Our Eagles

 June 23, 2011

Yesterday was a gloomy, gray, windy first day of Summer. (Enough, La Nina! Time for you to La Amskray)

On our first walk of the day, Rusty the Good Collie and I heard the call of our resident bald eagles. Looking up, we saw the family (Mom, Dad and the Twins) soaring in circle formation high above the tree tops. Spiraling gracefully, they held their suspension in the cloudy sky without one single movement, not one flap of their wings. I took a deep, cleansing breath, pulled my shoulders back to stand up straight and started over on our walk at a brisk pace this time. No more gloom and doom. Thank you, Eagles. They don’t care about the weather. In fact, they like this wind very much. Time for me to have an attitude adjustment.

Eagles are a totem to me. A sign. A spiritual message. Several years ago, our youngest son was in a devastating accident. Our drive home from the hospital was tense and traumatic. Kevin and I tried our best to think positive, to pray and just stay upright.  When we pulled into the driveway, a juvenile eagle was soaring above our home. He stayed there, circling above us until we were inside. A rush of peace went through us—the confidence of knowing that our son would be OK, that we were strong enough to make it through this. I believe the eagle was an angel. Our son is doing very well, healing and creating amazing art.

Later, on our evening walk, the Twins surprised us. They did a fly-by, swooping through the neighbor’s yard and zipping past us so close I could hear their feathers rustle. One of them dipped his wings to the side and  veered off to the fir tree. The other cocked her head and winked at us. In a blink, they were gone. Rusty and I just smiled. How cool was that?

We have several wild neighbors that wander down the alley; raccoons, coyotes, deer, rabbits and an otter family. There are also flocks of colorful goldfinches, pine sisken, robins, juncos, sparrows and hummingbirds that we keep fed, fat and sassy. And the crows are funny, obnoxious residents that act like they own the place. They keep the eagles on their toes, constantly scolding them and harassing them in the sky. We hope they keep the eagles away from their nests and the cute little bunnies in the yard.  

We seem to be on the eagles’ flight path this year. We often see one of the parents sitting in the tippy top of the fir tree, watching and calling to the kids. There have been several training missions with fish parts dropped in the alley. The eagles toss bits and pieces back and forth, then speed straight up in the air and tangle with each other on the way down. It makes me think of our three sons and how they would wrestle in the house, knocking over tables, banging into walls and grab-assing and laughing loudly. Kevin was usually in the mix, too. (Somebody told me that mothers of sons have a special place in Heaven. Oh heck, yeah.)

One afternoon last summer, there was a commotion down near the bluff. A chicken crashed through the window of one of the cabins, landing on the kitchen counter. We checked with Wendy, but their chickens in the coop were all accounted for. We speculated that one of the eagles had dropped their prey, maybe after a wrestling match with another eagle. It was a mystery where this chicken came from. Did somebody else have a chicken coop nearby?  What kind of chicken was it? Ameraucana? Sabelpoot? Little Red Hen? 

Guess again. 

Apparently, someone down on the beach has been regularly feeding the eagles a fresh chicken—a perfectly plucked and cleaned, fresh from the grocery store, plastic wrapped, roasting chicken! Maybe Draper Valley? Foster Farms? I hope it’s local. 

Well, if our eagles are well fed, then maybe the bunny rabbits are safe. 

Weather. Or not.

June 16, 2011. 8pm. 55° Gray. Wet. Yucky. 

This has been a miserable winter and spring in the Northwest. At the slightest hint of sun, all of us depressed, pale residents run to our yards and gardens—anywhere in the great outdoors—to revel in the warm, welcome heat of the elusive sun. Even that is not much of a respite, because we all tend to go overboard and end up with sprains and strains, sunburns and heat exhaustion. 

It seems like hell has indeed frozen over. Or at least flooded. So, how wet, cold and dreary has it been? Well, our son and his wife report ducks living in their front lawn. Their house is nowhere near a pond. Trees and shrubs are clinging to their leaves and blossoms, hesitant to open in the cold and rain.  They, too, over-do it when the sun shines. Everything blooms and rejoices at the same time with a vengeance, sending heavy clouds of pollen into the atmosphere. Puddles appear in basements and garages from water seeping up through saturated yards. Roads have washed out.  Yesterday, I saw fat and sassy snails racing across the alley with healthy, ginormous slugs cheering them on. 

I finished planting my vegetable garden on June 10th, over a month later than usual. The tomatoes that I planted then started as robust plants. Two of them have mildew. Weeds have taken over part of the flower beds. Kevin cracked. He couldn’t take it anymore. Weeding every week is not his idea of fun, so he laid down sheets of landscape fabric and bark. We don’t like it, but we hate the crop of milkweed, dandelions and other noxious weeds that were taking over. We drop the alternative “F” bomb frequently: fungus. Kevin wears his fleece jacket all the time, even indoors. I refuse to light the wood stove, even though neighbors burn in their fireplaces regularly. I will not turn up the heat! It’s frickin’ June! (Pardon my French.) But, it’s cold. How cold could it be? I saw a woman walking her dog last night—the dog was wearing a fleece-lined raincoat and the woman was wearing and knit cap and mittens. 

How wet was it?

It was so wet that our wooden flagpole disintegrated!!!!!!! Oh no, it melted! No kidding. We looked out the window and saw that our flagpole was leaning on the neighbor's house. The top brass finial barely missed smacking into their second floor bedroom window. Paul and Wendy heard a big thump against the wall at 4:30 in the morning. Wouldn't that just make your heart skip a beat? 

Kevin tipped the pole back into place and then over. It hit the ground with a miserable thud and broke into sections.  Rotten all the way through. ugh. The wood was like mulch covered in white paint. It was a tube of compost held together with a skin of latex enamel. Kev wrapped up the cord and the flag. No screwdriver needed to remove the cleat. It pulled off easily. 

The sections of the flagpole are piled up in a heap along with other grass and yard waste. Back to Nature. It won’t take the flagpole that long to get there. Rest in peace/piece old driftwood. 

I have a bad case of S.A.D. Look at me sideways and I’ll burst into tears. I am beyond pale. I’m now glow-in-the-dark white, tinged with green. Winter blues. And I hate blue, especially the gray-blue hues. I don’t sleep well. I’ll eat an entire batch of chocolate chip cookies in one sitting. I woke up this  morning with a case of vertigo. I might have OD’d on anti-inflammatory meds. This weather wreaks havoc on my rusty, arthritic knees. Enough! Kevin at least has the opportunity to get out of this crapola. He travels for his job and Los Angeles is one of his favorite places to go. He’s happy to sit in traffic with smog and congestion. At least it’s sunny and warm.  

I demand a  weather do-over. I’m looking for sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, not this winter in a dark cavern in the land that time forgot. It’s the Solstice in a couple of days, for crying out loud. It better be a good summer or my new name will be Jeannie Weenie Screaming Meemee.  

Back to Normal

We get up in the morning—for some of us it’s at the kiss of dawn, for others, it’s the full embrace of morning. Walk the dog, eat breakfast, jot down a few thoughts and sentences, walk to the beach, think about the
“to-do” list...
rinse and repeat.

The day is fairly normal. Same day/different week. We fit in trips, adventures, jobs, gardening, artwork, lunch with friends, playtime, cleaning the garage, and letting dust build up on the bookshelves. We phone our Mom (she’s fine), pick up the mail, refill the bird feeders, find a clear area on the dining room table for dinner, and then settle in for an episode of Top Chef. Answering the telephone is simple, ordinary, mundane, safe but—                WHAM!

Someone you love is in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.
We feel the tremors—small rumblers and quakes—precursors to The Big One. Suddenly, the days change into a patchwork quilt of sleepless nights, poor food choices, anxiety and fuzzy logic. We pad ourselves with cotton to buffer the pain and struggle to just take it one minute, hour, day at a time. Think positive. Pray. We’ve been knocked for a loop, but slowly, steadily, we get back up.
WHAM!

The world shifts, the sun darkens, a giant sink hole opens up and oxygen is sucked out of the room.
CANCER
If we say it out loud, it takes away its power, right? cancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancercancer
We look for rhyme and reason where there is none. Nothing. Our hearts are broken. The volcano erupted. Sulfur and ash spew into the still air, choking us. Who did we think we were anyway?

RL is calm, collected. She is devastated, angry and determined. “What’s next ?”, she says. Her passion and creativity kick into overdrive. “What is my cancer? How is it treated? Do NOT tell me about statistics.” (According to the experts, she shouldn’t even have non-small cell lung cancer). “When can I go home? How soon can I begin treatment? How do we get back to some kind of Normal?”

We readjust. Take a different tack. We didn’t ask for this. Who would??? Does anyone ever dream of having the rug pulled out from under them? Did you ever dream of becoming an astronaut, a teacher, an adventurer, to sail across the Atlantic, to own a vineyard in Italy, to sit in a small room while medical personnel pump you full of toxic, horrible drugs?

RL is an artist. Her creative genes give her strength. She sees things differently, especially the big stuff. She has a sense of proportion and perspective. She is real and honest. RL has a sense of momentum—sure and steady wins the race. She is full of gratitude and resiliency. We follow her lead. Our own creativity kicks in. We admit our own fears, ask for help and get back to Living.

We get up in the morning and a new day begins.

Who do I think I am?

Thank you to everybody in my life who has ever called me by my First Name—Artist

Who Does She Think She Is?

Don't Worry. Be Happy.

One of the tasks last week (following Julia Cameron’s Walking in this World) was to list 50 things that make us angry. I didn’t even make it out of the top ten when I became angry. I have been struggling for the past several years to get over anger, grief and other slights and grievances. I have always been a champion of holding grudges. I can declare a person as ‘dead to me’ if they have crossed me in even a slight way. I come by it naturally—it’s in my DNA. I saw how dwelling on anxiety, anger, unforgiveness and misunderstanding could gnaw away at one’s well-being. I don’t need or want that kind of stress anymore.

I wrote down 50 things. It just didn’t feel right. I was stirring the pot—poke, poke, poke. Some of the issues have been resolved, amends made, moved on. I want to stride forward into health and healing. I tore the pages out of my journal and burned them. I’m not sure that was the point of the exercise, but it worked for me.

I don't want to paint my pain as was once suggested. Nor do I want to write what I fear. Is that denial? What I do know is that expressing gratitude, hope and faith are the powers that fuel my art and creativity. Believing images of victory. Prayer. These are the things I want to come from my heart and onto the canvas.

Another painting representing my Family, titled Faithful.

Stand before Doom

Music has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have moved,
and, as with living souls, have been informed,
by magic numbers and persuasive sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
than trees, or flint? O force of constant woe!
'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night
the silent tomb received the good old king;
he and his sorrows now are safely lodged
within its cold, but hospitable bosom.
Why am not I at Peace?
~William Congreve, from The Mourning Bride~


Art is therapeutic. Music does sooth a savage breast, beast or stressed mind on overdrive. Often, I plug into the iPod and am immersed in an atmosphere of rhythm, poetry, energy and creativity. And when I sing along, I sound damn good. Just kidding. But it feels great! Music lifts me up and takes me to place of peace. I am in harmony with the world. I can imagine and create again.

Several years ago, in the midst of a deep depression and anguish, Kevin and I went to a show to hear a band called Grey. Our son, Ty, was the drummer. Other members were Suzanne, AJ and a new member—women with long dreadlocks, tattoos, piercings and visceral energy. They were intimidating as a group, yet very modest, gentle and uniquely creative.

We entered the dark venue feeling like virgins at a weekend sacrifice. Ty scooped us up and escorted us backstage where we visited with the girls and another band, Om. I admire them. They dare to be different, to be themselves, to make their music and art exactly in their own way.

When it was time for Grey to play, one of their friends grabbed me by the hand and took me to the front of the stage. “She’s the mother of the drummer!” she declared. Respectfully, the crowd made a spot for me directly in front of the meat locker sized speaker. Dark, ominous, scowling young men and women smiled and greeted me, welcoming me into the pit. Closer, come closer they beckoned.
~OK~
So I did.

BOOM BOOM           BOOM BOOM
Ty begins. Then, the bass guitar followed suit. A gust of air shot from the speaker, taking my breath away. The tempo increased slowly, steady, relentlessly. Ty played two bass drums and pounded the sh*t out of them and the rest of his kit. I could feel the concussion in my breast bone. The sound rocked me back a step. Instead of retreat, I leaned into the music. It made me dizzy. It made me feel alive at a time when I was lost.  The doom metal took my anger and grief and made it something tangible. Something I could stand up to. It gave me its power. The lead singer opened her mouth and growled—ancient, primal screams that took me into raw emotion. As my eyes flooded with tears, I slipped away from the heavy metal mass. I was exhausted. And in some magical way, I was healed. Not completely cured, but inspired, softened, soothed.

I began to paint again. Listening to Grey, Om, Janis Joplin, Josh Groban, Pink, Annie Lennox, Cake, Death Cab for Cutie...
You could say my taste in music is eclectic. And it is therapeutic.

This is the painting that emerged. It’s titled “Precarious Position”.
It’s a story about my Family.

We're walking and we're walking.

Last week in our journey with Julia Cameron’s “Walking in this World” we considered our identity—discovering a sense of proportion. I have always been an artist, but sometimes I don’t get the positive feedback or encouragement I require to stick to it, to stay on the path. I figured out that I am a Dreamer. Now what do I do with that information?

Hmmm. I’m a pretty good story teller. Let’s give that a try. 

I keep a journal of all my adventures with my fabulous Appaloosa, Chance. I tell stories of our trail rides, medical issues, games we play and the funny things ChanciePoo does. I rode with a group of woman that I called The Yee-Haw Sisters. We had riding adventures, dinners and homemade concoctions and beverages. Tears and fears were shared and so was a ton of fun. Good friends in support of each other.  The Yee-Haws were the main beneficiaries of the stories.

I would send out an eMail and they would all reply: “Jeannie! What a great story. You should write!” 

And I would think that was a good idea. And then I wouldn’t do anything.

Then, I thought about illustrating children’s picture books. As I thought about the illustrations, the picture book became more of a storybook. All these wonderful tales and stories would just pop out of my brain and onto the page.

Hmmm. This is fun. Maybe I should write.

I wrote a letter to the editor of Montana Quarterly magazine. My sister, Ellie in Missoula heard about it from a friend in Colorado. He had read the letter and commented on how much he liked my style. I don’t think he realized we are sisters, but figured it out through some of the details I had included. 

Hmmm. Writing, heh?

On a more serious note, I wrote to our state legislature about the economy and the state’s budget. No need to go into detail of the angst swirling around with the economy. We’re all feeling it. But this was a more personal letter. Our legislator wrote back. Basically, she liked my ideas and would see about crafting a bill according to the thoughts I had written. 

Hmmm. I guess I can express myself through the written word. Maybe I should write. 

Recently, I posted a photo on a community newsletter site. I wrote a small paragraph to go along with it. Basically, I wrote about an unlikely sign that was posted at the State Park. 

“Tsunami Warning—Stay off the Beach”

Who would’ve thought that we would ever need such a sign in our little corner of the Pacific Northwest? The publisher of the newsletter thanked me and asked me to contribute anytime, as much as I wanted. 

Hmmm. Writing? Maybe I should! 

I always preach about listening to one’s heart, to the small still voice. Why haven’t I been listening? I enjoy writing! I love telling stories! Do I have to get swept up in a tsunami to pay attention? Apparently I do.

But, I am writing now.

I’m writing this blog. I am writing a story. I am writing articles, emails, newsletters, letters to the editor and even sending handwritten letters to family and friends. I am writing Morning Pages, noon pages and evening pages. Easy as pie. And I'm comfortable, confident and energized.

Writing! 

Hmmm... what took me so long?