Birth Day

Gracious, NOT. My delivery into the decade of my 60's was more like a breech birth. Rather than the traditional smooth splash and celebration this birthday unfolded more like an origami swan caught in a typhoon. No form; it resembled an exercise in empty space.A whiteout on the landscape of the soul. I had no plans; I couldn't decide what I wanted to do. Babette encouraged me get out and do something fun for myself. Pedicure? Massage? I landed on the idea to get my butterfly tattoo recolored. So it was I jumped on my bike and took off in the rain for a tattoo parlor several blocks away. They were booked for the day. I continued to pedal downtown to another that had been recommended but they, normally open on Saturday's, were closed. I stood outside the store for a bit; as if my presence would magically open the door and produce a palette of colored needles. No cigar; I climbed aboard my bike for a soggy ride home through soft rain. Eventually I figured it best they weren't open since I couldn't decide if the proper action was to re-color the old or put my imagination towards something completely new. I, mired in the space between decades. Like Janus, not sure to face forward or back. 

What WAS going on? 30, 40, 50...none of those gateways were big deals. 60?  "So round," said Susan. I'd worked damned hard to meet it with vigor and good health, ensuring an entry with panache, and there I was, languishing. Facebook messages popped up on my wall, wishing me happy birthday; heartfelt emails, poems and phone calls peppered my day. I felt like I was letting everyone down.

My enthusiasm picked up as I dressed for the dinner party Johanna had planned. By the time I walked through her door I was ready to hang with the females from 70 to 17. Johanna's exhausted granddaughter had taken her ACT's that morning as her mother had watched the cooking shows. Phyllis had found care for her elderly mother and made her way from Twin Falls; Darlene had layered mascara onto her thick lashes and laughed a hearty hello through the doorway. Six women, six lives who managed to meet in the same living room amidst a world of chaos.

Its a miracle when you think about it. What brought us to that point in time. What possessed us to pick up the plastic kazoos and serenade one another with, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and laugh until our sides hurt.  In this world where every second of our life is a competition for our attention, I pay close attention to who shows up. It was an honor sit among those women who bestowed me with their presence. The space no longer empty.

Wander Lust

I'm celebrating my b-day for a week. Or more. Once, may be twice, it will be overt, like a party; but most times I'm the only one who knows.

The day before I left Kaslo I discovered damp walls in my closet. Inspection revealed not jut seams that needed caulked but a dozen tears in my roof. Go figure---not a clue to their origin. Ken and Bob, friends with whom I'd shared wine and dinners at Carole and Chris', proceeded to show up the next morn and work for 5 hours cleaning, drying and sealing. My angels. My first b-day present. That night Bob "collected" me (don't you love Canadian-speak?) and treated me to a farewell dinner at the Kaslo Pub. We talked RV's---it's his dream to spend less time tied down and more time rolling down the asphalt. No one deserves it more. He was the RCMP guard for Margaret Trudeau when he was young; but more recently the point person in Bosnia for identifying corpses in mass graves. My time with him, gift #2.

Numero 3 was the piece of homemade apple pie Chris slipped me on my way down the road. Number 4 was the friendly female reception at the US border. She took my limes with a smile and surprised me with a sudden question about Iowa, my birth state. I know she didn't read my solar return chart for this year. It had to be the quick check button on their computers. A little scary. Had they also skimmed my emails of the past 90 days as I waited in line?

Present #5 was the sudden connection with a friend in Sandpoint; a dinner of steaks and wine. My only regret was that I didn't choose the wine called, "Layer Cake." 

I'm still a couple of days in front of BIG 60, in mosey-mode. I'm hitting the hot springs of northern and central Idaho, making spontaneous pilgrimages through neon-golden Larch, hunting camps and high mountain meadows coated in thick morning frost. Last night I parked on a serene lakeside shore, complete with migrating white pelicans, ponderosa pine and goldeneye ducks. And every night a fire.

Today I follow a serpentine road to Golden Fork Hot Springs. I'll stay one more night in the wild before I hit Boise and return to the smile of my dear friend Johanna. It will be full circle since I departed for Alaska on June's new moon.

It doesn't take a birthday to accept each day as a gift. Every snow white pelicano's wing flap is a miracle of the moment. The waxing moon soaks the night in molten light. Wraps me snugly in the ... present.

Winged Redeemer

Carole and I were chatting away on the porch in the morning sun when she noticed it from afar: a bird on the fence looking down on the chicken coop, but this one smaller than the recent ravens and great-horned owls that had threatened the egg layers. I reckoned it to be a sharp-shinned hawk but what we discovered was a tiny saw-whet owl caught in the roof netting, her wings and talons a web of tangled string.

Leather gloves and a cinder block on which to stand, I started to extract, unsure of the outcome. Broken wing? Sliced neck? Impossible to pull or maneuver, I directed Carole where to cut as the little one stared at us with huge, golden eyes. She did not struggle; her only sound was an occasional click. Four cuts and the feathered one fell into my hands. I pulled her to my chest and carried her to a near-by log to sit.

Northern saw-whet owls are around 8-inches tall. They live in abandoned cavities in pine, aspen, fir, spruce, larch, cottonwood...you name it. The varied forest that surrounded Carole and Chris' land was saw-whet heaven. And so was their cleared space, providing a constant diet of insects, voles and mice for the little one. Most active right before dawn and after dusk, it was around 8:00 a.m. when this one became tangled...probably after a mouse that in turn, was after some chicken feed on the ground. Easy pickings.

The little bird was most content against my beating heart. Around ten precious minutes had passed when I held out my hand and her razor sharp talons clasped my gloved finger. So far so good. She didn't appear to be damaged, but could she fly? She perched for awhile longer before spreading her soft wings.Eighteen inches of winged feathers spread horizontally across the air but she did not fly. She continued to clasp my finger and sit. She and I, trusting spirits in the fullness of time. She turned her head, gazed those golden eyes into mine and cocked her head. I smiled. "You're welcome," I said, and she lifted effortlessly and rested on a nearby spruce branch.

Carole and I continued to watch and talk to her. She perched, relaxed, no doubt collecting herself, overcoming her shock. Her eyes were closed. When I moved closer to change the photo angle she barely registered my movement, sometimes opening an eye.

We left her alone. I continued to watch for her through the binoculars. A couple of hours later I scanned the branches and the brown-feathered miracle was gone.

Blessed BE

Two nights ago I dreamed that an alcoholic lover was shut in a dark room in a corner in a basement of an old farm house. I entered the house in jail break fashion and was stopped by a decrepit, lanky man in work clothes who said I couldn't go down there and I was to leave him alone to die. I told him to F O, pushed by him and made my way down the dark wooden steps to his locked room. Outside the door was a lit waiting room akin to one you'd see in a modern Dr's office; little children were playing. There were no adults. I took a seat outside his door.

The next night Carole dreamed that she and I were in a warehouse in a small town hanging out with Leonard Cohen. We were talking the night away having the time of our lives. (We've been listening to the 2-cd set of his concert for days). The only conversation she could remember that morning was that he said, "You choose your drama."

Indeed. We. Do.

I love the way our dreams play off of one another. We used to do this when we both lived in Boulder; and later when I moved to the San Luis Valley and she would visit. True Sisters, We.

And our time together comes to an end. She says I can't leave until after Thanksgiving. That's next Monday here in Canada. And in case I don't get the point, she and Chris have my hitch. Tomorrow she and I will take a day and bird watch, go to her favorite Pub and a near-by winery. Friday we will take the three sweet turkeys from the pen, chop off their heads and pluck away. Hens Tilly and Tilly (because we can't tell them apart) for the freezer, Ted for Monday's dinner.

Friends ask me of my plans. It is hard to pin me down. My life is more of an unfolding these days than a linear set of dates. Boise, Mancos until Thanksgiving, winter in Tucson, Bisbee and Kino Bay, Mexico. All possibilities. What matters is that I have an introduction drafted to a new book and will begin to send it out. I have laid the ground work for further marketing of my photos (pro shots on flickr; friend shots on Picasa); and I will have a draft of a publishable essay done by the time I depart. I have been working long days.

What matters...are my friends; my daughter. Those who love me. Especially at this time of limbo. My mood swings are great. Life might be described as breaths between chasms. As another sister, Emilie, reminded me: the 15 years with Tom was a quarter of my life. It's going to take time.

Interesting, that dream. I was aggressive and true to task until I arrived at the door, where I sat and waited for him to come into the light. As Leonard Cohen sings: "Waiting for a miracle to come."

Wisdom is knowing when to wait and when to act. The old moon crescent hangs in this morning's dawn sky; reminds me that every day begins anew; every moon wanes, dies and is reborn.