i object...!!!*

How can there not be an 'anglican choral music nerd' section on this test? Well...I'll gladly settle for the Minka 'cool club'.

I'm not sure I can hang out with Felipe anymore - 'uber cool'. I'm so sure...

Just had to get the dot dot dot in there somehow...

identity lost & found or found & lost ...or neither

Written last Sunday night...

I'm rather in the middle of an identity crisis dance. Not surprising after a big move. What of me stays there? What of me is found here? Part of it is a palpable presence today: A beloved and longtime Stockton musician slid onto the organ bench at St. John's. Here, in my new life that is still forming, I have wrestled - not with the wanting to continue that particular ministry, as I enjoy 'being' with the congregation and hearing the fruits of very talented musicians at St. Anne's - but with the saying goodbye part of it...and not knowing what - if any - sort of work might be mine to grasp later. Grasp. Now, there's a word. What part of me do I own?

I am beginning some work for Grace College here. It is both the same, and yet different, from the work I've done before. The same...in that part of it involves a bit of accompanying. A post-grad soprano working on a recital presents me with the 'Queen of the Night' aria from Magic Flute (orchestral reduction...hmmmm...) I'm reminded of the 'me' that did so much accompanying in my 20's (learning a lot about orchestral opera reductions), a bit in my 30's and 40's (counting school children and choirs), a huge lot in my 49th year and beyond. Always a shifting identity within those. (I would love to have that 20's identity right now. Actually, I wish to command it to appear.) I am the same person...yet different.

I want to tighten my grasp around....well, something. But it seems I can't even tighten a grasp around me. I feel for comforting parameters around me, but there is mostly empty, undefined space.

Enter Fr. C's Year C: Proper 18 (9 September, 2007) sermon. Way before the end, I had mentally and spiritually written that check to God with 'my identity' in the amount spot. Glad to do it, actually. Freeing...immensely. I felt rather like one of the Dog Whisperer's pups, who finds its true self in not being in charge. Exhale.

Now, almost a week after writing this, I find the 'unknown' has almost become a comfortable skin. I'm not sure what color it is. Or if it's silk threads or cotton ones weaving. But it feels strangely comforting and 'right'...in ways I may not even understand yet.

the dreaded '3'...

We had some strong and over-the-top exciting "wanting to buy" kind of interest in the house last weekend. There has been a steady stream of lookers at the Open Houses...some who used to live in it or used to play with people who used to live in it...some who are curious...and lots of people who wish they could buy, but must sell their own house first and not much is selling (San Joaquin County is top in the nation in foreclosures, though we did hear an interview with a Stockton realtor on NPR last week who says banks are working with people to help them keep their homes. There are too many foreclosures and the banks can't sell them either.). The house is intrinsically magical and has phenomenal magnetism -- and not just the kind that attracts people like me who see possibilities and don't mind imperfections and enjoy working on a house. It deserves special, loving owners. This couple was perfect: They loved it and were amazed at the affordable price. They had money to put into it (some important 'This Old House' projects remain). It was the husband's first choice. They spent an hour in it, returned the next day, and on the following day bought the house across the street. That one's pristine condition was irresistible. For me, compared to our house that one is boring...nothing beckons with interesting, personalizing projects. There's barely any yard at all. (Yup. It's Fr. C's dream house!)

But, we're happy for our former neighbors who are now living in Georgia. It's been way over a year since they put it on the market, and in that time they've put tens of thousands of dollars into it improving it. It sold for $100K less than the original price. And, they're paying $12K of the closing costs.

Our realtor is fabulous. Has lived in the 'historic district' for most of her life. Is always upbeat, encouraging and on top of things. She was disappointed about losing the sale...even though she has the listing on the house across the street. She went into a slight 'over-reactive' mode: Let's paint the interior (Probably thinking 'boring neutrals' -- 'neutering' ones, I call them -- which our friends had used)!! Nope. Can't afford that. "It will only cost $600-800 to 'stage' the house!!!" Ditto. We compromised on one project: repainting the Peony Pink dining room. That hurts. I cried. But, without my mother's Monet-like paintings...and the old rose and gold floral print couch...well, in the buff it looks like Pepto Bismal, she said.

We had lowered the price to to entice the lookers last weekend. Yesterday she called. For this Saturday's real estate section open house ad, she wants to lower it again. It still begins with a '4'. I ask -- what price will she want to put on it in a month if it hadn't sold by then? This one begins with a '3'. We knew that was coming. And we knew we would support it. And we know it's for the best. It might be that we were also in an over reactive mode. It might be that we were too impatient - it's been on the market for less than two months. But we said yes. And...it was an emotional day.

I fear we have devalued the house by doing that. And, devalued the many other houses for sale in the Magnolia district and every other district in Stockton. That's how a bottoming out market works. Two years ago, when we were needing to put a new roof on it, the house appraised at $500K. Great. But, perhaps, not really...

When we returned from visiting family in Brazil in August and exited the house three days later, I saw our realtor's information sheets on the kitchen counter. One was from a lender, showing creative ways for a buyer to afford its original list price. I gulped. Our mortgage is oppressive enough for us. I would like for my children -- and everyone's children -- to be able to afford to buy a house someday, and not have to take out one of those ridiculous should-be-illegal mortgages or spend half their income on it. Things must change.

Come Holy Spirit and comfort and inspire the souls of those yearning for shelter, stability...for a house to care for and a home to delight in.

Amen.

PB at GM...

OK. There is something seriously wrong with me. Fr. C and I went to Chicago on August 27th - an anniversary celebration - and we saw Patricia Barber at the Green Mill and I haven't blogged about it yet. A serious illness must be involved.

Life is busy...and yet not, sometimes. Maybe it's just the adjustment period in our new lives. The air is different. I don't think it has anything to do with exhausting activities like...It's midnight and I'm cleaning up some impressive Bixby projectile vomit in the living room...he was on the harvest table right by the stairs and, though there was a liquid heap on the tablecloth on said table, still, much of it left a lace-like effect splattered on a large area of the carpet...even reached the stairs...AND the railing...as well as embedding itself in the screws holding the stair railing in place...and, well, I can't even adequately describe the impressive scope of it. I'm not usually a big fan of carpet. But the rectory carpet is understated, lovely - low pile, cottony... And I want to be a good steward of it. So...I cleaned up the complicated slurpy canned cat food vomit crime scene with Nature's Miracle and SEVERAL rags; rolled up half of the organdy cloth on the harvest table to contain that portion for later (morning) cleanup. Climbed in bed. Hear a loud thud. Lucy has pulled the tablecloth onto the carpet, displacing several heavy items on the table (i.e., landed on the carpet) and actually rather quickly chewed through a corner of the valued, delicate cloth in her quick attempt to do her own thorough clean up. Yup, I'm sure. My lapse in blogging, decline in creative energy, has nothing to do with that.

BTW: Why I still like Clive Davis. His review of PB's latest CD - Mythologies (the result of her Guggenheim fellowship) : "Audacious is the only word for the Chicago-based singer-pianist's latest leap into the unknown. She's always pursued an unconventional course, and this, inspired by Ovid's Metamorphoses, no less, is one of the most unusual and memorable records to come my way in a long, long time. Oh, and this is a nice one from Time Out, NY: Patricia Barber is a demon of an improvising pianist, especially live. (YES!!) But the literary, even cerebral cast of her original material has evident highbrow appeal, especially as sung in her distinctively icy alto; Laurie Anderson with a nightclub gig... (Oops, I think I just threw Blogger into font confusion)

Green Mill is her stomping ground. I don't think she plays three sets just any place. She wears it like a comfortable, over-worn jean skirt. Relaxed, at home. Now, she is off working/playing on her UC Berkeley fellowship, then a couple nights at the Getty villa in Malibu. But when she's back in town, it will be Monday nights at the Green Mill as usual.

She looked like herself -- I was surprised at how well I 'know' her, how much I've seen on her website and on CD sleeves is real, really her. Wearing black. Her hair loosely clipped back. Signature facial expressions and gyrations at the piano. She even had her signature cognac-filled glass by the piano.

It just might be true that the other members of the quartet match her brilliance. But I'm not going to say that. It is The Patricia Barber quartet, and she reigns as queen. The first set included three, lengthy, impressive, on-the-spot improvisations from the group. Danson la Gigue was her only composition (setting a Verlaine poem) from a CD. There were a few cool, blue 'cover' ballads. I would have killed to hear 'If I Were Blue' and a few others of her original lyrics/music creations, but there was no opportunity. After announcing the first break -- with an astonishing promise of two more sets to come -- we waited and waited and waited and it was obvious the group was enjoying the night at 'home' so very much that, when it got to be midnight on Indiana EDT, we bailed and hit the road. Must stay the night next time!!!

Notes on the evening's offerings are buried deep in my purse. When excavated, there may be more to share.

(Oh -- and all this for a cover of $7 at the door, the price of a movie in Warsaw, and likely half a movie in Chicago. I don't sense this is because she hasn't forgotten her roots, but that she still is her roots. Nature Conservancy is her 'cause'.)

NPR's Jim Fusseli reviews her CD 'Verse' (2002) on All Things Considered.

Definitely click on 'Launch the Mythologies player' at the top of her news page.

something inane...why not? it's a holiday...

Your Heart Is Purple

For you, love is about establishing and developing a deep connection. If it's true love, it brings you more wisdom and inner strength. Your flirting style: Sincere Your lucky first date: An afternoon at a tea house Your dream lover: Is both thoughtful and expressive What you bring to relationships: Understanding

What Color Heart Do You Have?

views from the rectory...come visit!

How cute is Lucy?

It's doing it again. The sun is bouncing off the ripples of the breeze-ruffled pond and reflecting in a stretched window-shaped view screen on the master bedroom ceiling. Now it is that I wish my cell phone could capture this as video...and return to it at will for mesmerizing viewing. (hmm...it occurs to me that perhaps my phone might actually do that. Does Motorola have a Hogwarts school of cell phone wizardry? I'd certainly need to attend to become Hermione of all Razr features.)

Long overdue, here are photos of the breathtaking view from the rectory (the interior is in various states of order/disorder, but we're almost there!). These were taken during our first week, when the weather was somber...sometimes stormy...gray around the edges. I like the drama in that. But we've had some brilliant, beautiful, blue-sky days recently which tempt with another view.

The rectory is one of 20 homes surrounding a spring-fed pond with an island in the middle (thus our street name: Island View Drive). The homes vary in age, style, size. But they all have one thing in common: the sloping backyard that ends at the pond, with a second, basement level revealed as you look back at the house. The windmill above belongs to our neighbor; judging from the mowing, I'd say it marks the property line. In the land of no fences and vast expanses of green carpet, I've seen other kinds of 'markers', presumably to remind of that.

View of the opposite shore, from the dining room.

Taken from the driveway: Woods across the street with three of its many inhabitants. Lucy isn't quite sure what they are, but one thing's for sure: they're interlopers and need the business end of a border collie's sheep herding instinct to keep them under control. Translation: lots of barking upon sightings!

The driveway, from kitchen window. The house is full of triptych windows. There are no curtains or blinds at this point, and we almost wish it could stay like that.

One corner of the kitchen. The first week we allowed ourselves the luxury of hanging a few paintings as a reward for progress. The Vine Street kitchen could fit in this space... and still have room for table & chairs...DD's tall desk/cabinet...a newly purchased Martha Stewart 'wicker' sofa (killer sale at KMart! Of course, it didn't come with cushions, but that's a minor detail, right?)...a corner cabinet...and still has plenty of room for walking around!! Oh, and sweeping...

From Lucy's fenced yard: the kitchen at night.

Island view from the deck. What you're not seeing are the stacks of empty Bekins boxes lining the wall.

View from the enclosed porch directly under the deck.
Fr. C has already fallen asleep to a few lightening-filled thunderstorms here.

Bixby looking outside longingly, but securely, from our bed. He's turned into a total candy a$$! Loves the indoor life, doesn't seem to miss catching his own food, has gained a lot of weight and still manages to find time to turn his coat into spun silk, daily. I'm sure it's not as easy as it sounds.

Fr. C's first Sunday: the recessional. St. Anne's is lovely in every way! That will be another picture album.

Ah. Fr. C has just uploaded recent photos from the camera. Sunny day pics!

View from the master bedroom: the pond world, coolly reflected in still water.

The infamous Bixby! Bravely (ha!) venturing out on the deck...which, by the way, is inaccessible from anything below and too high for him to jump off of.

Deep sky blue pond

Sunny deck - and the bridge that connects to the island in the background. Check out the swan boat docked at the bridge!!! I'm thinking 'Christmas present' for DD...but deep down I know it's more fun when you're not the one cleaning and maintaining.

Love to all, near and far!

music animation machine...

Three clever and fascinating videos from the Music Animation Machine website (via YouTube) Something unique and interesting to 'play' with while I'm jousting with Blogger (again) as I try to put together some pics of The Amazing View from the rectory on 'Island View Drive' for a post. It is possible to play all three of these at the same time, if you like cacophony!


Chopin Nocturne Op 27, No 2 in D flat major.
I first heard this when I was in college, going with other Westmont students on a bus from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles to hear the great and passionate Artur Rubenstein. In his concert, this Nocturne reached right in and possessed my soul and I had no choice but to reach back and learn/possess it. Memories of my mother joining me at the concert have been sorting themselves out and coming into focus. Pretty sure she drove down from central California for the concert...took me out to dinner afterwards...and then drove me back to school. What a great and adventurous lady!


A bonus: being able to watch the beautiful hands of Music Animation Machine creator, Stephen Malinowski, playing this piece. Lovely, lovely.



Cute and fun. Comments and responses on this on YouTube were rather interesting: A bit of discussion as to whether it was really Ogden Nash who wrote the poem.

gifts from the camera...

Today, the digital camera's contents were downloaded to the computer and my heart sang with unbridled joy when images of the California Vine Street house came up. Simply put: I'm overwhelmed with love and gratitude for opportunity...for time and effort spent on this house...for the privilege of being one of the many caretakers of it...at the same time wishing I could have done so perfectly. It remains a continuing effort, with precious friends watching over it. My prayers surround it: for its future owners...for the oxygen of the grace of the Holy Spirit to fill every room...for it to be permeated with warm light of love.

So now, I am ready to joust with Blogger over picture-posting (why can't a picture posted second actually show up second??? and the third, third? etc..etc...) . Soon to follow: a post with breathtaking views from the 'Heartland' rectory in Warsaw (interior shots must wait for more unpacking bedlam to cease)!!!

A view through the lavender hedge

Van Buren side of the front yard.
The double, weeping Mrs. George Roeding oleander
flanking the sidewalk on the left had the best year ever,
constantly blooming and delighting.

Continuation of the above corner: driveway foliage and path

Looking from the driveway to the distant lavender flanking Vine St...

Entry showing the gleaming oil-based blue paint
on the inside of the front door and the window frame.
Thanks, Joe!! Oh, and Martha Stewart...
for featuring Fine Paints of Europe in her mag years ago!

Kitchen, with the new double ovens.
No - I don't regret not having the chance to try them out...

The airy living room with a glimpse of the entry and a fanciful peek at the front porch

Peony pink dining room with two of my mother's Monet-reminiscent paintings.
After this, I finally figured out how to get a truer color.

The other end of the dining room, with J's paintings.

First landing, with another of J's painting.
A peaceful place? Not when Lucy parked herself at the window
and barked at whoever was passing by...

Second floor laundry room, with a view of the upper level of the garage.
The counter never looked this neat when I lived there!

Third floor room with a rooftop view...ahhhh...

Lucy patiently waiting for me to descend to the laundry room

Second landing: J's self-portrait...
rumored to spark a bidding war during the first open house.

Backyard deck, picnic table, hammock bed, newly lined pond.

"Patio lawn"
Boy, will this look great when some groundcover grows between the stones.
Rocky waterfall in the background is working as of today!

Side porch...'portal to the future'
in Miz Minka's photos later that night...

Front door flanked by ivy's...

Movers amongst the lavender...

Dining room chandelier that night...
illuminating the majestic emptiness of the house during 'one last dance':
Thank you, Rachel, Jonathan, Rebecca!

driving mr. bixby

Lest we forget:
A picture from the past just to remind us all...
In some way, Bixby is ALWAYS armed and dangerous.

First, it is important to say that, when arriving to pick up the exceptional feline for something important - such as a drive across the country, one must be prepared to pull up at the curb and wait. And wait. And wait. Therefore, it might be recommended/considered essential to wear one of the more comfortable and airy uniforms available - lightweight linen, perhaps - especially if it is the month of August.

On the day in question, we (the hired help/drivers) felt it was in Mr. Bixby's best interest to get a head start on a long three days journey -- 5pm seemed reasonable enough. However, apparently that did not fit in with his schedule which, of course, is entirely driven by napping needs.

Mommy/nanny/servant was sure he was dead. Otherwise he would heed her calls to appear. Fr. C. sought to console her, as she wailed and cried, offering to go to dinner - and even a movie - while waiting to see if Mr. B was alive or dead. Happily, B. made himself available around 7 and off we went.

The brand spanking new Sherpa-lined airline approved cat carrier was not to Mr. B's liking. But if Mummy held the carrier on her lap and put her hand through the zippered opening and didn't leave 1/8 of an inch for him to try to push his head through and stroked him constantly, well then he was consolable and quiet...well, after 4 hours or so.

Mr. B is a Wild Thang. He rules the Great Outdoors. He's long forgotten what a litter box is for. To bring a new 'throne' along for HRH to use along the way will not arouse any instinctual interest on his part. He refused to even look at it the first night, nor would he in the morning. A stop was made at a local pet store in Nevada first thing in the new day: we purchased puppy training pads that smell like grass...'Calm Cat' (homeopathic remedy with 13% alcohol)...Nature's Miracle for cleaning up unforeseen messes. Yup, that should do it. He had a good day in the car (on my lap), but apparently that was different from no other day in his life, which he spends....napping.

Upon arrival at that night's hotel, late at night, the bathroom was quickly set up with litter box, puppy pads to see if he would give in. But before we could let him out of his carrier, he emptied his bladder into it. Dark despair descended over Mommy's entire being. While Fr. C slept (as the sole driver, his rest and well-being are the top priority), she went busily to work. The cat carrier was doused with Nature's Miracle and set to drain in the bathtub. Lucy's huge dog kennel was brought in from the car (all car contents necessarily displaced) and set up for cat creature comforts: litter box (yeah...that was bright), soft towel inside, towels draped over the kennel to cushion him. It was clear that his brain's radar is set to 'kill' at night and there's nothing to kill in a motel room. Unless you count Mommy's spirit. Despite all possible coddlings, nothing consoled him. Let him out. He still howled inconsolably. Took him into the bathroom and sat with him while he cried...and cried...and cried. Repeat kennel/bathroom alternating routine ad nauseum. He wanted to hurt someone. Badly. In the dark of night, Mommy reviewed options for transporting him on the remainder of the trip and came up with none. With no solution to HRH's complex feline personality disorder - either in the 'present' of the trip or when he arrives at his future home - despair drove Mommy to prayer. He quieted down almost instantly and commenced an impressive hour-long bath, after which he loudly demanded dinner. Then...he sort of slept. Evening and morning of the second day: still holding way too much in.

The next day's drive: yup, still in the carrier on my lap - but this time with puppy pads and a towel under it in case he couldn't make it to the next motel bathroom. Trying not to envision an expensive visit to an Indiana vet, diagnosis: kidney infection. On the road, a feline excretion history review produced an 'ah ha!' moment: he normally does his business in a wild manly way...on backyard concrete pavers, on the concrete basement floor if he has no choice. OK. The guy likes hard surfaces and (silly me) I didn't bring a sample of concrete from the back yard for The Trip.

But -- maybe I could trick him.

The plan was laid out in whispers while Mr. B slept. Purchase a newspaper. Put something on it that smells like home (a small rag we had in the car). Get that set up in the bathroom before bringing him into the hotel. Let him out of the carrier quickly and close him in there and hope for the best. If it succeeds: retrieve some shreds of of wet paper/wet rag for inserting in the litter box - just for future feline reference.

I'll spare you some "interesting" details . But - happy to say it succeeded. So much so that he has continued to use the litter box joyfully in his new abode, producing so much...I might add...that I can't imagine how he held in so much in on the road. Soon, he'll be allowed out of the house (chipmunks, ducks, woodpeckers, cardinals, ???small deer??? -- BEWARE!!!) and may again outgrow interest in/need for a litter box.

And Lucy? She had no idea there existed places saturated with a million different flavors of dog pee waiting for her to explore (rest areas)! Being basically 'mental', naturally she couldn't produce on demand or even on suggestion. So, anxiety reigned there as well. She did discover that her favorite medicinal weed which had been small and sparse in her former yard grows bigger and bigger as one drives eastward. Neither she nor I could believe our eyes when we saw a patch as tall as wheat at a rest area in Wyoming. Thanks be to God.

surreality...

Sheesh. How depressing to see I've written nothing since July 13th. And even more so to see a 'grand' total of two posts for that month. Life has been whirling around me like a cyclone -- dismembering and scattering me into bits and depositing DD dna here there and everywhere.

There has been much, much, much to blog about. But too little time and energy...mostly the latter. Miraculously, a time in my life that should have been an epic can be contained in the space of a short story. Mere weeks. A house and home readied for a buyer's market. A .25 acre yard 100% transformed into a garden. A two-week trip to Brazil - seemingly ill-timed, but a wonderful, rejuvenating gift. We returned 7 days ago, in the evening. Met packers the next. Loaders the following. Hit the road to Warsaw a day later and made it here by 8:300pm today. A week ago we were flying over Peru. We've just arrived at our new home in time to unload the car and map out where the furniture will be placed when the van arrives the next morning. Where has time gone...certainly with the wind.

Precious things need not be measured in the grandeur and expanse of real time elapsed. They are a gift, dropped in our laps like gumdrops from the sky. I sit here: blogging on a laptop in a marvelous house which is our new home, just a heartbeat from the home and friends and life that we embraced for so long. It is all of the same fabric I find and fondle here.

Onward: another layer on this life's canvas is forming.