I’ve been going through a difficult time these past few days. I’m not writing. Not walking Tucker. Can’t focus. Feeling overwhelmed. Generally speaking, sitting on the pity pot. It’s a sucky feeling, but sometimes I just have to do that. I have to experience these feelings and the blues that come along with allowing myself to sit in the muck.

Now, I know I have a lot to be grateful for. I know I have people who care about me. I know. But sometimes, the blues get the best of me and all I want to do is run away. Far away. And not tell anyone. Just disappear without a trace. Start over new, where nobody knows me. Start over somewhere, anywhere.

My mind tells me to get a grip. Smarten up. Get your ass in gear and take that dog for a walk. Write your blog. Shut the television off. My heart tells me to lie down on the couch. Turn on some mindless tv show. Snuggle deep beneath a blanket and tune out. Cry for a while. Sob if you have to. But don’t face the world.

These are the feelings that create the blues in music. The sadness. Emptiness. Loneliness. Loss. Grief. Pain. These are transitory feelngs, usually. Everyone has a bad day. A day of feeling a bit low…listless. Maybe brought about by a lack of sleep. Or something at work. Or the general state of the world. But when a day turns into two or three, or a week or more, these feelings are tough to shake. When bottled up inside, they can cripple even the strongest of us. Make it difficult to get out of our own way. Make us hard. Angry. Soul-less even.

Ah, but once the bass line of a 12-bar blues starts to play, these feelings can melt into the release of tears. Healing tears. A bottle-neck guitar lick calls to the sadness and grief and pain inviting such emotions to flow freely from your heart and soothe the parts of you that have been hurting. It’s a miracle of sorts. There is a symbiosis of notes, instruments, rhythm, and lyrics that reaches into the emptiness, grabs a hold of the loneliness, finds the loss that’s pulling at your memory, and brings the sweet release of music. It’s one of the greatest gifts of life. Music. The healing force of the world. For my world anyway.

I was working out in my garden this afternoon when Mikaela came out to let me know she was going off for the afternoon and would probably not be home for dinner. So, this is a pretty normal occurrence these days. Having just turned 21, she is spreading her wings. In a few weeks she will be graduating from college. And moving out. Not to a dorm. Not to an apartment for the school year. But moving out. For good. Just before she drove off I asked her if she was working Friday and she said, “No, mom. Friday is moving day.”

I knew this day was coming. But for some unexpected reason I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. How could she possibly be moving out? How could it be that both of my kids have grown up enough to be on their own? Kyle’s been out of the house since November. And now Mikaela will be moving in with him.

My mind knows it’s true and it’s time and it’s a good thing. My heart? My heart is full. Full of love. Full of sadness. Full of that bittersweet feeling that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I feel like my purpose in life has disappeared. Which is kind of funny since up until the exact second that I saw the positive sign on the home pregnancy test, I NEVER wanted to be a mother. I did not have the disposition it took to give myself over completely to another human being who would be tied to me for the rest of my life. I was too selfish. Too set in my ways. Heck, I was almost 35. But the instant I found out I was actually pregnant, all that changed.

Throughout the past 25 years, I have been a mother to those two amazing beings that I carried for nine months – wait, Kyle was only 8-1/2 months and Mikaela was only 7 months, but you know what I mean. I have given of myself in ways I never thought possible. Experienced a love that I could have never imagined before becoming a mother. And every mother knows exactly what I mean. I have loved them fiercely. Protected them fiercely. Hurt for them in their times of sadness and disappointment as if it was my own sadness and disappointment. I have been angrier at them than I ever thought possible and found I have so many buttons they just loved to push and I let them at times. I have found a measure of joy in their very being that is unsurpassed. I have laughed ’til I cried – with them, because of them, even at them, I admit. I have cried ’til I laughed – with them, because of them, and sometimes I have just cried my heart out at the mere thought of them. They’ll never find a bigger cheerleader in their entire life, I can promise that.

So now that they have grown up, moved out, and moved on, the questions remain. What now is my purpose in life? Will I ever see them again? How do I learn to shop and cook for just two? Who will I sing to sleep at night? Who will I fight with about leaving the sink a mess, or cleaning the bathroom? Who will I leave the light on for when I go to bed? And when will they finish taking all their stuff to their new home? I don’t know the answers to these questions. I guess I’ll just close my eyes, say a prayer, make a wish and leave my heart open for the next chapter.

I am a child of the 60’s. Hip-hugger, bell bottom jeans, bare feet, long hair flowing down my back, kind of child of the 60’s. Influenced by my older brother and sister I embraced the music, the peace-love-and-understanding philosophy, the feeling that anything was possible, that dreams could be fulfilled, and the sky was the limit. There were some things I didn’t embrace. Drugs for example. I was not a druggie – not then, anyway, but that’s a whole different blog. I never dropped acid, or smoked weed, or ate mushrooms. I didn’t need that stuff to get high. I got high on life, and music, nature, and of course, Love. That was enough for me. I was against the Vietnam War, afraid my big brother would have to ship out and that terrified me. I believed in making love, not war. I believed in respecting my parents, my teachers and those sworn to protect me. But I think what I most loved about the 60’s was the belief that humankind was basically good. That all men and women were created equal. Sure there was turmoil. Racial strife. Demonstrations against the war. Yet for the most part, all anyone really wanted was peace. It was the Age of Aquarius.

Today I sit here wondering what happened. The world is totally upside down. Everyday the news is filled with horrific stories from hit-and-run accidents – I cannot believe anybody could run someone over and just leave them – to weather-related tragedies. Terrorism is rampant, not just in some far away land, but here. Right here in our country. Our state. Our town. Our neighborhood. American citizens are turning against their own country, and hooking up with foreign terrorists, willing to die for some ideology that has them believing that our country, their country, is evil. Drug and alcohol abuse is rampant, from pre-teens to the elderly. The death toll from drug overdoses is astronomical. Especially heroin. People just cannot deal with life. So they turn on to tune out.

The idea of a brotherhood of man/woman seems to have disappeared. We are torn apart by the media. Ridiculous politics and power hungry politicians have set out to control every aspect of our lives, and will, if we don’t stop it soon. People are victims of some sort or another. Nobody wants to work for anything anymore. People expect things to be handed to them. They “deserve” it. They are entitled. Everybody has to get a trophy. Everybody has to get an “A” . No one can excel because everyone must be the same. You can’t play tag in the playground because it is too “violent”. Oh my God.  Whatever happened to personal responsibility? Where has the idea of respect disappeared to? Why does it feel like the world is slipping away?

Ok, I know there are still those of us who try to see the world as a good and kind place. But it gets harder and harder everyday. Still, I hope and pray that we can get back to what these lyrics stand for, before it’s too late.

“Harmony and understanding, sympathy and trust abounding
No more false hoods or derisions, golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelations, and the mind’s true liberation…”

Every morning I start my day with a cup of tea. It’s a ritual, really. Grab the kettle. Fill it with fresh, cold water. Put it on the stove and let it boil until the kettle sings. Grab a mug. Place the tea bag in the mug. Pour the boiling water over the tea bag and let it steep. I let mine steep for about 3 minutes these days and I like a little sugar and milk to dress it up. Not cream. Not half-and-half. Not full fat milk. But 1% milk will do. Sometimes I drink it black with a bit of sugar, too.

Over the years I have collected several different mugs. I have my favorites and, for me, the right mug is as much a part of the ritual as is the right tea. I have small mugs, large mugs, china tea-cups, whimsical mugs with Santa’s reindeer painted on them, and generic mugs that came with a set of dishes.  You might not think there is a difference, from one mug to the next,  but in some, the tea just doesn’t taste right. Perhaps it’s because of the material of which the mug is crafted. I don’t know. I just know that in some mugs the tea is un-drinkable.

My most favorite mug for first thing in the morning is a large, oval, creamy colored mug with a couple of small red, white and blue firecrackers painted on two sides. A gift from my friend Maureen, I love this mug in the morning because it is larger than my other mugs and I need a big cup of tea to start my day. I have several other mugs, gifts from my friends who know of my love for tea, and each one is my most favorite. Each for a specific time of day or mood. My friend Dawn gave me a mug for my birthday a few years ago. It is also creamy colored with one of my favorite quotes stamped on it. “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away.” I like to use this one when I am feeling a bit sad or nostalgic. Holding this one, I’ll read the quote a few times, and somehow it always makes me feel better.

When I need a reminder to take a deep breath, I’ll grab the mug my friend Debby gave me, for no reason at all one year. It has a two-fold meaning. This sweet mug is white with the word “sereni-tea” stamped on the outside. But along the rim on the inside of the mug – which is glazed with my favorite color, an ocean green-blue – it has the definition of “sereni-tea” which states “n. the absence of stress while drinking tea.” The homonym serenity is an important buzz word for me and Deb knows that, so it was a perfect gift.  Every time I use this mug I think about the hours Debby and I spent drinking tea and chatting and sharing life. In those days, I barely dunked the tea bag in a mug of hot water, poured milk in it, then dumped two spoonsful of sugar into the mixture. What a ghastly way to drink tea.

I purchased a couple of mugs for myself, recently, because I liked the sentiments they expressed. One, a rose-pink color states, “Blessings Are Everywhere.” The other, a turquoise blue color states, “Re-write Your Script”. I use these when I need a reminder to be grateful, or when I am feeling stuck in some area of my life.

So, I guess for me, the ritual of tea is not just drinking a hot liquid out of any delicate China cup or sturdy mug. It is an intrinsic part of my daily life, connected with my soul. Maybe it’s the mugs that are the ritual and the tea is secondary. Maybe the connections I feel with a specific mug in my hand are what make me feel invigorated and alive, not the tea itself. In any case there is nothing like a good cup of tea for whatever ails you. Black, sugared, plain, flavored, green, pick one, grab a favorite mug and start your own ritual.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to read. My parents say I was reading before the age of five. Now, I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that Dr. Seuss is embedded in my earliest memories. Me holding a book. Reading. Transported by the words to a part of me that felt connected on a level I didn’t understand then. But, even then, one of my most favorite feelings in the world was holding a book in my hands, the scent of the print and paper filling my imagination before I even turned a page.

I can say, for me, nothing has changed. I have tried the e-book scene. I have a Nook and a Kindle. I have tried to embrace the convenience, the instant gratification of not having to wait for a book in the mail, or going to the library. But it’s just not the same. I need to feel the weight of a book in my hands. I need to turn the pages. Otherwise it loses something for me. It just doesn’t feel right.

Almost as important is that the book have a good story. Take my latest read, for example. “Amber” by Kathleen Winsor. An historical novel set in London in the mid-1600’s. I happen to love historical novels. And this one was very well written. The story is woven through the rule of Charles II, including the time of the Great Plague and the fire that almost destroyed London. The jacket promises, via Barbara Taylor Bradford,  “compulsive reading…a genuine page turner”. And it was, like a lot of historical novels, almost 1,000 pages. I couldn’t wait to read it.

The title character is a young woman with ambitions way beyond her station in life, still she manages to make quite a life for herself. I was torn between liking her and hating her. Selfish, driven, narcissistic, she climbed her way to a position of wealth and power by using anybody and everybody who got in her way. Brash and bold and determined. A strong woman. I like a character like that, in this setting, in this style. I rooted for her and then hoped she’d fail. The story and the writing drew me in and I really found it was a “page-turner”.

Unfortunately the ending was awful. Just awful. 972 pages leading up to what felt like a quick and easy ending, without any thought or ambition. Just a way to end the book.  I was so disappointed. I put the book down and could have screamed. I was so mad. How do you write 972 pages, build up to a climax that could have gone many ways, and pick out the least appealing way to end a great story? I don’t know.  I’ve never written a book, but I know I would have definitely written a different ending.

Now I am looking for my next book. Any suggestions?

Ever since I was a wee lass I have loved watching the birds. The bird feeders around the yard were always full and we had a ready guide filled with photos and information about all the different species that flocked to visit. I used to pore through that book memorizing all the information I could about my feathered friends.

My dad always put a feeder just outside the kitchen window so that when my mom was making a meal or doing the dishes she could watch them feed. I remember when I was too small to see out that window, mom or dad would lift me up so I could catch a glimpse of whoever was out there. They loved the birds and their love was contagious.

I particularly loved watching for the cardinals – a splash of vivid red against the white winter landscape. And the tufted titmouse who reminded me of a cardinal only with silky gray feathers and a pointed crest. We always knew when spring was on the way because the male goldfinches would flit to the feeder with some of their feathers the dull olive green color of winter, and some a bright canary yellow. It wasn’t long before he was completely transformed into a saucy little fellow looking for his mate. But my most favorite bird of all was the little wren who used to huddle in the cornice of a column on our front porch in the winter. Every night after supper, my father would crook his finger to us kids and lead us to the front door. “Look,” he would whisper. Then he would shine a flashlight into the corner and there, puffed up to probably four times his natural size, was our wren. Why is he so fat,” we wanted to know. “That’s how he keeps himself warm,” dad would say with a wink. Every winter that little guy visited us and called that corner his home. And we loved him.

This past winter I made friends with the birds again. I put out a feeder and kept it full. I sprinkled some of the bird seed under the tree where the feeder hangs. After each snowfall I put out more. At first there were just a few birds. I watched as a rose-breasted nuthatch flowed headfirst down the tree to pick out a seed before flying off to enjoy it. A male cardinal, like a plump red berry, floated down to the ground to grab a sunflower seed. Soon there were all kinds of birds in my yard. One day I put out a suet feeder and found that there were four different kinds of woodpeckers feasting on the one feeder. So I went out and bought two more. A little downy woodpecker with the slash of red on the back of his head. A red-bellied woodpecker. A hairy woodpecker and a pileated woodpecker all found the suet and came back day after day for more. I was in heaven. They kept me entertained with their little spats and territorial games. And they helped make a long winter much more bearable.

Right now there is a cardinal calling outside my window. I can hear the red-winged blackbirds trilling across the street in the bog. One of the woodpeckers is drumming against a tree trunk hoping for some fresh insects. Soon, there will be Baltimore Orioles to add to the symphony and hummingbirds to add a touch of mystery. (How can they fly so fast?) I shall keep the seed out, but will probably stop putting out the suet as it can spoil once the hot weather comes. Once my stream is up and running, they will have a place to bathe and drink. And all I need to do is sit back, relax and enjoy my little slice of paradise.

It’s been a long, cold winter. Record snowfall. Record cold. Mountains of snow drifts and piles and piles of the white stuff everywhere you looked. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am one of those strange persons who loves, and I mean LOVES the winter. I don’t mind the cold. I just bundle up. I love how walking in the woods on a cold winter morning invigorates me and makes me feel exquisitely alive. I love the feel of the cold air upon my cheeks. And once the fire is crackling in the fireplace, and I am snuggled on the couch under my favorite afghan with my favorite book, and a cup of tea, I can honestly say I am content and happy deep down to my soul.

However. This winter? I almost, I mean, seriously, I almost packed my things, got in my car, and drove down to somewhere, anywhere, where the temperatures were above 20 degrees. I almost believed that spring would never come back again. I missed my crocus, my daffodils, my snowdrops, especially once March came around. Usually those babies are blooming by mid-February, but this year, there was seven feet of snow blanketing my garden beds. End of March, still covered with snow. Finally, April came. And the snow disappeared, a little at a time, day after day. The warm spring sun melted the snow, even though the air temperature was still in the low 30’s. And once the snow was melted my garden revealed the purple and white crocus, the brilliant yellow daffodils, and the stems of tulips, Tiger lilies, and lots of leaves that need to be raked out.

Finally the air is warmer. The days are longer. The magnolia tree will bloom. The leaves will spread a canopy of shade which will be appreciated once the summer comes along. But for now, I’ll be grateful that the winter is behind us and spring is upon us. And I shall say with all the dry wit that my father says every year…”Spring has sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is..”