egg nest

robins love our skagit spot.  and we love the robins.  it's the light yellow eye liner they wear and that sassy deep orange breast.  it's the way they hear worms.  hear worms with their head cocked slightly.  it's the way they hop.  the way they sing.  and the nests they leave in our trees.

the nests of mud, dried grass and strips of our weather-worn tarp all woven together and littered with egg shells bluer than a glacial lake which is so blue you feel it in your nose when you breath.  the nests where the mama robin sits snugly and waits and waits.  the nests where small dinosaur descendants chirp always for more. 

the first nest i noticed was blown out of our poplar tree during a storm.  it landed in the yard like a message from a mysterious world.  like a gift for an altar.  a beauty sculpture never before touched by hands until mine cradled it, cupped it, and felt its weight in my joined palms.

this year i noticed another nest in the poplar, atop a solid branch, nestled near the trunk.  it was on the southwestern side of the tree so it would get good sun and too much wind.  i saw a mama head peak out once or twice but then spring unleashed another tantrum of weather on us and mama bird hit the wind- looking for another spot.

she didn't travel far. 

years back, ben scoped out a bright yellow, wavy plastic slide in a neighbor's field.  being ben he inquired about it.  and gave the folks his card just in case their relative grew tired of letting the cedar play structure decay amidst thistle and rye grass.  a year later they called us and we created a paradise of play.  over the years it has been added to.  doors, a lookout post, the "fire club" wing.  it has been written on with shamefully lame sidewalk chalk, carved into with knives nicked from the kitchen and hosted a thousand fits of laughter.

as you climb the ladder up into the pirate ship, the jail, the jungle, the -whatever-you-make-it- you pass under the empty sockets of a deer skull.  this skull was found in the mountains of new mexico, given to seren as a birth gift, set on an ant hill for a spell and brought with us back to the northwest where a slight sheen of green moss has begun to grow on it.  his six point antlers are dulled, chewed on by hungry rodents.  his crown is crowned by a crown that  hung on our front door five months ago, made by our neighbors out of a red-berry bush.  and in that space now lives the mama robin.

her nest is about five feet off the ground which seems low for a bird who can loop and swoop over our house effortlessly.  just like her old nest it faces south but it is under the canopy of our beloved red maple tree and so she has the shelter that the poplar could not give her.  when you go outside she looks at your with that mama stare, that mix of don't and i-dare-you.  seren discovered it when he climbed up the ladder and the squawking robin got him to thinking and then he looked down to see four bright blue eggs, that nose-hurting-blue, laid out like jewels in a case below him.

his excitement in telling me about them was really, really big.

it looks like an o'keefe painting- these blue orbs peeking out of a neat nest with a halo of twigs, all on the peak of a deer skull.  it speaks the same language of her paintings.

the language of newness on top of oldness.
a circular link of life and death.
this gentle shape of an egg and the jagged edge of bone.
fragile miracle of flight, song, hatching and hope.

and the delight of two boys
one eager to sneek and peek
the other to protect and cherish

both briefly banished from their castle, their cave, their refuge
to give some space to this space
where a robin mama waits.
and waits

guns

my boys love 'em.  the make stick ones.  buy plastic ones.  shoot nerf ones.  covet real ones.

i hate guns.

my boys have no real experience with guns other than some commercials, photos in magazines, hunting stories from their dad and endless hours of wild fun running about playing with them.

i have bad memories.

the first time i was ever near a fired gun was when i was 13.   i was at a party- standing in the line at the keg- when i noticed the crowd moving toward the front of the house.  the house belonged to one of my classmates, maybe he was 14.  his parents were out of town, he had an older sister, they had a party.  lots of my friends were there.  my older brother was also there and that's what got me worried.

my older brother was, and is, a force.  until about 9 years ago being around him always made me slightly on edge.  this story explains that too.

i migrated toward the front gate and peered over the wooden fence.  there was a crowd and some shouting and the thuds of punches.  i can feel them in my gut, under my heart.

and in that same place is where i felt the dread form a metal burning ball.  i remember frantically asking people around me what was happening.  i remember feeling like the blank stares were meant to keep me from knowing something.

then i heard the "snap" of a small pistol.  maybe i smelled the shot too.  it doesn't seem like a loud sound to me when i think back.  it could be that i was already racing through the house, toward the front door when the gun was fired.

when i opened the front the door there was a break in the fight.  well, a fight implies fairness and four-on-one is not a fight.  it's a beating.  it's a group of drunk football players spawned on by jealousy and songs like "the boys in the hood" taking swings at a large guy who is also drunk who has been pushed into the shrubs with his shirt pulled over his head.  someone watching this beating saw it as such too, took out his pocket pistol and fired it into the lawn to stop the fight.

the hammer hitting powder created a loud noise and a small space opened- into that crevice part of me erupted.  this fierce lioness that knows nothing about size or the odds of winning or anything else except defending through blind rage broke out of my shy-self into that warm night.  i have seen her since then.  the kali in us all that rips heads off of monsters and pours their blood on her purple tongue as her hair rises up in smoke and ash.

since i couldn't actually rip off their heads, not yet getting that super power, i used what i knew: swearing.   i unleashed that on the group.  i think the sight of this slight teen with too much eyeliner and poofy  bangs caught everyone off guard.  no doubt it seemed surreal that the younger sister would be defending her older brother when some of his best friends hung near by.  i wonder if they would have stepped up if the linebacker hit me?  i remember being pushed, the force of real hands on me- them sending me back even as i lunged forward, screaming more.  i think i probably egged them on even as the reality sunk in that these guys didn't play fair, probably were ok with beating up girls.

* * *

as i write this story more than twenty years later i still feel the anxiety, rage and fear in me.  i realize now that my brother was probably not the innocent victim i imagined him to be.  he would go on to become more violent, more out of control until every phone ringing after 10 pm caused me to flinch in fear that he would be dead.  that he has become the man he is today is proof of grace, pure and simple.  the memories i have of those years are drenched in emotion and exhaust me- yet i go back to them over and over.  i try to write about them.  i try to learn from them.  i try to exorcise them.  to comfort and to confront them.

now that i have boys who love guns i do this more.  their guns are reminders.  to them they are toys.  tools of make-believe and props in stories.  i can see the guns as they do.  sometimes i even play with them.  there is a strange satisfaction in being able to hit a ceiling fan with a suction bullet.  i get it.

but then in the shadow is this fear.  maybe the fear of my own kali- because if she is unleashed for the sake of my boys- how could i ever contain her rage?  fear of seeing my children being hurt- every mother's stinging heart place where that small spark of love could easily ignite to burn down a whole forest before we felt the heat through our own mama bear instincts of protect-at-all-costs to show us the damage we had inflicted on those aimed at hurting our brood. 

* * *

back to that night in torrance- eventually we did get home without me or my brother being hurt anymore.  i remember clinging to the door to keep my brother from leaving again, seeking revenge.  finding another gun to try to regain his standing, his pride.  he left.  me sobbing in the doorway.  he left.

this would be the first time he would be beaten by cops and then arrested.

the first time i learned how fear chases away friendship, trust...anything golden.  

the first time i hid in my dark house completely terrified.

the first time i saw the ugliness of alcohol.

the first time i hated a person.

the first time i hated a gun.

                                                                 sadly, not the last time for any of these.

danger

there are things we try to protect our children from- and while these dangers can be categories into several different types: physical pain, rejection, mean dentists....the most dangerous dangers are the ones that we ourselves have experienced as children.

i see this over and over.  sometimes it feels like i don't even need to actively express our concerns- somehow our kids just pick up on our worst fears and either avoid those scary places or dive in head first- depending on the age and demeanor of the kid.

for example, seren called electric outlets "no-nos" for the first several years of his life because whenever he got near them that is what he heard.  i have no memory of shoving a fork into an outlet but i know what it feels like to have an electrical shock.  it happened in college.

my first apartment was in the basement of a rumored old time hospital.  no doubt my pad was where they kept the corpses.  it had two windows in the living room and one in the bedroom.  the bathroom was smaller than a closet but it could fit about six people  if we squished really tight- which meant actually touching the molding shower walls (need less to say- this event only happened once).  as a basement apartment i had the joys of hearing all that happened above me from the artistic projects that included smashing the beer bottles on to the kitchen floor to hot-sex.  or at least it sounded hot.

i also had the pleasure of the flooding, mildew and mushrooms growing out of the carpet.  can you say slum lord? and blown fuses.  this lovely old pink building did not have a fuse box with nice little switches that you flipped on and off.  it had ancient looking glass tubes that you had to replace.  well first you had to find a place that sold them.  which i did after several days of no lights in half of the place- which considering the size of the place it was maybe three outlets.

i remember going into the cold damp area right next to the apartment where forgotten bikes of past renters were stored.  there was a door from the bedroom into this area.  which was so damn creepy i stapled a blanket over it- which sounded like a good idea except when the firemen chopped in to the door i didn't realize the door was open for several days- more creepy.  different story though.

so i venture into the basement area with new tube fuse and flashlight.  no need to wait until boyfriend gets home- carry on brave maiden!  i pulled out an old tube, put in the new.  nothing.  hmmm.  i reached to pull out another tube and an invisible fiery red snake shot up my arm.  the flashlight flew out of my other hand and hit the cement wall.  my head flew off and then bounced back on- leaving half of my body jittery, twitching and electrocuted- albeit mildly.

i was thankful my bed was only ten steps away.  i lay there- my face throbbing wondering how i got so damn stupid.  i guess that big metal switch was the off lever- and i should have thrown that one first.  i looked down at my hand and saw that all of my nails were charred black.  i wondered if they would stop tingling soon.

so yes, be careful of outlets seren. call them no nos and don't touch them.

cyrus, on the other hands, laughs when he nears them and i start twitching.  well, just the right side of me.

bee it

now and then i get to rep the skagit valley food co-op at local events.  i go to fairs of all sorts and sit and stand and chat and laugh.  i hand out brochures about functional foods and maps of walking trails.  sometimes i have free samples of strawberry/banana flax swirl or packets of tea.  now and then there's a raffle basket stuffed with random items like protein powder and gluten-free crackers.  i talk to strangers.

i try to tailor the information to the event.  my boss-lady, wow- i suddenly love that title and will do my best to call jodie this from now one, is real good at helping me out with this.  she packs up the info, prints out the parking passes and stocks the rolling basket with extra copies of anything i might need.  so for the women's health fair there was lots of nutrition information and at the farm-food-fair there was lots of local farm conversations and informations.  and last night, for the mount vernon high school, there were bees.

last weekend i missed the opportunity to watch the documentary "Vanishing of the Bees" which my co-op showed as part of Earth Day- the one day in the last 157 that was sunny- and i could not go inside for anything more than water.  i thought about the movie and thought about the bees several times though.  bees are a theme for me.  let me explain further.

first- i remember my mom having a bee hive in our suburban backyard of torrance, california.  i remember watching her put on her white, webbed hood and tend to them.  i was in the garage- terrified of the bees- staring out through the dusty window- sitting atop the coarse worktable littered with screws and wires.  it seems we only had bees for a short while, but there was a mystery to it all that still pulls at me.

then- i find a free book in the staff lounge on goddesses and ceramics.  two of my favorite things.  maybe it was more than that- but those are the two things that stand out.  i still have this book.  as i was flipping through it i stopped at a tile of a bee goddess.  her head and torso are human.  she has wings instead of arms.  her hips are wide and stripped and come to a point, a stinger.  and when you see the bee goddess once- you see her everywhere.  she's there in the museum of pueblo art in albuquerque painted on a pot by a hand long since gone that used a thin strip of yucca as a paintbrush and dirt as paint.  she's there in my random sketches, in the slim margins of space in my brain left over after a day of mothering, and she's outside right now- in my neighbor's yard, in the beehive that sits under the plum tree.

this knowledge of bee as goddess is deep and true.  and like much deep and true knowledge we have lost touch with it in our daily life.  most know that bees are good.  we like honey.  we like flowers.  we like fruit and veggies.  oddly enough, it may be that our interest in honey and flowers actually harms bees.  some bees are fed sugar-water so the honey can be harvested for us.  some flowers and fruits and veggies are sprayed with pesticides to keep them "healthy" only to reek havoc on the bees.  worst still, some pesticides are "systemic" which means it becomes part of the dna of the bees, and maybe, anything- anyone else who also eats that plant.  maybe their dna shifts too.

so as science night got closer i wanted to share knowledge about bees, and as a first step i watched the movie.  i thought my kids could watch it with me, but twenty minutes into it seren deemed it too sad to watch and went outside to play.  he would wander back in and yell at the television "why can't they stop using pesticides?!"  at one point, both boys gone outside, i just broke down crying.  was it the knowledge that 2 billion bees disappeared one day from the rolling hills of california? or the way the french beekeepers protested outside of Bayer corporation?  or maybe just a simple shot of a bee flicking through a sunflower?  i don't know what set me off- that's not unusual really- but suddenly this simple bee, which is not so simple really, she was me.  she is me.

what we do to nature we do to ourselves, because we are nature.  we forget it.  we hide it.  we deny it.  but there is nothing that impacts a bee, a frog, a field, a fire that does not impact us.  all the elements that are within us are from this earth.  when the immune system of bees are weakened by the systemic pesticides making them more susceptible to parasites, fungus and virus- our immune systems are weakened.  when the nervous system of bees are impacted to the point that young bees forget the dance- or maybe never were able to learn it-  and cannot find their way back home- then our youth also have trouble learning how to dance, how to find home.

i went to this fair with this movie and handwritten signs tacked onto a burlap-covered foam board.  i sat across from taylor's shellfish farm where i watched mollusks clean-up murky water and next to paccar who make peterbuilt trucks near the skagit county dump- and everytime a person stopped at my table i would ask "have you heard about colony collapse disorder?"

that's what it is called- the vanishing of the bees.  because when the bees don't come home- the colony collapses.  in truth, the science isn't there to even tell us for certain what is happening to the bees- but i told each one of those people about systemic pesticides because it is no doubt part of the problem.  and getting them out of our food, our air, our water, our bees, our heads, our beds, our lives- well, i think that's part of the solution.

and you should listen to me.  because i am a bee goddess.  good news- so are you.

over the wire

one reason why i wanted chickens is because i am kind of afraid of them.  i have unrealistic expectations about them too.  like when i want to pick one up i want them to act like a dog or a cat, a friendly one, and at least stop running so i can pick them up.

but they don't do that.  especially if they aren't your chicken.

we came home last night to discover the neighbor's chicken in our yard- one of them, they have several.  all the other gals were locked up tight in the coop.  this poor ameraucana was pacing at the fence line trying to get back to her peeps. 

seren and i set to it.  whenever we got close to it she's try to climb through the fence, squawk and flap her wings.  it was loud and big and i retreated.  seren did too.  i laughed at us and kept remarking how silly it was to be scared of her even though i still could not get a hold of her.  if i was a coyote i would go hungry.

i gave up.  walked inside to call the neighbor- she said she'd send someone over.  but then seren was  able to get the chicken and toss her over the fence.  he cornered her and then with his thin arms stretched out in front, his face scrunched and turned he grabbed hold of her and lifted her rump up over the hogwire to the familiar grass of her yard.  the neighbor gals were there to open the coop.

i did it! he yelled. seren bounded toward me with pride springing out of him like a water from a sprinkler.

i overcame my fear!  i have courage!

just like that.  he did it.  then this morning the chicken was back.  and again he tossed it right over the fence.  now that fear that was there is replaced by knowledge.  unknown has been conquered.  from chicken to courage.  courage from chicken.

honey

as a kid we didn't often have sweets in our house.  i think this was either because we didn't have a lot of money for that stuff or because no doubt it caused a fight to erupt- maybe both.  i do remember that if someone showed up with a sweet thing sharing was required- and one kid cut the thing into "equal" shares and the non-cutter got to pick first.  ingenious plan my mother came up with.

which meant that being sneaky with sweets was really important.

it also meant that my brother and i got acquainted with all sorts of ways to get a sweet fix with what was on hand.  peanut butter and honey was a common concoction because baker's chocolate is not that sweet and we did not yet know how to melt it in a double-boiler, sweeten it up and pour into candy molds.  actually- i just did that the first time about a year ago.

peanut butter and honey is rich and thick like nougat.  this was adam's peanut butter- jiff was something that lived at my dad's house.  peter pan peanut butter was something only seen on the commercials.  and the smucker's jelly and peanut butter combo jar was just too far out of reality to even consider.

for many years i could not taste peanut butter and honey- or even smell it- without feeling smaller and slightly ill.  because when you are deprived you tend to take it too far.

recently i found a ceramic honey pot, complete with the strange wooden utensil, for $1 at the thrift store.  It is hand-thrown, glazed indigo blue and makes me feel cozy.  i imagined it perched next to me as i drizzled fireweed honey into my oatmeal or tea.  so i bought it to complete this fantasy. 

we live in a small home so it's easy to sneak up on folks without really meaning to.  i walked into the kitchen to find my older son leaning over the honey pot with a surprised look on his face.

he said he was eating the honey.  duh.

he said he was using a spoon.  liar.

the strange wooden utensil was licked clean.  it being so much like a lollipop, i guess it was fated to be sucked on by a candy-deprived child in need of a sugar fix.

i heard a faint "pop" sound as memory and fantasy collided right above my head leaving me with a tainted honey jar and buzzing child.

a little bit more

some things i have too much of.  others not enough.  still others none at all.  but for the day-to-dayness i usually have just enough.  i have pulled together meals when the cupboards were as bare as old mother hubbard's.  i have managed to pay bills with found change.  i have marveled at the timeliness of a friend handing down clothes just as i started to worry about buying new ones.  i have laughed at the brilliance of unexpected gifts of shoes showing up for my own feet.

as i attempt to build this chicken coop, an european ark style, with the help of my boys from the pile of lumber in our yard i am enjoying this "just enough" experience.  we measure out the old bones of lumber, trimming off the ends rotting with rusty nails.  i remember when ben deconstructed this shed and brought all of this wood here, i wasn't entirely sold on the concept at times. 

now i am thankful i don't have to go to the store to by two by fours or screws.  i am thankful that i have enough math skills to piece together a sketch to work from.  i am thankful for the eagle perched on the telephone pole in front of the house, swiveling her keen eyes to watch me move across the lawn.

all i need now is a little bit more patience.

because the drill is missing.  the one i did find doesn't work.  the restless chickens may soon turn reckless and the spring can be picking with how much sun she gives.  april- she likes showers- and without a garage we are destined to build in the elements.  i'd like pleasant elements, please.

the elements are pleasant NOW but the drill is not here.  the drill is in the back of the truck, no doubt.  i have no idea why a drill needs to be there other than it seems cool to be able to say to someone, anyone- "hey, i've got a drill right here!"

it is so much more cooler to actually have a drill when you need it to build something at home.

i have been forced back inside, thwarted by my lack of patience and lack of drill.  my stubbornness wants to hold onto this because my determination wants to go forward on the project.  so i've come here to do one of the things i know could help me calm-the-hell-down: write about it.

it seems so silly too.  like with all of what i could be ranting about- it's about a power tool.  i am tempted to go buy a pink drill so it will be left alone (this is how i have solved the problem of my missing atlas gloves- buy 'em pink).  but buying a pink power tool is silly and out of the financial reality i am living in right now.

plan B. find someone to borrow a drill from....howdy neighbor.