Where I go to school

This is the second time I have ended up soaking myself as an adult in a nurturing environment originally formed for the care of children. The first time, it was All Saints Sisters of the Poor in Catonsville, Maryland. When I was at the one silent retreat I ever attended, I found out that the retreat house had housed children - primarily girls - and primarily those who suffered from rheumatic fever. I once had rheumatic fever - the connection for me inside that building was almost a sensory one. I could feel it. I feel the same connection at Marylhurst. This is where I go to school. "We believe that liberating action aimed at the full development of the human person is at the heart of our mission of education."

From the Forest of Giants

This is an experiment. I am uploading this ... um ... music? Sound poem? Composition? Honestly, I do not know what to call it, but it's pretty cool. Someone has recently called my little family a "forest of giants," which cracks me up, and when I heard this composition recently ... uh ... recently composed (sheesh!) by one of the trees in the forest, well, I had to put it up. In our forest the jazz/blues tree is doing all kinds of interesting things lately - but this is from the tree with the ear for the surreal.

Got a spare 7 or 8 minutes? Close your eyes for it. It's better that way.

Torch and Stone by Congregant

If I had a lot of money ...

Robert Emms plays Albert, a naive country boy who follows his beloved horse, Joey,
to the battlefields of World War I. Based on a children's book
by Michael Morpurgo, the play chronicles the horrors of war
as seen through a horse's eyes.

I'd buy tickets, and I'd go to London, and I'd see this show. I'd take friends. It's supposed to come to New York next summer, and that's a lot closer ...

"Eight million horses died during the first World War," says puppeteer Matthew Burgess. "And that shouldn't be forgotten."

If War Horse has anything to do with it, London audiences — and starting next March, their counterparts in New York — will remember it for a long time to come.

Don't mind me

So ... one last box to Afghanistan. The soldier bought herself a toothbrush sanitizer and wanted it before the trip home. In June. She's coming home in June.

And I started to exchange pleasantries with the post office lady. Like usual. Everything like usual. I told her that there was a toothbrush sanitizer in there. Did I want return to sender if they can't find her? Yes. I think there's time between now and June to deliver it, but yes.

Even though,
actually,
I don't care if a toothbrush sanitizer comes home.

I just want my soldier back.

Eyes and throat do not care where I am. It's too easy to cry.

(I barely made it to the car, and I haven't stopped since. I do. I just want my soldier back.)

Oh. And one more thing.

Okay, so I know I'll be fifty this year. You know it. But AARP does not read my blog. So ... how does AARP know it?

And who the hell can afford to "retire" at fifty anyway?

And what kind of nerve is that? Sending me notices about my impending half-century, three months before its coming??? Hmmm??? How rude!

(This is what comes of finally going through the mail on the dining room table, now that I have a Saturday to do it. NB: habit seems to be forming. The Great Husband and I are doing more things together these days. Walks after dinner. Saturday clean-up. Reading in the evenings, watching Neko Case and Jesse Winchester on Elvis Costello's Spectacle for the hundredth time (crying every time). ... Interesting second half of life we're building here ...)

And AARP can just wait a minute. Geeeeez!