Possibilities

This painting is of a man on the edge of his life. And he is wondering. There is a question before him, it comes as reliably as the seasons and it is always the same. “Do you have the courage?” He doesn’t look out of the window, it isn’t there. He is looking out of his now. He isn’t thinking of how he hates his job though he is often certain he does. He doesn’t think of his tiny apartment though he can feel its walls surround him. They close in on him like the uneasy feeling that chokes his dreams in the lonely hours before dawn. He doesn’t think of those things. Instead he thinks of the road ahead, the one out there. Feeling the winds of change blowing through his mind and the eternal warmth of possibility upon his face. He remembers a time when he believed he could be something, someone. And he wonders. He wonders if this time he will be brave enough, if there enough strength or imagination left in him to take that step into a new future.
This is the story of a man who has not yet begun. It is the story of a man on the edge.
What mysteries await his discovery?

Many people ask me what I paint. They wonder what medium I paint in but mostly they want to know what style and subject I paint. Not surprisingly I am pretty well stumped for an answer. I have put together plenty of bios, résumé’s, descriptions and introductions but have never believed in a single one. I don’t paint from life and my painting buddies have stopped asking where my reference photo is. They know by now that there isn’t one. Of course it might seriously help if I used one once in awhile. Often artists refer to painting the truth of what they see. I try to paint the truth of what I feel. The rest of it is just the vehicle. My work is easily grouped into cohesive shows but to say that I paint a certain subject matter or in a particular style never quite seems to fit. It would be more accurate to say that I paint with a particular voice.
Thank you for listening.

Gardens of My Mind

Earlier this evening I was trying to recall something from my distant past. There were only glimmers of the memory and they were as slippery as minnows.

I thought of the electrical energy that gives the brain life and illuminates our thoughts and memory. I began to consider light, how it reveals itself to us and how we reveal ourselves to it. The way we express what we really are by the things that catch our eye or stay in our memory. As I struggled with this I began to consider the physical makings of a memory. Of the neurons that hold them and the dendrites that connect them so that they resemble the most amazing system to ever exist. They are often referred to as resembling a tree but in truth the appearance I think is more that of roots. It is incredible to truly consider the elements which create who we and that they so closely resemble the same system of life used by the very plants that many of us cultivate in our gardens. Of course I don’t know what these little babies look like in the raw. I have only seen them through our technically advanced method of smoke and mirrors but with or without the fancy gear the structure remains the same. The trunk or neuron and the many dendrites forming the root system create the “plants” that populate the garden of our minds.

This evening I was searching for a particular plant that I knew was in the garden but it had been overgrown by other plants over the years which had spread out to block the sun and hog the nutrients. I knew it was still there because like a strongly scented plant I could still smell it wafting through the garden when the breeze was just right. Its growth was stunted and it lacked vitality but it was still alive.

I followed the scent of this memory back into the depths of the garden, carefully stepping aside the many flowers and heirloom plants that had found homes in the fertile soil. The deeper I went the more crowded the garden became. The scent of other memories began to distract me from the one that I sought. Soon the garden began to turn wild and overgrown with long neglected growth. There were the climbing roses that reminded me of my mother now tangled with ivies that represented my grief. The wild irises of my solitude spread deep and wide to create a barrier against the Shasta daisies of my trusting nature.

The light grew dim beneath a quiet fog of forgetfulness. Thick moss cushioned my steps as I approached an old and forgotten stone wall. It had been built years ago for reasons I can no longer remember and it was still strong and sturdy. The light filtered down through drafts of fog illuminating an ancient garden long forgotten. There along the heavy stones of the wall were bits and pieces of tiny plants long ago planted with the passion of a child only to be abandoned as the days grew long. Tiny plants which held so much promise, so much magic. Little markers with names once written in crayon now faded and illegible. I bent to my hands and knees for a closer look.

I could smell the rich earth of childhood and the tears that had once watered this bed. Here was one that had been hastily planted, not quite all the way in. There was another that was still in the pot, yet another that had been a gift and still wore the yellow ribbon it came with. Over near the corner stone of the wall lay several pots never planted. They had grown out of the bottoms and over the sides in spite of the neglect. There was a loose stone in the wall where a steady flow of water seeped out trickling down to the soil beneath. I saw a vile green bug there, from a time I’d rather not recall. I crushed it beneath my shoe. I knew there was another. Something large was growing behind the wall. There were gnarled branches that peaked over the top. I hadn’t come for that though. I was still looking for the plant whose scent I had followed all this way.

I walked along the length of the wall pausing here and there to visit the tiny forgotten plants. The light continued to battle the fog in that ancient garden as the plants fought to reach it. The fragrance I was seeking grew stronger and I began to push aside the detritus of so many years. The aroma of rich loamy earth began to give way to the cool mineral scent of lake water and minnows. I had found it.

The plant was small. It was undernourished and the root system was severely stunted. It didn’t seem to have grown since the day it was planted. It had not interacted with the rest of the eco system. It appeared to have never grown past the original dirt in its pot. It was exactly the same as it had been when it was planted except that it was weak from neglect. I would have to nurture this little watery neuron back to health if I was ever to see it blossom into its promise.

And this is where I began to think of neurons and dendrites. If our memories, our thoughts and feelings are made up of these elements that are so much like plants and trees then how do we become good gardeners? How do we stimulate the growth of the plants that we choose for the garden our mind? I ask myself if it is enough to simply allow the winds to seed my garden or do I take an active role selecting and nurturing a garden of my choosing. While I may have a gravel pit to work with I choose rearrange those rocks into a pleasing design to nurture the best versions of the plants that I have. I will nourish those plants until they have grown strong healthy roots. And I will wait patiently because I planted these plants once and I would like to see the flowers of promise that I believe they can produce.

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 6

On this weeks episode we have a special musical guest Banjos, performing not live, Dueling Banjos. These fellows are a bit more lively than our usual fare so you may want to adjust your volume...or not. Jed Clampett could not be reached for comment. Probably out back swimming in the cement pond. (Post, posting note: the Dueling Banjos song has been moved down to the bottom of the playlist if you would like to listen to it. It is particularly appropriate for this post and just plain funny)

Once again we find our heroine deep in the bowels of the medical profession where she continues to wage her great battle against the most unholy eeviill ROCK. She was last seen flat on her back with a little mask muffling her enraged cries of “FISHES!” In the distance the mocking laughter of the Unholy Evil ROCK was heard. Which oddly sounded just like the charming anesthesiologist’s voice but this was no time to complicate things with questions. The Evil ROCK would soon know the full extent of its folly when those slippery little fins swished by. “Ha! Victory will be mine.”

Of course there was this one little setback. I was in the hospital again. Why? Oh not the evil little gnome that was living inside me, no. This time it was something else entirely. Something unexpected, like the Spanish Inquisition. And like the Inquisition it was just as stupid and as I was quite sure, it was just as painful. Do you recall the caveman diet I was on to help build up those lonely little blood vessels? Do you also recall the cute little jars full of iron packing pumpkin seeds that I had all over the place to snack and nibble on? Not so much? Me either.

Well as it turns out pumpkin seeds are not quite like sunflower seeds. The shells are not puffed out away from the seed like sunflower seeds. They don’t split and crack as easily but they do happen to be a lot softer and almost chewy. Of course there is that one little bit about the outer edge that is pretty tough but that can be got around if your in a hurry and really don’t mind so much. I was and I didn’t so I chewed the little buggers without a second thought. You can never really say enough about the second thought. We should all have them a lot more often. I wish I had.

One of those little hard sharp outer edges had put up a most gallant fight in his final moments and had managed to land a final savage stab at his oppressor. At first the wound went unnoticed but soon the damage grew to unimaginable proportions and my rock slinging days were numbered. They were actually numbered at zero because the only rock I could think of was the one they were going to use for my headstone. It was a happy thought and I thought it often. Eventually I went to the ER and I shared my happy thought with those fine people. Maybe I was delirious with pain but someone said something about things that sounded oddly like the Spanish Inquisition and I actually thought it sounded like a good idea. Well they did have drugs this time and that was a big improvement. My inquisitors wheeled me off to some mysterious chamber and I was relieved that they had finally given up on that dreary sack cloth fashion. The fluffy cloud and sheep pants were so much more cheery.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… the Saint had been sent home once again. “Long surgery, she’ll be out for hours, blah, blah, blah.” Been there, done that. A quick stop by Blockbuster and the couch was his new best friend. Everything was going fine. The movie was stupid, lots of stuff got blown up and there was no stupid plot to get in the way. And then the phone rang. It was the hospital. Panic raced through his veins like a souped up ’67 Camero in a get away scene. It was the doctor, the surgeon to be exact. “Aren’t you supposed to be in there operating?” “um yeah, we’ve got her in there right now and we were wondering uh…what the hell was she eating?”
Five pounds of tire rubber turning to smoke on the asphalt and my reaction= Screeeech!
Are you kidding me? Is there no end to my humiliation?

No. Apparently not.
Sigh.
A pumpkin seed nearly killed me. They are evil and diabolical and that is exactly why they are used at Halloween. I know they sure scare the he** out of me.

In a day or two I was back on the ranch. Though I had a new found enemy in the squash family it was time to get back to my first sworn enemy, the ROCK. I shoveled more gravel, slung more rocks and generally kept chipping away at that unholy alliance of gravel and stone. In between outburst befitting the offspring of a truck driver and a sailor I helped the Sainted one haul up fallen trees from around the property for future firewood. OK fine. Some of them were for my bird roosts but mostly the trees were his.

We were bringing up a series of small trees from down the hill and I felt my lower back give a little protest but that was to be expected when lugging a flipping tree up a hill. We got them situated against the barn when we heard a horrendous noise coming from somewhere. It sounded like a semi truck and a freight train in a slow motion collision. To confused to panic properly we just stared into space as our brains sorted through every known explanation only to come up with semi truck, freight train, slow motion collision.
At the top of the driveway we see a boulder the size of a VW Bug coming toward us. It is being pushed by a track hoe which is being driven by our very friendly neighbor wearing overalls and a big sloppy grin. From up on high and over the unimaginable din he shouts “Hey, I thought you all could use a rock! I seen you been collecting them and I had this one just laying around over at our place so I thought I’d bring it over. Where do you want it?”

What! Where do I want it? You just brought me a giant boulder the size of a car right out of the blue and you want to know where I want it? You know, I didn’t exactly have that mapped out in my garden plan. I thought all these things but didn’t say them of course. I was to busy trying to think of what I was going to do with this “gift.” With the little bit I did know of this guy I was pretty sure that where ever that rock went right then was exactly where it was going to stay for the rest of eternity so I had better think of something fast. “There” I said pointing “put it over there.” It was the farthest edge of the evil ROCK. It would eventually become the second waterfall.

Apparently our happy and generous overall wearing neighbor took our shocked and incredulous expressions to mean “please bring us more” because that is exactly what he did over the next several days. I would be lying in bed passed out like the dead when suddenly a freight train would be barreling down on me. It was just my friendly neighbor at six AM bringing me another gift he was sure I needed because “ You sure seem to like rocks.”

On one particular fine day after another unexpected rock delivery and between pick axing the Evil ROCK and hauling up more trees my lower back did finally give me my final warning. And I ignored it. Sure it was stiff that night but it was always stiff and that seemed fair considering the situation. The heating pad and I had become close friends. We were more than close. We were sleeping together. But like all heated relationships it would soon end in disappointment and betrayal.

I awoke to greet another day of forced labor and began to roll out of bed when my nightmare began. Overnight my hot slender bed buddy had betrayed me and left me with a colossal case of STD. Stupendously Terrible…Oh forget the acronyms my back was in the worst spasm imaginable and the pain was excruciating. After maneuvers more careful than an astronaut’s space walk I managed to make it to the bathroom. It was now confirmed that I had just completed my highest achievement for the day. The day and night wore on in a hideous blaze of pain. The next day was amazingly worse as the spasm intensified. I wanted to call an ambulance myself this time but we live on a mile of rough unpaved private road and I had to know how good the shocks were on the ambulance before committing to one. I began to think about an airlift. I wondered if they would let me throw that deceitful heating pad out the window when we passed over the manure patch at the dairy farm.

Just as I was planning my escape and subsequent revenge a horrible thing happened. Actually a horrible mind numbing thing happened… to the air. The septic system began to back up into the house! It was coming up through all the drains like some toxic throw back to a 1950s teen horror movie. “It Came From Below” “The Bowels of Hell” “The Toxic Avenger” and other such titles of popcorn and Jujube beans fame. Surely this day could not get worse. Surely.

Plants were beginning to wilt, trees were starting to droop. This monster had to be put back into its swamp before it took over the county and soon the entire world. A call for help was made. The horror of it all was, well, horrible. My back felt like it was broken everything was filling with phenomenal skank when finally my saviors arrived. A big tank truck with the words Sweet Swirl Septic Systems emblazoned on the side pulled up out front and I suddenly realized just how those guys from the movie Deliverance pad their incomes between big movie deals. I didn’t catch their names, I was too busy counting teeth and wondering if that was a raccoon or opossum stuck to the grill. Well Hollywood must have taught these boys how to network with the best of them because the whole while they were working on, dare I say in, the problem they kept up a witty banter with each other and to my absolute humiliation, me. They were well versed in all the appropriate genre related jokes and had a particular penchant for jokes that required victim participation. Every time I tried to make my hobbled escape Two Tooth would suddenly need to ask me where something was and then start another joke. One Tooth would just grin and hitch up his trousers again. Apparently it could get worse.

So Now What?

It has been raining here for about 1,600 weeks now. Daylight Savings time came along and stole one entire precious hour of sunlight or perhaps I should say one slightly less dark grey hour of the day. It is now solidly dark by the hour of five PM and if you make the mistake of sleeping in or worse yet, having a day job, you might mistake yourself for a Morlock. Of course they did do some pretty shabby things to those poor Eloi and the worst we did was to inflict Starbucks and Grunge fashion on the rest of the world. Don't get me wrong I am a big fan of Starbucks and have pledged my first grandchild in exchange for daily infusions, though I am a tad less enthusiastic about the whole grunge thing. I suppose under certain comparisons Morlock and Seattleite could be interchangeable. Well, at least in the rainy season anyway.
But really, it’s not our fault! You can see what we’re dealing with here. These things are bound to happen when the only daylight you see is in the snapshot you carry around in your wallet reminding you of that one glorious hour last summer just after the Fourth of July when the rain finally stopped.

Oh fine. I’ll stop whining. But it has been raining pretty darn steady for some time now and I’m feeling like a kid home from school with a slight cold. The dogs don’t want to wear the cute little outfits I made for them and hide when they see me coming. I’m not even trying with the cats after that last doctor bill. Sheesh, what an attitude. So with all this time indoors I’m starting to get a little batty and goodness knows I do not need any help in that direction.

Which brings me to the point of today’s post. Deep breath in, now let it out slowly…

It is time for me to get back to work. I have been stalling and making false starts for months now and so it appears that another approach is needed. I have got to kick myself in the behind and what better place to do that than in public? I am an artist and I haven’t seriously painted or sculpted for longer than I should have. I paint in oil, pastel, watercolor and sculpt with stainless steel mesh. Wow. I feel like I’m at a twelve step meeting and that was a lot tougher than I wanted it to be.

I have been watching a few artists who participate in the “Painting a Day” blogs hoping that it would inspire me to get back to work. Unfortunately I proved to be immune to that therapy. I did start several paintings only to get to the “hump” part and stop. I had plenty of reasons for my distraction and the garden proved a pretty handy excuse most times. Soon blogging was also a handy scapegoat. Now if I keep this up it will be the holidays as an excuse and then it’s spring tulips leading to summer and still no painting. I am ready to admit I have a problem and in that vein I am giving myself an intervention of sorts.

I am showing you a couple pieces of my work today. Then I am going to paint another painting and put it up here again, and so on. I am not a painting a day kind of artist. That just isn’t my creative cycle so there’s no need to worry about that. I am really just hoping that if I can feel that pleasant obligation to stay connected with you through this blog and that it might extend to my art which could be just the jolt I need to get back in the palette again. Did you notice that clever little twist on the old “back in the saddle again?” That’s what staying up past your bedtime and no sunlight for two weeks will do to you. You’d think with all that talent Microsoft would come up with a program called “Stupid Check.” Now there’s a world changing invention just waiting to happen.

And so to conclude this rambling little post I will leave you with this. I have no flowers and no sun and I need to find something to blog about soon. I have no idea what you real gardeners do with your blogs over the winter months. I haven’t been around long enough to find out so I kind of imagine you talking about house plants and stuff like that. I’m a little low on house plants right now so I thought maybe I could paint instead.


I should probably tell you what these pieces are before I close out.
Blue poppies are pastel on sanded paper, 22x30”
Koi are watercolor 22x30” on 300lb hot press
Red poppies are pastel on sanded paper 30x36”
The sculpture is stainless steel mesh hand formed and prized for the shadows it creates

I’m going to fix a bowl of popcorn, put in a stupid movie and forget I posted. The good thing is, I’ve ordered a sun lamp so incidents like this should be less frequent.

Lipstick on a Pig

In my last post, I confessed to my abject lack of vision and purpose. I came clean about my failures as a blogger and my complete inability to find a suitable way to describe my blog. I became aware of these inadequacies when I attempted to submit my blog to a search engine only to find myself staring blankly at a little white box with the title “blog description.” Apparently, I was expected to fill it in with some words. More apparent was the fact that I didn’t have any.

As in any good story, right when all is looking lost help arrives just in the nick of time. Usually it comes on a white horse or in fighter jets or some other such vehicle. This time it came in the form of the little white comment box. You came riding in on your letters and words full of hope and encouragement and gave me the words I needed to fill in that white abyss called “blog description.” In fact, I was so buoyed by all your kind words that I decided I should take Terry Lynn’s advice and just go for a big juicy book deal. There really is nothing like a great big giant over inflated ego to get the idiocy wheels turning.

Now this is my very first query letter and as I understand from my writer friends crafting one of these is worse than doing your own root canal. It’s well worth it though if you land that coveted agent and get the big book deal. The purpose of the query letter is to sell your story to the agent. I pulled the descriptive words out of your wonderful comments to create what I hope will be that magic bullet of a query letter. Hollywood here I come!

If that fails, I hear Monroe Farm and Feed is having a big sale this weekend on twine. It’s the good kind.


Dear Ms. Most Revered Agent,

I am seeking representation of my overly inflated word count blog, Blue Gate Gardens where a rock-stealing hussy with big dreams creates an oasis out of a big pile of rocks on top of an even bigger rock

After nearly dying only to be resuscitated by an emergency blood transfusion hussy LeSan Bluegate is back on the job the next day. She is not about to let a few missing corpuscles get in the way of her mission to transform this gravel pit into a charming eclectic garden.

With her partner the Saint by her side, though randomly and at infrequent intervals, she is determined to get the job done. But when the rock proves to be an impenetrable and evil force reaching deep into the earth and even deeper into her soul, she realizes that this daft garden project has just become an all out war. With homey witticisms full of dry humor and color, the hussy will become a succulent wild woman armed with a pick ax and shovel.

She has no idea what the hell she’s thinking when she splatters her amazing wittiness all across the Blogosphere but she will make people cry, laugh and think deeper all while she distracts them with well written posts and pretty pictures. She journeys to exciting, wild and wondrous places full of information and fun while the epic battle with the Evil Rock plays out against the exotic backdrop domestic flowers and horse manure.

My blog Blue Gate Gardens, is a blog for bloggers who sometimes garden but still find they want something to read. It is the captivating story of a beautiful young heroine and her sainted side kick battling the evil and relentless Rock. She is one tough gardener and her story is told from the heart of a nature-loving writer with a few too many screws loose and one dependable camera. Acts of insanity are written in a clever and unique way to make Blue Gate Gardens a smart addition to anyone’s blog line up.

I am an Honest Scrap Award Winner and a Bottom of The Barrel ranking member of Blotanicals. I am also the recipient of numerous positive comments in the Post A Comment section.

I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

Best regards,

LeSan

I tried it out on an audience.

The reviews were mixed.

I think it might need some work.

To Blog or Not to Blog

I have a confession to make. I have let it slip a few times but always safely away from my bloggie home. I take comfort in imagining that my secret sins will remain hidden at bottom of someone’s comment barrel and never discovered. I hope to disguise the truth with pretty pictures and catchy Google tags. Some of you probably already suspect something is a little different, perhaps a little off around here. I don’t suppose I can go on pretending that you won’t find out about me. Eventually it’s all going to come out and it won’t be pretty. No sir, it won’t be pretty at all. Well, I don’t know how pretty or not it will be but lives will be ruined I tell you. Ruined! OK, so maybe not ruined exactly but there will be hell to pay I tell you! Maybe not so much hell or anything but certainly a good time out with no cookies, at least not the good ones with the miniature M&Ms in them.
I’m sorry what were we talking about again?


Oh, that’s right the horrible mortal sin thing, hell fire and public flogging, right. Well see, the thing is, it’s the blogging, the public blogging to be exact. It was Rosey Pollen at Dung Hoe. It was her fault. She pushed me over the edge with her clever probing blog questions. “Why do you blog?” she asked as though it were a perfectly reasonable question to ask, as though I had a perfectly good answer, as though I had any idea at all.

Oh sure it seemed so easy for all her people to cheerfully give their smart and thoughtful answers. They all had such good reasons, noble reasons but mostly just actual reasons. I envied them all in their surety and self-awareness. They had missions, goals even. They had family to share stories and pictures with; they had information to share with other gardeners. Some were spreading serenity and joy while others were keeping a garden journal for posterity’s sake. There are writers with blogs who write about writing for writers who write. There are bloggers that blog for the sake of scoring hits to make latte’ money and still others who blog just because they seem to have an awful lot to say, about what I am not too sure but they do it anyway.

Stalling? No, I’m not stalling. I’m perfectly comfortable with this. Um, by the way did you pull the curtains? Is there anyone else in here besides us? Just asking, that’s all. Perfectly comfortable; could I have a glass of water? Kind of warm in here, don’t you think?

So here it is, the horrible shocking truth.

I blog by accident.
I don’t have a deliberate reason that I can figure out to save my virtual life. Wait. Don’t judge me. Let me explain myself. I’m sure I can explain this. Just give me a minute to think something up. I mean…

It all started because this year was the first year we/I had the garden in any kind of garden shape. I finally had the plants in and the pond was open for its first summer. I found a fantastic online garden community at GardenWeb and met many wonderful people there. Nell Jean at Foxes Earth was one of those people and she started a thread asking how many members blogged about their garden. Well apparently many people did blog about their gardens. FlowerLady was the first blogger that I got to know personally and she has become a wonderful friend.

Because I actually had been living under a rock for some time I had never seen a blog before. I know. The shocks just keep a comin’ don’t they? Well anyway, my curiosity was piqued. Being the closet nerd that I am I was less interested in reading the blogs and more interested in what the blog programs looked like. I went to the one I saw most frequently used which Blogspot was, for a little look around. In the past I have done my own art website and another website for a large arts organization using GoDaddy.com and found it easy to work with. I wondered if this was the same so I decided to do a trial.

I set up an account because they wouldn’t let me touch anything until I did. They made me feel cheap just because I wanted to browse. Sheesh. That indignity now dealt with I was free to roam the store and try on outfits and accessories. This was the fun part. Everything fit and nothing made me regret that extra brownie at lunch. I could customize, mixing and matching to my heart’s delight. Then came the time to try out some shoes with the new outfit. This is the part where you put some talk to the walk and see how it all looks on the carpet.

Now what words would I use to fill up my imaginary first post? It hardly mattered since I was just filling in some space so I could see what the template looked like all together. It was my intention to close out of the test sample as soon as I saw what the completed thing looked like. There was no way I could imagine coming up with anything clever, witty or interesting enough to merit even considering starting a blog. So this is what I typed in: “Let’s just see how boring this could possibly be."

I don’t recall what led me to this next item but I ended up on a Google search page where I saw BluegateGardens and directly below in gigantic glaring letters “Let’s just see how boring this could possibly be.” Ahhhh! It went live? It went live with that? It went live with that attached to my name?

I was shocked and horrified. I couldn’t let that stand-alone out there with my name all over it. I spent the next millennium trying to delete it only to find that when Google grants life it can never be taken away. It was as if some evil digital vampire had bitten my little test blog and set it loose on the unsuspecting world. I had to do something to drive a stake through its heart and

fast.
So I blogged. I blogged over those flippant first words which were never intended for public consumption and I kept on blogging, burying it deeper and deeper into the Google graveyard of the undead. Then suddenly something magical happened, something I never expected or imagined possible. I had a follower. I was shocked. I was stunned. I was sure this person had clicked something by mistake or was at least mentally unstable. Either way, mentally unstable or computer klutz I had a follower now and I was hooked. It was not ego but rather a sense of responsibility that hooked me.

I understand that blogs are whatever you want them to be and that you do them for yourself but that’s not how things roll in my head. I figure that if someone is going to give me their time and attention then I want to bring something to the table as well. I hope to add something of value to the conversation in whatever way possible. I am always so grateful and quite often overwhelmed when I read your kind and generous comments. I am humbled that you visit my blog and that you take the time to write. Sure, it’s just a blog and I can’t even say what this blog is about but what I can say is that the reason I blog is because of you. You are my reason and I thank you so much for stopping by and sharing your time with me.

PS. I would like to ask you one little favor if you don’t mind. Can anyone think of how to describe this blog? It has come up a few times and I just have no idea of what to say. I’m totally stumped.

Shrouded Fertility

What I like about fall going into winter is that it is a perfect time to get lost, even if it does get a little foggy at times.

The day started out clear and bright. I could see far into the distance as the valley spread below me. It would be a good day to take a drive along the highway of my thoughts and see where they might lead me. Perhaps they would lead to untold treasures full of glittering gems for future lives I have yet to imagine. Perhaps the road would lead to fantastical new concepts for the garden or maybe I might finally be able to decide who I wanted to be when I grew up. In any case it was a perfect day full of bright autumn sun, just right for getting lost and searching out new roads.

I sped along that highway of contemplation with the crisp autumn air slipping through the windows to invigorate my senses. Golden leaves clung stubbornly to the bones of summer along hillsides rich with deep dark evergreens while my thoughts played along the rivers of possibilities.

With summer finally over I could reflect on what had gone well, what disappointed and what I might like to adjust. Should I continue with the plan already in motion perhaps making minor adjustments or would I dig up entire areas to redesign with the seeds of promise? Should I make grand sweeping changes or let the days mellow a while longer? It was all very exciting to play with new ideas that might bring wonderful color and vibrancy to my life. At times I enacted minor revisions to sections that had pleased me so far and at others I ripped out entire areas with reckless abandon. Sometimes I imagined wiping the slate entirely clean and starting over with a fresh palette. I continued to travel along this road eagerly following deep into its mysteries.

Silently a fog had begun to drift in, filling the open spaces between summer past and winter future. Then somewhere along the way my playful excursions of deconstruction and rebuilding became complicated and confusing. The rivers of possibility that had once been sparkling and clear were now harder to make out and the grand plans that I had imagined were becoming as shrouded in fog as the golden autumn leaves. I had entered a tunnel of uncertainty. What if I changed this thing or that and then found that I regretted it all too late? What if I made a mistake? Had I become complacent with my past successes and forgotten how hard they were to achieve in the first place? Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone and not risk losing the good things that were growing. After all, things had been setting root and blossoming in the fertile soil that had been built up. Surely there could be little wisdom in disturbing that.



And then another curve in the road suggested that just around the bend there might be something better and brighter if I would only take the chance. Isn’t that how opportunities are born, by taking a chance on change? The fog grew thicker obscuring visibility, smothering the light and I was alone staring mutely like a forgotten relic of humanity unable to decipher the forest of choices before me.

The fog grew thicker and I began to despair of ever making the right decision. Perhaps nothing would ever change. Perhaps I thought, this was as good as it gets. But then something did change and it changed without me. It changed all around me but not because of me. The multitude of possibilities that were as numerous and vaporous as water molecules in a cloud began to coalesce. They became droplets of miniature combinations and possibilities that plopped together to form pools of thought. They became rivers and streams that cut new paths into wild unexpected places. What had once been an overwhelming fog full of tiny bits and details too full of risks and consequences was becoming a full bodied flood of ideas. The light began to tear through the clouds bringing with it clarity even sharper than .

I could see new ways of looking at the garden beds of my life. Of how they played against one another or how they might be rearranged for greater advantage. A new path was opening up before me that had previously not been visible to me. It had always existed but remained unseen by me because I had been unwilling to look.

Searching out a new path means that you have to have the courage to get lost once in awhile. You have to be brave enough to consider a life without all that is familiar and comfortable. Searching for a brave new world requires that you take some risks and that you have honestly weighed the values of each and every thing. It means that you are prepared to spend some time lost in the fog while the seeds of possibility germinate in impossible places. It is here in the misty clouds of imagination that the precious gems of creation are formed.

The vision of creative ideas is organic in nature and needs freedom to develop. Ideas are living things and like all living things there is a special magic, a divine spirit that gives them life. They are seeds full of potential for a gardener who is ready with good soil and just the right placement. There are a lot of seeds out there and we are producing more every day. The question is; do you have just the right spot picked out and is your soil ready for growth?

Gardening sure is a lot more complicated than I thought.

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 5

When we last left our hard headed but bloodless heroine was alone in a dimly lit room at the dark of night. The Sainted one had gone home to more cozy accommodations which lacked the tube and needle set up or the frequent interruptions by James the friendly hemoglobin peddler. And where exactly was the heroine’s blood or at least the decency to look weak and pathetic without it? Did James have a day job on some street corner selling overpriced concert tickets or questionable used cars or was this his main gig? Was the Saint resting comfortably in his warm, cozy and currently extra roomy bed? Was he wearing soft fluffy PJ's all snuggled up in the down comforter unencumbered by that otherwise pesky conscience?
Traitor. No, I’m not bitter. Why would I be bitter?

On with the story.
Nursing staff and doctors in training hovered at bedside with bemused and befuddled expressions. Tests were performed and theories posited. Probes were sent in and were promptly sent back in a mangled uninformative mess. More elaborate tests were then devised. It eventually became apparent that a large and Evil Gnome was living within our brave heroine and stealing her blood for his devious plans of world domination.

The Evil Gnome with his diabolical plans had made a single grave error that would ultimately lead to his utter destruction. He had chosen a host already engaged in heated battle with an even greater nemesis that also had designs on world domination.
There would be no quarter given to this would be tin pot dictator. She simply couldn’t be bothered. Long grueling hours in dark smoky rooms passed as heroic efforts were made to study the enemy’s weakness. Desperate ideas for daring rescue missions were hatched under the strain of to much coffee and not enough sleep. Either that or someone in a white lab coat cracked a book and said “hey, how about we do this?” “Sounds good Bob, are there any frosted donuts left?”

Oh, fine! Here’s the TMI part of the post. It was a benign tumor roughly the size of Montana. They said they needed to shrink it before they would even attempt to remove it so, they gave me hormonal drugs. The result of which was my summer of Sudden Extreme Menopause…home edition. Now, I may be a late bloomer since I haven’t even come near menopause yet but if that’s how it’s going to roll when the time does come, I’m getting a sex change or going into an induced coma. Whichever one the insurance covers, I don’t care. There’s just no way I’m ever doing that again! Did I mention…EVER! Holy cow I thought I was on fire half the time life was dull as dust and I lost the will to live and…and…just thinking about it makes me want to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb.

Figuring out the source of the problem was just the first bit of resolving it. They had fueled me back up but the Evil Gnome was still working his evil disappearing magic operations. The supply lines needed to be reinforced and fresh troops brought in. Over the next few months they yo-yoed me between ridiculous amounts of birth control and the menopause from hell shots. I was on an iron dosage so high that the pharmacist actually laughed at me when I told him what I needed. No, he actually laughed. Out loud. He looked at me like I was two pills short of the Prozac prescript I should have been asking for. Then he gently explained that “the human body simply can’t process that much iron.” I said “Well that’s OK ‘cause it’s just going through the express lane anyway. Now give me the damn ship anchor and I’ll be on my way.”

I was instructed to eat a Caveman meets Popeye kind of diet. This also included such things as dinosaur eggs, lizard tail and pumpkin seeds all of which are apparently high in iron. As if sucking an iron ship anchor like a giant lolly pop wasn’t enough. Well I’m a good patient and since I have clearly displayed that I lack the good sense to know when I’m dying I obey the new diet rules dutifully. The dinosaur eggs tended to be a bit pricey and the lizard tail just too chewy, so I went with the pumpkin seeds. I put little jars those potential pumpkins all around the house so that I might snack on them throughout the day. I nibbled these little iron packed chips between sucking down eight million pills and moving rocks.

Yes, of course I went right back to slinging the pick axe and lugging rocks. I said I was a good patient I didn’t say I was a smart one. I’m actually a complete idiot when it comes to recognizing a limit. I took that first day off because well, I figured I had already missed most of it by the time I got back from the hospital anyway. The next day however I was right back out there on that darn ROCK digging away. It took a few days for the new juice to flush through the lines so things didn’t seem that much different at first. What’s that? Oh, where was the Saint? Safely back at work of course, where his annoying meddling in my affairs wouldn’t bother me. I always made sure to drop the pick ax and scurry back up onto the porch when I heard him coming.

I figured that we were going to need some river rock for this little project but upon learning that an Ivey League College education would cost less than the amount of rocks I needed would cost, I decided to scout out some other sources. I’ve been advised not to discuss the details but let’s just say I did find a source. I began daily trips out to the afore mentioned source and loaded my car up just until the tires began to flatten out from the weight. There was a lot space on that pond to consider so there were a lot of daily trips, sometimes three in a day. Sure I was loading and unloading rocks but I reasoned that I was actually resting more because I had to drive twenty minutes or so each way. I had to sit to drive. You can see the logic.

During this round of adventures however I began to suspect that something somewhere might be going a little askew. I began to have a little pain in my mid section. Ok, it wasn’t so little. I cried like a convicted hedge fund manager and begged to be put out of my misery. And just like that I was back in the ER visiting with all my old friends. Tests scans or whatever was done and I’m back in the too small paper gown with the blue pelt uni socks. This time I get a skinny bed with wheels and a sheet but no shower curtain. I do get my own room though, except it goes up and down and has little round buttons with numbers that light up. Cool! I’m getting sudden unplanned surgery. And I thought it was just going to be another boring night at home with the heating pad.

“That’s OK giant Evil ROCK. I’ll be back! I will be back to finish you. I’ve got my three feet down and that’s room enough for fishes. Do you hear that? Fishes!” Now I don’t know if the Evil ROCK actually heard me but I swear I heard him chuckling. Of course it may have just been the anesthesiologist.

On the next episode of Survivor Extreme Home Edition the Sainted One gets another confused call from a doctor and vows to never answer the phone again. The handsome chiropractor will actually make his appearance. No, really I promise this time he shows up. The track hoe riding neighbor and his wicked sense of timing will make an entrance and two famous Hollywood actors will share a heartwarming moment with our heroine.
See you next time on Survivor Extreme Home Edition!

Washington Apples

Just outside of Leavenworth is the Wenatchee Valley. I suppose technically the town of Leavenworth is within the Wenatchee Valley but somehow it manages to stand on its own, laying claim to a more mountainous identity than fecund farm land. That’s OK with me. A two minute drive around the corner and I am thrust deep into ample hillsides richly covered in sweeping orchards. Swaths of delicious fruit trees and lush grape vines cover hillsides that look down into a wide sparkling river cutting through the valley floor.
As far as the eye can see there are fields upon fields of trees and vines. Seemingly random impromptu fruit stands appear along the road side with upturned fruit crates for tables and simple awnings for a roof. Magic marker signs of cardboard announce the enticing farmer’s market prices and the variety is almost too wide to choose from. Samples of delicious fruit are handed out like free candy at a birthday party.

There are makeshift shelves lined with homemade jellies and jams. Recipes for pies and sauces compete for space on wooden tables covered with red checkerboard cloth. There are no green aprons or pristine white smocks of the conglomerate grocery here. There is just some member of the family who came in from the orchard that day to man the fruit stand.

The worn weathered hands of farmers hold out sugary slices of their hard work. They offer easy conversation and helpful information about their product. When I take a sample from their hand I know that this is the result of years of hard work and dedication. I can smell the soil on their skin and see the shimmering sun in their eyes. The satisfaction on my face as that sweet juicy fruit hits my tongue is their reward, their pride and joy. I am happy to pay them. In the performance of this simple transaction there is the completion of a circle that is often broken by the glare of florescent lights and plastic bags.

The markets and impromptu stands each have their own personality. Some are simply upturned crates with cardboard boxes and a lawn chair. Others have vinyl awnings hung over jarred treats and long wooden tables. While still others offer colorful banners beside dried corn stalks and hay bales complete with petting zoos and miniature cow trains for the kiddies delight. I love them all. We often ask if we can collect fallen apples for the horses back home and they always give us some bags just before asking if we’d like a box instead. I am so grateful that I live close enough to visit and soak all of this in.

I have been waxing poetic on the glories of fruit fresh off the tree and all things farmy but have left out one important element of the area and that would be the Applets and Cotlets Capital. What this means I have no idea. They make some kind of fruit based candies here and apparently they are quite famous for it. I don’t understand it. I don’t care for the candies so I don’t go. I just wanted to mention that these guys seem to know their Applets and Cotlets stuff and have really made a name for themselves since the early 1900s. The town of Cashmere is where you can find Liberty Orchards and take a factory tour of the Applet/Cotlet production. It looks pretty cool and I know a lot of people really love these candies. If you like this sort of confection, you couldn’t find a better place to visit. I just wanted to make sure that my personal preference for um, chocolate didn’t short change any of you fruit candy loving peeps out there. Just keeping it real folks.

There is a little stand that we frequent because they are one of the select few that grow the Cameo apple. This is my favorite apple. It is sweet, crisp and bright in flavor. It is in general an all around perfect eating apple. During this season we took a few trips over to the orchards and stopped at this particular stand for some of those Cameo apples. The farmer there is a sweet gracious man who is always eager to offer fresh fruit slices and tips for the best apple sauce combinations. On this last visit the gentleman was not at his stand. There was no one to be seen anywhere around. Just the highway and the dirt lot with fruit trees going off into the distance. Cue crickets. We had come a long way for some Cameos and Boscs so we were reluctant to leave without them. Then we noticed the cash box on the table. Sitting there simple and alone was an unassuming little silver box with a slit in the top. The man’s cash box. It wasn’t bolted down. The fruit wasn’t locked in Lucite boxes. It was just sitting out there in wooden crates with plastic bags hanging from the side. A sign hung on the wall with price per pound written in black marker. We smiled and began filling our bags. We weighed and reweighed our bounty on the old metal scales and then counted out our money. We folded the bills neatly and slipped them into the little slot that represented so much.

For many this kind of trust is a common affair but I come from a world of mistrust and suspicion in which the worst is assumed and “get them before they get you” is the code of the day. While I have never been able to assimilate this defensive attitude I often worried that I was hopelessly outnumbered and desperately naïve. I don’t consider this a gift of trust toward myself or even others so much as I see it as a gift of hope for the world I live in. It is an act of faith in the better nature of man and for that I am truly grateful.

PS. For those of you who are local: Stockings Garden and Nursery is just outside of Monroe but they get their produce from the Wenatchee Valley. I like their display and they sell Cameo apples.

Bavarian Disneyland

Leavenworth Washington is a special place. That’s a pretty simple statement isn’t it? I love this town but oddly not for all the reasons I usually hear. It truly is a beautiful magical place, romantically nestled in the shadows of majestic mountain peaks. The town of Leavenworth is like a Bavarian Disneyland. Everything and I do mean everything is Bavarian themed. From the Hotels, restaurants, and gift shops right down to the gas stations, Safeway grocery and Starbucks. Heck even the McDonald's payphones are housed in tiny Bavarian chalets.


The gift shops boast the finest quality to be found. Exceptional creative works saturate the entire area. Hotels are adorned with exquisite art which can often be found in one of the many gallery boutiques. There are all sorts of shop doors and windows filled with whimsical art, unique clothing and the most wonderful confections. Oh, had I forgotten to mention those? The warm buttery scent of big toasty pretzels with dipping sauces draws you into quaint bakeries full of aromatic breads and pastries. Savory hot bratwurst with potato salad washed down with a frothy micro brew draw you into underground lairs of deep forest timber. And then there are the candy shops filled with a kaleidoscope of rainbow colored treats. Sparkling glass jars filled to the brim with the delicacies of childhood and the richest chocolates of your wildest dreams.

Music plays in the streets while costumed merchants stroll and do business along the bric-a-brac lanes. Horse hooves and carriage wheels can be heard clicking and clomping as they carry people through the streets in a festive display. In every season Leavenworth has found a spectacular way to celebrate with festivals and events that revel in the natural beauty and charm of this amazing place. The piece De la resistance however simply has to be the winter lighting festival. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to live in a Currier and Ives Christmas card or even a Thomas Kincaid painting this would be it. I have never seen a more enchanting winter wonderland.


Now having said all that, singing the praises of this quaint little Bavarian Disneyland in the Great Northwest I must go back to my original statement. These things are not why I love this town. The reason I love this town is because it is the most inspiring little town I have ever known. Leavenworth was originally a timber, rail and fruit town. It was never a large town by any measure and only has about 2,100 residents at this time. In the not to distant past it boasted a dubious reputation of brothels, saloons and hard living. In the 1920s the rail line moved its roadhouse and rerouted the rails to bypass the town thus killing the timber industry in one fell swoop. The depression further hammered the town’s economy and the subsequent war years drove the last nails into its economic coffin. By the 40s and 50s Leavenworth’s boom years were a faded dusty memory. With their economic opportunities dried up and gone there was little hope of survival.

Then in 1962 the town leaders went to the University Of Washington Bureau Of Community Development in search of ideas that might save their town. It was the natural beauty of the area that gave birth to the idea of a Bavarian theme with the hope of attracting visitors. While longtime residents, Pauline and Owen Watson are credited with being instrumental in this Hail Mary pass it was a total team effort. In 1965 key business owners made the brave decision to remodel their buildings. Pauline drew up some sketches for the remodeled store fronts and sold the idea to other business owners. Soon an agreement to Bavarianize Leavenworth was reached and Project Alpine was formed to guide the process along. By that summer in 1965 the first remodel was underway.


Now here is the part that makes me love Leavenworth the most. They did it all on their own dime. The whole town got together, made a decision and gave it their all. There was no government money used. Instead it was entirely financed by the hard work and sweat of people who were dedicated to a goal and to each other. They used their own money, mortgaged their own homes and took on a tremendous risk individually and as a team. Their town was a dust bowl in the middle of nowhere dying a certain death with no hope on the horizon. And they banded together, pulled a stroke of genius out of the air and had the good sense to grab it will all their might. This is a true story of survival and redemption.

So while I do love the Bavarian Disneyland and the picture perfect winter playground what I really love about Leavenworth is something you don’t see. This town is a beautiful testament to beating the odds. When I visit and I do visit often, I see something else in those cute little payphone chalets and lederhosen clad shop owners. I see the triumph of the human spirit. Passing the bric-a-brac fronted buildings which are teaming with visitors from all around the world I am filled with awe, though not of the exquisite Currier and Ives images that meet every turn. I am filled with awe at the people who took a dying town and not only breathed life into it but turned it into something far beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. I love Leavenworth because it makes me proud. It gives me hope and renews my faith in the impossible.

Oh yeah, you may be wondering about the hats. I can't explain it. There is a fantastic silly hat shop. They are the official mad hatters of the town apparently. I think the ample beer gardens help.