Decades behind but still looking ahead

Sun breaking through the mist

"You can't have a hundred jumps forever," Smart Guy once reminded me, as we discussed the changing nature of my skydiving experience. It was long ago, and I was lamenting the loss of that initial feeling of excitement, the knife-edge awareness that colored my days and weeks and months when I first took up the activity. When I met him in late 1992, I had already been jumping for almost two years, and it permeated my entire existence. I lived for the weekends when I could go to the Drop Zone and hurl myself out of an airplane. My old non-skydiving friends began to stop calling me, as they tired of hearing about it. New friends were fellow jumpers. I met Smart Guy on the internet through skydiving and wrote about it here.

That was more than two decades ago. It simply amazes me to realize that I am seventy and still skydiving. I was 47 when I made my first jump, and now here I am at seventy and still at it. The intensity and excitement has faded to a gentle appreciation of a familiar activity, and even that amazes me. How can jumping out of an airplane begin to feel that ordinary?

I suppose that jet fighters who have thousands of flying hours must begin to have that same sense of familiarity, a routine sortie into danger. But for those who don't know what skydiving is all about, that it's much more than the sense of falling into the air from a great height with no control, it's very scary. But you see, I know better. I know that I have two parachutes on my back, and that once I reach terminal velocity (after 9 seconds), I can fly! Usually we skydivers play together in the air for close to a minute before we have to separate in order to have clear air in which to deploy our parachutes. If for some reason the main parachute fails, we have a backup. I've used my reserve only twice (knock wood) in more than 4,000 skydives, so it doesn't happen all that often.

But that isn't what I wanted to talk about this morning. Yesterday I met a young skydiver, Chris, who has 35 jumps and is still learning to pack a parachute. I remember how confusing it was myself, and he stood there uncertainly and was asking other people to check his work. It's terrifying to go through the process of learning, because everything seems very complicated. But it's not, really. There are only a few techniques that require attention to detail, and now I don't even think twice about it. I was able to impart some of my techniques to him, but he seemed dubious that it could actually be that simple. As he began the last part, stuffing the parachute into the deployment bag, it began to get away from him. In the midst of packing my own parachute, I turned around to see him giving up, thinking that he would need to start all over again, from what looked to him like a real mess. "No, no! Don't give up now; you've almost got it in the bag!" I said.

I went over to him and showed him that it was possible to wrestle it into the bag from that point, even if it seemed like a lost cause. I knew that the important aspects of packing had been followed, and that the recalcitrant nylon was the only part that wasn't under control. All the lines were not being disturbed. So he continued, with my help, and then went out to jump it. I watched him busy practicing his reserve procedures, just in case.

Well, I was packing up from yet another jump when here comes young Chris, a grin as wide as the sky on his face. He said, "It was perfect! I pulled and looked up, it opened on heading and soft, just... perfect!" I was happy, too, as I remembered being afraid to jump my own early pack jobs. I had to learn what was important and what was not, just as he is learning. He was very grateful and thanked me for my help. He didn't realize that it made me feel really good to boot. A young skydiver who is just like I was, long ago, although I was already middle-aged when I began. Chris was probably born somewhere around the time I started.

As I was walking through the Drop Zone yesterday, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window and thought in passing that I sure don't look like most of the other skydivers. I'm old and wrinkled with white hair, but that is another aspect of this sport that most people don't realize: if I jump a large forgiving parachute and take care of my body with exercise and diet, there's nothing to stop me from enjoying a pastime that gives me such pleasure. Of course, all that could come to a screeching halt with an injury, but that is true in every aspect of my life. None of us live lives that are free of that possibility. Who would even want to?

So I'll take my chances and make sure I do everything I can to increase the odds of maybe skydiving for another few years. Maybe. There's an old saying I've heard many times: "You don't quit skydiving because you get old, you get old because you quit skydiving." These old bones sure had fun yesterday.

I wish, sincerely wish, that you have something in your life that gives you pleasure, and that you follow it today to wherever it takes you. After all, today is all we really have, isn't it?

Father's Day

Tiny toes safe in daddy's hands

I don't know where this picture came from, but I remember being knocked out by it when I first saw it on the internet. Today I will use it to remind myself of how lucky I am to have been loved by my dad. Not everybody had a happy childhood, but I sure did. Firstborn and doted on by my young parents, I came into the world surrounded by love. I'm sure I was very strong willed, because I still am, and I come by it honestly. When I look at the rest of my family, I realize it's a trait I cherish.

Daddy was a gentle giant to me. I have a memory from long ago when he was holding me in his lap and I looked at my hand next to his. It seemed impossible to me that the enormous hand and mine might ever be equal. Of course they weren't, but I didn't know then why they were such different sizes. It made a deep impression on me, though, and I can still see it in my mind's eye. It made me feel safe to have such a protector. Daddy was my hero and I worshipped him.

When I was not yet three, my sister Norma Jean came into my world, and things changed, as I was no longer the center of my parents' universe. I have memories of jealousy and tantrums and remember being punished for hitting the little interloper while she lay sleeping in her crib. I'm sure Norma Jean's memories of childhood are not the same as mine, since she had me to contend with. But before long, we were constant companions, me her big sister. She looked up to me, which is just as it should be.

Daddy would sit me down and talk to me about things; I remember that he would sometimes start out by saying, "when I was a little girl," and I was happy to know that one day I would grow up to be a big strong man like him. There's even a little memory when I learned that it didn't work that way, a tiny sense of betrayal. After all, girls didn't grow up to be anywhere near as big and strong as boys did, so I wanted to fix that.

I remember being asked by grownups what I wanted to be when I grew up. Do you remember what you said? I suppose somewhere when I was very young I must have said a ballerina or whatever little girls wanted to be back then. But what I most remember wanting to grow up to become is a daddy like mine.

He was in the Air Force and traveled on TDY (temporary duty) occasionally. Our home was not the same when he wasn't there. Mama fixed meals for her girls, of course, but I remember that we often had pancakes or scrambled eggs for dinner instead of the regular meat, potatoes and vegetable that we always had when Daddy was home. My childhood memories revolve around the head of our household, and everybody else was a bit player. When I was about ten or so, I remember writing down my secret that I hoped Mama would die and Daddy would marry me. I slipped the little envelope where I wrote these thoughts into one of our encyclopedias. Remember when we had volumes of them on their own bookcase? I went looking for the letter years later and never found it.

I was only eighteen when I left home and married Derald, my first husband. I was pregnant with Chris and was forced to get married by my mother. I learned much later that she had kept the fact of my pregnancy a secret from my father. These days, nobody would even care if you were pregnant when you got married, wondering if perhaps you might have had a "shotgun wedding." Well, I did have one. How times have changed.

Daddy was only 62 when he died of a heart attack. Mama called me at my home in Colorado and said he was in the hospital and not expected to survive, and if I wanted to see him again, I'd better get down to Texas as fast as I could. Before the day was over, I was on a plane to Texas, along with my sisters and brother who did the same from their homes. We all made it there in time, so many of us that we had our own room to congregate in. One by one we got to see Daddy, and I remember him looking just like he always did, he was sitting up but had IVs and tubes everywhere. His lungs were beginning to fill with fluid and they wanted to put him on a respirator, but first he wanted to say goodbye to each of us. His last words before they sedated him were, "I love you all!"

We got to see him once more after it was all over. My sisters and I went into the room where his body lay, after they had taken all the tubes and stuff away. (I don't remember why my brother didn't go in with us.) Daddy was still warm and I saw beads of sweat on his forehead. We stroked him and cried and said goodbye. The memory I have is precious beyond compare, a moment when his five girls, the ones he had loved and laughed with and cherished, came together over the man who gave us life.

Now I am sitting here in my bed, laptop perched on my legs, tea finished, and partner softly snoring beside me. It's no longer dark outside, since the sun comes up now very early, and it's light out before I even awake. The birds, which have been singing for hours, are suddenly silent, and I feel the hush of the day before it begins. My garden needs to be watered before I head south to Snohomish, but I can feel the moment slip away, the one where I was transported through my memories back to the time when Daddy was with me.

I can say a little prayer, though, that everyone who still has their father alive will have a chance to be together with him in some way, on this day when we remember our fathers. I got to be with my dad through writing this post and kindling the fire of memory.

Life goes on, whether I notice or not

How old was I? Maybe ten?

When I look at this picture of myself, taken long ago, several things catch my eye right away. The first is that dress. Do you have clothes that were so special to you that you can almost feel the texture, even if that piece of clothing hasn't existed in decades? This pink dotted swiss was an Easter outfit that both my sister and I were dressed in, a tiny one for her, this one for me. It's funny to think of Easter, since we didn't go to church, so I guess it was only for dressing up and taking pictures, maybe going to a family gathering. I just don't remember, but I sure remember the dress.

I also notice that Mama must have fixed my hair, which was pulled back with barrettes and obviously had been curled, as my hair barely had any natural waves. That would have meant bobby-pin discomfort the night before, then brushed and styled for more discomfort. Mama would have been proud of her little girls (three of them by the time this was taken; PJ was born when I was seven). She was not a patient mother, but she sewed many of our dresses and made sure we were well dressed when we went to school. How times have changed! I see the way kids dress today and wonder what Mama would think.

It was a much better week, since I was able to get many of the activities in that make me feel exercised and not too tired. After I wrote last Sunday's post, I drove down to Snohomish and spent the day with my friends and made a couple of skydives. Although the drive home was longer than usual because of the I-5 bridge collapse, it was worth it. I also got the story about the young skydiver who died at Snohomish the week before. He was jumping a very small canopy and made some very bad choices. Many people had tried to talk him out of the path he was following, but he wouldn't listen to anybody. Usually a person will make hundreds of jumps on a canopy before going to a smaller size, but he went to smaller and smaller ones way too early. It's equivalent to moving from a car that has plenty of safety features but little pizzazz, to a top-of-the-line Lamborghini, with no idea how to handle it.

I finished several books this week, since it seems that when you put them on hold at the library, there is no way to tell when they will show up, and I have an abundance of reading materials. Another two arrived yesterday, so I'll continue this week to spend time sitting in my favorite chair with a book. Many of the books that show up were recommended by fellow bloggers, and I head over to the library website and add them to my stack. Sometimes I don't even remember what the book is about, or who suggested it. Yesterday I finished Wave, a memoir written by Sonali Deraniyagala, which is one of those books.

Although last week when I wrote this post I was reading Picoult's book about the Holocaust,  and this week a memoir about Sonali's loss of her entire family in the 2004 tsunami, I am no longer feeling depressed. Sonali has written a book about the experience that brings her family back to life.  From the book review linked above (William Dalrymple):

This is possibly the most moving book I have ever read about grief, but it is also a very, very fine book about love. ... And while in Wave love reveals itself by the bleak intensity of the pain of absolute, irreplaceable loss, it is in the end a love story, and a book about the importance of love.

In between these two books, I read Proof of Heaven, a story of the journey that Dr. Eben Alexander took when he was in a coma with a deadly virus that pretty much gave him no chance of survival. He not only survived, but he felt it important to share the journey of his NDE (near death experience). The book is riveting. In it, he says he has learned that consciousness is the most profound mystery in the universe. It was also a perfect counterpart for the other books and life events that threw me for a loop last week.

It also made me feel that perhaps it's true that my loved ones who have passed beyond the veil really DO visit me in my dreams. The mystery of consciousness has fascinated me all my life, and the passage of time that is distorted in dreams takes on a different meaning after having read his book. That young girl in the picture above is still here; her body looks different, but her consciousness is the same one she's carried with her all through this life. In my dreams my son Chris is always a young adult, and my parents are always young and vital. I think I'd like to believe that is who they really are. The truth of the matter is that none of us will ever know for certain in this life if anything of our consciousness remains after we leave our bodies behind.

But I can dream, can't I?

A tough week in many ways

First bloom of the season

I took that picture two months ago, and there have been an abundance of flowers blooming everywhere ever since. Look at that blue, blue sky. We haven't seen anything like that for several weeks now, and whenever we have a chance to see the blue sky appear amongst the clouds, we here in the Pacific Northwest feel happy. I'm in a down cycle right now, though.

It's been a tough week for the skydiving community. Last weekend we lost three notable men, all of whom I knew about, and one whom I knew personally. I last saw Larry Elmore at the SOS record attempt at Lake Elsinore last month. He was just arriving as I was leaving, since I was there for the skills camp but not for the record attempt. He asked me why and I told him I'm just not skydiving enough to feel confident with so many other skydivers in the air. He admonished me to get lots of skydives this season and he would be seeing me here next year, wagging his finger in my face and smiling. Well, he won't be there. He had a canopy malfunction and tried too long to fix it and when he finally went to his reserve parachute, it was too late for it to inflate. He was a retired airline pilot and had more than 6800 skydives. It was very upsetting; if Larry could make such a mistake, anybody could.

Another skydiver, Cliff Schmucker, was the president of the Parachute Industry Association (PIA) and was extremely well known and current. He was struck in freefall by another skydiver and was apparently knocked out cold. His automatic opener deployed his reserve parachute. He landed in a tree but was unresponsive, probably killed by the impact on his head. Ken Oka was entangled in a canopy wrap and was unable to get free in time to save himself. It was an awful week for the skydiving community, as you can see.

Not to mention that there was another famous skydiver, Mike Truffer, who had an opening under his canopy that was hard enough to break his neck. He is now a quadriplegic. All four of these incidents happened over the Memorial Day weekend, and I was reeling from the news. I haven't been able to put these out of my mind.

And then a book I had on hold turned up at the library, which I have been anxiously waiting to read for months: Jodi Picoult's new book, The Storyteller. I started it two days ago. Not knowing anything about it, it is not one of her usual books, but an incredible story written about the Holocaust. In typical Picoult fashion, the story is told from the point of view of all the characters in the book. Here's a blurb from Jodi Picoult's website where she discusses the subject:

Naturally, this research was among some of the most emotionally grueling I’ve ever done. I met with several Holocaust survivors, who told me their stories. Some of those details went into the fictional history of my character, Minka. It was humbling and horrifying to realize that the stories they recounted were non-fiction. 

There was a period in my life when I read everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust. I was a young mother and unable to wrap my mind around the whole idea of it. I've seen movies that haunted me, such as Schindler's List and Shoah. Since Picoult has just written the book this year and she deals with this subject, it's horrifying to me to learn that there are really people out there who believe that it never happened. How can that be? This book is essential reading, if you ask me, since most of the people who lived through it are very old now and will soon have passed away. Their stories must never be forgotten.

All this is just to let you know why I am writing about this here, today. I still have half the book to read, and I am not going to have a chance to do it today, since it looks like the weather will cooperate for me to go to Snohomish and play in the air with my friends. I really need to dispel the angst that permeates me right now. It means driving for a longer time than usual, since I will need to deal with the bridge that is out on I-5 on the way south, but it really seems important to gather with my friends and discuss the events of last weekend. It's my therapy group in a way.

I'm sorry to be in such a depressed state while I'm writing this, since I fear that many of my readers come here on Sunday morning for an inspirational hit. Perhaps it will be there next week, after I've gotten my knees in the breeze a time or two, and my usual optimism returns. Life has its peaks and valleys, and I seem to be cruising toward the place where you begin to go up again.

On a positive note, which I feel I should leave you with, the birds are singing, fluffy white clouds dot the sky, and the days are continuing to get longer and longer, which means the nights are shorter.

Deadlines and obligations

Beautiful lilacs

Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. It's a big deal here in Bellingham, with the Ski to Sea race going on right now, as I write this post. The first leg of the seven starts at 7:45am at the Mt. Baker ski area, with the highway closed and the cross-country and downhill skiers all there and ready to go. Each participant in the relay has a timing chip that must be passed along to the next member of the team. After the skiers finish, they pass it along to the runners, then regular bikers, the canoe team of two, the mountain bikers, and finally the kayakers who finish the race in Fairhaven and get out of their kayak and run to the finish line to ring the bell. This is where I will be watching, at the finish line. It's a big party, and everyone will be having fun if the weather cooperates and it's not raining. We know how to have fun even if it is, what am I saying?

I have no obligations, no deadlines today, except for writing this post. As I sit here listening to the light rain falling outside, the incessant robin's call in the tree, and the white-crowned sparrow tweeting away, I ponder what feels relevant to share. Sometimes I have to wait until I've finished the post to find out what will emerge, especially on days like today when nothing particular is on my mind. There is a little bit of anxiety that I will fritter this post away, filling it with fluff because I'm unable to pull anything of substance from the cabinet of my mind.

I don't usually allow myself "free" days, those without a structure. I like having a schedule; it gives me a reason to get up in the morning, fix breakfast and head out the door. It's always been that way for me, and years of being in the office by 7:00am have morphed into my schedule of leaving the house around that time and walking to the bus. Tomorrow, Memorial Day, the buses aren't running and the Y is closed anyway. Although the coffee shop will be open, I won't be there. I could drive or ride my bike, but I will probably join Al and some other Trailblazers for an impromptu hike in the wilderness.

I've been retired for five years now, and the structure of my days is fully entrenched. It's only those pesky holidays when everything comes to a halt that I need to develop some alternate plan. I have plenty of books to read, but it's not my style to spend the day indoors. I like to be out and about, and then come home and read, watch TV, or visit with Smart Guy. I also spend a fair amount of time reading the blogs I follow and writing comments. I carry my laptop into the living room and stretch out in the recliner with it. However, I find that I get restless after awhile and need to get up and move around.

Some people like the free flow of their days, without a plan or obligations. To me, it would feel restrictive instead of freeing. That said, I am careful not to obligate myself to activities that aren't fun for me. I tried a bit of volunteering and found that it was more like work than I was comfortable with. I take my neighbor to the grocery store since she doesn't drive any more, but that's not on a rigid schedule. I go to the movies with my friend Judy, or we go out to dinner if it works out for the two of us. These are fulfilling activities and don't feel anything like work. I don't miss my Thursday hikes if I can help it, because I know they will be enjoyable and I'll be in the company of my friends. On Saturday mornings I meet the walking group for a brisk outing, but if I decide to go south to Snohomish to play with my skydiving buddies, nobody is going to be surprised.

When I was working, my life revolved around my career and my boss's needs. That is all different now, and weekends don't mean the same thing to me any more. What's a weekend when you are not tied to a job? It takes on a different character entirely.

The structure of my life is fully established here in the Pacific Northwest. I don't see it changing any time soon, unless I get sick or injured, and then I'll need to deal with that. But for now, it's smooth sailing. It's interesting to wonder what other retired people do with their time. Are you retired? What makes you feel good about your days? If you want to share, I'm curious to know: do you like deadlines and obligations, or do they make you feel restricted?

A full life

Me, Leo, and one of his toys at Avellino's

Sometimes I wonder if it's a particular inherited trait to get oneself overly involved in activities, or whether it's something I have developed over a lifetime. When I moved from my home in Colorado, it was partly because I knew that I would never be allowed to retire if I stayed in place. Although I had a job that was ending, I was quite aware that the tendrils of commitment and community could only be broken if I moved away. Not to mention my avocation of skydiving every weekend, all year round, which took up all my weekends and vacations. That needed to change so I could start the next chapter of my life.

When we first arrived here in April 2008, I knew no one except my husband. We moved into the apartment complex where we still reside, and I began to develop my day's routine. The first two things I did were to join the YMCA and get myself a bus pass. I am very fortunate to have these two wonderful resources; the Y has a full activity schedule, and I take maximum advantage of the classes and the exercise equipment. And the buses. As a senior, I can buy an unlimited pass for three months, which takes me from the Canadian border all the way south to Mt. Vernon, if I wish. All for $35 (half price). Although I have a car and use it regularly, I would much rather take a bus because of the social aspect and economy.

There are so many coffee shops in Bellingham that I first began to have a morning latte at the downtown Starbucks before my exercise class at 9:00am. But it wasn't quite the right place, and I asked the barrista if she knew of any coffee shops that had the old pull-the-handle type of espresso machine, and she directed me to Avellino's, just down the street. That's where I met Leo and his dad, my fisherman friend Gene, and another friend Bob. I arrive just before 8:00am and order my usual, and everyone arrives one at a time. There is free wifi, so I usually open my iPad until someone shows up and we start a conversation. Sometimes I am reluctant to leave at 8:45 for my class. Leo knows I will play with him or read to him, and he always opens the door for me to leave with an admonition to watch out for wooly mammoths or snakes, or some such thing. I leave, smiling, and walk to the Y.

I met my friend Judy a few years ago at exercise class. We went out for coffee afterwards, and it started our friendship outside of the Y. I have watched as her son and daughter-in-law went from having no children to two twin girls and a single daughter. These grandchildren are the light of Judy's life, and I enjoy hearing about them and seeing pictures on Facebook. Judy is my movie partner, as we both are married to men who are not interested in most of the movies that appeal to us. We share books and have dinner together occasionally.

I joined the Senior Center so that I could participate in the Thursday hikes it sponsors. I have been going out with the Senior Trailblazers for over four years, and now I not only know all the regulars quite well, I am also very knowledgeable about the different hikes in the area. In the summer we carpool up to the Mt. Baker Wilderness Area, a drive of about an hour, spend four or five hours in the wilderness, and drive home. This makes for lots of time together, and I know these people very well now, as they do me. All one has to do is show up, and as the years pass people come and go. At our age, there are often medical issues that keep us away, and sometimes an injury or illness will interfere with our ability to hike. The Center has easier hikes available also, and sometimes people will migrate to another group, and I miss their company.

Two of the women from the Trailblazers encouraged me to join them with the Fairhaven walking group at 8:00am on Saturday mornings. I was at first a sometime attendee, because the woman who leads this group, Cindy, is a retired race walker and we set a blistering pace of around four miles an hour for anywhere from four to six miles. At first I was lagging at the back of the pack, but now I'm much faster, walking as fast as I can go, sometimes having to take a few running steps. Yesterday, one of the women in this group asked me to have coffee with her, so we will meet on Wednesday for an early lunch. Another new friend.

The weather wasn't conducive to skydiving yesterday, but today looks much better, so I'll head down to Snohomish to join my friend Linny to get my knees in the breeze, fly my canopy around and hopefully make some fun jumps before heading back north to Bellingham. When I was in Colorado, I couldn't show up at the Drop Zone before being pulled in to help teach some newbie, and although I was willing, it's nice to have that part of my career behind me. All I do now is play; after all, I'm retired. Sort of.

Yes, a full life indeed, with a very full contingent of friends, some of whom I consider to be close friends. My sister Norma Jean and I also talk on video chat at least once a week, and our lives are intimately intertwined. If social activity, along with exercise, keeps a person happy, I think I've got that covered. Looking at my life like this, thinking of how I got to this place, I am filled with wonder at how it's come about. I chose this town, and now it's hard for me to walk down the street and not see someone I know. And then there's the rock-solid relationship with Smart Guy. We spend some time every day together, but our lives are actually quite separate. I'm a social animal (obviously), and he prefers to spend time alone, with me and my full life giving him just about all the social interaction he requires. He does have interests outside of the home, but they are different from mine.

And then there's blogging. I write here once a week, my Sunday morning meditation, and I write in my other blog three times a week, usually. I follow more than a hundred blogs, which takes up time every day and provides intellectual stimulation. My blogging friends are another universe of social activity, and I care so much about all of you. Your lives and your concerns are mine, too. My heart is filled with gratitude for the life I often take for granted. Right now, however, I can give thanks for it all. And thank YOU as well. Blessings of the season to you and yours, until we meet again next week.

It's that day again

Me and my mama long, long ago

The family member who is not in this picture, my dad, was behind the camera. I sometimes wonder if the desire to take pictures is inherited, since I love it, and I remember him enjoying it enough to have a darkroom to develop pictures. This cheeky little girl and her beautiful mother are preserved for us to enjoy almost seventy years later, thanks to Daddy. Mama must have loved to dress me up, since I think I look pretty cool in that beret and outfit, which she might have made herself. And that old Packard in the background! You know when I was in that car, there were no seat belts or restraints of any kind, and I probably jumped up and down in the back seat or sat in Mama's lap in the front. Things we would never even consider allowing any more, not to mention it's against the law.

Yesterday was an unexpectedly beautiful day, with high clouds and abundant sunshine. I drove down to Snohomish and made another four skydives with my friends. We didn't know if it would be possible to make any at all because the weather forecast was iffy, but it turned out to be another perfect day. Last Saturday I made four and went home, but Linny and Christy came back the next day and made seven each, for a total of eleven for the weekend. I was that gung-ho once myself, but that has all changed, and I was satisfied with my measly four jumps. They told me that last Monday morning they were so sore everywhere from the activity that they could barely move! By the end of the summer they will be accustomed to it. I will keep to my less frequent activity and enjoy it for at least one more season.

It's been a very good week, with the unusual constant sunshine and people in skimpy dress out enjoying the beautiful May weather. Everything is in bloom everywhere I look; all the colorful rhododendrons are out, catching my eye as I pass by. I would take pictures of them, but I've done that every spring now and there's nothing much new to capture. Now I simply enjoy the riotous colors and take note of their beauty. Maybe today, Mother's Day, I'll wander around and take pictures of them with raindrops on them, since the rain has finally returned. The next week's weather will be wet and unsettled, and we will return to our normal temperatures again.

As much as I enjoyed the weather, I find that I don't mind the sound of the rain outside the window. It seems much more normal, and I won't have to water my garden today, as it will get a good soaking from Mother Nature.  My ears have finally recovered from the sunburn they received last Tuesday, when Al and I went up to the Mt. Baker area for a snowshoe excursion. It was completely sunny, and the reflection of the sun on the snow at altitude made sunscreen imperative. I wore a visor so that I wouldn't be too hot as we labored upwards, but I had forgotten to put sunscreen on my ears! They burned for a couple of days afterwards but seem to finally be okay.

I've been thinking of my parents and missing them both lately, especially Mama. And today's the day I think of all the Mother's Days I have had since she left, twenty of them. You only have one mother, after all, and she holds a very special place in the hearts of most of us. To reflect on the life of that one person who carried us under her heart and labored to give us the chance to draw our first breath, to grow up under her tutelage and then become independent of her. I see it everywhere in nature, with the first clutch of eggs hatched in birds' nests and the gaping mouths of the chicks waiting for their parents to feed them. I have belonged to the Whatcom Birders' listserv for years now and save pictures that I especially enjoy. Here's one that captures the day for me.

Taken by Douglas Brown, hummingbirds being fed by Mama

It's been a good week, one that found me enjoying being alive and healthy, giving thanks for having finally gotten over that awful illness that kept me down for way too long. Today I'll probably spend some time thinking about how to plant the remainder of my garden plot and maybe find some random act of kindness to pass along to some unsuspecting soul. I hope you have a wonderful week and we'll visit again next Sunday morning.