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I’m gone for last week and this week.   I’m taking my turning helping out at our Church camp, so posting will continue to be light to the point of not existing.  I am writing some and I will return.


I have moved and am now into the slow process of unpacking.  The slow process of unpacking.  But there is also joy in the unpacking.  The joy of finally seeing my things spread out in my space.  The joy of seeing things that have been packed away years (about six years).    The joy of beginning to settle into my own home.  And the joy of unpacking these:

My Great-grandmother would have left her glassware and china to my mother, except my mother died a few months before my great-grandmother.  So the glassware and the china came to me instead.  And they have been waiting in boxes in my family’s garage for the last 15 years.   Until I started unpacking those boxes yesterday.  Until I was amazed at the beauty of these dishes yesterday.

What a beautiful reminder of my family’s legacy.

Christine is hosting another Poetry Party and, as usual, I’m late to join in.  This weeks prompt was about deserts and fire and Lent.  (Instead of her image, I’m using one of my own.)

in the night of the desert
it is cold and dark and lonely
except for the thousands of stars
hanging in the sky
you can lay back and watch gases that
long, long ago and further away
than you will ever travel
or you can turn toward a blaze
you yourself had to kindle
in the night of the desert you cannot escape
warm and close or remote and dim

in the deserted night of the soul,
when you can only turn into yourself
and gaze upon the constellations
of your past choices,
you can lay back and wonder who
could love you
or you can turn toward reassurance
that God, who kindled all light and love,
loves you
and feel warmth and light from within

written 2-18-10

My memory is not perfect and I’m actually very likely to forget if I’ve taken my medications on any given day. So I have the rainbow tower and I can look back and figure it out. It’s a habit I have cultivated to make sure that I don’t forget to take care of myself.  I have my tower, I have a glass of water, and I keep them in a place I see every morning.

This means every time I get my refills I play what I call “the counting game.”  I get to count to seven repeatedly as I set out the next weeks’ meds.  It’s tedious and annoying.  It is part of my life I struggle to find the words for, the daily in and out of living with chronic health conditions.

To a certain set of my friends, my enjoyment of snow is odd.  But in the corner of the world where I live, snow is a part of life.  Often times a large part of life.  Most people out here have seen snow in every month of the year.  (If if makes you feel better, this is not wildly common.)

For me, it’s simple.  Snow changes everything.  How we dress, how we drive, what we drive.  How things look.  Yesterday this was just a tree.  Today it looked braided and new and completely distracted me.

snowy braided tree

mountains and clouds

I grew up in the mountains of the north

Loving the high, craggy peaks,

Snow graced and miles above.

Majestic beneath stars held high;

Mystic hidden in clouds come low.

written 10-20-09

Given that I drove through a snowstorm both of the last two weekends, I wasn’t too surprised to wake up to this.

100_0920Unlike last year, it is still snowing.  It’s beautiful but I’m wishing I didn’t  have to go out at all.

100_0921There should be mountains in the background, not cloud and fog.  And the clouds have settled in more in the couple of hours since I took there photos.

the cat

Sometimes she snarls when I pet her

in a method she has deemed wrong;

other times she growls in anger

seeing violence in the movement of my foot

back toward her–after she chooses

to sit behind my heels;

then there are the times when,

as we (it is a team activity) brush her matted coat,

she can howl as though we were skinning her.

These are when I wonder why

I let her sit on my bed,

only to watch her raise her head

meow happily and

move to sit next to me and purr,

content only to be so close.

written 8-17-09

The Cat is actually my brother’s cat, but I seem to have been accepted as a reasonable staff person.

Camp is only a few minutes by power boat or a leisurely hour by kayak (I’ve not yet talked about the open-water kayaks Camp has, have I?) from an island which is also a state park.  We try to give the kids (and staff) the chance to enjoy that resource as much as possible.  This photo is from a day long trip I got to be a part of because we had an abundance of priests and thus one of us could go and celebrate Eucharist on the island with that small group.  I got to do this a couple of times and it was always great.  A small group, a necessarily and delightfully smaller and informal Eucharist, some sun, some water.  The kids also seemed to enjoy it.

off the island

I believe that this may draw to a close my pictoral remembrance of the summer.  There are more stories, of course, but none that I can tell, at least right now.  And I have a few other things waiting.

sailor boat saviorThese are the two camp boats.  Actually this is the camp sailboat rescuing the other boat after its engine died.  I remember this evening clearly.  It was during one of our family camps and a couple staff members had taken some of the kids out on the boat for the evening.  Then the engine on our old, more than well used boat died and the sailboat went out to pull them back in.

Fortunately, the parents are all long time Campers themselves and took it all in stride.  When the boats got back, the kids all thought it was a great adventure.

It remains to be seen if we’ll get a new boat in time for next year.  We did get a new engine, though.  Well, a new used engine.

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