Moleskine Mish Mash & perhaps a little give away...

.

.

.

maybe if you click on this and it enlarges you will see some of my 'personal narrative'

.

.

I wish I could send everyone I know and care about a Moleskine. I like the fact that Ernest Hemingway had one and I like that the protective hardbound cover pretty much assures that I will keep mine safely tucked away, maybe even to be viewed by great grandchildren I will never know.

.

.

It's romantic and pragmatic for a writer to carry a Moleskine. I can't even count how many times I'm driving and I pull over to write down something I've thought of or heard.

.

.

I'm just finishing up my fifth or sixth Moleskine. Here are some random entries as this one comes to a close:
.

.

Day 3 in Provincetown

Lo buys a CD in front of town hall, from Brenda who could be a guy but isn't

Debra Kay hits every dog store

kj drops her books off at Now Voyager: oooh the book is in the window

we laugh our asses off at kj's crazy stupid joke: DK tells it to two strange men at the Mews' Bar and one of them thinks it's funny. kj gloats

.

The joke:

This monk walks into a diner. He smiles at the waitress and says to her:

'Did you see me come in?'

'Yes,' she says.

'Have you ever seen me before?'

'No,' she says.

'Then how did you know it was me?'

.

"don't hold grudges: everyone in my life is a teacher, through hurt or through joy."

.

My cousin Russell and my Mother, who has lost her working memory:

Russell: I was your favorite nephew.

Mom: You probably still are.

.

If and when I have to prepare, Renee, I will need you to help me know.

.

'Sometimes we live in a cool corner of hell because we don't want to go through the fire.'

.

"I came to conclude that some participants had walked away from her. I knew she had had two best friends before me and both were quite gone, possibly no longer nourished by her dishes.

.

Advice for a therapist: "Be the one who argues for not changing so she doesn't have to"

.

Nicole, age 25: 'I've been in a hurry to do the important things my whole life'

.

Are the past and present equally real?

.

'Until Thursday, they parted with at least two kisses'

.

Fuck cancer

.

Whoever dances belongs to the whole

.

The hard part is that knowing doesn't matter.

Susan says read this book: To scared to cry by Lenore Teer

Dear kj, I'm writing to you from the future....

.

Eulogy for Jeff's son: 'He was content with his portion'

.

who wouldn't want a transitional teddy bear?

.

Sign in high school computer room:

Love all

Trust a few

Harm none

.

Ryan to his Mother, "When I'm four, will my name still start with R?

.

And Casey, falling into a passion she had unknowingly buried years ago, could not stop either one of them. Could not. Did not.

.

Advice from Nancy Rose: Not sure what to write about? Write about then things you don't want to write about.

.

.
From a client: 'It hurt so much it was like three corners of awful'

Okay: if you've read this far, I'm sneaking in a little contest. The prize is a moleskine of your very own. Here are the rules:

1. Choose your favorite snippet from above and explain why your chose it.

2. I will select my favorite explanation.

3. The winner will receive a moleskine that may come with a doodle or two already in it....

♥

One more thing: it was so hot today the candles on the porch melted!!!

.

.

Love,

kj

.

p.s. I don't know WHEN Emily Rabbit will appear, but I know she will......

One Impulsive Click (Click, not Chick!)

Well!

.

I need help!

.

I wanted to know the difference between public versus private following of a blog, so I added myself as a private follower on my new private blog. At least I think that's what I did.

.

Whatever I did, the comments I leave and get are now coming to me only as emails. They are nowhere to be found in the land of the blogs.

.

Can anyone help me undo the one step I took and cannot even remember how or where to undo it?

.

I miss my comments! And imagine if I couldn't publicly respond to your wonderful blogs?!

.

HELP!

Time for a Change

.
.

.
.

This postcard came to me from my auto repair shop.

.

.

The irony was not lost on me.

.

,

I'd say it's time for an oil change

.

in more ways than one.

.

.

My prayers these days are full up

.

with thoughts of wildlife in the Gulf of Mexico,

.

and folks in Saint Bernard County in New Orleans,

.

who courageously survived their first disaster

.

only to now face

.

the gunky disgusting thick presence of

.

oil in their pristine waters

.

and protected shores.

.

.

What can I do?

.

How can I lessen my own dependence on oil?

.

.

Because it has to start with me.

.

.

The solution has to include me.

.

.

This much I know....

Color

Yesterday's post was a bit serious. I get embarrassed when I publicly lament. But it seems that every once in a while I have to reinforce and remind at least myself that I am not yet past something and someone that has hurt me without a care. Maybe that's part of the way I grieve. But not today. It's a four day weekend. No have-to-do plans. It's a good day.
.
.
This morning JB and I went to the local downtown Farmer's Market. We had a shopping list: at least one flat of zinnias, a six pack of coleus, whatever fresh vegetables caught our eyes.
.
.
.
.
There are two things about living in Western Massachusetts--farm country--that never fail to excite me.
.
.

One is the abundance of fresh and inexpensive fruit and vegetables and flowers and plants.
.
.

.
.
The other is the way the grass feels on my bare feet.
.
.

.
.
Note: a transition is now occurring: After the Farmer's Market, after I (finally) inquired (and can now arrange) to get more disk space on my hard drive (between that and Blogger, I'm never sure I can reliably upload my photos), and after I found the apricot moisturizing cream I ran out of and love, JB and did some quick shopping before returning to the garden .
.
.
.
.
First, let me tell you about these candles. They are the best candles you will ever have. They last and they GLOW. You'll find them in many shops and specialty stores: I encourage you to seek them out. Sometimes they are on sale. Does anyone else have them? Because if you do, I know you will agree with me.
.
.

.
.
In my town of Northampton, which is essentially a college town surrounded by farms, there is a one of a kind store called Faces. It is collegiate, colorful, funky. Take a look:
.
.

.
.
.
.
(Here comes transition # 2): We are making progress in the yard. I am in no rush: I enjoy the process and result of every weed I pull and every flower I plant. My professional work and career has often been difficult and sometimes impossible to quantify or measure, so for me something like yard work is delightfully creative and refreshingly concrete.
.
.

. This is the bowl Annie Coe made. Isn't it gorgeous

?.
What? Another transition?What kind of writing is this?) JB and I ate outdoors tonight. She grilled vegetables and potatoes and I sauteed fresh scallops. I dipped them in an egg and then lightly in flour, and added lemon 1o minutes later when they were done. I buy my seafood at a local fish store so small you can hardly turn around. The owner threw in a lemon for good measure. That is another thing I like about living here: people are easy going.

.
.

And then cappuccino. The cappuccino machine was a splurge during the three or so months we thought JB and I thought we were millionaires. We had sold our Victorian house in Newton, made quite a profit, and since we were moving to a new house anyway, we HAD to shop. The limitless abundance didn't last long, but was it ever fun for a time.
.
.

.
.

Yesterday I wrote a pretty sad post that included the dramatic stories of the death of weeds and certain over-extended plants. I mentioned that JB had rehabilitated the pansies that were destined for the wheel barrel trash. This afternoon I pulled out the rest of the pansies and now we have rehabilitated pansies all over the house.

.
.

.

.

Not to mention a few singular hydrangeas: my second favorite flower after pink zinnias.

.

.

.
.
It's been a relaxing night. I am sitting in the little den across from the kitchen looking for colors. (It's now a habit: I see something that excites me and I can't wait to share it here. What great friends and blog visitors I have. What fun we have together, even though it's sad sometimes too).
.

.
(Final transition): This is Rosie. She died several years before we adopted Stella. Everyone knows how much I love Stella, but I have to say Rosie was the most special dog. She was happy and bouncy until the very end, and when had to leave, she sent a dog to find me the next day. He showed up and nudged me from behind, kept rubbing his face into me. "He's never done that before," his owner said. I didn't say anything but I understood. Vanessa, Ms. V, I am sorry for the loss of your dog Baby. I know how sad you are, with good reason.
.

.

.
So today was far better than yesterday. I know why I was upset yesterday. I brought it on myself. I don't think I am ever going to master not feeling, and I will always hold loyalty and kindness to the highest standard. I received so many wonderful comments about that post, and they all helped me get a grip. Thank you for your comments.

So what's up for the rest of the weekend?

JB and I have agreed to meet at 7 am in the yard for a few hours of cooler weather yard work. (after my precious first cup of coffee)

I heard there is a place that sells special lilies only three weekends a year, and this weekend is one of them.

We will take my Mother out for a lobster roll.

I have bills to pay.

And photos to order.

Some special cards to write.

Maybe a swim at the Clarion pool.

More plantings and weeds-be-gone. Even some design.

A dozen or so work reports that are due on Tuesday.

And a reminder that I live in a free country, that I will never take my freedom for granted.

Happy fourth of July to my American friends.

And Happy tomorrow to everyone.

love

kj

Gardens

.

.
The garden got weeded this morning. It is not much of a garden this year, lettuce and herbs and eight various tomato plants; not much a of harvest but what wasn't planted has made way for happy perennials which never mind showing off their colors.

.
Gardens carry memories for me. And lessons. When I was newly married, my husband and I incredulously at 25 years old bought the first house I would own, a modest ranch on a half acre, not a mile from one of the most beautiful harbors and coastlines I will ever see.
.
.
I planted my first garden in the side yard of that house and couldn't believe how within days patience delivered cracks in the ground, then the breakthrough of small buds, and then, inch by inch, plants!--tomatoes and green beans and eggplant and broccoli. There have been seasons I've had gardens and seasons I haven't. I like having them better than not having them.
.
.
JB and I have lived in this house now for five years. It is a wonderful space and place. But something happened early on that was for some time lovely and at end horrible and I carry that sadness in the yard. Now, sometimes when I'm in my yard, I am reminded that love sometimes is not enough. And sometimes--I'm not sure--I wonder if love sometimes is not love.
.
.
I thought of my garden today along side a post that Marion wrote yesterday on meadows and mountains. You should read it. Marion is very observant and very wise. She is also my Sister. There are so many many things I cannot tell you about Marion because I do not know them, but she and I are side by side in the Sisterhood. Go here if you don't know her already. And if you don't mind, tell her that kj loves her.
.
.
The garden was overrun with weeds this morning. JB and I worked the better part of the day pulling some easy and some tenacious roots up and out. Now the garden looks like it just had the best haircut, and it looks happy about it.
.
.
The weeds get piled into a wheelbarrel and tossed over the fence of our neighbor's backyard. She wants the deep slope to fill in so we can always dump our cuttings and clean ups there. That is a huge convenience and a small blessing.
.
. .
.
When weeds are pulled, they are left for dead and they die quickly. Same with flowers pulled from the ground because they've outlasted their appearance. It's no longer time for pansies in New England. They are first up in spring, but now they are leggy and tired. JB pulled them up but she did not put them in the wheelbarrel.
.
.
.
.
Here they are, out of the ground, ready for their new gig in the house. What could be prettier?
.
.
It's not always obvious which are weeds and which are flowers, what lives and what dies, and why.

.
.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
.
Why do I assume I know anything? How do I know when I should be in the meadow and when it's time to head for the mountain and...when it's time that something may happen for reasons that I did not except and may not agree with? Of course I have hopes and goals and I follow them to various degrees. But beyond that what happens is not my call. When did I start believing, start knowing this? It lightens things up.
.
.
What happens next is up to some power greater than me. My personal opinion is it's a benevolent universe. Why bad sad things happen in a benevolent universe is not something I can answer. But I think there's way far more good than bad in the world, and in myself.
.
.
All I can do is show up, which I do. And Tend. Nourish. Weed. Wait. Care. Harvest.
.
That's all I can do. Please God, let me look forward now. There are too many beautiful and purposeful plants and weeds, too beautiful and purposeful to miss another second.
.
Happy Weekend All,

love kj

Animal Wednesday: Emily's Garden Update

.
.
.

.

WAA WAA WAH WAA WAH BOO HOO!

.
.

kj put my post on the wrong blog!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You have to go here:

.

.

www.bloglandlane.blogspot.com

.

.

please please please click on this

.

because I will be very depressed

.

if I don't get attention because of kj's error,

.

which she says was not her fault

.

but I blame her anyway.

.

Sincerely

.

Emily Rabbit

The Precursor and Predictable Story of Two Little Boys and One Little Rabbit

.

.
Ryan, what was your favorite part of the weekend?

.

.

The lollipops and jellybeans.

.

.

Ryan, some people might tell you there is no such thing as growing lollipops and jellybeans in the garden.

.

.

But there is, Gram. I watered them. And I ate them.

.

.

.

.

.
Ryan, do you know Emily Rabbit?

.

.

Who is that?

.

.

She is a rabbit and as sure as I know anything

.

she is going to charge me rent money

.

for enjoying her garden.

.

.

What is rent money?

.

.

Nevermind .

.

.

.

Drew, what was your favorite part of the weekend?

BAbaBAbaBAbaBA. Translation: Playing in the yard and eating cherrios.

.
And as the weekend drew to a close.....

.

.

.
...a note suddenly appeared in between the rows of lollipops:

.
.

.

.
Oh dear....

Untitled

.

.

.

What a great weekend I had. Nothing like spending precious time with adored wonderful children who laugh when they are happy and cry when they are upset. Simple and real. Sometimes I wonder how we adults lose that simplcity along the way.

.

.

It's been too long since I've written poetry. I love poetry. I used to write prolifically, sometimes two or more poems a week, but one day a bit more than a year ago, I just stopped. I know why.

.

.

I wrote this poem on Nerissa Nields' couch one Monday night when I was still lost and reeling and even so, wishing, wanting to allow for something good.

.

.
It's much easier here in the blogs and for most of us to share and write optimistically; harder to talk about what's wrong. I think this is actually an optimistic poem, but lest anyone think, despite my many blessings, that I'm coasting along with a heart with no cracks in it: nope. Not me.

.

.
If you've been hurt, please accept this poem as a rest stop along the way. I think some good comes from hearts that break. I'm not as sure as I used to be, but I'm still pretty sure.

.

.

Untitled

.

.

If a heart can break in two

Can it break in fours

And eights

And sixteens and thirty twos?

And if it can break into that many pieces

All small enough to fit in the fold of my hand

Can I shake those pieces up,

Shake them in a martini tumbler

Or hand them to the crappier at Foxwoods,

Ask her to toss them long and hard;

Watch them tumble all over the surface that is me

Spilling all that unused love into welcomed waiting corners

Like warm raindrops in the August sun.

.

.

Love

kj

Saturday

.
..
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.

.

.

.

.

.
.

A certain kind of love by Mr. Ryan, age 3

.
.
How many grown ups have scary rubber lizards outside the door a of Magic Cottage?
.
.

.

.

.

.

How many grown ups let you eat ice cream in the Big Boy Chair, even if it's a little past your bedtime?

.
.

.

.

.

.
And have a fairy named Chole in the back yard who isn't scary and lives in the ferns?

.

.

.

.

.

.

How many grown ups don't mind letting my brother Drewbee and me squirt the hose in every direction, no matter how wet we get?

.

.

.

.

.

.

How many grown ups have lollipops in their garden so you can just pick any color you want and pull it right from the ground?

.

(Except for some reason even though all the sticks and wrappers looked perfect, there were no lollipops inside--not one! Gram and I had to plant two brand new rows. Did someone eat all the lollipops and then make it look like she didn't?)

.

.

. .

.

.

And how many grown ups love my Mother so much they wrote a poem about her and if they could they would do anything in the entire world for her, no questions asked... (and for me and Drewbee and my Dad too)

.

.

.

Jessica

.
Take both eyes, both hands,
My legs and arms,
Even take the precious German clock
And every special book.
.
Take my bank account,
All twenty photo albums,
My garden in August
And the miraculous April rain.
.
Take it all if you can promise.
I knew in the instant this would be so.
I’m into any burning house,
Onto a frigid raft at sea,
I’m ripping the mangled steel with my bare hands.
.
Anything, anything for this girl.
The edgeless corners of the truest love
And the endless reserve of cavernous protection
Surround this child who lives within and without,
This fantabulous kid with the crack up wit
And the tender expansive heart.
.
Take it all, whether you are a son-of-a-bitch
Or an evolving angel,
Whether the cost is temporary or forever,
Take it all if you’ll shelter this child
Through every molecular motion and moment.
.
She sits at a desk with wall
And she finds little bargains at malls.
She eats salads at Bugaboo Creek
And on Sundays brings Sprite to her grandmother.
She is an anchor in an unsteady world.
She is hybrid fuel to those who love her.
She is a reason to push
And the forever foremost answer
To everything that could ever matter.
.
Given the chance to love like this,
The price of my sightless limbless body
And wiped clean barren possessions
Amounts to nothing more than shiny pennies and
And effortless will.

Mish Mash Splish Spalsh

.
.
I feel like I've been away too long, which I kind of have since I've had one weekend in the tall big city and another in the rolling green country. I wasn't far from blogging and my friends here though. I thought of you every time I snapped my camera or came across something I couldn't wait to share.
.
.
I'm writing this on Thursday night. Tomorrow JB and I are driving two hours to see how the spiffying up of my Mother's house is coming along, and Mr. Ryan and baby Mr. Drew are coming for the weekend. This will be total exhaustion. I say this from experience. But I am very excited. I am loving figuring out what I will and want to give/share/support/guide/love these two precious grandchildren of mine. Ryan is 3, Drew turned one in April. I don't know Drew as well as I know Ryan. So time with him is overdue and good.

.

.

We will all walk to the park next door. There is a little water park, an electric train with little carriage cars, paddle boats, the river and fireplace sites. In a nearby town there is the Eric Carle Museum. There will be probably be pancakes made by me, books and puzzles on the couch, digging in dirt, pushing petunias into the ground. And I don't know what else yet. I am hoping my exhaustion does not take over until Sunday. I doubt that is in any way a realistic hope. :)
.
.
Anyway, this is supposed to be a mish mash. Here goes:
.

.

1. Clients: When I post about my clients, I don't do it to get compliments on what a good person I am to do this work. I appreciate the compliments, but honestly I'm more interested in whether what I share shines a light on something that is helpful to know, that might help you or someone else.
.

.

So in this vein may I tell you that Lily turns 14 next week. Things are way better for her than they were a year ago; then she and her Mother were two of the poorest clients I had-- barely furniture in the apartment and no money for anything. Lily is not likely to make it past 8th grade. She doesn't even try and the schools she will go to are bad. Anyway, for her birthday I took her over the bridge five miles to Michael's Arts and Crafts Store. I told her she could buy

$ 10 worth of anything. This was a big trip for her. She was nervous when I seemed lost (I was). She had never heard of Michael's before. The whole thing was a smash success. When I took her home, she hugged me, said thank you, even stopped non-stop talking for two minutes. Here's what I hope: I hope she will remember this as one of those moments you always remember. (note: therapists are not really supposed to be taking clients to stores. I push the envelope. I think it's good therapy.)
.

.

2. There are currently 31 stories and letters to Renee on the blog "Renee's Book of Love". I haven't written mine yet, and many others of Renee's friends haven't yet. I hope by Fall maybe we'll have 50 stories, or more. This is what I'm thinking to make a book out of this: I am going to take copies of some of Renee's posts to the local Cancer Connection. Then I'm going to ask them to endorse a local grant I will then apply to for $ 1000 to publish Renee's book.
.

.
This is one of those things I am just trusting will get done one way or another. Thank you for the privilege, Ms. Renee. (note # 2: If you happen to be in love with Renee and you haven't contributed something in words or colors yet, please consider doing so. I think it will make you happy for years ahead.)
.

.

.

.
.

& Wonderful talented amazing Caroline has given her permission to use this wonderful talented amazing watercolor for the cover of Renee's Book of Love

.

.

.

.

3. Stella is feeling better, but she is not herself. The surgery took a lot out of her. She is afraid to walk in certain parts of the house. She needs towel changes on her bed. She won't come in my office or go out the back door. I think she will continue to improve. As for the tumor, it will likely come back but hopefully not soon. I hope not for two years anyway. This is a good dog. She tries as hard as she can, and she says thank you with her eyes.

.

.

.

.

.

4. Friends: Don't they look like fun to hang out with?
.

.

.

5. HELP! I only have so much time, and I don't know whether to work on my second book, promote my first one, or at least try to draw and paint. Please tell me what to do..... :)

.

6. Sometimes at night the light in my house looks unreal. It might be the yellow walls, or my camera, but I don't think that's all of it.

.

.

.
.

.
.
7. Do you think these signs are funny?

These are not city signs.

.
.

.

8. I am going to Provincetown for 3 WEEKS in August. JB and I will have lots of company: (and possibly certain friends who make my heart sing). I hope I get five days alone to write. In Provincetown the words just seem to flow; I just have to keep up with them so I can write them down.

.
.

.
.
Finally, if you've been reading this post too long already, lucky for you it's taking me too long to download or is it upload any more of my photos. So I will end here by clarifying that I still qualify as a bona fide confused seeker and I am not out of the emotional woods yet even though I concede that I may be and not know it.....
.
Just saying...,
.
Love
kj