Phone doodles. I wish I could remember who I was talking to about a Blue Ribbon Fair. What? It sounds like it involves a pie baking contest, at least.

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Rats & actors, music and performance. June 9th turned into June 12th for  “All My Children” by Matt Smith at Richard Hugo House.

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It doesn’t take much. I keep this little video to watch when I need a minor tee hee. Guilty pleasure.

I’m not always this easily amused. We went to a play the other night and I grew increasingly irritated by what had to be either a friend of the actor or a plant, laughing way out of proportion to anything that was happening on stage. Not funny at all. The more he laughed, the more dour I became and I was not alone.

But I love my little green gal. At least until the ball drops.

Thank you Victor Navone 1999

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Yellow page. Talking to Kelvin, or was it Calvin  - about the enormous car repairs my car, Puffy, needed. Eh Eh Eh. Choke.

Calms Forte. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m thinking about it. Elusive sleep.

Horses horses, I love horses. I want to do a book about a horse. An underwater book. The adventures of Aqua boy Andy and his Appaloosa, Sandy. Or, Winny and Whinney Wide the Wugged Wange.

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I drift to the what ifs,

and sink.

I thank my haves

and float.

There’s mud in the hole,

and gold in the sky.

Look up!

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I didn’t set my alarm last night. It was Friday night and I was tired. ‘Well, if I wake up in time for yoga, great, if not, ok.’  I did wake up in time. I fed the dogs and Pony the hungry cat, gathered up my towel and mat and rolled disappointedly down the road. Disappointed because my publisher had very kindly rejected my latest children’s book proposal yesterday.  The disappointment and self belittling had followed me the rest of day. I am really really good at self criticism. Let me tell you.. nah, I’ll spare us all.

Yoga. I love my yoga teacher, but I like subs. I get to hear a new voice, new pace, new instruction, meditations, even moves sometimes. There was a sub today, Marilyn. She teaches rehab yoga. Good, my back needs it from grooming Andy last night. Well, might as well groom a poodle – I’m a really lousy artist and loser writer and no one will ever publish another book and I’ll have to work at Kinko’s.

Time to loosen the kinko’s.

While we laid on our backs, breathing through our nose, she began talking. I followed faithfully (dog girl that I am) her song. Ok, she wasn’t singing, but it felt as sweet as any lull-abye. Soothing, reassuring, like a hand on my shoulder. I breathed. She sang. “Let go of criticism, competition and expectation.” Marilyn, what  a great idea! And on she went, and on I followed until I was singing right along with her. Inside, going further into my belly and heart.  I live in my limbs way too much. Stretching daily, it is my legs and arms that starfish out. This morning, it was an inner stretch, pooling, eddying, releasing, rushing river white water river to lake to stream to ocean, a wave, a shhhhh to shore. Still. Quiet. Voice.

On our backs again for the last, Marilyn repeated — “criticism, competition, expectation. Gratitude. Find the gift in a challenge. My biggest challenge these days is losing my friend Andrea. The gift in this challenge? I am with her, daily. I hear her, see her more than I have in years. I once wrote to a friend, “grief is our best friend.” Even grief can be a gift. Let go of criticism, competition and expectation. Find the gift. Be grateful. Right now. Breathe it out.

PS I figured Marilyn to be in her early 60s. She is 73. I want to be just like her when I grow up.

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At a dinner party the other night I noticed there is almost a competition, bragging in a sad way about whose dog or cat lives the longest. Like, it’s some feat, or fate, we have a hand in. Age as an accomplishment is not new. To be fair, I think some of that with animals is simply our fear and the mystery of living so intimately with someone whose life is in your hands, in many ways.

I’m going to try to stop thinking in terms of age. If you hear me referring to myself as old, please remind me that old as in what reference point, from the time I was born, or moments, inches, seconds away from It – the old stopwatch click. so I don’t really know. I could be the very oldest (seconds from death) possible, or I could be middle aged (live to be 100). We  all  just going along until we’re done. There is no middle age either. Middle age is 13 for some people. Less, for others.

Time to get my beauty rest.

"Hi, I live for 24 hours. But I don't know how to count so I'll never know when the end is near. Lucky, I guess."

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