Bees and a Bat

The day began with a bat, loose in the library. Not something we could post on our Facebook page, of course, as there may be some patrons who would find it disturbing, this confluence of nature and their safe space.

But the bat (we called it "Stellaluna," of course) was foolish enough to land on the floor in the office of the supervising children's librarian. She has children librarian's skills, and more importantly, a butterfly net with which to catch the creature. She let it go in the courtyard, moving it to near a tree when it didn't take off immediately. It may have been stunned, or sick, or just overwhelmed by its adventure and the amount of daylight around it. By afternoon, when some colleagues checked on it, it appeared to be gone, although they did not brave a thorough search of the ivy in the courtyard, because there are worse things than bats to be found there.

In the afternoon, I had messages from Christine, friend and seasoned beekeeper extraordinaire, that my hive had swarmed into my next-door neighbor's yard. She and John (another experienced beeker and swarm-catcher) caught the swarm, which was a little cranky in the cold damp weather, and are giving it to another Sonoma County beekeeper who is currently hiveless. I wish I'd been home to help! I knew it was coming because of the piping from last inspection. I shall post photos and maybe even videos soon.

Change versus novelty

I'd like to think I'm okay with change. I don't mind trying new things (by which I mean Thai food, not sky-diving). I don't mind changing jobs. I believe I'd be happy to move to a new house, if/when that happens. I understand that nothing is permanent.

But I have to say that I have lost some tolerance for society's constant push for novelty. It's even possible that I never had that tolerance to begin with, or perhaps simply that I don't feel that I have the energy to be responsible for the decisions that go behind innovation.

Actually, I think I can tighten the focus and say this more clearly. I don't seem to be able to get excited about making decisions that may disappoint other people. My skin has grown thin in that area. I second-guess myself and I don't want to be responsible. For much of anything that is designed to delight people. Or maybe I just don't have a lot of surplus creative energy. Or general energy. Today. I used to be in charge of a lot of stuff. I mostly hated it, but it helped to know where I stood in the chain of command. And I think seniority helped. I had the certainty that history can give you. I'm feeling less invested these days in anything to do with work. Even though I love my job.

This could be low blood sugar or the cold I'm fighting off speaking. But even in writing this, I realize that I'm stymied by the needs that drive a capital society. It's just as well I don't work in retail. My clock is slower than that. I don't think about the next thing and then the next thing. I'd like to sit and be still in the present a bit longer, if possible. Give me a job to do. Don't ask for my opinion about what to do. Or, at least, not tonight.

A Safe and Tame Poem-a-Day

In honor of the afore-mentioned and omni-April'd National Poetry Month, the Santa Rosa Central Branch of the Sonoma County Library will post a new poem every day for the next 28 days on their Facebook page.

To err on the side of no-copyright-infringement, the poems have been, thus far, culled from those in public domain. This means primarily white men, all dead poets, and a lot of rhyme and elevated language. We are avoiding anything that is overtly religious or edgy. The results have the potential of being bland. Although sometimes I like me some Edna St. Vincent Millay, I'd rather have Sara Teasdale.

I love that while I wrote the above, I paused to look up "Sara Teasdale vs Edna St. Vincent Millay," and was led to Cynthia Haven's blog, and this entry. What's wonderful about Haven's notes, to me at least, is that she quotes Richard Wilbur, another one of my favorite poets, and one whom I would think could provide me with several inoffensive but well-written poems for our FB entries.

But I hadn't remembered Elinor Wylie, whom I think is better than Teasdale, based on this:

Poor Earth
It is not heaven: bitter seed
Leavens its entrails with despair
It is a star where dragons breed:
Devils have a footing there.
The sky has bent it out of shape;
The sun has strapped it to his wheel;
Its course is crooked to escape
Traps and gins of stone and steel.
It balances on air, and spins
Snared by strong transparent space;
I forgive it all its sins;
I kiss the scars upon its face.

 Sara Teasdale:  1884-1933
 Elinor Wylie:   1885-1928
 Edna St. Vincent Millay:  1892-1950

Not National Tattoo Day

 

Let's say it's July 17th, which is National Tattoo Day. It is not, by any calendar, really July 17th. But the power of the written word is that it can engage the imagination in a little stroll down What If Lane.

If I had a tattoo, or multiple tattoos, as my daughters do (does anyone ever stick to just a single tattoo?), and if it were July 17th, I could conceivably have conversations with people about the subject as though it were something remarkable.

And yet, on July 18th, I would still have tattoos. And it would be National Sour Candy Day. Ignoring for a moment the significant overlap that exists in a tattoos/sour candy Venn diagram entitled "What My Daughters Like," the reality is that the hubbub over tattoos would wane.

My point? It is National Poetry Month. But in March, I was a poet interested in poetry, and willing to travel to Portland to hang out with 14,999 other writers at AWP for five days to back the statement. In May, I will still be a poet.

April serves to prod me to blog and make statements about poetry. But the various self-help books and audiobooks I've been reading also prompt me to put my actions where my aspirations are. Instead of putting things off or whining about life not meeting my - often subconscious - expectations, I am acting. A little or a lot, depending on the day. But, as self-helpy as this sounds, it's true: only by stopping the behavior that that is keeping me from achieving goals, and by taking the steps that will get me ever closer to what I want, will I find myself with, if not the actual goals themselves, then at least with the self-respect that comes from working toward them honestly and doggedly. End of self-helpy spiel.

                                         

Back in the Shed

I've been writing daily since St. David's Day, and I will likely put up some posts to prove it. The only exception was yesterday,  a day where the flu laid me out and had me sleeping on the red ("sleeping") couch for hour after hour. After hour.

But as the title of this post suggests, I am back in the shed. This is to say that I am back to spending time in my shed in which to write. It's still cold, but not as cold as it has been. This last winter, we've had no heat in the house apart from costly space heaters, strategically placed and used as sparingly as we could bear, which meant waking to 56 degrees in the hallway many mornings. So I suppose a chilly writer's shed, even in the rain (like now) is better than that.

Besides which, between the audiobooks and physical books I've been reading of late and the knowledge that in a few weeks I'll be on my way to AWP, I am compelled to (re-re-re, always re-) think of myself as a writer. Who, you know, writes.  

Dream of doing something meaningful in the scheme of things. Act accordingly.

Taking it Offline

I think that it's been good for me to blog for more than a month straight, and it's good that I have started to meditate daily. But I don't know how healthy it is to feel beholden to an invisible or imaginary audience to post something here daily, after all. I can see that when I miss a few days, it weighs on me as a "should," and I feel worse about myself because of it, so that any organic or natural impulse I have to write becomes secondary to the duty to write.

Again and again, the theme comes up in my life: love (or at least pleasure and license for happiness) weighed against duty (the should, the neurotic attempt to patch up self-esteem through good deeds, or necessary deeds, or doing what I think will please others). Ah, how funny it is! Little dog of my conscience, chasing its own tail.

So I think if I do have daily thoughts, I'll give myself permission to write them and not post them. And if I have weekly thoughts and want to post them, that's okay too.

Day One

It's the first day of May, and also the first day I can remember rising early specifically to meditate. For all of ten minutes, I sat on cushions on the living room floor and did what I could to disregard the puzzled dog and cats while they vied for my attention.

A month of blogging behind me, I am building on that now with this new practice. 

A one-day streak so far!

To bed now, in order to rise early again...

May Eve

Monday, and tomorrow, May.

The roses are exploding into bloom in the back yard, and the irises are out - dark pink and wine, needing staking left and right so they don't fall over with the weight of their own heads.

I have often fallen over with the weight of my own head - my own over-thinking - metaphorically speaking. Thank goodness for the various stakes and twines that hold me up!

The End and the Beginning

I titled this post thinking about the end of the weekend and the beginning of the week. But so many things are ending, and so many beginning right now, I suppose it applies to the bigger picture too. I found myself unable to hold back tears at the Senior concert as I thought of how this was the end of an era, this decades-long push and pull to get N. and S. though school. The end of seeing my children and their friends growing up together. The end of being part of a community of parents and teachers working together to help these kids learn and grow, intellectually and spiritually too.

Yesterday I went to work after that visit to the Human Race, grocery store, and coffee shop. The library hosted 65 people for a California Poets in the Schools student reading. It was lovely, and I was glad I could spend part of my lunch peeking in on it. We hope to have the event at the library in future, too. I am all for making a connection between the library and the literary community.

I spent the evening indulging in chocolate, wine, and Netflix, wondering whether S. was enjoying the prom. N. picked her up, because I had it from reliable sources (especially S.) that no one really wants to be picked up from their Senior Prom by a parent. Perhaps she was thinking about the potentially silent ride back from Sonoma with D., the night driver of the team. At any rate, I went to bed early, trusting that all would be well in spite of my anxiety about the combination of a late Saturday night, post-prom drivers and country roads. I slept in late this morning, too. Very late. I probably got 12 hours of sleep, which (added with the iron) has made a world of difference to my state of mind. I also had a good workout at the gym and, as usual, ran some errands and took care of some correspondence. All things that had been weighing heavily on me. I also went to an event honoring our newest county poet laureate. I couldn't stay long, but it was important for me to be there.

It's funny how I set tasks for myself of my own design and then feel compelled to do them even when I don't feel up to it, and how I feel shamed if I don't do so. Blogging daily is a case in point. And yet, if we don't set tasks for ourselves that are in keeping with accomplishing the bigger goals, how can we get there? Writing daily is something I want to do, because I am owning (so new-age) the identity of writer. Hell's bells, as Nana would say. I am just saying that I want to be better at this, which is also to say I want a better understanding of myself and my life, and daily practice is necessary for such a thing.

I've been noting on a slip of paper those pages in the Sarton book with quotes I want to remember.

This is the most recent (from page 226):

Every new book is like a pilgrimage, a long long walk where faith in the eventual destination has to be renewed again and again.

Saturday Retro

I had decided to sleep in rather than join in the Human Race , but I just had the nagging, but unverifiable, idea that I had signed up to help with check in between 6:30 and 7:30. And I know myself. I do better with accomplishing duties, tired though I might be, and disinterested as S. might be in doing her part, than I do in skipping such things and letting go. So I got up early and went. I checked in (it turns out I was not signed up to help!) and was there for the below picture from the local paper, but then I left early and went to the grocery story for breakfast and iron - I am so anemic, and it's been a week without, and I think that, plus a lack of sleep, has me feeling especially low. And I took a few minutes at a cafe to drink coffee, but not to write, as I didn't have my laptop with me. As this post illustrates, I had let the blog go for a few days. Did not writing it also affect my mood and self-esteem? I think so.

Here's the picture:

A motley crew (and sans S.) but at least my hair keeps my head from looking especially tiny!

Friday Retro

Two hours at the DMV this morning. It's always a good combination of forced down-time, white noise, and people-watching under such circumstances, and I was struck by how the tone of an entire crowd can be swayed by either one crying baby or one ill-tempered man, or, on the other hand, friends reconnecting with a smile or a group of strangers cheering for each other when the automated voice announces, "Now serving G25 at window number 6." Now we wait two to four weeks for the duplicate title to arrive. Then we schedule pick up of the pickup.

I was also able to run some errands, have a good workout at the gym, do a few chores around the house, get S. from school, nap for 40 minutes (much needed), and go to see the Senior concert at the H.S. where S. sang "New York State of Mind" and played backup for "Cry Me a River" and another piece, and helped with backup singing for "Why Must I Be a Teenager in Love." N. and her friend Christina came too, then I drove C. home, negotiating with S. about whether she needed to walk in the Human Race or not, given the fact that she also had a bass lesson and prom the next day - even though she'd been sponsored to walk. I am reminded that one must chose one's battles.

Thursday Retro

It is with some sadness that i report the loss of Mushu, the enormous sailfin plecostomus we have had since he was an inch and a half long. I think we probably got him fourteen years ago. By the time he died, he was probably closer to two feet long, give or take. And his belly was wider than D.'s hand.

I probably have pictures of him somewhere. But this is a very close proximity to what he looked like:

Certainly, from bow to stern he was longer than my forearm. It is the end of an era. D. had been wanting to turn the 450-gallon aquarium into something else for a while, even before we lost the old koi. But he'd held off because of Mushu. There are still who knows how many ancient 5th (6th?) generation corydoras catfish in the tank. But I have a sense, based on the announcement D. made after taking the triple-bagged pleco corpse out to the trash, that their days are numbered. 

Wednesday Retro

Once again, up late trying to find the pink slip for the truck. The amount of paperwork I have put in piles to shred and recycle is impressive, until I think about how it represents only about a hundredth of what I have to go through. Bird by bird, as Lamott would say. I have decided to go to the DMV on Friday and take care of it then. So much for having the thing towed by the end of the month. And another day without the roofers returning to put in the skylights. But these, as usual, are first world problems. No big deal. And it's so nice to see how good the roof looks - without being blanketed in huge brown tarps!

Paper Hoarders Unite

It has become quite clear while trying to find the truck title in all the usual places, and then all the many, many unusual places where we have squirreled away paperwork, that D. and I have the same unhealthy tendency to keep papers, with little organization - or in my case, redundant but inefficient and inconsistent organization - that we haven't needed for years, or even decades. And will never ever need.

Even if I were to become famous, or he were to become famous, and some poor sod wanted to write a biography, the papers would be more of a hinderance than a help. They wouldn't tell the story of a life. They would only tell the story of a disease.

We haven't found the title after a collective 10 hour search.

I have, however, gotten rid of a lot of papers, more than half of which will be shredded or burned.

It looks like we'll just request the duplicate title, and that my chances for coordinating a pick up of the pickup (see what I did there) on Friday are slim. They'd need more lead time than that. And of course, the rush - after all the non-rush - is that we want to avoid dealing with registration renewal, which is coming right up. The silly corners one paints oneself into!

The roofers will install our skylights today, and receive some honey in exchange. Looks like a short sleep tonight, as I'll need to get up early to do many things that I didn't get done because I was rifling through receipts from 2003. *Sheesh*

Bee Prepared

A horrible pun for the title of this (retro)post, no doubt because I am a bit sleep deprived.

It was a surreal day today. And not only because it's the 12 year anniversary of Mom's death. After taking S. to school and going to the gym as usual, I made a call to our local public radio station's car donation phone line to start the coordination of donating "Big Blue," the diesel truck that has sat in front of the house, unused, for over a year - having been used only once or twice the year before. Then the rush to work, only to see that I'd missed a text from Christine, beekeeper extraordinaire, to say that she had my hive bottom ready to return, and it had a little something extra on it.

She'd made a split from one of her hives, and it was ready to go to its new home. Fortunately, I had everything I needed in my car already (hence the post title) except a strap to secure the box, bottom & top for travel. So I wrangled an extra hour for my lunch, rushed to OSH to buy tie-downs to supplement the painters tape she'd closed it with, rushed to her house(open the gate, drive up the hill, strap down the hive, load in car, open gate), drove like a grandmother home, and put it in its new place, opening it up right away so the poor things could have air. Then rushed back to work and finished the evening, helping patrons with a calm and professional demeanor, after having scrambled like a madwoman for the sake of the bees.

I got home around 9:45pm.

Then the search for the truck title began...

Weekend End

Around 8pm, I whine about being so tired, and not knowing why, and N. says, “Because you’ve been zipping around like a hummingbird on meth for days.”

There may be something to that, if I think of it. If I stop measuring by how much I didn’t get done this weekend and look instead at what I did do. [Here, gentle reader, you may skip to the next paragraph to avoid the dull list meant primarily as a reference for my future self when she thinks her life was empty or she lazy.] Dinner out (nice, but not demanding), repacked and hauled boxes of books and Christmas things up into the attic, vacuumed, did laundry (a daily task anyway) dismantled and scorched the empty bee hive boxes (a light touch with the hand torch to kill pathogens), weeded, went to a 2 hour beekeeper meeting, drove 20 miles to sit for an hour in the dentist’s chair to fix a little gap where food was getting stuck, walked the old college haunts, walked around the water with D., wrote, crushed and extracted some frames of honey, cleaned the chicken coop, drove S. to meet a friend for coffee, went back and forth to the house twice to assist with the extraction of a huge swarm, drove S. to rehearsal another 15 miles away…Okay. So maybe my sleepiness is a little justified.

Here are some pictures of the swarm I helped hive. It was in a bottlebrush tree in a mobile home park. My mentor (queen beekeeper extraordinaire, keeper of great beekeeping knowledge) did 98% of the work. I just watched and feathered excess bees and learned.

This is the swarm, large and heavy, in a bottlebrush bush.

My mentor taped 2 mediums together to make a deep for the new beekeepers who will receive this swarm. I ran home to get the hive bottom from my supplies.

Here are the bees on the top of the box, once we'd given the branch a few shakes to drop them down. We scooped the overflowing bees up to the top of the box using the short side of a primary turkey feather - one of a beekeeper's most helpful tools. 

A Meeting Attended, a Reunion Missed, and a Numb Mouth

Went to the Sonoma County Beekeeper Association's South Cluster's Bee Cafe today. (How's that for a mouthful?) Met with other "beekers" and spoke about swarms and splits, bee-buddies and mentors.
I got some good advice about what to do with my now-empty Margo hive, and how to monitor my booming Little Oak hive. I may do a dive into it tomorrow, weather and time permitting. There are new and not-yet beekeepers who would appreciate the experience. I may text them if I plan to do a dive. If I can get my yard ready for company in time, too. Ugh.

This weekend was a 30th anniversary college reunion at Dominican. Every year I think I should go. This year, I felt more certain I would, but even that would was 95% should. I even scheduled a dental appointment just a few blocks away so that it would compel me to be in the neighborhood. I thought I would drop in for an hour or so post-bee-cafe for the the ($20 at the door) beer garden and class photo. I thought of the two or three people it might be nice to see. I couldn't remember many others beyond the few writing majors I hung out with the most. But the closer I got to it, the more I thought there was no real argument strong enough to force myself to an expensive awkward situation that might lead to future "we should have coffee sometimes" dates with people I didn't really have that much in common with - then or now. I suppose this is a typical introvert's (and stingy person's) excuse.

But once I gave myself permission not to go, encouraged by my family, who know me well, I was hugely relieved. I did stop by after the dental appointment, with half my face feeling puffy and useless. I walked around the beautiful campus, remembering odd tidbits of my experiences there, thinking that if I ran into anyone, it would be synchronistic and significant. But the party was clearly over. There were tents containing folded tables and stacks of folded chairs in the lawn in front of Meadowlands. And virtually no one on campus. I skulked around the library and Guzman hall, and poked my head into a couple other buildings, feeling slightly melancholy but at peace in my solitude. And then I headed home.

D. and I went for a walk in the evening, and I did yard work after. I have so much to do before the back yard is what I think it could be. Much weeding and planting, and time for the planted things to become established. I am grateful that I enjoy the process as much as I do. 

So Far, So Good

Today was our 27th wedding anniversary.

D. started the day before work by stopping me from running around getting ready to say, "By the way. Today marks the anniversary of the best decision I ever made in my life."

What a sweetheart.

He continued, "Seriously. Not a day goes by that I'm not thankful." (Awwww.) "I think to myself, man, I am so glad that I bought that curved screen monitor." 

That's my guy.

We celebrated with dinner out (sushi). It was fairly late, because we both had worked all day. But it was a great start to the weekend. I'll give him another 27 or more, and then reassess. And we'll see if the curved screen monitor lasts that long. Huh!

Lunchtime Note

This is a lunchtime note, at work at the library, where books are honored, and we the custodians of them. Although that sounds laughingly pompous as I write it!

Yet, the people who work here all are readers. We have all lost ourselves, and, I’m willing to bet, have found ourselves, too, in books.

That’s what’s been happening to me for the last year. I am finding myself anew. 

There is a wonderful quote in that May Sarton journal (At Seventy). It comes early in the text. When asked why she loved being old, she quotes herself as replying spontaneously, “ ‘Because I am more myself than I have ever been. There is less conflict. I am happier, more balanced, and’ (I heard myself say rather aggressively) ‘more powerful.’ ”

I know just what you mean, May.

Go Slow

I am trying to be patient with myself, and not just...collapse...into "I can't" and "I'm done" at the end of the day. So after work, I had dinner then went to the gym, then asked myself why I feel so weighed down and burdened right now.

It may be the rejection note I received from my latest little foray into getting some poems published. I'm allowing that at some level, I may be feeling down about that. Or it may be that I've had too many nights with too little sleep in the last week or so.

All I can do to test my theory is sleep a bit more, write a bit more, send more out into the world - because there is a way in which publication is a numbers game, and I am too stingy with submissions. Or too lazy - and I can't expect acceptance letters from publishers who haven't even had the opportunity to read my work.

And in the meantime, I am just acknowledging that tonight, I feel heavy. And that's okay. I can still do a little bit. Better a little bit every day than giving up before I've even tried.

And in the meantime, because yesterday's post was a bit of a tease, here's a link to Odd Salon for those curious. It is really the most amazingly wonderful thing. What a way to learn weird things about history, architecture, art and science! I'm grateful to know a Fellow of the Odd Salon and to be able to get to an event every now and then.