OWL

OWL

Jun 26, 2019

OWL

I’ve mentioned before how deer often come to forage in our backyard—or used to before the conversion. Does and their fawns feasted on the plums that fell from the plum tree in back or rested on hot days in the shade of our ramshackle carport. There was lots of room since most of the parking spaces were vacant.

Last night I dreamed that a whole herd of deer paraded through our backyard! I saw them from the kitchen window, counting ten of them as they passed under it. Then at the foot of the plum tree, I spotted a large horned owl—in broad daylight yet!—a thrill because I’ve always loved owls, and I’ve only seen them twice in the wild.

What an auspicious dream! I think to myself—because I’ve just emailed my Poof! Academy I package to Lorna from BAIPA to lay it out for publication. I use the term “package” because the folder included twenty-one items—from the book covers and spine to the various interior pages, all of which I designed myself.

Oh, my gosh…I was just wondering what the owl might symbolize, and though my first association was “wisdom,” my next was “nocturnal, reclusive, unseen.” One theory of dreams says all the characters in our dreams are ourselves. So maybe I dreamed about the owl because I’m finally coming out of the shadows—ready to be seen.

What a gift my dream was, I consider later, because yesterday I was in a funk—I’d discovered that I’d been duped by an online advertiser into paying an additional $100-plus for a product I didn’t want. But there are experiences that sweep you out of your daily, mundane preoccupations and make you aware of a deeper reality that’s unfolding in your life. Which reminds me of a recent entry in my journal:

“Here I am, at an advanced age, anticipating what may prove to be the most challenging chapter in my later life because I’m in the process of making one of the most radical changes I’ve attempted in many years: I’m trying at long last to become visible.”

NEIGHBORHOOD GARDENS

NEIGHBORHOOD GARDENS

Jun 21, 2019

NEIGHBORHOOD GARDENS

When the city decided my deck had to come down-—and, necessarily, my potted garden—I started taking pictures of my neighbors’ flowers so I would still have their colors brightening my life.

                                               HAPPY SUMMER, EVERYONE!

OXYMORON

OXYMORON

Jun 16, 2019

OXYMORON

Have I mentioned that I’m a member of BAIPA—the Bay Area Independent Publishers Association—which meets monthly in Novato, across the Richmond Bridge from Berkeley? It’s a thriving group that includes writers of all ages, editors, illustrators, graphic artists, printers, marketing experts, audio book actors, and more. When I first joined, I wrote in my journal:

“Wow! I just attended my second BAIPA meeting, and I have more than a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to be life-changing—because I’m an introvert of long standing.

“Last year before my goddaughter Arielle left to spend her high school junior year in Viterbo, Italy, I had her sign me up on Facebook. And though I loved seeing the pictures she posted of her travels on her Facebook page, my own page has remained faceless ever since—a gray ghost with a flip. (How’s that for an oxymoron? A faceless Facebook page!)

“But now that I’m preparing to self-publish my children’s books, I see I’m going to have to mend my inconspicuous ways. (Actually, I did take a few pictures of myself when I got my first iMac last February—and while I was pleased that the flash on my new computer blasted away most of my wrinkles in the photos, I couldn’t bring myself to post any of the shots on my Facebook page because…well, the closet door was open behind me in the background, revealing all the clutter inside. I have my pride.)

“Come to think of it, I’ve avoided having my picture taken ever since the photo for my Costco card. When I smiled for the camera, my lip twitched so much with the prolonged effort that I wound up looking like Elvis with his sulky curled lip—almost a sneer—though admittedly mine wasn’t as sexy.”

It wasn’t until I joined BAIPA that I had Michael show me how to do selfies (above) on my new iMac and asked Ella take a photo of me for my Facebook page.

GARDEN GURUS

GARDEN GURUS

Jun 6, 2019

GARDEN GURUS

It’s been a long, lovely spring, the hills still gloriously green well into May. Now that many of my Facebook friends are showcasing their gardens online, I’m wanting to add my voice and photos to the mix—because I once had a garden too.

The images above are old Polaroids I scanned. In A Patchwork Memoir I wrote:

Because our apartment is so small, I thought it would be nice to add on another room—a colorful, fragrant outdoor annex. So I set out to transform our 6’ x 10’ deck—which stands one story above ground and looks out onto asphalt and the sagging roof of the carport—into a bower.

I started small, with a window box. When I went to East Bay Nursery to choose my first annuals, I was astonished at the prices. $2.50 for a pansy, petunia, or snapdragon? How could anything so beautiful be so cheap? From my annuals I learned that some of the best things in life are—almost—free.

No sooner had I planted my window box than we had a hard, driving rain. When I padded out the next morning, half-expecting my flowers to be battered to the ground, I found them jauntily upright, reminding me that “delicate” and “doughty” aren’t necessarily a contradiction in terms.

When I had enclosed the deck with flowering vines and bushes—bougainvillea, star jasmine, and a camellia—and added pots of lobelia, dahlias, and a pink breath of heaven, I decided there was only one thing missing, a small tree for the corner. So I scoured the East Bay nurseries—every last one—for the perfect arboreal roommate. “The canopy won’t be much larger than the root system,” I was advised by more than one nursery worker, “so if it’s in a standard 12”-diameter pot…” Pretty pitiful canopy, I thought. Then one day I happened upon the perfect “tree”—a wisteria pruned to a single trunk—in a narrow 5-gallon pot with a broad lush canopy and white starbursts of blooms. “Too bad that variety doesn’t have a fragrance,” I overheard an employee say in passing. Of course, the very first evening I went out to look at it, its white blossoms phantasmagoric in the darkness, it filled the air with perfume. From my irrepressible wisteria I learned, “Don’t believe everything you’re told, especially by the experts.”

The one thing I didn’t like about my new tree, though, was the rude, green-stained stake that supported it. The trunk looked strong enough to me, so I cut the cords that bound it to the stake—and it flopped right over, its canopy dragging on the ground, exhorting me, by its melodramatic collapse, to leave well enough alone!

So much for my lessons—I thought I’d graduated. Naïve gardener that I was, I imagined I could go on living in paradise. With serene complacency, I brunched among my flowers and wrote. Until the barbarian hordes invaded. Then I was battling aphids, spider mites, petunia bud worms, diabrotica beetles, carpenter bees, mildew, scale, and rust… For every flower, there was a predator. From my entire garden I learned, “There are no free brunches.”