A cheerfully plump brown bird, almost as big as a robin was curious about me

I heard him chirp as I sat in my office work chair with the door open. It took a few more chirps to pull my out of the office suite and I looked up from my computer monitors.

Lo, and behold this little guy was not in the yard. He had hopped into my office and was looking up at me from little rug laid at the door with expectation.

A bird? In here?

“Did you come inside? What do you think you will find?”

He chirped again, a playful dart of joy bouncing into the walls.

And tilted his head, one big eye nailing down my gaze.

My messy workspace received a visitation from a glorious glossy creature of mystery and flight.

I conceded the staring contest to look around for bird danger here. Mostly safe, but not if he were trapped and couldn’t find his way back to nature and the sky.

“This is not a spot for you,” I said.

He considered my words. A small hop took him closer to the open door.

He still looked at me.  “You don’t want to get lost in here.”

Chreep

He only looked at me.

A few moments of friendly contemplation, then he stretched his feathers and flew back to the sky.

The next day a storm came through. I was expecting it. My sweet husband keeps me updated concerning the weather, especially when it is exciting.

But I had Teams meetings to join and there were agendas to update and notes to capture.

Then the rain came down against the roof like I was inside a snare drum. Startled, I hit  mute so those remote team members wouldn’t be disturbed.

They were oblivious.

I muted my camera to jumped up and see.

I swung open the door, seeing the high splashes of the drops hitting my walkway. The tension of nourishing violence vibrated in my being.

Up in the sky–right above–a black crow swirled in a dance through the downpour.  Ah,there were two. The force of the rainwater ricocheted off the land. Were these birds in trouble?

I was in shelter but these two birds found the air between the water and played together with the action of the earth and sky.

I was exalted in the action.

The meeting plodded on, and I stepped back to my seat.

I am split between the drone and the drama.

Taking notes.

We are so aware that this is our last –our only—child and this is her last year of school. We all know things are going to change as she will move away and go to college. In this state of mind I feel very loving and generous to this precious person. And I also know she doesn’t need me to do that much.

I have worked all these years to help her be independent.  There are so many things a person must do when they are on their own. I have taught her some things, like laundry and cooking. My impulse is to do all those things for her now. I fear could be counter-productive.

Certainly, when I was a kid I had to do more than most kids are expected to do now. More than I expected her to do. Sometimes I have come up to dishes in the sink and said “You didn’t realize that the magic fairy who takes care of these dishes if off duty today.”

She will look shamefaced. It doesn’t happen very often anymore.

I’m looking back to remember when I was a teenager and a twenty-nothing year old. I had to do some dumb things to learn how to be the capable mom that I am.

I remember making different sets of keys because I was always losing them. I started with making a spare set. Then I would lose both sets. I had 5 different sets of keys before a friend gave me the advice of hanging a hook by the front door and always putting my keys there.

Magic!

A huge problem solved so easily.

It wasn’t magic, though. It was me making a change, upon advice. I struggled and tried different solutions. In the end I was my own fairy godmother.

Same things with my career, and my marriage. I got up, struggled, arranged my face into the smile required to make a place for myself among civil society. I tried things, learned things, got some results I wanted and others I didn’t.

It helps to be around people who pay enough attention to my life to give good advice.

And I learned to trust myself to keep trying and get closer to what I am aiming at.
I trust that she will go after what she wants. My girl is so capable. I’ll have to let her make the kind of mistakes that she can learn from.

Let me peel that away. She’ll be fine. What about me?

Am I ready to do the work to make my next magic story? I’ve kept track of my keys for her whole life. Now I think I need to open the lock on a next level.

She is hungry to grab life. I’ve had my first trip through that buffet. I  also know that it’s a lot

I’ve learned that habit too—practicing the magic of the struggle. To get up, try things, and then try again to get even closer. Those godmothers make it look easy. Magic takes a lot of practice. We’ll each work under our own hats.

I’ve heard that artists make beautiful art by taking the marble and chipping away everything that doesn’t look like the art they want to create.
Art is an expression of the point of view of the artist. What I choose to include and exclude to express my vision is what the art means.

I haven’t carved marble yet. I use words.
All day I make professional documents. I’ve gotten very good at it. Keep it clean. Oil the barrel, chamber the bullet points.
Aim and shoot. Time is money.
Hmm. Both can be exchanged for a lot of things. What could I choose to buy with my time?

I have been restraining my words. Caged and domesticated. Do I want to be the best at what other people decided?
I used to have notebooks filled with thoughts and attempts at profundity trying to find the beauty I saw around me, to pin down the borders of my oceans.

A few nights ago, I was keeping my daughter company while she did karate exercises in the backyard. She asked me to tell her a story. Then another. I was tired so I grabbed my short story book.
She took the book and read more of the stories
“You are funnier when you say more.”
Oh.
I have not been leaving room for art, and it shows.
I squished down those stories and skipped the wonder and the glory.
The metaphors the images are there if I take the time

Just like her karate moves, I should warm up. I can do a few revisions and allow it to breathe. The metaphors and turns of phrases might need time.

Every time I write I am staring into a mirror of my soul.

It takes courage and faith to get that image right. I must believe I can find a presentation that is sufficiently true and honorable.
I’ve been settling for good enough. Hurry up and call it done. Like a speeding train I am only capturing the impression of an image.
Perhaps I am ashamed and even less willing to spend time with that mirror. I’ve often tried to sneak up on myself when I’m writing. Trying to catch an interesting angle that makes me interesting and poignant.
Or even better, funny.

In 2024 I was gifted tickets to the No Values punk music festival. Under my life principle of “YES PLEASE!” I went. My friend Eydie came along, and she knew the culture and pulled me into all the best shows.

Two years ago, I met Social Distortion. I was distracted when they hatched in the 80s and then were dominating the 90s. They got my attention two years ago, and last week I went to see them in concert again.

A different punk friend—a girl drummer—who had been a fan from the start went with me. I wasn’t sure I was cool enough to go be allowed to go with her. I forgot that punk is so open hearted.

We had planned this for months, and then word began to trickle back from the tour that the front man was having health issues. Denver was cancelled. Then Reno.

My sweet husband had no interest in attending this concert, but he became my front-line reporter from reddit and other internet rumor sources.

WHAT was going on?

Front man Mike Ness has gone through tonsil cancer, and even before that he had been a heroin addict. The shows were getting cancelled because of a reported chest infection. It’s tough out there.

But the show did go on, and I spent the extra money for onsite parking because we are grownups.

The show was great and my only complaint is that I didn’t get close enough to the stage.

I made friends with another concert-goer—he brought his 17-year-old son.

“Do you think you are the youngest person here?” I asked.
His dad pointed to a tiny kid riding his dad’s shoulders. “I used to do that!”

And still, I asked because of the many grey beards. Mike Ness, fighting off his chest infection was 64. And I could hear his voice was not as strong as it was two years ago. But the energy was enormous, the music relentless and the stage was explosive. They held the audience in their hands.

Of course, I snapped photos and videos with my phone, and showed them to my 17-year-old at home.

She shook her head as if to clear it and said, ‘I forgot this music was old.”

Then she saw my face. “I mean, it has a lot of energy and seems young. But these pictures show different.”

She is not wrong. Me and Mike have the cancer scars. The next day I took Reach for the Sky and did my own keyboard cover.

And I remember again Ulysses by Tennyson:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.