Every day the tides come in and out.  Some days the water is rough. Other days it quiet.

There is flag up on the beach. A long thin pole and a flutter of color at the end to make a mark.

Here. Once time the water got this far up on the sand.

Every day we can measure where we stand, between the tide of now and the once-was.

I wasn’t there the day the water hit that mark. I register my storms and lulls with the stories they leave in my memories.  The storms and swells move the sands my lifetime. I make my own markers.

This maxim

This verse

And I know who I am and if I am safe.

As a kid, if a my mother couldn’t remember something, she like to say that Einstein never memorized phone numbers. His theory was that he could always look it up in the phone book, so why waste his brain on it?

And such a fine brain Dr. Albert had. My lesser brain can be saved from the trivia of phone numbers. And driving directions. And spelling. And thousands of other facts that can be apprehended with the ease of a click and a sentence

Information flows though the ether with so much ease and reliability, the sands of my life are barely touched.

The life of the information so prepackaged has been dried and doesn’t take root to connect with me.

Memory has to have soul. Either the information or my own spirit makes the facts and stories come alive to life in my memory. St. Augustine talks about the house of memory.

“The power of the memory is great, O Lord,” he wrote. “It is awe-inspiring in its profound and incalculable complexity… The wide plains of my memory and its innumerable caverns and hollows are full beyond compute of countless things of all kinds.”

“Yet, however it may be, and in whatever inexplicable and incomprehensible way it happens,” St. Augustine wrote, “I am certain that I remember forgetfulness, even though forgetfulness obliterates all that we remember.”

That part about forgetfulness. If I long to remember the important and beautiful things, I can also draw a curtain over hard things. I choose forgetfulness, with partial success.

I didn’t want to remember my chemotherapy treatments even as they were happening. I am happy they are over, hopefully never to return.

And I find myself cauterizing this delicate memory. It used to be so sharp. I hear others talk about ‘chemo brain.’ Certainly I lost speed of recall as I was under treatment.

I want to restore  my tender quick memory. I fear it is scarred like my veins.

Does that sound familiar? Even before the chemo I had fears that I didn’t remember enough of the right information fast enough.

Augustine’s idea of the house of memory is new to me. To use my senses and body in the world to vivify my experience. Those memories could be found in order to be cherished rather than taunt me with their distance.

As a writer and a memoirist, I have spent years unearthing and polishing the memories for my art. Last night, I lay perfectly still in an MRI machine with my eyes shut and a machine CLUNKCLUNK click click ZZHH zzzhhh ZZZHHH around me.

This time it was safe. Routine check up. My house of memory invited me to explore. From the comfort of a free and clear present I walked though the past

paralyzing fear

peace

joy

A true home to live in. There are more rooms to fill. Adventures, after all, are just what a person does every day.

Oh no, my work is asking for a new report and I am not even sure what they want.
And are we out of milk? What will my daughter do for breakfast?

Do I have time before my next meeting to get to the store and back?

My husband looks at me “I have…”

I whip around and glare at him, waiting for him to give me yet another task when I have no time and everyone needs everything from me.

He reacts to my attack stance. “I need to tell you something!”

Deep breath. “I didn’t say anything. I’m listening.”
I do not have time for this, I have already missed the maybe-window to run out and get milk, which he seems to be TOTALLY unaware of and the disaster that  is looming.

He looks at me “I’m trying to tell you.”

Yet MORE time has gone by while he kills time telling me that he’s about to tell me something.

“Tell me!”

He tilts his head and takes my hand. “I should show you.”

Deeper breath.

This is my husband.  

He is not attacking me.

He leads me to my desk. “I heard you when you were complaining about the bugs flying in. I have a plug-in bug killer that should help.

I looked up at him.

And threw my arms around him.

This is why I do those work projects. It’s why I get the milk.

We are taking care of each other. And it can be a fight every day. Some days more than others.

This house is strong. It has stood and will stand through many storms.

I don’t have to bring any under my own roof.

Now he can smile at me. It’s safe again

“Thank you baby,”I tell him. “You are wonderful.”

My favorite fairytale when I was a child was Cinderella. And the Disney movie has a fantastic moment when the fairy godmother shows up. She had a magic word:

Bibbity boppety boo!

Cinderella has worked within the system she was given, but the system was rigged. Her evil stepmother served her up to be torn down.

But the magic of her godmother worked when all hope was lost.

The middle ages had a secret study of the mystery which transformed basic things to into precious ones.

Those alchemists practiced The Art to unlock the secrets of the cosmos and transmute lead into gold. As they stretched their understanding, they attempted to manifest their hopes and desires. How far did they get? What did they achieve?

Every day I get up and hope to take my basic day and find the treasure, turn the straw into gold. What art am I practicing? Is it art at all?

I am committed to this weekly wonder essay. I make my attempt, and sometimes I am pleased with what I create. Often I am disappointed, but only practice makes perfect. And really, perfect is not in reach even with practice.

I set aside time for this art. I take time away from my work—both in my house and for my job—to do this. Stuff I do every day is not high art.

I string words together. I write emails, reports, meeting agendas. As a project manager I make plans and gather info to give everyone their “next action” assignments.

With the amount of words I string together it can feel as ordinary as old cardboard. And yet I am building a container for the magic to happen. Those words add the energy and motion which morphs the wish into a reality.

An idea into a design, then into a list of materials and finally into a system that works and connects to itself and others.

I know things don’t always turn out, Cinderella. And then again, dreams do come true. I’ll make a plan and think about it while I fall asleep. I can wake up and write it down. Then scratch it out and try again. If I keep persist it has a reasonable chance to come true

In the cool this morning I went out to trim the manzanita bushes. They’ve grown unmolested for years. They were fine—healthy unremarkable bushes in my front yard.

That wasn’t what I wanted when I planted them. I wanted those throbbing twisted red branches that captured my eyes through my walks in the desert mountains. Could these live in my land?

These bushy little bushes weren’t bringing those desert mountain to me. What is missing? The mystery is under there. Was I brave enough to find them?

I had never taken the trimmers to get the extra foliage out of the way.

Clipping away the little shoots. I began to see the shape of the main branches and grew bolder. I didn’t knowwhat I was doing but the beauty I saw in the tree was my guide on what to cut away.

Then the sun grew hotter and I had to stop for today. The family is going to an art museum.

 The last sands are tumbling through the glass for my daughter’s childhood—she is tracking and crossing off the homework to finish her senior year. The teachers gave her syllabi and rubrics so she knows how to get it right. She has an art class as a treat after her hard work last year.

Careful mama that I am, I hope she has been given the wisdom to go into grownup life. Those instructions that guarantee an A+ are harder to find after graduation.

How will she know what choices to make?

Walking the museum we saw the results of a million choices. Why that stroke? Why that color? The reason and the action synthesize into these results. The cherished objects, highly valued and admired.

Those artists were guided in the same was I had been, cutting to see the beauty of the manzanita.

I don’t know why Van Gogh chose to paint his mother with green skin tones, or what she thought of it. I can’t explain every cut I made on the manzanita.

As my girl steps into the world, without the instructions of a teacher to guide her, I can let her know that beauty can let her know. She is the one who knows what beauty is in the moment. Mistakes will be made. We can both trust that her heart and her life is strong enough to recover as she keeps reaching for the best brightest and most beautiful.

I thought I was done with cancer. I fought it and won. I hope I did

Last weekend I got a new series of tesst for my sweet cat Simon, and he has non-treatable lung cancer.
He is ten years old. We hoped he could live that much more. Now we are on cat hospice.
There are tears and survivors guilt. How is it that I could have recovered and he cannot?
He’s still with us. He is weak but still loves us and can play.
I am thinking of what love means from this small cat.
Pretty much the same thing as love means from anyone.

he’s glad to see me. He wants to be where I am. He gives a chirpy purr meow when I pet him unexpectantly. He has been our kitty for so long, it breaks my heart to think that he won’t be able to greet me this way much longer.

So we watch him, and check in on him often. He needs help to junp down from his usual places.

He doesn’t know that he shouldn’t. But if he does, his breath heaves and his heart races.

So we race to catch him before he jumps, and take him to his next favorite space.
I can remember all the ways that this cat made me feel good. Right now, this means that I race after him to make sure that he feels good.
It’s not about me getting from him.
It’s broken my heart open, and the whole family is cooperating to help him be as comfortable as he can be for however much time he has left.
We are considerate of one another far more than before.
Love is bigger than I can say.
I think I know. And then I realize I do not.

Archeologists found some ancient bones showing that humans have taken care of disables children, feeing and caring for them so that they could grow.
Why?
Love is strong. Love is more than what it gives. If I were strong only for myself, I could get lazy. Good enough is good enough.
But when a little helpless one needs me, I will make the effort. Scientist want to call that an advantage. Maybe it is.
Or maybe the practice of love is higher than human advantage. I don’t know.
I know we are all going to love our Simon cat as long as we can and even after.

The grass is dry and the leaves on the trees are dusty. The morning skies have been silent and too hot. It is the tired end of summer. Things are not growing around here, they are ripening to their end.  Seeds are scattering as the last fading will of the plants that once sprouted and grew green. They are done.

This Wonderblog and the Weeekly wonder was started more than twenty years ago. Could it be dried up? Have I reached the end of the life like those dried green grasses?

Does curiosity and wonder have an end?

Watching this change of season, oppressed by the heat I have stopped hearing the birds. The mornings have been hot and quiet.

Has my questioning and questing spirit gone silent too?

Just now

I heard a little peep.

A chirp

A bird has joined me to greet the morning.  The season has changed and what I missed has returned.

I wonder. Was that first bird was moved by curiousity? Was that how the migration started? That the environment—not too cool, not to hot– it was seeking was on the other side of the valley. What if it was a shift that led to more and more until then life changed for everyone?

I don’t have to stop seeking. I can quest a little longer.

Even the grass that I judged dead is scattering wide a ticket  to new possibilities. Those seeds could scatted ot nothings or they could turn jackpot with a hundredfold more seeds if they hit it just right.

The curiousity, the wonder which leads to the quest will be there. I am not willing to give it up yet.