SkyScapes

Hint of New England in autumn

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 20:07:00 +0000

Late summer yellows and browns are dotted with white and purple asters. The geraniums in their glazed blue pots are blooming furiously along with the gone-wild petunias in the kitchen garden. But word is out, autumn is landing.

I couldn't decide if I should mow the lawns once more or call it done. The quack grass is bold and in places was tall and the back lawn was sprouting with pople seedlings so the mower came out. Just past mid-day the air was warm and dry. Usually I start mowing where the grass is thickest and highest (east and north lawns) just in case the mower breaks down or I run out of gas, but today I mowed in long paths--front by the road to the back edge before the woods. I mowed slowly, no hurry to be done.

More than cutting grass, I surveyed my little landmarks. The deer have pruned up the cedars high enough now it is easier to mow under them. And the white pines, so soft to touch, have had their skirts shortened a bit. More mushroom that need to be picked and thrown away so the dogs can't get them, and a few noxious weed like burdock and stinging nettle need to go soon.

Along the edge near the back side of the garage, a blackberry bush held a beautiful cluster of late ripening shiny berries to the sun and they were a treat for me.

Near the Cocker Garden, where my beloved dogs are buried, I clumsily ran over some tiny volunteer Love-In-A-Mist flowers that fringe my Fancy's grave. Some are still there, but won't bloom anymore this year. Ami's grave is spilling over with bouquets of blue forget-me-nots and white sweet alyssum--on ground that rarely grows anything. It is Ami, my darling Ami, who brings such beauty to life.

Moving between the shade of the majestic centurion maple into the sunny grassy lawns I felt content. Serene. Life is so fragile but this moment is perfect.

I had a sense of New England spun from some memory of a book or a film--Then I remembered... Newhart! Safe. Predictable. Honest. If only make believe.
Our reality now is it is time of the harvest--what we've all worked for and now hope to store for the long winter. Life is ripe for the picking.

Pea Patch Morning

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 11:25:00 +0000

The past couple of days have been cool. Bright but with high temperatures around 60 degrees. Good weather for growing sugar snap peas--if we had a little rain to go with it.

Lawns in town are brown as they go dormant for lack of rain. Mine here are still pretty green, but then they are mostly wild flowers and weeds who might be hardier than cultivated lawn grass. I'm hauling buckets and milk jugs of water to all the flower beds every day, and have started to water the day lilies, too. I noticed their leaves rolling and some turning yellow--drought stress.

Crystal wrenched her rear leg in the run late yesterday afternoon. I'd put her outside in the run with her daughter Molly, littermate brother Freeway, and little elder Meghan to exercise. Somehow she lost her footing. She is very old and recovering from a stroke in March, and still suffers from bouts of vertigo. One rear foot dropped between the grid floor of the run and the chain link panel and sShe couldn't pull it up. She panicked and wrenched it before I could get to her. I gave her baby aspirin last night and she slept comfortably near me, but this morning she looks sore. After she eats I will give her another aspirin. She's putting weight on the foot so it likely is soft tissue bruise.

The pea patch is still blooming and as if shamed into existence, the second planting of sweet peas is pushing up a spindly few plants mixed into the morning glories that will soon create too much shade for the sweet peas. Morning glories seem more vigorous than sweet peas. Or the soil is better for them. But the weather is sure pea patch weather if only we had a little more water. The coolness is perfect and the sugar snap plants continue to bloom.

Now if only I could wait until the pea pods were more mature! Between me and the dogs they never make it into the house for that extra special stir fry.

Soon the green beans will flower and we'll snack on fresh green beans. Wild raspberries are ready and when I take Lexi for her walk we stop at the wild raspberry patch, pick a few sweet berries and share them--tart and sweet-- and then move on. Wild blackberries are fruiting, but lack of water may take that crop yet. We'll see. Those are harder to pick on a walk because of the thorns.

Summertime--at least I am not mowing lawns every fourth day!

Warriors from a Forgotten War--Korea and Dad

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Mon, 25 May 2009 10:39:00 +0000

The Wisconsin Korean War Memorial was dedicated in 1997 in Plover. Chet Skippy, a realty developer and Korean War veteran worked hard to make it happen. On that summer day my brother, mom and dad came up for the dedication.

Dad stood apart from us, apart from everyone... on the sandy shore of the island memorial looking towards the Statues yet beyond them. He looked so vulnerable, so alone even though we all tried to reach him but none of us could.

After the ceremony with state dignitaries including David Obey who talked about the forgotten war (it wasn't even called a war until recently, but rather the Korean Conflict) we wandered in a discount tool vendor's tent on the grounds. Dad bought me a set of little clamps to use when I went to dog shows, then we went to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

I'm the toughest sonofabitch
this side of the Rio Grande.
If you think you can take me, come on, let's go.
Think you have it in you?
Think its going to be easy? ...you've another guess comin'
'cause I'll fight til I die and I'll not die easy.
I'm the toughest sonofabitch
this side of the Rio Grande.
--excerpt from "My Dad" by Bobbie Lee S. Kolehouse

Dad was tough. He had grit and stamina, but he wasn't a street brawler. He admired street brawlers. What he seemed to search for was confidence and he mistook reactionary possessiveness for it. He tried to tap it through other people. He depended on them to "have what it takes" in case he didn't. He wasn't possessive, he was introverted and spent much of his life in his head, then fogged it up with alcohol trying to escape. Thoughts made uglier from what he'd lived in Korea.

Now my dad was a farm boy and knew better than many about life and death and survival, but he didn't know about war except for the romanticized stories. His father and mother were farmers, not warriors. Quiet, stable, dependable people. He was ambitious and a bit willful. He always considered himself a bit of a rebel--but he wasn't one by nature.

He tried to enlist and was rejected because of a heart murmur, but he cleared the second time and landed in the Army. He was close to his brother Lee who was in the Merchant Marine. Lee was scrappy, and bold--different from my dad and most of his family. Dad was the youngest of eight. At home with his family he was always Bobby.

Throughout his life he grappled with and clung to his military experience. His closest friends were veterans, some highly decorated for valor and courage--all alcoholics. It was a nightmare they all shared and gloried in and fell victim to in the end. Throughout his life he'd quip, usually in an alcohol stupor, "Think you got what it takes?" He never got home again and we all miss him yet.

With planning this time we can provide resources to assure good transition programs are in place for our current military veterans returning from war. Their service doesn't have to cost them their lives, and the lives of those who love them, even if make it back safely.

All military veterans, thank you and your families for your service.

**Wallet pictured was a gift from my father to my mother's sister, Gloriann Meyn, brought back from Korea. My aunt gave it to me as a keepsake of my father.**

From the WKWM website, http://www.koreanmemorial.org/index.html

The Korean War - June 25, 1950 thru July 27, 1953

Forgotten by all but those that served.

War is truly hell and those who fought would never glorify it. Those Wisconsinites helped save a nation and then returned home, without honor or fanfare.

Wisconsin has long forgotten the 132,000 of her sons and daughters who served in the cause of freedom in the Korean War

	801 were killed in action
	4,286 were wounded
	111 were prisoners of war (54 of these died in POW camps)
	84 are still officially listed as missing in action

Amidoll--Amigurumi

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sat, 23 May 2009 20:14:00 +0000

The past few months have been a bit challenging and to get a grip I am knitting --and crocheting. Public television's Create channel with its Knitting and Crochet Today program, (as well as the garden programs) has helped.

If television doesn't have an influence on behavior, someone needs to rethink their studies...

So having invested heavily in fancy yarns, tools and books (and a small fortune in glass beads for one lovely project) I saw this cute little project the other night for a toy--a teacup. The craft is Japanese and is called "amigurumi". Most of these small, soft toys are distinguished with oversized heads, small arms and legs and bright eyes.

The tea cup was a free pattern and I added a saucer. It is cute but I don't think it is quite right. I captured the darling expression typical of the design, but think maybe my cup is too roly-poly cup when it should be a cylinder.

Not content with it and thinking maybe it is because I didn't use the exact yarn mentioned in the KCT pattern, I bought a new skein of Seafoam as noted on www.knitandcrochettoday.com. The artist Ana, doesn't say what yarn to use in her directions other than it be blue and worsted weight. I'll see if the second one looks more correct or if these will vary because they are sculptured a bit.

For my little blue tea cup, I made do with batting salvaged from one of my Cocker's fleecy beds. Danny, (the Ripper) loves to pluck batting out of the little roll around the edge of his beds. Because batting can kill a dog (block their intestines) I have to take it all out once he's got one open. That is what I used in my little blue tea cup-- used dog bedding. Not to worry, it is clean and to be sure it doesn't smell like dog, I dumped lavendar oil on it. Enough to choke us all, so my little blue tea cup doubles as an air freshener.

Today when I was in the yarn shop again, I bought a skein of white and a skein of Irish setter red for a new toy I want to make. A Cocker Spaniel and name it for my Ami, my beautiful red and white Cocker who died tragically on May 2. I can't write much because it hurts too bad, but she is my model for my own Amigurumi Cocker Spaniel doll. The doll's name will be Ami, for Ch. Kindred Playin' By Heart. Part of the reason I paid attention to the pattern was because of the name of the craft--I heard Ami.

When I have pictures of my new Amidoll, as well as my cute purses, lovely shawl and this awesome knitted vest pattern I bought today too, I'll share them with you. In the meantime, here is my fat, little blue tea cup--sweet expression, don't you think?

Oh, too, I'll share pictures of my strawberry pot next. It is another project I learned about on Create's Cultivating Life program.... Check it out! http://www.cultivatinglife.com/Alpine-Strawberry-Pots.html

Peepers

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Fri, 01 May 2009 01:14:00 +0000

It never grows old, this watching the world wake up. It teems with life. And though it is always there, in spring it is as if everyone shakes off winter's wait to stretch and feel life tingle.

Songs fill the air. Cardinals, bluebirds, buntings, goldfinches, phoebes, and busy robins sing warnings of territories and mating lures. Somewhere in the still stick-bare woods a jay calls, an echo that is the spirit of wildness. As each day grows longer, warmer and moist, the maples push redbuds into the air and popples start to look like children's sponge paintings with their yellow-green shadows of new leaves.

Bulbs push through to the air, some trapped by dried maple leaves that bind them until they cannot hold them in their dry embrace. Then the bulb leaves snap the tight hold of last year's leaves. Flower heads of hyacinths, jonquils, daffodils, fill the air with scents of spring.

I arranged a group of them in a pretty blue-grey pottery vase I bought at a local gift shop. The vase is the first piece in my remake of my front room changing from the warmth of ruby, burnt orange, and browns to ocean blues, sunshine yellows, sandy tans and sage green to freshen this farmhouse for the new year.

The vase sits on my desk holding four fresh daffodils and one blue-violet hyacinth. Next to it is a charming egg jar decorated with drawings by Beatrix Potter. The lid is the top of the egg and has the little rabbit with his blue coat as the handle--Peter Rabbit. It was a birthday gift from my mom and was filled with the most exquisite floral arrangement of carnations, mums, freesia, a blue spiked flower I don't know the name of, and flat waxy leaves. It was breath-taking with flowers, and is beautiful as a jardiniere.

Twilight closes in. Earlier I opened all the doors and the kitchen window so a gentle breeze filled the house. The kitchen window is still open and sounds of peepers are loud as they pick up where the birds left off.

Spring.

Celebration of Hope and Faith

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 12:29:00 +0000

When people talk about holiday celebrations, their most memorable stories are usually about making-do. Maybe because less-than stories are easier to tell, are not so threatening than stories about plenty.

Maybe we feel less guilty telling the making-do stories but Christmas memories are as different as the people who remember them and the most treasured are often those threaded with sharing, the capacity to give, and renewed hope.

There were six children in my family, a large working class family. My father had a small glass and paint sales business and our lives rattled up and down with the economy. Usually Christmas meant oodles of brightly colored paper wrapped gifts tied with curling ribbon mounded around our tree. Never mind that most of them were socks or underwear, we knew there was the one special one buried there with our name on the tag signed, “From Santa”.

But then there were less happy times, when our Christmas toys came from charity organizations. One year a group of used toys almost didn’t make it to our house, but were delivered to my aunt’s house Christmas Eve where my mom wrapped them and then carried them home for us the next morning. Another year there were boxes of nameless foods delivered to our house where logs of processed cheese were stashed among canned vegetables and a frozen turkey. And then there was the year we received one present each, but we did get that one.

These are sad, futile memories. Not because there we didn’t get many toys, but because my parents’ struggle left them emotionally empty. No tree, no gifts, no gentle snowfall could mask the defeat in their hearts, but they put one foot in front of the other. Despair pushed aside.

When I was five there were only two children in my family, me and my brother. Christmas was young and joyous. We stenciled our big picture windows with elaborate scenes using Glaswax, a kind of pinkish wax for windows, coached by our mom. Sometimes she’d use poster paints with the window as her canvas and Santa would sail across a starry sky with the little family nestled below.

Christmas was golden. Tiny Tears dolls, Barbie, Tonka trucks, coloring books with a new box of 64 count Crayola crayons, not an off brand, were under our sparkly tree for me.

Cookie bake days at my aunt’s farm usually ended with us throwing up all the raw dough we’d snitched. Mom and Aunt Dynie helped us make snowy Christmas trees out of cardboard thread spools from the local sock factory. She'd whip up Ivory Flakes soap into a frothy mix that dried hard on the cones. We dusted them with glitter and topped each with a tiny glass ball. We made net trees, and plastic dry cleaner bag wreaths, and decorated them with small colored glass balls and we'd give them to our aunts and uncles on special holiday visits.

Times and fortunes change with some years more plentiful than others, but most haunted by sadness. Disappointing not because they lacked for gifts, or because they didn’t look like the scenes in department stores or stories on television, but because they were spiritless.

This year department stores look a bit like those used toys from so long ago, a little plain and hollow-- without soul, even a cold commercial one.

Still, days will grow long and spring rains will bring growth and plenty. Goodness and compassion twinkle at the edges if we look for them. “Kindness matters,” it really does, and this season we celebrate our gifts, our chance to be, and our potential for genuine contribution to this world in ways that will give us all sustainable peace though shared purpose and unity.

Happiest of holiday seasons to you and yours.

Poppy People

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 17:42:00 +0000

My father stood at the water's edge to watch the memorial dedication to Korean war veterans. A local war veteran and businessman had rallied community support to create the small, isthamus monument, and my dad had come up from down state to see it dedicated.

Standing there in the fading autumn light, years of sadness seemed to flood over him. Losses too deep, could not be erased by bronze, rock and official speeches.

My dad was a gentle man who grew up on a farm in the 30's and 40's and wanted to be like his older brother he admired. So he enlisted in the Army. He spent 18 months on the ground in Korea, seeing things no sane person could endure, like so many before him and after him. They called him home when his father was dying, but all the bravado faded. Time and again he'd try to collect fragments of his spirit, but he could not hold them together. No marching songs sung in the car, or drunken claims to toughness could change the broken man who tried over and over to be himself again.

In those days military veterans were not screened or treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD). They weren't treated for anything, but told to be men. Be tough. Warriors.

But they were warriors without a warrior society. Cut loose, left to find their way when the nightmares raged inside of them. Dad kept a few warriors close to him; mostly older men who served in WWII and kept ribboned medals in velvet boxes. One man died when his house burned down from an eternity candle meant for his grave. He fell into a drunken sleep mesmerized by its flame. Another died bloated with liver failure.

As he grew older, the conflict raged more fiercely inside of my father with ghosts more taunting and frightening. We thought it was some failure of character.

Only last year did I learn his behaviors are typical of veterans with PTSD; a problem that must be treated, it only grows worse left untreated. We know now that PTSD is increasingly reported in our military veterans returning from war, and it is our duty to help them through early screening and treatment. We need to save their lives, the lives of their families, and to save their communities from the loss of their unique capacity. Military service must not ask them to lose a living life too.

My gentle-spirited dad, a misplaced warrior, died of cancer the following spring. You can see the little island where the memorial is built on, from the highway. Its bronze bigger- than- life soldiers stand side by side supporting each other. Warriors in a warrior society. You were not flawed, dad, just left behind in time. We will not leave anyone behind again. Promise, dad. I promise.

Gentle transitions

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 13:24:00 +0000

Switching October winds are moving into place taking us from balmy autumn to the steel gray skies of November. Dried maple and oak leaves swirl on blustery breaths of air. From low circles on the ground they spiral up, floating gaily on the currents and drop to the ground again.

In the upper Midwest Great Lakes area seasons move slow then fast and back again. Summer is a transition to autumn. Autumn a transition to winter. Winter transitions to spring, and spring into summer. Dynamic and powerful in its capacity to shake humanity out of its groggy, grey numbness of mediocrity.

The puppies Ricky, Adam and Danny are 17 months old now and are playing outside in the run. The winds are high, and the air is warm. The puppies watch leaf action, good for their minds. We are to have snow by the end of the day, they say. For now, the early morning blue sky is dappled gray.

The puppies' maternal grandmother Crystal, who is over 14, perks her ears and tail alert to chase the pesky flighty leaf-birds. She catches them and stands pleased with her mouth full of red and brown leaves. Her dark eyes sparkle with the challenge.

Cockers live to chase up birds, even when they are only dried leaves. Crystal's grandsons reflect that bred-in-them trait with their excitement over spinning leaves. Crystal doesn't hunt anymore, but she was a fine gun dog into her late middle age. She earned her first AKC hunting title when she was over 9 and wowed the hard nosed sportsmen with her courage and persistence. She'd find birds, put them up into the air and bring them back without a feather ruffled. Her daughter, Molly, dam of the rowdy boys, was more gentle. So much so that sometimes her bird would fly out of her mouth. Ricky has his mother's soft mouth and disposition. He is a thoughtful, calm dog where his brother Adam is goofy and happy go lucky, much like his sire, Brewster. Danny is my little clown who is content to play with his toys. Ricky already is a fine retriever. Adam is a quick study but is easily distracted. Danny is learning to track when he focuses on the work and isn't smiling at me.

Their sister, Christina is with her handler working on finishing her AKC championship. She has three major wins and only needs one point. We're hoping she earns it soon so she can come home. I bought her a little harness for the car when she went away. I hope she will accept riding in the seat wearing the belt.I've always crated my dogs to travel for their safety, but people say the little harnesses are secure. I'd love to have her ride with me when I go home for holidays, or run short errands.

Christina is named for her grandmother Crystal, and will be the third puppy from Molly's litter of four to finish their AKC championship title. Ricky was the first to finish in June to become, Ch. Kindred Star Studded Samba. Adam finished next, quickly and is now Ch. Kindred Rumba Dancin' Star. When he came home in August, little Christina went and is now one point away from being Ch. Kindred Cheeky Cha Cha. Danny, Kindred Jive Dancin' Shoes is on a different path as a tracking dog.

Transitions... young to old, season to season framed in the heartbeat of gentle dogs.

Over the peak and moving forward

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 11:26:00 +0000

Whether it is true or not, it seems that the best way forward now is to consider oil if not at peak, then quickly becoming too expensive for average people to use as an energy source.

The difficulty for most of today’s culture, because they all seem to be shifting to the dominant perspective of possession, is that energy should be shared, and should be regenerative and that runs contrary to possession.

Wind, reconfigured hydro-plants, solar, ocean current… maybe someone will dream up a way to capture energy from storms. I heard a story yesterday how Newfoundland fishers were harvesting bits of ice bergs, “bergie bits” they called them, for drinking water. Sells for a fortune in Texas, bottled. Is that a good thing for the sea? I don’t know, but I thought it was creative.

Reducing access to travel will have its own complications. As fewer people travel, we return to the isolationist attitudes that always risk intolerance. And as resources are perceived as diminished, people tend to become more aggressive, risking …well, everything on the planet.

And while we are constantly hearing of the shallowness of the American people, they underestimate us. We might have been the rejects of other places, one professor I had for a graduate history class said we were, “the dregs of Europe”… (he was a funny old guy), still… even if that is so, we had grit, survival instincts, and resilience. Resilience is a key descriptor. Rural people are known in almost any definition, for their resiliency, resourcefulness, and creative application.

Like the FDR electrification programs, let’s collectively invest in passive, regenerative, non-polluting energy sources. Whatever that takes…. we need to figure it out and git-er-dun.

Taking control back before the average person is suckered into selling its wind-rights (happening already), or losing its water rights (on everyone’s radar around the Great Lakes) or quality of water. Enough is enough.

My Beautiful Friend

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 15:13:00 +0000

Born at 5:55 am on July 10, 1978 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She was 7 lbs. 8 oz. and 21 inches long. A good baby, strong and healthy.

Named Jaimi Ann to reflect her destiny... "my beautiful friend".

J'ami is French for "I have a friend".
Jamal is Persian for "beauty".
Ann brings together spirits of her maternal grandmother, Anita, her paternal great-grandmother Agnes, and a dear family friend, Adrienne.

Little One

Oh, little one, a part of me,
apart from me.
I owe you my life,
and yours to me
...for a little while.

Grow straight and true.
Be honest and loyal,
Brave and kind.
Appreciate the magnitude of what's
been given to you.
Learn to know what is around
you.
In you.
Beyond you.

Look to the earth mother
for things of value.
To the soul, for truth.
Listen
Learn
Trust in humanity
but beware of mankind.

Life is a struggle
but Blessed.
A chance at seeing,
Experiencing,
like a gently, glistening dewdrip
Balanced on the edge of a blade of grass.

Take care.
This treasure is great.
It needs tending and watching.
Water it with love
for yourself,
for others,
for everything.

There is no bad, no evil,
only misunderstanding,
confusion, lost, hungry souls.

Be a comfort.
Be generous.
Be noble, glorious, brave.
Strong.

We will always watch over,
always guard and protect.

Be Magnificent my little one.
(c)1982 Bobbie Kolehouse

A state of grace

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 02:44:00 +0000

On my way to the post office to send a package, a little drama unfolded. Blue skies and warm breezes made for a perfect spring/summer day.

At a four way stop near the senior center traffic was stopped beyond the intersection for a mother mallard duck and what looked like a newly hatched family. They were crossing the road, heading for the river bank.

Almost all had climbed the curb, when cars started moving. All but two, then one ran frantic, up and down at the foot of the pavement's curb. Then it started darting into traffic.

Most likely the duckling would have climbed the curb, but without thinking I pulled over, put on my van's emergency flashers and went to help the duckling. As I approached, another van, its driver distracted by me in the road, drove closer to the curb... by the baby duck. Its tires missed the duckling.

Gently I scooped up the baby and carried it across the sidewalk to where the dam was with the babies, but I was too close and she charged at me, wings flapping and beak open. Startled, I stepped back and turned to cross the street to where my van was parked. The family moved on towards the river.

A well dressed man in a new pick-up truck smiled and waved. He'd seen the baby, too. For anyone else, it was just a little dumb duckling, I guess. Make it or not. Life is tough, but maybe today was a blue and gold day of grace.

Upside Down

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 18:18:00 +0000

Maybe people have always felt the ground shifting under their feet and were frightened. You read the words, "change is inevitable" and you hear the platitudes about dynamism and growth. Then there is the catastrophic change that gives us all another perspective.

When I was a small child I thought if I closed my eyes no one could see me. That if I stood behind the post on the front porch of our house so I couldn't see something, then I was invisible to everyone too. Mine was a little girl's game, but people do it when overwhelmed happy or sad. They turn away so as not to see, or cover their eyes, of withdraw into themselves to protect their spirit.

When my daughter was a toddler, I showed her how to see things differently by bending over an looking at them upside down. She learned how our point of reference changes and what was familiar became strange, but fascinating. Light came from a different place in the sky, and the trees framed the view on the opposite side.

Perspectives make my rainbow different than the one you see. My experiences filter what I hear and feel to blend with light, sounds, shadows and angles. These are me. My body and my spirit and my perspective.

If I am frightened, filters snap into place as a function of my biology, like yours will do. If I am joyful, I see more intensely, physical feelings and sensations are sharper. If disappointed or sad, feelings drop away together with our external sight, and our world limited by the pain. Grows larger because our attention is focused only on it.

A few years ago the buzz was paradigm shift. A paradigm shift is a dramatic change in the way you see your world. They happen throughout life. Sometimes we think we can force the familiar to remain in place, but it shifts and whether personal or global, you have to open your eyes and see the change.

My mother used to move the furniture in our house to make it interesting. Change her perspective. My father was always upset. A couple of times she changed entire rooms so the living room was in the dining room and the dining room was in the living room--which was further from the kitchen so kind of inefficient, but it was interesting. It kept us from being stale and taught us to be flexible and adaptive.

And we don't have to be sighted to see. A woman I met recently was blind and asked me to come closer to her. She took my hand and told me I smelled like sunshine. For me to smell like sunshine meant fields of blooming clover and alfalfa, and that's the way I thought about it. It made me feel happy.

So go ahead and try it. Bend over and look at your world upside down. Just be careful to stand up slowly afterwards so you don't become dizzy.

Somewhere it is springtime

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Fri, 09 May 2008 01:22:00 +0000

All around me people are mowing their lawns for the first time. Early tulips are blooming and all kinds of birds are fussing at the feeder. The cardinal pair, a rose breasted grosbeak, nuthatches, goldfinches, sparrows, chipping sparrows and the lovely white throated sparrows with their black and white striped heads and splash of yellow at the spot where their beak meets their forehead. The stop on a dog.

At one time everyone planted masses of red and yellow Emperor tulips, but today the colors are soft and muted. And some are even exotic shaped.

In my own garden the early dusty, dark lavender tulips are blooming. The rambling rose bush is leafing, with a bunch of new sprouts. It is hard to think the oh so beautifully fragrant shrub rose will be in bloom in a few weeks now. The furnace is still running and last night we had frost warnings.

But in June, the Emma Rose will bloom.

I don't know exactly what variety the rose is, burt I named it Emma rose for the woman who lived in this house all her adult life. She married a local boy and the families were among the first Europeans to settle in this part of Wisconsin.

The wild rambling roses are hers too. And the peonies, poppies and lilacs. Emma was 88 when she died, and lived in this house until close to the time of her death.

Usually the lilacs are blooming by May 10. They are just beginning to leaf out, so we'll see if the Emma rose blooms in June.

PHOTO BY SHIRLEY HUNSAKER

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Sun, 04 May 2008 23:54:00 +0000

Watching the world from the sky

A story on National Public Radio this past week described an avalanche in Alaska and how it damaged power supply lines to Juneau. Electricity normally supplied by a hydro plant, were shifted to diesel generators and electric bills were five times as high as normal.

For some businesses, it was the difference between $10,000 and $50,000 a month, and the implications are sobering.

Though temporary, these changes are increasingly reflected in everyone's lives. Energy costs are driving up the costs of the very essentials of modern life. Schools in the United States are beginning to burn wood. Farms in my area are beginning to sport windmills on top of silos, and in other areas fields of windmills are appearing on lands that were cultivated for food.

The fossil fuel based economy didn't last long. Not much more than a hundred years, but why aren't we moving forward? Back in the 70's gasoline shortages were manipulated to reduce retail competition, but Japanese car makers began to send the first small cars across the pond. The Datsun B210 was the first car to boast 50 mpg. Why aren't we seeing those cars now, 33 years later?

Maybe we'll soon see the next generation of sustainable, efficient, energy emerge. Something where the cure won't be worse than the disease.

And already people are experiencing life bigger, whether it is food shortages, wars, shifts in economic development or ...celebrations. At last people can see the future with a world view. That's got to be good for humanity, the advancement and protection of the planet.

Old Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (SkyScapes) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 17:29:00 +0000

Old dogs teach me to wait quietly.
They show me patience.
Then patiently,
Old dogs teach me gentleness and kindness.

Old dogs reflect compassion and tolerance
so I feel them too.
Old dogs show me how life is lived now,
right now, this moment,
and that now is eternal.

Old dogs reflect my soul in their faces.
Brilliant … or clouded.

Old dog hearts pulse life beyond their bodies
to steady mine,
then return to them
Leaving tiny fragments of light
sparkling in the dark.