There aren’t too many days like this, when she’s so wound up that she doesn’t take a nap during the day. And it’s a good thing, too, because that means I don’t have a minute to myself when it’s a day like this.
At least she was in a good mood this afternoon, giggling and laughing over not remembering who I am.
“Who are you?” She genuinely wants to know.
“I’m Elaine, your daughter,” I tell her.
Her eyes open wide and she starts laughing. “You’re Elaine?”
“Yes, I say. I’m your daughter.”
“I have a daughter?” Now she’s laughing even harder.
Her laughter is contagious, and soon we’re both running to the bathroom.
I sit with her on the edge of her bed while we both try to calm down. My stomach hurts from laughing so much.
She starts to cry. She leans her head on my shoulder and says “Please make me better.” And then we cry together.

The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily’s guest writer every Monday.
FROM THE WHITE HOUSE
Dear Sir or Mr. Myrln S. Orcerer (whichever you prefer):
Your letter of Aug. 13 was received. Even tho I was on vacation (which means not at work, ha-ha), it was read to me by one of my aides. I was very upset by it cuz he doesn’t usually laugh when reading to me. But with your letter, he got the real hee-haws until it felt like he was laughing at me which is not proper for someone of my high office. By which I don’t mean elevation but importance. For I am important , as many people who want something from me keep telling me. Anyway, I referred that former aide over to Dick Cheney for what we call some remedial reading. If that don’t work, we’ll just have to write him off (the aide, I mean) as a lemon. Haw-haw. That’d make him a lemon-aide. Get it?
So now I’m doing this letter myself which will be a surprise to my other aides who think I don’t know how to typh…I mean, type. Maybe I won’t need so many aides in the future. Right now, I got a band of them. Haw-haw. That’s band-aides. Get it?
Anyway, your letter said I got us in a war and don’t know how to get out of it. Yeah, I do. I got a plan. Only it’s secret cuz if it wasn’t then them terrorists would know and then attack us on all sortsa fronts. And probly a couple of rears, too. Haw-haw. Get it? Rears? And there’s some folks like you that say cuz I fibbed a bit to get us into the war, how can anybody believe what I say now. Well shoot (no, Dick, I didn’t mean you. Haw-haw. Get it?), didn’t you guys ever hear of the 12-step program for liars? I’m working on it. I only got 11 lies to go. Jeez, give me a break. Anyway, someday the ‘Raqis will come and thank me on their knees and I’ll join them and we’ll all say a prayer together or maybe sing some nice big hymn like one of them I learnt in church. You wait and see.
So, that’s all I got to say, Mr. Orcerer. (Cheney says you’re really some kinda magician cuz S. Orcerer in your name says so. I say, yeah sure, like if my name was Tush Bush I’d be some kinda…oh…uh…never mind. Forget that one.)
Sincerely,
Gorge W. Bush
Precedent of the United Stakes (damned typewriter)
(the ‘Merican ones) (Stakes, not the typewr…oh never mind)

Shift, dammit! Shift!

Shifting the universe is never easy. I mean, just ask Dr. Who.
So, I am struggling to come up with the right combination of metaphor and magic to help r@d@r shift himself and his family from where they are to where they want to be. I thought I was done, but what I created didn’t feel right. So I’m re-working it. I will post a photo of the artifact after I finish and get it to him.
It’s inevitable that, as I stoke my own energy fires for purposes outside myself, that my own purposes get fired up as well.
I’ve begun sheltering myself from the bad vibes around here by planning my escape.
When he feeds her a salami sandwich just before I begin to make her a well-balanced meal, I walk away and plan my escape.
When he blames me because he stubbed his unshod toe on the leg of the chair I’m sitting in, or because he can’t find his wire cutter, I walk away and plan my escape.
When he yells at me because I put the still-warm container of soup that I just made (from scratch) into the refrigerator (before it cooled down), I walk away and plan my escape.
I already have my Escape. And now I’m making plans.
That’s not to say that my plans might not gang agley The universe can often be pretty nasty while we make plans.
Then, again, you never know what might come out of nasty.
In this post on her blog, singer/songwriter Kristin Hersh tells eloquently and touchingly about being on a concert tour with family and band and dealing with situations that make you think that the universe has it in for them. This is just a taste of Kristin’s remarkable tale of what dedicated artists do to follow their “bliss.”:
I have to care, because soon, there may be no place for the next song to go. I think I’ll always play music. I think I have to. I’ll play in my bedroom, in my car, in my garage…but without an audience, without money, I won’t be on the road and I won’t be in the studio. And like it or not, music is a social endeavor. I wish it wasn’t, but it is and as such, it’s impact is stunted when it’s invisible. Music isn’t supposed to stay in the bedroom, the car, or the garage. It’s supposed to be given away, to become other people’s soundtrack.
So what happens is, we’re driving through the mountains and I’m stumbling around the bus, listening to music, making sandwiches for the kids and laughing with Bernie as we barrel down the highway like we have so many times before. I had just stepped over a dog to hand Wyatt a cup of milk when Ryder yelled, “Fire!” from the back bedroom.

Read the whole post and more on Kristin’s blog.
Sometimes it seems that we have no choices over where our lives take us. But we do. We do. Only there’s always a trade-off. It seems we can’t have everything we want at once. And so we have to decide what’s most important at this moment in time.
I write this to remind myself. My life is what it is, for now.
But I am urging the universe to shift, as I plan my escape.

Anyone who reads this blog will know why I like this poem, one of Culleny’s
dailies.
Cat Dance Music
Jim Culleny
Dance!
Delphiniums winddance
with phlox in Pat’s garden.
They sway in quiet concord,
rooted in motion.
Dancing’s a vital sign of endless youth;
even my grandmothers danced.
One danced to accordianed polkas,
corseted cantileverd bosom bouncing.
The other jigged across her chicken yard
with handfuls of eggs –having just left her hens
without yield– acting goofy for a camera.
I once danced with abandon
to big-holed 45s
spun by a DJ named Jocko
who sent four-part doowop through my radio:
the Prisonaires, the Cadillacs, the Moonglows…
When was the last time I danced with abandon?
How did I do that beautiful thing?
It’s best to dance with others, real gurus say.
It’s lonely dancing with a mirror,
leading and following in one motion,
thinking breaking it would be bad luck.
Our cats dance to deep cat vibrations always,
alert as…… cats to music far beyond our ears:
cat dance music.
Zorba knew. Have you seen
Quinn, the Greek, dance?
Felt life spring in rhythms?
Watched it prance on toes to a bouzouki
even in the embrace of despair?
Never. Never forget how to dance.
All innocents dance.
Only the troubled are still.

Most hummingbird feeders are made so that the little bird drinks while still airborne, wings continuing to beat away at an average of 30 beats per second. That’s how they’re used to hovering next to a flower and drinking its nectar.
This year I bought a hummingbird feeder that has little stands below each fake flower on which the bird can alight. And so I was able to sit a couple of feet away from the feeder and take some photos through the screen and the window.

It’s not often one has a chance to see a hummingbird when it’s not humming. Today one of our usual humming visitors sat quietly at the feeder for more than ten minutes while I watched it drink, look around, drink, pee, poop, look around, drink…. Over and over.
We have three or four different hummingbirds that stop by, including a ruby-throated. We can tell them apart by their sizes and markings.
Whenever it was really hot outside, we noticed that, while they would stop to take a drink, they would barely take a sip and then fly away. Over the last couple of days the weather has been considerably cooler, and they keep coming back to drink throughout the day. It finally occurred to us that, because the feeder is on the sunny side of the house, the liquid must frequently get really hot during the summer. Obviously, they like their meals on the cool side.
Whenever I see one perched on our feeder, I think about how much I would love to hold one in my hand, make it a pet. But that’s not the nature of the feisty little hummer. They’ve gotta keep moving.
Except when they take a rest at my feeder and let me watch them be birds rather than just those loudly buzzing large-insect-looking-things that are gone before you can focus on them.

That’s where we took my mom on Sunday: to the “black dirt” region outside of Goshen, New York for a Summer Fest at the Polish Legion of American Veterans’ picnic area. It was a 35 mile drive over back and bumpy roads, and (we now know) too long and jarring for her to sit comfortably. She fell asleep each way, and I tried to prop her up with pillows so that she wouldn’t fall over.
Packing her up to take her on even that short a trip was like packing up to take a child: snacks, water, an extra pair of underpants, a jacket, hat, pillows, blanket….
Add to that, of course, her wheelchair and her cane.
There was a polka band playing all afternoon, so after she ate some pierogi that I bought at the stand operated by Hudson Valley Polonaise Society, she and I got up to polka. We managed to do two dances (with a long break between), and my brother took a video clip to help her remember the event afterwards.
Here’s a still photo of us, baby-stepping along as everyone else hopped energetically around the dance floor. (I clipped the image from the video, so it’s kind of blurry).

To be honest, it was killing me not to get up and really dance. I kept looking around to see if there might be any men there without partners who looked as though they wanted to dance as much as I did. No such luck. Five years ago, I would have even gone up to a guy who was with a partner and asked his partner if I could borrow him for one dance — explaining that I was from out of town and was dying to get at least one dance in before I left.
Obviously, I’ve lost many of my edges. No more guts. No more glory.
Mom barely remembers the experience. And she slept almost all day on Monday. I’m not sure it was worth the bother of the trip, except I did buy some tomatoes (the best I’ve had yet), a perfect watermelon, and, of course, onions at what was once the Onion Capital of the World.

The following post is by MYRLN, a non-blogger who is Kalilily’s guest writer every Monday.
First there was Rosa Parks refusing to give up her bus seat, right?
Well, no. Courageous as Rosa Parks’s act of civil disobedience was, and as important as it was to the Civil Rights Movement, it was not the first such act of its kind.
Last week, August 14, a woman named Irene Morgan Kirkaldy died at age 90 of Alzheimer’s. It’s not a name we’re familiar with, and that’s too bad. You see, back in 1944, at age 27, this woman got on a Greyhound bus headed from Gloucester, Virginia, to Baltimore, Maryland. Then she was arrested. Why? Because she, a black woman, refused to give up her seat to white passengers and subsequently resisted arrest. As she described her encounter with a sheriff, “I kicked him in a very bad place.” According to her daughter, Mrs. Kirkaldy later always told her children, “If you know you’re right, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
Further importance is added to her action by the subsequent legal outcome. She was convicted of violating Virginia’s segregation law, and eventually, her case went all the way to the Supreme Court. There it was successfully appealed by a future Court Justice, Thurgood Marshall. The case paved the way for what was to come.
All this more than a decade before Rosa Parks’s landmark resistance in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955.
So how come we didn’t/don’t hear anything about Irene Morgan Kirkaldy? “She didn’t see herself as a hero,” her daughter says. So she likely never sought recognition. And back when she committed her act of civil disobedience, World War II was raging, nearing its end, yes, but still the overwhelmingly dominant activity of the time. There wasn’t much national interest in or attention to some “quarrel” about a bus seat.
But that unnoticed seed flowered fully eleven years later, and we might wonder if Rosa Parks knew of Irene Morgan Kirkaldy, if she drew inspiration from her predecessor, that little-known woman to whom we owe a great deal. (As a side note, Mrs. Kirkaldy earned a degree from St. John’s at age 68, and then a Master’s from Queens College at age 73.)
And it would be a greater honor to her if some 63 years later, we’d totally erased the notion that black or white had any relevance in our culture. “I have a dream my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character….” Thus Martin Luther King spoke to us 19 years after that brave woman’s defiance. And now, another 44 years after King’s words, we actually have being raised this astonishing question about a candidate for a presidential nomination: Is he black enough?
Maybe we need again to say, loud and clear, “ENOUGH!” And add…”PERIOD!”
If only to say the sacrifice of Irene Morgan Kirkaldy really meant something.

You need some healing hands, Sistah, big time. This is my visual virtual prayer for the Sessums, for whatever it’s worth.

Cybermagic and the beginning of shifting the universe for r@d@r and his family:

The conjuring goes on here on the mountain, with the digging of roots, the finding of wings, the weaving of shield, the sewing (yes, SEWING) of seeds, the winding of vines.
Intention and will. It all begins in chaos and it ends in connection and creativity.
More to come.