Kate Harrington

Mindful Connections

All week, I affirmed my intention to remain mindful. Success varied, but I believe it made a big difference. This morning for example. I had to leave home at 9:00, and wrote a list of four items to do first. I checked off three and thought, well, okay, good enough. Number four said “blog.” Somehow, without thought, I found myself revising the draft at ten minutes to nine.

Of course, here I am revising yet again.

An interesting week. A very busy week. Our long delayed “spring” checkup of furnace and AC happened and I asked casually about heat pumps. A salesman came the same day, the installation happened the same week.

Our enclosed breezeway produces all the heat—in the summer, and all the cold—in the winter. It was considered living space because of an antiquated baseboard heater that couldn’t be used without exploding our electric bill.

After 32 years, goodbye, baseboard heater, hello mini-split.

there’s more—

Having a now truly–livable space dominoed. Moving one piece of furniture led to moving another, which led to cleaning out a closet, which . . . You get the picture.

The downside was I didn’t do much work on my writing projects. But a couple of results have made me wonder if there was a downside at all.

Yesterday morning, a half-waking dream centered on the landscape of my next sci fi scene. Great reminder of what I needed to describe. In addition, a frisson of apprehension I hadn’t anticipated. My subconscious was entirely right. Every scene must carry its weight and carry the plot.

This morning, soaking in the bath, came the realization of what is lacking in my other project—just the spur I needed to consider solutions.

Good can come of letting loose the reins now and then.

Does that mean if I’m a good mindful person and dive into more projects, I’ll resolve every crucial bit of plot coming up? I doubt it.

There’s still the BIC rule for writers: Butt in Chair.

Sophie

Sophie finally got to the groomer. And she seems to be feeling better. Though she still needs the sling on our walks, she’s more and more in charge of her legs at home. Last night, after her outing to pee, I shut down the lights, called to her, and she actually romped to bed.

Self-discovery

We are lucky to be human, to be aware, to have minds. But the complexity of our minds is another matter entirely. This being human is a challenge.

I went to bed Sunday night with no blog topic. But I did write “Blog?” on my Monday to-do list. Some time in the early morning hours two or three idea strands came together. (Wonders of the sleeping mind.)

One strand came from Sunday’s sermon on addiction. I can honestly say (I had it from my therapist years ago) that I’m not an addictive personality. I’m more inclined to give things up than abuse them.

But one thing I’ve never given up—call it addiction?—is escaping into stories. I’m addicted to experiencing other lives. The up-side is that reading is one way to learn empathy.

Was I born addicted to story? For sure, I’ve been this way ever since discovering the magic contained in reading about Dick and Jane and their dog Spot.

A second strand came from matters awaiting my attention—waiting months, years!— for my attention. And thinking, I should attend to this now rather than letting it slide. (But usually the thought slips away again.)

The third strand is related to the second: Rev. Bob suggested three spiritual practices, the first of which was Mindfulness.

mindfulness

There is a magic to mindfulness. Years ago, in a meditation group, I was introduced to the concept. I experimented one Saturday morning with doing everything mindfully. During the morning’s chores, I obeyed a mental nudge to attend the monthly Southwest Writers’ meeting.

The first persons I ran into had been fellow members of a writing class. On the spot, I agreed with their idea of continuing as a monthly group. We met for several enjoyable years.

Sophie has no difficulties with being mindful. She’s always attuned to the present, whatever is happening. Lucky dog!

And BTW, our walks using Sophie’s sling seem to be therapeutic for her knees. We will keep at it, mindfully, of course.

My intention is to affirm Mindfulness on rising every morning.

Already changes are happening. Stay tuned.

Surprises

Before the pandemic, it was Wayne who always had a jigsaw puzzle going. I generally ignored it, though near the finish I’d give in to temptation, setting in a piece or two. Now they’re a part of my life.

During the shutdown, we were delighted when gifted with or loaned puzzles. When thrift stores opened up again, I began buying used ones—3-4 at a time (when lucky).

Our latest puzzle turned into a surprise. The border was clearly not going to be the same flower picture as promised by the box.

But the surprise was a pleasant one, anticipating where these flowers would be placed.

I wish all of life’s surprises could hold that same pleasurable anticipation.

Sophie

Sophie’s sling doesn’t allow for much steering. We go where she wants—or carry her. This morning she walked all the way to the park, with the sling’s assistance. Once there, she didn’t want to leave.

Monsoons

Monsoon rains are back in the state. Even without rain, evenings bring welcome clouds and cooling winds. We’re back to the question of whether to empty rain barrels or not.

A fellow walker and I agreed this slice of rainbow was a good omen.

Omen of what? Who knows?

We can pleasurably anticipate.

It’s the Dog’s Knees

I’m not used to dog anatomy terms. I never thought of a dog having knees, but that’s what Sophie’s vet called them. Then I started to think a dog would have two sets of knees. But that doesn’t work out. The dog must have elbows in the front and knees behind, like humans (if we’re on all fours).

She’s been scooting across the floor, propelling with her front legs, and only occasionally getting up on all four. She’s better in the mornings, after a long night’s rest.

We thought it was her back that was the problem. And I’ve done a lot of hefting around of 20 pounds of dog.

Saturday

Sophie’s appointment finally arrived and the vet took X-rays.

I wish I had taken a photo of the X-ray showing her knees. She even has kneecaps, if maybe not now in the right places. Torn ligaments is the cause. All this, along with arthritis, especially in her right knee.

The vet suggested some kind of sling to help support her back end. Also, the possibility of physical therapy.

Sunday

Before shopping to see what dog slings might look like, I cobbled together a towel and some strapping.

Sophie didn’t know what was going on and refused to cooperate. “Just carry me, already! Like you’ve been doing.”

Monday

We tried the sling again.

This time, Sophie discovered she could actually travel. She had a great time, taking in all the smells she’d missed during these weeks of no real walking.

She actually reached the park, and got to say “hello” to her terrier friend Coach. (Coach has issues with most of the dogs, but he and Sophie are very polite to each other.)

Then she lay down on the sidewalk. I carried her home.

Tuesday

Sophie was even more ready to get harnessed up. But we didn’t go nearly as far.

I carried her home again.

Progress is not a steady climb. We’ve got to expect some dips. I’m going to try adjusting the sling.

Messy Creativity

I find it reassuring to know that creativity is often messy.

I have the ability to clutter anything: my desk (er, desks); my spot at the kitchen table; my bedside stand; anywhere I plant myself to solve newspaper puzzles.

I created a workspace out of half of our den. The half away from the fireplace. The window half. I love the morning sunlight. And I have not one but three work surfaces.

The oldest is a drop-leaf desk. Years ago, I stripped thick white paint from it. It had been green before that. One of its small drawers holds the book my daughter wrote in second grade. I reserve that desk for making journal entries, and work on other than fiction writing.

The other desk I also stripped—down to its lovely oak— but it really needs a taller owner, being an inch higher that my other surfaces. Consequently, it acts as a catch-all.

The table is where I really sprawl. Some mornings I have to excavate to locate my laptop.

It’s always seemed to me I should be more orderly. After all, that’s what a librarian is. Orderly. Right?

I do try, The last time I acted to find a “home” for everything, I had to hunt and wrack my brain before remembering where I had put whatever I was searching for.

Right now, I’d dearly love to find the notes from a recent workshop I attended.

Projects

I’m supposed to be working on the final volume of my trilogy—and I am. But I didn’t want to let go of the work on a verse novel, which I resumed during my sci-fi break.

To do both seemed impossible. Bouncing back and forth between future and distant past. How to maintain the sense of two worlds?

Solution: More Desks

We have another room—called the “mail room” because that’s where the mail enters the house. (Yes, we’re lucky!) It contains the computer desk. we used to share, back before laptops. It became my husband’s work space. But when his last laptop died, he declined to replace it.

I really didn’t want to lose the momentum on the verse novel. Why not take that particular world to a separate room, to a separate desk, at a different, designated time of day?

The good news is it’s working. At least for the verse novel.

The bad news is I’m having trouble resolving sci-fi dilemmas created in the previous two volumes . . .

You could call it a writer’s block. But I am thinking about it daily. .

I just need to clear this workspace and maybe . . .

Sophie

Sophie is very much alive, just not exactly kicking.

From the beginning, veterinarians warned us that she would be prone to arthritis, due to her bowed legs and the way her body is constructed. She’s been taking daily doggie doses of glucosamine chondroitin for years.

This past year, she’s found it difficult to get herself in motion. Her back legs would hesitate and limp until she shook herself and got them activated.

And then, about six weeks ago, they grew a whole lot worse. Her back legs don’t want to work at all, particularly the left one. She can get on her feet and hobble, but a lot of her travel is scooting on her bottom. She’s really developing those shoulder muscles, since they have to do most of the work.

We’re developing our shoulder muscles too! Hefting twenty pounds of dog around builds muscles, but I’m finding it hard on my knees.

Sophie’s first vet visit resulted in a prescription for NSAIDS, and the recommendation of acupuncture or other therapy. She’s had two acupuncture appointments, with uncertain results.

The good news is Sophie retains her-humor, her appetite, and her interest in everything going on around her.

The labor shortage is evident here. Our vet clinic is down one doctor, so Sophie’s next visit isn’t until the end of the month. And our spring AC checkup got postponed till July due to our Covid. Now it’s been postponed until August! due to their staff shortages.

Does anyone know where we can find doggie wheels?

Do they make strollers for dogs?

Rueful Thoughts

I’m back on my front porch in the cool of the day. My cup holds the dregs of a pot of tea—strong and bitter

I’ve never tasted the herb rue, but it must also be bitter to match its name. I have one straggly rue plant in my neglected herb garden. Since it’s survived from the time we landscaped—well over twenty years—I’m thinking I need to plant more—and tend them better. Any plant that survives New Mexico is worth preserving!

Rue for Caterpillars

It was my friend Jane who reminded me of the rue. Some caterpillars eat the rue leaves. Jane’s hobby is raising and releasing butterflies. She wanted to know if our rue held any eggs, but no such luck. She did nip off a few seed pods, saying they sap the plant of energy. I’m going to see if any will sprout.

Ruing the Present

Do you wonder what is real and what is fake in Congress? Do our representatives work for the hard choices, looking to the future, or do they mouth words to gain votes for their next election?

Bernie Sanders gained peoples’ trust, with good reason. He’s a man with a history of working for the hard choices. A man from a small state. Democracy needs to be up close and personal to work.

In my last blog, I said we need a solution big enough to satisfy everyone. A recent NPR segment interviewed someone from a country that recently made abortion legal. (Mexico?) The interviewer asked if abortions had increased and was told “No.” With national health, anyone coming for an abortion also receives counseling and supportive measures (including contraceptives and/or vasectomies).

Why don’t we have national health? National health care is definitely one piece of that big solution. But instead, between profit-driven insurers and hospitals, and those opposing both abortion and contraceptives, we’ve been shunted down a rabbit hole of irrationality.

What’s in a Name?

Rue is not a particularly attractive plant, but its name is quite evocative. Among other properties, it is an abortifacient.

The recent Supreme Court ruling on abortion, along with speculation that contraceptives might be under attack next, took my thoughts to a fairy tale.

Rue in a Fairytale

There’s a Polish tale of King Bartek, a man who distrusts flattery. He trades places with his jester, and they go courting in a village where they’re not known.

An ambitious girl pursues the ugly “King” and mocks her sister who is more attracted to the “Jester.” Who cares how old or ugly the man is, if you can become a queen? Of course, it is her sister who ends up happily ever after, for following her heart.

The last lines of the tale imply a bitter reality concerning the greedy sister, who “had to grow sixteen beds of rue before she married an old organist.”

Did the storyteller intend those sixteen beds of rue to be a metaphor of regret? Or did she also require the herb’s services?

Converging Thoughts

“You’ll understand some day.”

A recent This American Life program pointed out that we think we know all there is to know of something, until we realize we’ve never grasped its greater reality.

We have to reach that a particular level of age and experience to see matters from a different angle. I think I’ve reached that greater age, grasped that greater reality, when looking at my husband.

As children, as young adults, it’s easy to look at someone and think dismissively: He’s old, or She’s old. We have a limited set of eyes when young. Through living, we grow a second set of eyes. Yes, my husband’s body is aging, but the one inhabiting his body remains the dear, caring, careful man he’s always been.

“We are always the same age inside.”

A clue in a crossword puzzle offered the above quote by Gertrude Stein. That quote shunted my train of thought onto a related track. I don’t think we can fasten a number on Stein’s “same age.”

I’m still that Kindergartner afraid of getting lost inside the church where our class met. I’ve always felt younger than my contemporaries, (blaming it on starting first grade before I was six). But now I think it’s more a matter of who I am—undecided, off-balance, needing quietude to stay centered.

Maybe what Stein calls “the same age” is an agelessness; an age we are constantly growing into, adding experiences to, but not aging into old age. Not if we pay attention.

Paying Attention

The morning after the 4th of July, I sat out on our porch watching the cloudy day brighten. The newspaper’s holiday shootings piled onto the many other matters weighing down the scales of injustice.

My heart and soul ached for relief. I realized I was outside of my protective bubble. I don’t feel that ache nearly often enough.

Instead I move into my bubble to shut out pain. I read an old, familiar—safe—novel. I immerse myself in writing fictions of my own. I quilt to justify watching DVDs. I turn off NPR news when I can bear no more.

But bubbles burst so easily, so suddenly, so devastatingly. Bubbles burst for the parents of Uvalde, for the random shootings across the country, for those trapped by insurmountable hospital bills, unexpected pregnancies, storms, floods, fires or any of the infinite emergencies that affect any of us.

What can we do? We don’t need a leader so much as we need a solution to fight for, a solution large enough to satisfy everyone. A solution that looks beyond hype, even beyond hope.

I need to sit on the porch more often.

Thoughts about SCOTUS

At the time of my third pregnancy (my last pregnancy) my custom was to strap my 3 year old son into his bike seat and set out for a ride after his older brother left for school. He would fall asleep on the ride, and I’d return home ready to take on household chores.

That ended.

Those rides ended because of a fetus. My daughter declared I was not to risk myself in any way. I was to take every precaution for her safety and well-being. SHE was in charge now, thank you very much!

The Supreme Court is made up of nine individuals. Six of those individuals are men.

Five of those men and one woman have an agenda that does not include EMPATHY, COMPASSION, nor a HOLISTIC VIEW of what it means to be human.

It’s time the Supreme Court looked like the country it stands in judgment over.
It’s time the Supreme Court represented every sex, color, and creed of their constituents.
And it’s time the Supreme Court (as well as lower court judges) did not received lifetime tenures.

If men were forced to tolerate

a life-form inhabiting their bodies for nine months
a life-form threatening their health
a life-form controlling their emotions and lives and economics for many years to come

they might gain some feeling for how childbirth changes a woman’s life.

And the above list says nothing about medical issues eroded away when state legislatures step way out of bounds to control the actions of health care workers.

How many children—out of neglect due to a parent or parents working multiple jobs to support them—turn to guns? This same Supreme Court, in another recent ruling, values guns more than children.

This court, with its partisan politics, did not create itself. We’ve come a long way, women. My mother was born in 1920, the year we gained the right to vote.

One hundred and two years later, it’s time to vote

for our lives
for our daughters’ lives
for our sons’ lives
and for lives on every spectrum of the sexual scale

The Water Barrel Paradox

We have three water barrels. The city’s water utility department offers a rebate. Nice. We had to replace one and got another rebate.

Two containers are in the backyard. By attaching a hose, we can drain off the water under the apricot tree, or move it around the edges of the yard. The third barrel is beside our driveway, with a hose permanently attached and the spigot permanently turned to open, directing rain waters across the walkway into the rose bed.

My problem is I’m a hoarder—not in the cluttered house sense, but in the save for a rainy day sense. Except with a rain barrel, you want the barrel empty by the time that rainy day comes.

After months of no rain, they’ve been empty a long time. We finally got a really nice shower, with thunder, and a steady fall of water lasting an hour or more. The barrels require no more than a quarter-inch of rainfall on the roof to fill up.

The temptation is to hang onto the water. After all, the yard just got rained on! But there’s more rain to come. So far, I’ve emptied both barrels twice—on an already wet yard. The alternative is to let the barrels overflow.

I have a lavender plant that extends six feet along the edge of the patio. It grew that large by soaking up patio runoff plus all the barrel overflow.

A minor conundrum

None of my standard tomato plants have put on any fruit yet. Maybe the nights have been too warm.

The one exception is a cherry tomato. A prolific tomato:

“Indigo Cherry Drops.”

I kept wondering how I would know when they were ripe.

I finally looked online—the wonders of the Internet!—and discovered they will indeed turn red (with bluish highlights) or maybe even purplish, when ripe.

They’re finally taking on some color. I can’t wait!

And the rain barrels?

Right now, I believe there’s more rain to come. But . . .

When do I get to hang onto the stored water?