24 October, 2011

The boy born from a peach

Momotaro-san says "love me"

22 October, 2011

Warrior 1 ala Blooma

Chair massage: a great opportunity to share a few quality moments with people who can't see any reason to get on a massage table unless they are in excruciating pain and want to avoid their doctors at all cost. Blooma is 4 years old and it was a pleasure to participate in the celebration. Lake Harriet brewery had an offering on draft and there were face-painters and cute clothes vendors in the mix. Many of us were set up outside, hoping the sun would continue to shine and the winds would keep it down to intermittent activity. The cakes covered all possibilities of taste: chocolate with white frosting, white with chocolate frosting, marble cake with white frosting and white with white frosting. On the same planet there are many living without cake or frosting, or face paints, or artisan beer, or prenatal yoga for that matter. And those who have that privilege, who exercise that option, also have the option of recognizing our incredible fortune. When we hit the bottom, and begin to drown in despair we still have our US citizenship, and our health care. We have a choice of hospitals to come to our aid in emergencies. I still remember traveling to France and being told how unbelievably lucky I was because stores were open on Sundays in the States. This photo was taken before kids came into the room and grabbed handfuls of cake and frosting, not even waiting to be handed a piece. Others just grabbed the yoga figure, licked off the frosting and stuck them back on the cake. Those precious little darlings, entitled to take whatever struck their fancy and use it as they wished and then dispose of it however they wished...It is always an ironic juxtaposition with the kids I see in the child protection system. 

10 October, 2011

Ponder this:

What is it about migraines that just throws you off base? Makes you feel crazy, depressed, suicidal? Is it the  subtle sensation of impending doom which has a space for feeling like maybe it wont be that bad, that somehow it will pass over your house if you leave blood over the door. Or that if you could just eat the right thing, or take a solid nap, or stretch your neck in a particular way that you might avert the oncoming attack. Hot shower? Comfortable boots and warm sweater...Ibuprophen, sugar, coffee, chocolate... And then you are in the middle of it and there isno turning back, it is simply a matter of riding it out, and not knowing how long the ride will last. You aren't really sick, as in contagious, but you also aren't feeling great, so it's difficult to be around anyone even if they are your favorite person in the whole world. Or if you are doing your favorite thing in the whole world. Hopelessness sets in, and there is no escape, no permanent relief. All you can do it watch the clock, try to anticipate triggers, and relax. Look at the trees, listen to the birds, lay on the floor and be grateful you are not in some war-torn country struggling to find clean water.

08 October, 2011

Grape harvest

Not exactly enough to make wine, but perfect for eating with cheese and some artisan bread. Maybe a few Haralsons on the side would complete the meal. It has been unusually dry. I finally broke down and turned on the hose, soaking the roses, the red maple and the surrounding plants. This past week has been an incredible gift of sunshine and warm temperatures. People have used their air conditioners, perhaps for the last time before it snows. It has been a slow descent into the passing of summer and fall has dragged its heels, stretching us into the coming cold season. I am working on painting the garage hoping to finish before it is just too cold. This week would have been perfect but I was occupied with a killer migraine for six days in a row. I finally gave up and went in for craniosacral work. It took a long time to release probably 3 times the usual amount of time and effort, and once it did break, I was dizzy and disorientated for the rest of the day. Luckily I don't have the frequency I experienced in the past, and I have discovered the effects of CST making it all that much more likely that I will finish painting before the snow flies!

05 October, 2011

plum jelly and brioche

Rustica is too far for me to be a regular supporter. But, on occasion, I find myself driving through their neighborhood and pulling into the parking lot. And the brioche is always a motivating attraction. I hadn't had this particular shape before and it was irresistible to say the least.  I let myself believe that brioche is actually a full meal deal because of the extra eggs and dairy in the dough. And I happened to have a jar of artisan plum jelly from a vendor at the Kingfield Market in my refrigerator. It was the perfect combination of sweet, chewy, crunchy and rich. When I move to Paris I will eat brioche everyday with chocolate and I will read and write and reflect. I will walk alot and never rush to get places faster and I will teach English to students and business persons. It will be so relaxed, just like my life now, but in Paris. I might even have a dog, but I will not have another cat after my Valerie passes on. I will be relatively free of responsibilities after a life of mandatory care taking. I will listen to music and explore the city, riding the metro, visiting friends in Brussels. Next year would be nice. I'm not sure how many more winters I can handle, and I'm not sure how much longer I want to take care of a house. Since my college trip to Europe I have dreamed of living in France. I thought it would happen after I graduated but I took a detour via marriage and dance to the west coast. My husband had no interest in Europe, and his interest in dance morphed into something much different: trees. Perhaps he would have been happier performing Butoh in and amongst the redwood forests. I imagine him somewhere along the Russian River not terribly far from Goat Rock Beach. 

04 October, 2011

Waiting behind the finish line...

We made a plan and I stuck to it. But the best laid plans are fated to be altered, often through no intent of our own. We arrived at the finish line at 4:30. My son transported my massage table to the Elite tent before walking to the buses outside Kelly Inn which would take him to the start line. He said he felt good and believed he could finish the race in under 3 hours. So did I, after all he had run Grandma's in a personal record, just over 3 hours. He had trained with devotion and had a good night sleep. So I stood here and waited while the elite runners recovered and waited for a massage therapist. Mostly we worked without a break, and this was the first time I had been so brazen to walk out for 10 minutes while the line grew restless. I was raised to be a compulsive caretaker, and the full ten minutes I waited was colored by an uneasy sense of shame. In spite of the fact I was a volunteer, in spite of the fact that I was exhausted and this was my first break. After 10 minutes I headed back to the tent where I resumed my position in the line of 8 massage tables.m I missed seeing him cross the finish at Grandma's and I missed him last year at TC, but I saw him at the start and at the finish of Phoenix and May Mpls, so not all is lost. Maybe next year...