I found this nest last week, the day before I ventured cross-country, while hiking in the forest near my home.  In this case, I do use the term "hiking" quite loosely as I may have climbed those wooded hills while wearing a mini skirt and holding a freshly steamed latté.  But hiking it still was.

I was scuttling down a slope, flip flops covered in dust, and nearly put my eye out on the broken branch.
[sometimes the world needs to grab your attention]
[sometimes those gifts are simply meant to be]

Since then I've been thinking steadily on nesting.
We've now been in our new home almost six weeks; the space is filled with an easy comfort, the house seems to stretch and sigh in the summer light.  But I've been running far into our future, leaving my body lost and wandering in the present.  I've fallen in love with this small parcel of land, but have also recognized the breadth of what we've moved away from.  What pieces we've traded and bartered as we build our life together, as we strive to follow our dreams.  BC and I been talking extensively on five year goals, where we want to be, what we want for our days, how we want to live.  And between these talks and a slew of small traumas (the dog attack being by far the largest), I've forgot where I was.  Lost in the mirage of a future that does not yet exist, where burdens and stresses are a thing of the past, where every disparate place that I love seems to converge seamlessly into my idealized home.  

I had to look at my hands to see reality.


Here.
Here where my feet touch the earth and my lungs pull in damp air.

I have a great imagination and a penchant for day dreaming, but I want to reside in the now.  That other place, that future dream is too vanilla for me, too perfectly bland, too devoid of raw life.  I want to understand my present in all of its muddy, visceral, utterly beautiful ways because let's face it: none of us are guaranteed another day.  I want to dig in, breathe in, open my eyes wide, fling my arms open, plant my flag and claim this day for me.  For life.  For the present.  I want to look back at the history of my days and see ten thousand victory flags flying.

A triumph of life.
A life of triumph.

* * *

It's good to be home.
I believe it is an ever evolving art to reside in the present.  So tell me birds, how do you claim your space, your time, your life? 

I feel it is highly necessary to keep you well informed on the state of my head.  More specifically, my head which is now covered with a plethora of ringlets that, were I six years old and slightly shorter than my nearly six feet, I could pass for Shirley Temple (oh god.  How badly did I just date myself?  I had the WORST situation of realizing my age a while back now when BC and I asked a couple of teenagers at the frozen yogurt shop which of the two of us did a better Mr. T impression.  They didn't even know who he was.  A-Team? No idea.  We were crushed and, apparently, old.  And just so you know, the answer to the question is ME, I make a better Mr. T. because I've got soul in my blood and I sound more like a large black man than BC).

(I don't even know where this post is headed)

(That's dangerous this time of night, when my thoughts are pinging off the walls and my eyelids snapped back from too much excitement)

Oh yes!
I have a mop of curls that should be laying themselves down to bed, to rest before the pre-dawn drive to the airport in four short hours.  If you are in the Salt Lake City area Thursday morning around 9:00 am, I'm just going to apologize ahead of time for the sonic boom followed by squeals that will happen when three ladies all converge on the same stretch of land at the same time for the first time and board a car pointed north.
I can't convince my brain to sleep I'm so excited.  My basil ganglia is in a state of overdrive with feet tapping, ribcage swaying and some definite head bopping.
* * *


I want to talk to you about moths.  Really I want to talk to every last man, woman and child about moths.  These particular creatures, flying near as the sun dips behind the redwoods, look more like little lion men than winged insects.  They stick their furred legs to the doorframes and shake their tiny manes and I'm fairly certain I've heard them let out microscopic roars.
Moths.
Yes.
Moths, nocturnal beasts, do not fumble in the dark.  In the deep of night, their wings still beat steadily, their feet still step solidly.  They may be slight, fragile, even seemingly insignificant but there is such a wisdom in that assuredness.  I want to move like that even when my soul is covered in night, when the dark days threaten to overtake me.
To beat my wings.
To set my feet down.
To walk with sure steps.

I'm still working on it, still learning, still studying and collecting my thoughts.  But I'm listening for moths.  Waiting for them.
* * *


I love this beast.

Let the record show!

Sancho wanted me to share this photo with you and let you know how much he appreciates all the love and care we have been sent.  That, and he's a slightly narcissistic pup who really likes to have his photo taken (he KNOWS how sexy he is.  But he wants to hear it from you too).  He is already healing nicely, both inside and out (which was clear after a fantastic session at a doggie play group this morning).

But this to say again;
I'm so consistently in awe of the goodness of the friends I've made here, in the wide world of the internet.  There was a time when my faith in humanity was faltering, when I was in danger of mistrust in the basic beauty of humankind.
This space, this blog, serves as an eternal reminder back to me that people, my people, my tribe, are so inherently good.
And that means you.
Thank you for your you-ness.  I wouldn't have it any other way.
Good Night!
~ Umber ~ 

Well it's 11:30 already, and I've managed to shower for the day.

We're in recovery mode here after a traumatic evening that still has me shaking as I type this in the light of day.  The short story is as follows:

Late yesterday afternoon a pack of very nasty neighbor dogs got out of their yard and trespassed into ours.  Sancho, big hearted and full of puppy invincibility, told them to leave but the odds were stacked too unfairly.  

It was three to five, if you count Brad and I in Sancho's court.  I didn't even recognize the screams that were coming out of my mouth until I recalled them later, and Brad didn't even realize he was bleeding until we had Sancho in the house and the other dogs off our property.

The good news is this:

After a very long night at the emergency vet, followed by the human ER, every one is put back together with fairly minor wounds, taking their antibiotics and up after sleeping in late.

Sancho decided he loves the vet, after no less than 10 cookies.

Brad has an oven mit of a bandage on his right hand (all the better to pour the tea kettle he told me earlier).

But we're taking it slow today.

Every now and then, I like to follow directions.

I am a self-admitted snob about many things,

coffee

eye shadow

tomatos

martinis

art books

(I should stop here...)

However when it comes to flowers, it shall be known that I throw my arms wide open to each and every one.

(but, and this can be our dirty little secret,
Dalihas might be my favorite)