psa

IMG_1450

My dermatologist is a very gentle man. His voice is soft, his touch light. I gladly submit to his scrutiny each year, grateful for his eyes on the parts of me I cannot easily see.

Two years ago he excised a spot on my left shoulder blade. This week he made a matching scar on my right.

Did you know that one in every three cancers diagnosed globally is a skin cancer?

Some individual risk factors are:
~ fair skin
~ blue, green or hazel eyes
~ light-coloured hair
~ tendency to burn rather than suntan
~ history of severe sunburns
~ many moles
~ freckles
~ a family history of skin cancer

Except for blonde hair, I have all of the above.

Educate yourself. Check your skin. And get someone trusted to look where you cannot. Melanoma can appear anywhere, even places that are never exposed to the sun. And it’s a really really sucky way to die.

End of public service announcement.

it all feels right

It’s my first evening alone in my new home.

Just me and the ocean and the mourning doves. Oh, and the dog and two cats, of course.

No need to cook dinner, snacks will do. The upcoming weekend plans have radically simplified, so there’s no need to prep, to pack, to clean. (The Guy did a bunch of cleaning today, I can see that. So we’re good.)

I water the plants, and take photos from new angles. I stand on the cliff’s edge, watching the pelicans fly home, and let my shoulders drop as the waves crash in. No need to hold the world up.

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing, why I am here. In this place, in this life. Do you ever wonder that, or do you know the answer, without question?

Tonight I listen to the ocean, and the doves, and it all feels right.

Oh my, I needed this.

pretend he’s got eight legs

tulips

tina

salad

bookgroup

Third Wednesday is book group, which means dinner beforehand at Tina’s, one of the highlights of my month. She has the perfect touch in the kitchen, crafting wonderful meals from simple ingredients. Her home is quiet, calm, beautiful. There, I exhale.

We then spend a couple of hours with the erudite folks in our intellectual book group, whose breadth of scholarship far exceeds mine. I’m a relative newcomer to this decades-old cadre of literature-lovers, and I’m still re-learning how to read for criticism, not just for pleasure. Thus I’m frequently quiet at these meetings, having few unique insights on the month’s book, though I’m delighted to absorb the percipience of others.

But tonight I had plenty to say about Paul Theroux’s The Mosquito Coast, having once been married to a man somewhat like Allie Fox, and having gone off with him ‘into the wilderness’ with a baby in tow, long ago. I well know the charm of a charismatic apocalyptist. The motives and fears of the nameless mother in the story excited a little passion in me. And who can deny the truth in some of Allie’s words?

We eat when we’re not hungry, drink when we’re not thirsty. We buy what we don’t need and throw away everything that’s useful. Why sell a man what he wants? Sell him what he doesn’t need. Pretend he’s got eight legs and two stomachs and money to burn. It’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Afterwards, our elderly French matriarch approached and took my hands, asking more questions about my life and saying how glad she was to know me. I felt awkward and a little abashed. I’m not comfortable in the spotlight, but it did feel good to make a contribution. I slipped away home as quickly as I could.

Tomorrow I go back to my job in advertising, helping to sell a man what he doesn’t need. Returning to homesteading sounds pretty good right now.

i.l.y.

upload

#signing #asl #signlanguage

upload

darlenecindy
Darlene and Cindy. Photo by Lola.

Retirement party for my Sign Language professors. What an outpouring of adoration for these two women who, for 35 years, ran the best ASL interpreting program in the world. They were honored with words and signs, in song and dance, with hugs and gifts and tears. I was so happy to be part of the celebration.

But man, my ASL is rusty.

lunch break

IMG_1334

IMG_1336

IMG_1324

Children in neon swimsuits, squealing. A plane and a kite, both soaring. Cartwheels. I kick off my sandals and sink into the warm sand.

A brother and sister are carting small pails of water to dump into the hole they dug. Running down to the waves, trotting back with their watery loads, over and over. Why didn’t they dig the hole closer to the shore, I wonder? But they are not concerned with efficiency, just with the joy and freedom of being out of school, of being able to run in the sun, back and forth.

She is panting. He asks, do you want more? Yes, she says. Much more. And after that, let’s go play.

euphonious

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The night before L’s last finals. On the way to help her study, I get dinner at Chipotle. I try to Shazam the background music, but there’s too much interference from the ambient noise. I check the app’s Top 100 list, and note that I’ve never heard of most of the acts. I could blame my ignorance on old-fogeyism, but actually I haven’t followed popular music since my early teens. I watch the brown, long-legged girls in their short shorts and white tank tops giggle as they fill their cups with fizzy sugar water. I was never one of them, though at one point, long ago, I wanted to be.

Then a few hours with my own long-legged girl. My red-headed stepchild. We drill vocab. Aesthetic. Ascetic. Prodigious. Ponderous. Desecrate. Elucidate. Depravity. Autonomy. We roll them in our mouths, euphoniously, and find links between word and definition, ways to remember.

This.
This is the girl I was.
This is the girl I still am.

little fog feet

Untitled

June Gloom hugs our cliff on these early summer mornings. I’m getting a new AM groove. Let the animals out, read the Guy’s late night note, make coffee, clean litter tray, wash or put away dishes, then out the door at 8. The quiet nudges me to move gently and deliberately; even the mockingbird is silenced by the fog.

slow and steady

#reflection

#veggies #365gratitude_hashimaree

My vertigo is back, so I’m moving gently, with no sudden turns. Vacuuming makes me woozy, but I go slow and get through it. I take my time grocery shopping; I’m not yet familiar with the supermarket layout, so there’s a lot of wandering involved. Later, some tree-tending. I feel like I’ve had an easy day, but he exclaims after dinner, “You’re just so damn productive!”

Maybe the tortoise was onto something.

thoughts from the tunnel

20140606-223908-81548572.jpg

20140606-223439-81279935.jpg

20140606-223532-81332177.jpg

20140606-223440-81280748.jpg

There was a serious accident in the McClure Tunnel today. A child died. Of necessity, I chose an alternate route home, through the older part of Santa Monica.

The other drivers were so courteous as we all inched our way through less familiar streets. No impatience, no road rage. We all knew it would be a slow commute.

I switched the radio from my usual NPR News to a classical station for a quieter backdrop to my thoughts of death. I pondered how one moment, there’s a living breathing person, and the next instant, just a body. The person is gone. As L said to me the other night in a fit of teen existential angst, “Death is just so freaky.”

It will happen to all of us. Today was not my day, or yours. Drive carefully, my friends. Enjoy the view as you go. And be kind to one another.

crazy day

IMG_1229

IMG_1230

IMG_1234

IMG_1235

image

Too much coffee. Too many emails. Too long meetings. Department happy hour at the end of the day was never more welcomed.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 217 other followers

%d bloggers like this: