I'm in a strange state of mind today. The house is quiet. Scottie is out on his bike. The animals are all in their spots. And I'm meditating, musing, generally letting my brain go where it chooses. Sometimes that's good; sometimes not.
Here's where I've been so far:
Everyone says the kitchen is the heart of the home, yet the in thing for kitchens today seems to be so utterly streamlined as to have no feeling. It's all solid granite counters with nothing on them, sleek appliances and cabinets, and nothing that says warmth.
My kitchen is a bit on the messy side deliberately. We've a display shelf that runs around two walls and holds a bunch of mostly old things that matter. We have granite, but it's tile not a solid chunk and the counters are a tad cluttered. The island is totally different wood and we really do use the chopping block top.
The windows grow plants, especially orchids.
And, at the other end is a deliberately mis-matched cabinet. This one is the same styling, but less deep, has glass doors and a dark stain. It looks more like an old furniture piece. I'm thinking it needs old crystal pulls.
The blue and white pot that sits on the floor was my grandparents. Grandma Mitts, my mom's mother, made sour kraut, dill pickles and hominy in it. No, not all at once. I remember it sitting in their home with something fermenting and smelling yummy.
May be that this is where my interest in old pots comes from.
How's that for a segway into these?
Found this wonderful old pot in an antique store somewhere in Missouri at a great bargain. One of the wooden handles is missing, though the wire to hold it remains, and it had been marked way down. Practically stole it. It makes a great pot for the big fiddle leaf fig and the underplantings.
Some of the other pots have had a tough time finding just the right home in our new house, but I think we're getting closer.
In the dining room corner is this plant situated in a big old basket, but around it are a couple of old, old pots. The smaller, dark brown one was my mom's and probably came from her parents. It's been broken and re-glued. I don't mind a bit of imperfection in pots or life.
The other pot was another purchase. It's maybe 300 years old and from China. Bought it on line and on sale.
Most of the things of this type that I keep come from family or friends, but sometimes and old piece that calls to me just has to be purchased.
And, while we're talking a about plants, well
sorta, this is my favorite orchid:
Phalaenopsis, also called the moth orchid. The blooms really do look like big, perfect moths.
Next to it you can see a branch of an orchid I've not identified, but have dubbed the spider orchid. Hard to appreciate this one unless it's seen up close.
Speaking of up close, I've had to grab my laptop and move to the day bed. Ellie Cat has taken over the desk top. OK, it's really a table top, but being used for a desk. Ellie loves to lie in the sun, and I hate to disturb her.
Lucy claims a spot in front of the doors to the
little balcony off the master bedroom. In the evening she will claim the bed itself, moving on to the master bath at night. She seems to have decided that the entire master suite space is hers and the rest of us visit by her tolerance.
The dogs are preferring to be indoors these days as the heat wave continues.
Cocoa likes the living room rug. She how scared and submissive she looks? She's been reverting to behavior that she had when we first got her from the rescue, fearful, peeing when she's called to come, etc. I think Buck is bullying her too much, so I've set out on a program to let Buck know that Cocoa is the oldest dog, therefor the top dog. Not at all sure it's working, but we'll keep on for a while.
Speaking of that big boy, one of his spots is on the little rug in front of the doors off the living room. Later he will move to a tiled area that stays cooler.
Buck, who has no meanness in him, definitely has a protective streak, especially around me, and it comes out in odd ways. He likes both of the cats, even making friends with Lucy - not an easy trick. But, if either of them hisses, he takes it as a threat to be countered. Given that he's 115 or so, and the cats maybe 8 or 9 pounds, that's not a good thing.
This morning, Lucy joined me on the bed after Scottie went for his bike ride. It's not that she adores me, just that she wants me to get up and feed her.
Buck decided to come to the side of the bed, also to prompt me to get up, and Lucy hissed at him. Fortunately I was awake and about to get out of bed, 'cuz the next thing I knew Buck growled and lunged at Lucy. I jumped up and in between and caught a big Buck paw right in the tummy. Had to grab him by the scruff to remind him that he is not in charge.
Given that nothing on me heals quickly, I'll have this for weeks. Guess that's OK since I don't go around with my tummy hanging out to be seen very often - just a special treat for blog readers.
Finally, the Power of the Universe:
After Hurricane Dean spent his fury in Mexico, we got just the tip of his tail. Southern California had a good amount of rain. Even Visalia had enough to measure. We had just drops. Not enough to help the plants or break the heat.
But we did get a show. I love storm clouds, heck, I love storms. Love the lightening. Love the thunder. Love pounding rain.
For now I'll be satisfied with the clouds.
Do you feel it? Power, majesty. . . .
Do you smell it? Kinda like gunpowder. . . .
Do you hear the crash of the thunder and see the lightening flash?
Does it lift your soul and remind you how small and impermanent we humans are?
Maybe that's what I'm feeling today - this strange desire to sit and be very, very quiet - maybe I'm focused on the fragility of life.
Looking out the windows here, the late summer landscape of the California foothills just captures me. The grasses are a soft gold and most of their seeds have already spilled. The buckeye is a rusty brown, having given up its leaves to heat and drought. The wind blows hot and sucks even more moisture away from plants that are already tinder-dry. Even the oaks are feeling the effects of heat and drought. Many have dropped leaves. Some have aborted their acorns.
There is a sense of waiting, emptiness, almost foreboding. Something in my soul says it's going to be a cold, wet, bitter winter. I'm wanting to bake bread, cut firewood, lay in stores like the woodpeckers hiding the few acorns they can find in perfectly drilled holes in old trees or electrical poles.
For everything there is a season. True. We've separated ourselves from that as much as possible with our central air conditioning and our forced air heat. We have insulated windows and down comforters. We move our clocks forward and back to exercise some control over time itself. Ha. Mom Earth is not happy with our species. We are feeding her poison and trying to pretend that we won't be among the victims of her death.
And me. . . . Well, I write, the book progresses. I read and read some more. I take my little steps, plant a tree, drive an "efficient" car, buy very little "prepared" foods. It's not enough. My generation and ones before us have not taken good care of the Mother, and I'm afraid she's nearly terminal. We can apply our bandaids now, but the real solution must come with the next generations, our children, our grandchildren, their grandchildren.
And yet, I feel a certain optimism simply because we are so very small, fragile and impermanent. Mom Earth has survived this long through dinosaurs and ice ages, through floods and fires. Maybe she will simply shrug her mighty shoulders, sending out massive earthquakes, new mountain ranges rising, floods and tsunamis across the planet, and throw our measley species into oblivion like a mass of fleas
We are so small.
