. But eventually, she did recollect that school visit. And she confirmed the dates. By the time I hung up the phone, she was eagerly plugging me for more details about any other children whom she might remember from her school days, about the details of her own letter, about information I had found about the school itself . . .
I smiled for the rest of the day about it, excited that soon now, this doctor will have a photocopy of her almost-forgotten letter, forever proving the power of inspiration in the lives of children.

this is the chapel . . .

. . . where I intended to come for Mass this morning. But I'm afraid I had chosen it for rather shallow reasons, in that I was simply charmed by its external appearance. So it is probably poetic justice that I did not make it in time for the 8:00 am service. Instead, I took this photo and then continued on to the gallery that was next on my day's agenda. Yesterday I had met the owner of a gallery, and had promised her I would come to visit her place today. It turns out that while I was there with her, learning how to weave on her loom, another visitor arrived. This gentleman was the producer of a local news station, and had come to interview her about her vision for the business, and for the arts. She did her interview and then asked if he could interview me as well, as she thought my "story" was an interesting one. He did--had me sing as well. So there is, I suppose, the slight chance that I will show up here on the local news :-)

for lack of the real thing

The weather today did not cooperate with an outdoor photo, there being severe thunderstorms throughout the region. I was, however, pleasantly surprised to see this faux version of my recent obsession when it arrived for our celebrations. As you can see, it was "Open House Day," which meant that businesses throughout the state opened their doors with special festivities in celebration of the arts. At this particular establishment, that meant student and professional art work displayed throughout the house, plus some of the artists here to accompany their works. I, in turn, got to play "resident artist," as I was working on some sketches for my upcoming lecture at the university. So I camped out of the floor with my canvas, feeling slightly sheepish about my amateur work as I examined the impressive local works that surrounded me, Nonetheless, it was a successful day of artistic celebration, with an impressive turnout of folks eager to brave the elements in support of local culture.

the close of another day

So I'm still smitten with those wildflowers, especially when they are framed by a sun setting over the hills . . . can you blame me?

flowers and findings

The sun is setting on my first full day of research at a special children's literature collection. Thanks to a research grant, I was able to travel out here for a week to complete my project and then to present my findings for a university committee. It is solitary work and so inherently rather lonely--but I cannot complain. Especially when these wildflowers greet me from outside the window of my rustic room :-)
My day's work ended with a delightful discovery: while reading through "fanmail" that well known authors have received over the years, I came upon one that made me pause with curiosity. In 1958 a young adolescent wrote that she had been inspired by this particular author's visit to her school. Apparently the speaker told of how her stories were in large part inspired by her real-life experiences, both actual and those she read about in books. So this child wrote that she wanted to become a doctor when she grew up. And since hearing the author's talk, she had been "keeping her ears open" each time she had a doctor's visit: even going early so as to learn more. In addition, she was asking her mother for books about doctors and about the medical profession, which she had been avidly reading.
When I pondered this letter, I could not help but ask myself, So did she become a doctor? If so, that is quite a tribute to the influence we can have on others--especially on children--as we go about our own daily work . . .
So I did a bit of internet searching, and, lo and behold, I came across the child's exact name, listed as an "infectious disease physician," prominent, and published, in her field. I also found an email address. So what do you think I did? Why, of course, I sent her an email, quoting the letter I had found, and asking if she was that same scribe of a child. We shall see what I find out . . . ;-)

a wine glass and a toothbrush

It was my first stint as a wedding photographer. And it was a challenge, to be sure--but an immensely rewarding one. One of the aspects that struck me the most about it all, about my role in it, was the importance of simply being there . . . of keeping my "eyes," both the real and the photographic varieties, wide open to the moments: the expected moments, of course [all 576 of them!]. But most significantly, in my opinion, to the unexpected moments. Like this one. A veil waiting to be donned. Alongside the wine glass used when the bride needed to calm herself from a pre-ceremony breakdown. And a pink toothbrush . . . because everyone needs a pink toothbrush handy, wedding days notwithstanding :-)

a shady tree

I had my students explain their artwork to the rest of the class this morning: expecting more shyness in response, I was pleasantly surprised to see how unabashedly expressive and proud many of my young artists ended up being. And you must imagine the word "artiste" being said with a flagrantly exaggerated French accent, as that is what I used in class :-)
Riley, for instance, gestured broadly towards his canvas as I held it up for all to see: "This is my tree," he began. "And there is the sun. The tree is holding up her branches, see--she's shading her eyes from the sun, 'cause she's hot."
It was, incidentally, quite a hot day today . . . and the campers had just been happily romping in the creek before coming into art class.

home findings

Strange the things you miss in your own backyard . . . or front yard, as the case may be. Here I am, back in my "home town" again, and today I make a discovery: after photographing fruit trees in the Caribbean, I find a brimming one here in my own yard that I hadn't realized was anywhere close to actually bearing fruit. I think it might be a peach tree but stay tuned . . . I'll keep you posted with confirmation :-)

as it was

It was the first time I have seen my mother dance. She clung tightly to my stepfather, her tear-stained face resting on his shoulder. Next to me, my brother wept at the sight, covering his face with his hands. I hesitantly rested my hand on his hunched shoulder, longing to reach out in a big sisterly love but restrained by my own discomfort at seeing his tears. He cried out of a pure, loving joy at the closeness of our family that day. And he cried because he saw the touching beauty of our paralyzed mother being supported by her husband as the emotions of such an intensely significant day overcame her.
My own reaction, however, was decidedly more conflicted. I wanted to see it as beautifully moving; I even wished that I could also be moved to tears, as I had been earlier, as the bride and groom said their vows, and when I spoke in tribute. But I could not. Instead, my eyes were glued to Mom’s feet. My practicality overruled emotion, and I held an internal debate as to whether or not I needed to walk over and straighten Mom’s feet for her. You see, her right ankle had done what it habitually does, weakening so that her foot leaned precariously to one side. What I knew was that this means she had been on her feet for too long, lessening her mobility and her flexibility. Sometimes she cannot feel the foot when it does this. But other times it is painful for her.
So as I watched, all I could do was worry about that foot and wonder if I should disturb the dance floor in order to walk over and readjust her feet.
Sometimes, I guess, the grit of life interferes with what would have been just a pretty picture. Because the harsh reality is that I cannot simply let go of my identity as a duty-driven eldest child. So as much as I longed to just treasure the moment for its beauty, I was powerless to manufacture those emotions. I envied my brother’s youthfully intense emotions, but it would be senseless now for me to waste energy regretting that which I no longer have the innocence to possess.
At the age of nine I grew old. And now, at the age of 28, I still find myself struggling, at times, with the daily realities of a life that is what it is, and not necessarily as it should be.
But you know, I don’t mind that so much. When it comes down to it, who really wants it all to be a bed of roses anyhow? It is only through weathering the storms that we can really savour the joys.
And so yesterday I decided against “fixing” my mother’s foot. I stayed right where I was, feeling what I felt—and marveling at what my brother felt. The moment was what it was . . . and that is exactly what it should have been.

. . . and pretty maids all in a row

Stopping to chat with my garden-growing, rose-donating elderly friend this afternoon, I noticed how lovely she was and asked if I could take her photo. She protested, claiming that she looked horrid. I told her she was beautiful. She dismissed me with a wave and a "pshaw," yet obliged as I took out my camera. She is beautiful, is she not? :-)

old mother hubbard . . .

Old Mother Hubbard, she lived in a cupboard . . .
Eating her curds and whey?
Maybe I don't know so much about Old Mother Hubbard,
But I've still got something to say.

Cause I've got a mother--a young mother, maybe,
But a mother who's better by far,
Than any cupboard-abiding Old Mother I see,
And here's why Mom raises the bar:

For starters she's gallant--so daring and bold,
She braves any challenge she sees.
For instance she zips down the slopes, in the cold,
Past all, on her handicap skis.

Another trait of my mother that puts her beyond
The realm of your average Plain Jane,
Is a wit that's too sharp to ever be conned,
And sense of humor that keeps us all sane.

One time, for example, Mom came in the door,
Calling her rambunctious crew all around,
To say she had just bought a treat for us four:
A "six-pack" at the store, she had found!

The truth is that while she was there at the grocer,
She'd seen what had given her pause:
A "beer" touted as non-alcoholic inspired her
To play a prank on her dearest young ones!

Fact is I could prattle for ages on end
About all the ways mom's a marvel.
But by the time I was done I'd have to extend
This poem to the length of a novel.

So here I will close with a simple word more,
To say that it's high time, I gather,
That this woman who's truly a "mom" to the core,
Is soon going to be a Grandmother!

the unnamed painter

Something about this pertly pink painter struck me as picture-perfect when I passed. So I was happy to see him still at it on the way back home; this time I stopped behind the bush to pull out my camera and snap the shot. It was a rather cumbersome process, digging the camera out of a full sack, putting down the flowers I was carrying in my other hand, and lowering my sunglasses in order to see properly for photographic purposes. By the time I was poised and ready, the realization that I should have asked him permission to take his photo finally occurred to me; but I fear I must confess that I was too hot at the time, and preoccupied with getting home to prepare for Youth Meeting, to do as I should . . .
But this anonymous gentleman has, I hope, in his unknowing heart, kindly allowed me to post him here :-)

the sweetest fruit?

Remember the "thieving grass" post? Well today I met that "grass":
Passing by the field, I saw 3 brown heads quickly dart down to avoid being spotted. In my best stern teacher voice, I ordered them out and told them they should know better than to trespass: "Boys, get out of there this minute--you know you're supposed to go straight home after school!" I stifled a laugh as they dashed to heed my order, awkwardly squeezing back through the narrow wooden slats of the gate. And then I snapped this shot of their smug faces, sticky with mango juice . . . I've heard it said that stolen fruit is the sweetest kind :-)

that angel for you

Ok, here's your sand angel, Kel :-) It was, I think, my first--and I consequently discovered just how difficult it is to get trillions of grains of sand off my sticky [but tanned!] skin, and out of my hair . . .

April 30

There once was a boy, Alex his name--
A fine young chap, destined for fame.

This lad, you see, was born with a knack
For seeing the plenty where others see lack.

Take, for example, his identity:
A simple case of multiplicity.

American-Canadian, but in Africa born--
When claiming his race, he felt rather forlorn.

Till one happy day, in a flash of brilliance,
He heard of a term that made perfect sense.

"So that's what I am!," he said with a grin,
Doing the Happy Dance with a whirl and a spin.

And from that day forth, each stranger run into
Was promptly introduced, with no further ado,

To Alexander Thomas, a fine gentleman:
A green-eyed and blond-headed African-American!

So on this 30th of April, I must take the occasion
To wish my little brother a fire-cracking, heck-raisin'

"Happy Birthday!" my dear, and all love to you always!

must be one of those [maternal?] days

My path crossed this afternoon with twin boys walking home from school. As they passed, they greeted me with a "Happy Mother's Day" wish. I cheerily thanked them, and then thought, Now that's odd. Am I looking especially maternal today? Perhaps I'm still wearing traces of last night's pride over my Youth Choir's first performance? Who knows . . .
And on a not entirely unrelated note, my photo today is of the set-up that was taking place on the beach today. As I took the photo, I thought about how the pre-ceremony look of it was, to me, more beautiful than the standard wedding shots that will, I assume, be taken this evening.

that thieving grass

. . . but i guess not everyone around here likes the grass :-)

keeping it clean

Taking the bus back home from a trip into town, I found myself next to a fellow who, judging from the smell of things, was apparently coming straight from "work," in his Trash Pick-Up uniform. He also was a proudly dredlocked, colour-bearing Rastafarian. For the entirety of the 45-minute ride, he talked without seeming to stop for breath, lecturing us all on the woes of "the man," who gets nothing from the government, on the power of the people, and on the ways of the island.
As he talked about the island, a tourist behind us interjected to query our Rasta friend as to whether there was a drug problem here on the island.
Still without a pause for breath, Rasta jumped into this issue. "Oh yeah, man. Big problem. We got big problems. People here on the island, they just don't know what to do, so they do drugs. Big problem. Yeah man. Me, I don't do too much . . . "
At this point I looked at him and, wondering if I had heard him right, asked if he had just said "too much."
In the middle of his speech still, he didn't hear me and kept going. The bus driver, however, from the front, tossed back an affirmation that indeed, that's what he had said.
Tuning back in to Rasta Man, I caught the remainder of his explanation:
" . . . I don't do the cocaine. I don't smoke. I stick with the clean grass--straight from Jamaica. That's the good grass . . ."
I feel very informed now, I dare say, being ignorant before now about the merits and origins of "clean" grass.

pretty in pink

Today being officially Earth Day, I thought I would post one of the photos I took at the Beach Clean Up that I mentioned the other day. This was one of my favourite photos of the morning: she was definitely the most stylishly-attired among us that morning. As I told her, she looked stunningly pink there in that lovely early-morning-sunlight, deftly gathering the ocean's discards to fill up her rubbish sack.

if the early bird gets the worm . . .

I roused the youth at the bright hour of 7:00 to start beach clean up this morning, as a part of our Earth Day celebration. And when I say I roused them, I mean it literally--I ended up making house calls to pick them up and got one teen out of her bed :-) Before you think me a terrible task master, I must at least say in my defense that this particular youth had assured me the night before, as we rolled sushi together, that she would be there in the morning . . .
At any rate, my small crew and I spent the morning dragging trash bags along the sand and, more rapidly that one would like, filling them with all manner of debris: from Barbie doll arms to forks [dinglehoppers ;-)] to Mardi Gras beads.
One find, however, that did not go into the trash bags was this orphaned duckling, who went home with the youngster who found him.
So does this mean that the early teen get the bird?

feeling fruity

". . . abounding in fruit" I believe is what I said in a prior post . . . and to add to the list, I thought I should perhaps snap a shot of my banana tree this afternoon.

bright shiny toes

Today I think I was given a little lesson about my recent compulsion to feel the need to spend every moment working, be it scheduled or not--and my guilt over any free time that I do have . . .
First I should mention that in my young women's Bible Study group I was talking about service last night, and I read the foot washing passage as one illustration. At the time, it occurred to me that I have developed a bit of self-consciousness about the state of my feet. Since I walk everywhere, in sandals, my already-battered-from-running feet have taken on a new level of filthiness. And it is worse than I know how to take care of myself, or than I am willing to take the time to try to figure out.
At any rate, this morning in the shower it occurred to me that I would love to be able to get a pedicure. Mind you, I have no reason to consider such a thing, having been super budget minded for some time now. I got a pedicure once, but it was years ago--a Christmas gift from my overly generous sister. So there in the shower, as I got ready for my usual day's errands, I debated my illogical impulse. Surely I shouldn't spend money on something so frivolous, especially here where I cringe at the prices of even the most basic of needs.
But then I thought that perhaps I should consider it after all. I did, technically, have the time, if not the money [my day was not scheduled until afternoon, when my youth choir would meet]. Then I remembered a friend I had visited several weeks ago, who I noticed had beautiful feet--and I had commented on them to her at the time.
Did I have her number anywhere? Looking around, I found it. I would call her, I decided, and ask where one would go to get a good price on a pedicure around here. I called.
"Anna, dear--long time!" she cheerfully answered.
Warning her that I had a rather odd question for her, I explained my morning dilemma. She told me where she got hers done, mentioned a few [sky high!] normal prices, and then she said, "Funny thing . . . "
Turns out, she had just found out that she had won a Spa Pedicure, after doing a charity walk recently. She had just gotten a pedicure herself, and had been trying to decide what she should do with it . . .
I gratefully accepted her offer, hopped on the bus, and met her in town this morning for a gift certificate handoff. The pedicure itself also turned out to be a delightful time, as the pedicurist was recently transplanted from Africa--Zambia, in fact! So we chatted about the country, its people, and life there until she ended up running out of time and having to cut short the pedicure itself!
And I have spent the remainder of the day walking around rather clumsily, distracted as I gaze downwards to admire my pearly toes :-)

a sea worthy sight

There is no great significance to this day's photo, save the simple fact that I found this boat strangely beautiful. It gave me pause today, as I watched it and wondered at what it was that moved me . . . I think it may be the simplicity of this vessel, and the way it bears its age in such a gracefully unassuming manner.

if a picture is worth 1000 words . . .

This is an orange. It is a bit less ripe, I think, than my key limes. And I had no idea that this was an orange tree until I was so informed. I am abounding in citrus! The discovery of this tree made me decide to photograph it for you all today . . .but it is the escapade surrounding said photo session that concerns me the most now, and that is what I want to tell you about:
Returning home this afternoon, I walked back to the tree, camera in hand. As I did so, I stopped at the sight of a mother hen and her chicks. They were absolutely adorable and I just couldn't help myself . . . I had to touch one! So I began chasing them and, sure enough, I was able to pick up one furry little yellow thing! Satisfied, I put it back down, just before the hen was able to attack with her angry clucking. But then I realized that I should have caught the little guy on camera while I was at it. So I began chasing the brood again, this time camera-ready. As I did so, one of the chicks separated from the rest. At this point I gave up on the photo and instead began trying to corral the chick to get it steered in the direction of its family; instead, it scurried further and further away. And to my horror, I realized that the hen was nowhere to be found . . . did she abandon her baby? Flustered and nearly in tears, I called over the fence to my neighbor and explained to him what I had just done. "So sir, please, do you know if she'll come back for him?"
My neighbor assured me that she would, that I needn't worry . . .
But alas--he is still frantically cheeping outside my window, and it's been over an hour now! What do I do? Should I assume nature will take its course in a kind manner, and leave him be? Or do I give in to the urge to scoop him up and attempt to care for him? Help??

about that wave-catching business . . .

Remember the lovely young wave catcher from a few posts ago? Well today I met another wave-chaser. Only this time it was decidedly less pleasant to watch him, as you would fully understand if I had audio along with my photos. This fellow, you see, in contrast to the young lady's peaceful posture, was in utter agony, from the sound of him: for the entirety of my 30 minutes at the beach, he ran back and forth with an incessant series of anguished yelps. The poor guy was apparently baffled at his vain efforts to capture the elusive sea.