Organization..I hate that "O" word!

Why can't it just happen? Why can't things just make their way to their own special place, without my help? I need to get organized...but it's not my strong suit, and I'm not particularly apt to forcing myself to find a home for these things that need their own place to be.

I have to admit that, in this my 6th decade of life, I have gotten better about putting things where they belong. I certainly spend far more time THINKING about where they'd be best put, anyway. It also helps to have a new, larger home, with a room dedicated to my craft items. (read between the lines and see that what I'm really saying is that this is one gigantic 'closet' where my craft items are, in all their disarray.) I actually use these items, but in a different room...either in front of some silly chic flick or court TV...or at the 5 foot square dining table.

Like another blogger, my surfaces tend to 'collect' piles of things....mail that has been sorted, read, and should then be filed either in the circular file or an actual cabinet made for the purpose, unread magazines with articles which are being saved for 'quiet' time, well...you get the picture.
I've been known to repeat many times over the years that the surfaces in our home ought to be on a slant so that they can't hold anything!

I have to force myself to fold the laundry. I don't know why it's such a big chore, but I hate doing it. Good grief! The machines wash and dry them, why can't I fold them without such an effort. In reality, I just make more work for myself (ie: ironing!) because I don't do it immediately. I'll have to work on that.

One of my daughters always used to come home and say, "Mom, I'll help you get this organized if you want me to." No, I didn't want her to, thank you very much. I HATE for someone else to get into my stuff! They have a different idea of what's worth keeping and what isn't. Another of my girls says, "Mom, you have too much *x%t !" Maybe...but it's mine, so keep your mitts off!

When we got ready to move from that house to this one,9 states away, my packrat husband and this recycler/crafter/saver/ wife of his had to make some choices. We did clean out ...not that anyone else would notice, but we did! Still...we have too much. Other packrats, crafters and recyclers would understand us, but most people don't. There really are good uses for old mayonnaise jars and coffee cans! We put all of our dry pantry goods in the jars, and use the cans for nails, screws, etc for the shop area. By the way, a skein of yarn in a coffee can, with a hole for the strand of yarn in the plastic top, keeps the skein free to unravel as you will, rather than rolling around the floor . Oh well...some people will never understand that sort of thing.

Anyway, Spring is coming. I can feel it in the air. I can see it in the blooming Jonquils and hear it in the songs of the returning birds. And yes, I hear my heart scolding...'Get organized....get organized...get organized." I HATE that 'O' word!

DREAMS

Dreams are funny things...they come out of who-knows-where, and control themselves with little rhyme or reason.

Sometime in the dark hours of last night/this morning, I found myself in the LVIS thrift shop in East Hampton. I had found a suit...a red suit with a designer tag. I tried it on and it fit, but I needed a purse to match, so I went to the section where the pocketbooks were in search of the perfect bag. There on the shelf was a just-the-right color, just-the-perfect-sized clutch bag. It was rather heavy, so I found myself slinging the strap over my shoulder. (note that clutch type purses don't HAVE straps!) I next found myself, outside the store, with the purse, but not the suit.

Before I could figure out what was happening, I was at the home of a friend who lives in Florida. I've never visited this place, her new home, but I understand it's quite a show piece. In the dream, Marie's house was an estate, a huge and preposterous place. I was there, working as a babysitter! There was a sporty,red car in the driveway that was supposedly mine and in it was the red purse. Apparently I'd discovered, at some point, the reason for it being so heavy. It was full with personal items, wallet, money, and the usual stuff women deem necessary to carry everywhere.

Throughout the dream I was plagued with the idea that I must get this purse back to its rightful owner. And then the thought came to me that my own bag was among the missing. Oh no! I'd have to go through replacing all of the identification papers, I might lose my checkbook and money to whomever had it now. I was being tortured in my sleep! Finally I spoke to Marie's husband and told him that I must get that red clutch purse back to it's owner. He made arrangements, and as luck would have it, when I returned the red purse, I automatically received my own, with no problems.

That's when I awoke. I am not one who believes much in 'dream interpretations', but this time I knew the feeling that 'when you do the right thing, you will be rewarded.'

New Dawn...

It's a new day. To quote the line from a song an old, dear friend wrote, "Light of a new morning shines on my face...I feel I've been gifted, been granted a new kind of grace." Yes...every new morning is a gift holding within itself unseen possibilities and surprises you'd never dream were to come.
It always amazes me at the end of a day what has occured during the span between waking and sleeping. Sometimes its 'mundane' and 'routine' things that are most obvious, but often there will be something so out-of-the ordinary that just 'makes' the day. This winter, on a number of cold days, there were icey 'growths' of about 2-3" coming up from the loose areas in the ground. We've yet to figure out why these oblong bits grew, or how they did, but the little ice gardens were fun to observe and to wonder about.
One morning I was in Watermill, and I needed to go to the post office. Since the one in my hometown was usually difficult to get to, and I was already parked there in Watermill, I decided it was the perfect time to 'get in and get out' quickly. There was a line of three or four in front of me, and as I stood, I took note of the desk clerk. She was patient, she was friendly, and she was talkative. I also noted that she was somewhat 'decorated'. All over the front of her blue uniform shirt, she had rhinestone brooches pinned. There were flowers and bugs, butterflies and dragonflies, among others. In here pierced ears were dangling earrings that reached nearly to her shoulders...and the one on the left didn't match the one on the right. Her large eyes were made up with purple eye shadow, and her cheeks were bright with a creamy blush. She was a light-skinned African-American woman, and she'd clipped her hair tight to her head, nearly a 'crew cut'. She'd bleached it a platinum blonde, and decorated it with a small hair clip which held a butterfly on a spring, so that everytime she moved her head, the colorful butterfly would sway.
When it was my turn to be serviced, the woman gave me a big, toothy smile and a cheery 'good morning'. I returned the gesture, and offered that she shone like a Christmas tree. I meant her personality, but she looked down at her shirt and said, "I do, don't I? I LOVE pins!"
Following that lead, I told her that I admired her ability to step out of the ordinary mode and just be herself. She thanked me and said she'd always been that way. Somehow we got into a conversation about writing, and she asked me if I could wait a moment while she took care of the last person in line. She wanted to show me something. I waited.
The clerk came around from the counter and led me to a bench on the sidewalk near the street. She told me the story of a homosexual man who had lost his partner. She'd written a beautiful poem for the survivor and she gave it to him. Months later, he had it put onto a bronze plaque. It was installed in the sidewalk, beneath the bench which was donated in memory of the deceased man.
Ruby Dee showed me in less than half an hour how you can make a big difference in someone's day. Treat everyone with kindness and with a big smile. You never know but you might be the person they remember, the way I remember that brief time with Ruby Dee.

Rain...

It's raining. I've always liked the rain. I love to listen to the sound it makes on the windows, or the roof, or the street. I like to hear it drip from the tree leaves or pour down the gutter pipes from the corner of the house. There's a personality about rain that nothing else in Nature has to offer. I can't describe it, it's just...there.

I like to walk in a warm rain and slosh through the puddles. Alone, I feel the solitude of it. When with my husband, it feels romantic. (He, being born and bred in the Northwest is used to the rain, and likes it too. He even claims to have webbed feet!)

Rain can cause a multitude of moods, I think. I don't know whether you can call them 'melancholy', but when I was an ultra-sensitive teenager, rain was the prompter of many written words...mostly sad words. I wonder if rain moves artists to paint or composers to write music? These days I don't feel sadness when the clouds send moisture, I feel a coziness, as if I'm shrouded in a soft comforter.

We certainly need this rain. The red clay of earth is thirsty, and hopefully this steady, light rainfall will continue until the deep crevices in the ground can heal. The new plants that are signaling the coming of Spring are looking parched. This watering will quench their immediate desire for moisture without having to drag out the garden hoses.

More times than not in this area, we get heavy downpours which may add to the reservoirs, but do very little for the gardens. Those rains just roll off the surface of the ground and into the drainage ditches or storm drains. At times like that, Mike and I like to go outside and watch the water rushing over the big stones we placed between the high and low areas in the ditch. It's like watching a rushing stream with little waterfalls. It makes it's own songs as the water flows.

We've much to do in the outside, and though the rain doesn't dampen my spirits, today will be used for inside things. The tax preparation awaits. (That does wreak havoc with my thoughts!)

MAINE

Mike and I have been to Maine a number of times. In fact we spent our honeymoon there. We were heading for Nova Scotia...in mid-June 1996, and we stopped in Maine for the night. I was so cold, I was wearing all sorts of layers, and we decided not to go farther north than Acadia. We were tent camping, and it was raining, as is often the case for the state of Maine. It rained, I believe, 14 out of the 16 days we were gone. It didn't dampen our spirits, though.

Waking in the heavy morning mist in a Bar Harbor campground, I was drawn to the see the water. I woke Mike up. He's a night owl, I'm a morning dove and he wasn't thrilled with getting up early. Being a good, brand new husband, he humored me and got up for a trek to the ocean. We marched down the damp, sandy road to the cliffside where the gulls screeched and the salt air was heavy with fog over the water. Suddenly there was the long, mournful sound of the foghorn. Oh! What a delightful sound that was! I was captivated. My insides somehow relate to minor key music, cellos, bassoon, and the wonderful melancholy tone of a fog horn.

We sat until the fog lifted and the gulls soared over the waves, singing without accompaniment from the distant horn that played the warning for sailors in the midst.

We must make it a point to visit Maine again...to eat the 'lobstah' and the New England clam 'chowdah', to feel the misty air, to smell the salt, to visit the lighthouses, and more important than all these, to hear the song of the foghorn that calls me now.

Writing Randomly

Random thoughts flow...nothing earth shattering, nothing of heavy interest. But, I want to write something, and since great authors advise that one should write 'something' every day, even if it has no intense meaning, I sit here and let my fingers dance freely across the keyboard, just to find out what is in my own head.

Actually, it seems to me that I am better inspired when I sit in a quiet corner with a tablet of paper and a pen that when I'm using my computer. However, this is where I choose to be at the moment, so this is where I'll seek inspiration.

Why is it, I wonder, that the best ideas come to me in the middle of the night when I should be asleep? One might answer that it's serene then and the mind isn't being called upon to pay attention to a dozen other things. That may be an honest and true answer, but this body does not relish rising in the cold, dark night to find writing utensils in which to transform the mere thought into an array of words that make sense to a reader.

Cold floors are not conducive to returning to a peaceful sleep, although they certainly would be prone to inducing a desire to return to a warm bed! With that in mind in the wee hours, I tend to stay put, attempting to file away the idea for safe keeping until such time as I might be more willing to hunt up a pen. Of course, what generally happens is that the smidgeon of material will automatically begin to divide and multiply, causing what was left of the sleep hours to disintegrate with nary another wink. Why can't these inspirations come at a more opportune moment?

I suppose that I should just keep a pen and paper at my bedside. I could reach out in my drowsiness and scribble the idea in some illegible form that could be developed at another point in time. Somehow I doubt that I'd ward off my sleeplessness if I did practice that approach. Usually, once I wake, my brain kicks into high speed, and that's the end of rest for the weary. For the record, the brain I have been given has no concern for what the clock face says.

With that, I will close this rambling. Someday I'll let you know all about my dealings with clocks, but for now, I think I'll go find a sheet of blank paper and a pen. I'll tap the pen upon the page, hoping for something to pop into my head, come magically down my arm and out through the end of the ballpoint. Wish me luck....

LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT...

It's Valentine's Day. All over the country, lovers are sharing their romantic feelings with each other, and exchanging cards, jewelry, bouquets with each other. Diamond rings are being placed on fingers to signify a marriage proposal has been accepted. Weddings are taking place here or there. Little ones are enjoying the collection of goodies they've received at their school parties or from Grandma and Grandpa. Celebrations of love are unfolding wherever you look.

Over the years, I've received all sorts of gifts to commemorate this Cupid's arrow day. My husband is a big teddy bear, and he is one of a romantic sort. There have been flowers, sweet cards with even sweeter sentiments written in his hand, candlelit dinners which he's created with his amazing skills in the kitchen. (I'm not being sarcastic...he's a better cook than I am!)
There have also been lean times when there hasn't been cash on hand for anything extravagant, but still he finds some way to show how special I am to him.

We actually don't need a day set apart especially to show our caring. In fact, I prefer those 'little things' that just 'pop' into our moments unexpectedly. You know, those things that show that a person is paying attention to you in ways that you don't
even realize. My husband never fails to notice that the half and half that I drink in my coffee is in need of replacement, and he'll stop at the store and buy a new quart before I've even noticed that I've only got two days left in the old one. As a retiree, he sleeps later in the morning than I do, and he never fails to make the bed. When he was still working, he'd sometimes snip off a rose, carefully remove all the thorns, wrap it in a wet paper towel, and deliver it to me when he gets home from a job. When we were dating, we once attended a New Year's Eve party on a frigid, windy night. After a long night of dancing in heels, we walked quite a distance to the car, and by the time we'd reached the parking spot, I was shivering with cold and limping in those shoes! My Knight opened the car door, placed me inside, opened the rear door, and from his ever present gym bag, came forth with a clean and warm pair of his socks! After a gentle foot massage, he placed the socks on my feet, for a much more pleasant ride home! I think that his thoughtfulness was responsible for my
act of hanging hearts all over the house on Valentines Day in another year. Lines from love songs graced each heart that hung from the ceilings like rain, stuck to the doors, the lamps, the fireplace, anywhere that would hold a heart. That simple act is one of his favorite memories.

'Little things'...never underestimate them. They are cherished for years and will serve you well in the 'every day' hours.
Don't ever pass up a chance to say, with words or with deeds,
'I love you' .