My back yard is lit with the glow of the harvest moon. Now that it is here and my workweek is over, I can relax in its light... it has wreaked its havoc. But as with all things, we know "this too shall pass." And pass it has... onto a long weekend.
Even though fall is approaching, this seems to be the year of perpetual spring. Spring is the time for the budding and blooming of new things. And it seems my entire year has been filled with new things.
My first backcountry ski trip
Relearning to road bike
Relearning to mountain bike (with real mountains)
Dipping my big toe into the world of whitewater rafting
Dipping my baby toe into the world of kayaking
Learning to swim
Getting bitten by a new bug after watching Guy Tri
and now, SCUBA
with preparation for a trip to New Zealand
Life is nothing if not an adventure. Every day something new to discover. I remember telling Alexis some time back, "Do something every day that scares you." Not that this was an original thought but it is an important one. Every day, maybe not quite... but this year I'm coming pretty close. Of course, "scares you" and "excites you" are very nearly one and the same.
Fall is here... but I'm still springing into new things!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Turning Over a New Leaf
Indian summer is coming to a close and autumn is beginning to fall here in Colorado. So, as the leaves change, I'm trying to make a few changes too.
All summer I've talked about riding my bike to work. Aside from a few trips to the office on my days off, it hasn't happened. So today I made the first commute and plan to do it once a week until snow flies. It's amazing how hard it is to find one, just one, day a week on which I don't have some activity that needs doing on the way to or from work, or at lunch. PT, dry cleaning, the bank, groceries, etc... they all occupy some portion of my commute on a nearly daily basis.
This morning was the first fall-like morning of the season. It dawned cloudy and 45 degrees. Since I expect to be at work late, I am hopeful that IF it rains (which we desperately need) it will do so before my commute home.
All summer I've talked about riding my bike to work. Aside from a few trips to the office on my days off, it hasn't happened. So today I made the first commute and plan to do it once a week until snow flies. It's amazing how hard it is to find one, just one, day a week on which I don't have some activity that needs doing on the way to or from work, or at lunch. PT, dry cleaning, the bank, groceries, etc... they all occupy some portion of my commute on a nearly daily basis.
This morning was the first fall-like morning of the season. It dawned cloudy and 45 degrees. Since I expect to be at work late, I am hopeful that IF it rains (which we desperately need) it will do so before my commute home.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Indian Summer Poem - from the archives
An Indian summer day on Ute trail
Sweat trickles down my neck
like the Shaman’s pony tail.
Aspens scatter their riches on the path,
gold coins beside the dangerous red of poison ivy
and sharp green soapbush.
I am the only warrior running this trail
to the drumbeat of gunfire across the canyon.
I weave like the moaning cedar wind
between the white and brown bones
of Ancient Ones spreading their shade above me.
Unseen except for the gaze of a white-headed Grandfather mountain
with a crescent of Grandmother moon at his shoulder.
Today I am in love with my life.
Where last night I ground my teeth
beneath the weight of the stones I carry,
here I am restored, but for a pair of shoes,
and scatter my stones, runes, among the sun warmed boulders
to change my fortunes.
In the embrace of a mountain fall,
I am lifted.
Surely it is real medicine
to be suckled on warm water and trail dust
and know the pull of mother Earth on an uphill struggle.
When my soul is so full of this day
that my legs will not carry me up one more mountain for the weight
I will rest
until tomorrow’s run.
LB
10/9/04
Sweat trickles down my neck
like the Shaman’s pony tail.
Aspens scatter their riches on the path,
gold coins beside the dangerous red of poison ivy
and sharp green soapbush.
I am the only warrior running this trail
to the drumbeat of gunfire across the canyon.
I weave like the moaning cedar wind
between the white and brown bones
of Ancient Ones spreading their shade above me.
Unseen except for the gaze of a white-headed Grandfather mountain
with a crescent of Grandmother moon at his shoulder.
Today I am in love with my life.
Where last night I ground my teeth
beneath the weight of the stones I carry,
here I am restored, but for a pair of shoes,
and scatter my stones, runes, among the sun warmed boulders
to change my fortunes.
In the embrace of a mountain fall,
I am lifted.
Surely it is real medicine
to be suckled on warm water and trail dust
and know the pull of mother Earth on an uphill struggle.
When my soul is so full of this day
that my legs will not carry me up one more mountain for the weight
I will rest
until tomorrow’s run.
LB
10/9/04
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Color Me Wrong
Color Me Wrong
I’ve always thought Thomas Kinkade paintings were wrong. That’s obviously why they are relegated to “galleries” full of Precious Moments figurines, which are equally wrong. It’s not the gooey, quaint scenes, it’s the colors and that eerie glow. Mother Nature just doesn’t use that palatte.
In the scheme of things being wrong, I was leaving my house in a state of absolute “right” this evening. The car was loaded with running gear for MY RUN tomorrow !! ;-))) !! A large bag containing ingredients for Guy’s Crazy Spicy Noodles rested expectantly on the floor. But as I turned toward the West, there was a sunset a la Kinkade. Hot pink ethereal flares glowing off the tops of the foothills against a backdrop of sun faded blue and lavender clouds. Above the layers a bright white puff with a knife edge of brilliant yellow orange. I didn’t dare look at who, or what, was driving the car beside me lest I see those huge eyes staring at me.
I’ve always thought Thomas Kinkade paintings were wrong. That’s obviously why they are relegated to “galleries” full of Precious Moments figurines, which are equally wrong. It’s not the gooey, quaint scenes, it’s the colors and that eerie glow. Mother Nature just doesn’t use that palatte.
In the scheme of things being wrong, I was leaving my house in a state of absolute “right” this evening. The car was loaded with running gear for MY RUN tomorrow !! ;-))) !! A large bag containing ingredients for Guy’s Crazy Spicy Noodles rested expectantly on the floor. But as I turned toward the West, there was a sunset a la Kinkade. Hot pink ethereal flares glowing off the tops of the foothills against a backdrop of sun faded blue and lavender clouds. Above the layers a bright white puff with a knife edge of brilliant yellow orange. I didn’t dare look at who, or what, was driving the car beside me lest I see those huge eyes staring at me.
Down to the Well - Poem 2006
Some of you have been encouraging me to find inspiration, to find those bits of poetry that are often scattered on the path half hidden by rocks I might trip over. And I have found inspiration again. Not on the run this time, though it is lurking there too.
For now, this inspiration is in the sacrifice of a goat to bring luck to well drilling in Afganistan, in the scenting of cotton to line a wooden box for the body of a man I never knew, in the wild danger of moose in Alaska, in the taste of strawberries and the scent of gasoline, in the love of a decades old friend, and in remembering that "courage atrophies from lack of use." Enjoy.
We all go down to the well
Carrying our thirst
for life
for love
for adventure
Digging deep for something that has meaning
sacrificing
shedding the blood of our dreams
burying our dead
If we are lucky enough to drill through stone
And we happen to have a little Grace
in the bottom of our pockets
We just might tap into something
that flows through us
like freedom
or surprise
or the autumn wind
We might find that delicate balance
between becoming ripe
and getting bruised
An echo
between the soundless space of fear
and the laughter of our childhood
A taste of courage
nearly atrophied
Perhaps there are new habits to acquire
under new skies
untainted by the bitterness of disappointment
and steeped in the warmth of decades
A starting point
to rev our souls to motion
and our hearts
past desire
and toward redemption
We can stop starving ourselves
by waiting for tomorrows
we can laugh at the sun
and dance in the rain
wearing the shoes that didn’t drop
until all the doors are unlocked
and the table is as full of life’s feast
as our mouths with the rich taste of Now
Lisa B
For now, this inspiration is in the sacrifice of a goat to bring luck to well drilling in Afganistan, in the scenting of cotton to line a wooden box for the body of a man I never knew, in the wild danger of moose in Alaska, in the taste of strawberries and the scent of gasoline, in the love of a decades old friend, and in remembering that "courage atrophies from lack of use." Enjoy.
We all go down to the well
Carrying our thirst
for life
for love
for adventure
Digging deep for something that has meaning
sacrificing
shedding the blood of our dreams
burying our dead
If we are lucky enough to drill through stone
And we happen to have a little Grace
in the bottom of our pockets
We just might tap into something
that flows through us
like freedom
or surprise
or the autumn wind
We might find that delicate balance
between becoming ripe
and getting bruised
An echo
between the soundless space of fear
and the laughter of our childhood
A taste of courage
nearly atrophied
Perhaps there are new habits to acquire
under new skies
untainted by the bitterness of disappointment
and steeped in the warmth of decades
A starting point
to rev our souls to motion
and our hearts
past desire
and toward redemption
We can stop starving ourselves
by waiting for tomorrows
we can laugh at the sun
and dance in the rain
wearing the shoes that didn’t drop
until all the doors are unlocked
and the table is as full of life’s feast
as our mouths with the rich taste of Now
Lisa B
Vision Check?
Today I took photos of my old sofa with and without the slip cover. I posted the photos in my treatment room in case any patients or their college-bound kids need a comfy though unattractive sofa.
While Alexis roomed my second patient of the day, the patient interrupted her and asked "who on earth would buy such a f*ckin' ugly sofa."
I went in to see the patient moments later. She commented on what cool red and purple glasses I have. Then she asked if they were readers. I said, "no I'm pretty blind." She said, "Well, that explains the sofa."
While Alexis roomed my second patient of the day, the patient interrupted her and asked "who on earth would buy such a f*ckin' ugly sofa."
I went in to see the patient moments later. She commented on what cool red and purple glasses I have. Then she asked if they were readers. I said, "no I'm pretty blind." She said, "Well, that explains the sofa."
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