But, wait. I said I joyfully overdid this weekend. Is this me? The woman of exceeding small energy, who can see coming those times of activity which will be too much, and who bows out graciously, or if she can’t, goes ahead and overdoes, all the while grumbling and griping inside, knowing the difficult recovery time looms?

But I wanted to do the first Saturday breakfast again. When I went last time, in February, energy higher and my weekend not filled, I discovered the wonder of weathered faces. Men and women, whom I sort of helped serve, but who were truly served by the regular crew, who the day before had set long tables, with flowers in vases, tableware wrapped in white napkins. The people filed in, laying down backpacks, removing coarse gloves. They were waited on. They were treated to an egg/cheese/meat dish called Strata. Not super fancy, but sustaining. They were asked if they’d like seconds, and they were waited on again.

I helped that time in the kitchen, keeping sweet potato hash in a pan stirred, while Ella dished fresh plates for eager servers and asked me to taste and see if her previously-cooked concoction (from ingredients bought and some donated) was thawed enough. Amazing flavor, even for me who often passes on sweet potatoes.

This time for the March breakfast, I felt the tailwind of teens who’d shown up to serve, who were at the elbows of our attendees the moment they sat down. I settled in to a patrol of tables, watching for those needing seconds, listening to an experienced woman on the crew ask, “Sir, would you like some juice? Another helping?” I ran for tabasco sauce upon request. Despite my never having waitressed well (fired after one week back at age 19), I kind of caught the drift of how this art is supposed to bloom. I visited briefly with people. I lifted folding chairs.

Sunday I lifted chairs, too, after the lunch we were in charge of after church, and my body complained, but only with accompanying gratefulness, surprising me. I sensed I was headed for recovery days, and therefore I was supposed to be finding fault with reality, blaming anyone close enough to somehow qualify. Yet, as harmonized birds hopped between walnut branches above when I made at last for our car, I didn’t mind shuffling like a 90-year-old.

Probably the 90-year-olds who help with such serving as these breakfasts rarely shuffle at all.

A Christmas post has been on my mind, ever since we returned from a week-plus in Seattle, visiting family and friends, staying in my brother’s cool house. Richard and Manny live beside the light rail station, from whence you can whoosh toward downtown, where interesting sights abound.

Since we came home, though, I haven’t had time to goof off on the Internet in normal fashion. (I pop in and “stalk” folks on Facebook — as my activity has been described, though I prefer to say I “lurk”.) This can be seen as positive, especially when fullness of heart and soul are the cause. Lovely developments in our lives continue. Messy processes, too, as is normal fashion for reality. But mostly much to brighten the season.

One evening last week I sat down to clickety-click a few bloggy words, but then the doorbell rang. Through a dark living room I groped, finding the front door, while another insistent dingering sounded. My surprise knew no bounds at the sight on our step — Uncle Timmy!

...and my hubby says I can't talk without gesturing...

He sent himself this year, from Ohio, as an in-person Christmas card. I love that he did. We went out to Sizzler. Salad bar, a few engineers “partying”, and the two Tims catching up. What could be nicer?

Now’s the time to send Greetings of the Season, and so I offer good wishes to each of you from my heart. I hold in thought a mama we saw up north, who is great with child and pondering Advent in ways I well remember, from 26 and 22 years ago.

I count it all joy to have the love and respect of the people who raised me, and of those whom I raised.

There are those who put up with me with great, forbearing love. This is the way of our Messiah, who is our King and our God, become Man for our sakes.

What could be nicer?

“I was thinking about,” puff, puff, “something regarding what so-and-so said,” puff, “and how it relates to this-and-that area of our lives.” Whoosh, arm-swings, batting away of spider web.

Our hike through forest and shrubbery was idyllic. Conversation abounded, on my side at least. To Tim’s credit, he responded thoughtfully in the right spots (having learned well during our 32 years). Best of all, he slowed down when I began to lag.

Or when I stopped for a picture.

“It’s a firetruck!” Tim said as we passed this rig.

We were guests. As we always are, I suppose, wandering into natural creation, the domain of creatures who construct homes there and attempt to protect them from occasional acts of God. I’m so glad certain people who live the life of forested spaces enjoy inviting folks like us from town into the phenomenon of a luxury bed and breakfast.

Such certain people are Harry and Kathe. They live in and lovingly administer Cottage Grove’s Apple Inn.

Our anniversary stay there was Tim’s surprise gift to me. He even thought to tell Kathe I’m gluten intolerant. This resulted in amazing waffles adorned with homemade strawberry syrup at this lovely table.

Before breakfast, I immersed myself in a hot bath courtesy of a claw-foot tub. While indulging there, I listened, eyes closed. Tim’s voice carried from the dining room, where he and Harry were getting acquainted. The familiar tones of my husband’s stories met new notes in Harry’s interspersed tales about times of his and Kathe’s family, raised here, built while the house progressed. Work and machines and adventures are the memories two men past fifty sing. They’re a gift in the hearing.

Also ringing was my joy in wearing the new band around my finger. An anniversary addition to my wedding set. Another surprise by Tim. A making of a shiny memory that joins the old, it sudsed up with the rest of me as I relaxed before the waffles and and the hike to a viewpoint with my man.

But I was there first. What I found, the night I tripped inside its doorway and ever since, has been a place to ask a good question.

Man, I needed that.

One tiny woman got to the semi-finals on her own, with no coach or sponsors, and she skied, flying down the twisting course, hanging on, to everyone’s amazement, til the final hill. She fell and slid across the finish line, a fractioned second off the time that would have sent her to the finals.

I hope she didn’t break any bones. I hope her bruises remind her of the value of perseverance. She did all she could. Her very best.

My blogging takes up again today far afield from where it’s been lately. Well, maybe not so far. Themes continue, relentless, and when I pause I notice them.

Life is funny. The quest for certain goals can make me think I’m going after gold. But really I’m learning to persevere, whatever the outcome. I truly believe (can’t escape that word) that the stuff I’m doing is incidental to my story happening as it should. How I do things, why I do them, and what I see in the doing about my heart’s orientation are what matter.

I am now employed. The volunteer group that turned me down last week called Monday morning and asked if I was still interested in the job. I showered and went to their staff meeting. Tuesday and Wednesday I trained. Yesterday I tried to catch up at home. My hermit ways need modifying.

And yet, this is a very good way for me to be hired. Only now can I see it. I have really, really wanted writing to be my full time job with a part time paycheck. But I’m still waiting for a check for the last article I sold. It’s not a great time to get pay for words.

But for a writer it’s always a good time to live. For me, seeing real faces on the people I’m learning to work with is refreshing, especially when the job is one that’s been close to my heart for twenty-some years. It’s at a pregnancy support center, where the workers are anti-abortion (which, by history’s strange method, has become anti-establishment), but the mission is not political. I helped a woman who doesn’t speak English get diapers for her baby. A couple came in for infant clothing, their tiny one burbling in the dad’s arms.

I don’t know how well I’ll perform at this, or how many crashes will commence. It is very part time, though, and the people are treating me so nicely. They have been around this “game” a long time. I can catch back up, I hope, to where I was two decades ago when I volunteered for a similar group at the coast, where we used to live. Where I had screwed up my life a few years before. I promised God I would work with young women, if only I could quit my factory job, and things happened that let me quit the factory, be a stay-at-home mom, and serve people who were messing up their lives in a lot the same way I had.

Now my story arc has swung back around. Kind of the way an essay does, when the final paragraph ends up hinting at the beginning. Only this ending paragraph is a start at something new.

Brindy had lived a good life, a really swell batch of days spanning nearly 18 years. This day she suffered. My mom had told me (from her experience with our 17-year-old doggy from my childhood), “When it’s time, you’ll know.” She was right. I called the vet’s office. They kindly scheduled an appointment for 4:30, the last slot of the day.

As I return today to blogging, I conveniently look back not only on my dog’s life but another year of living, and I’m very thankful for it all.

This past year I lost bets with myself. Starting in ’07 (the year this picture of Brindy was taken), I’d said I would do certain things with writing and life. You know, goal type stuff. But I knew and was reminded anew that reality is as reality does. And in the losses and failures arrive gains sometimes most amazing. Gifts.

Last Monday, Mom went with me and Brindy to the vet’s office. The two of us talked while waiting in the exam room for the first shot to take affect, the anesthesia that lets the animal drift into sleep. I stroked Brindy’s fur and felt her trembles lessen, her muscles finally relax. She’d fought for so long. I called her little iron dog, because she’d survived things in younger years like slug-bait poisoning. And she’d been my running buddy. Always ready to accompany, to protect.

The vet returned to give Brindy her second injection, the one that would end her suffering. But my dog was already gone.

I didn’t cry. I’d done that. Likely I will again. I was grateful for her easy passing, and so was Mom. We hugged each other. We hugged the vet.

Eighteen years ago I wasn’t expecting to raise a small canine. For me, one would have to be Beagle size or larger; I was done with little dogs. But my grandma, Edna, had been given a teeny puppy, and she recognized the first day that she couldn’t keep her. As Grandma Edna’s caregiver, I agreed. At first sight my little children loved the doggy. And I admit I was smitten fast. We were too much for Tim, he gave in quickly to our pleas, our promises.

Tim, though not a dog person, was kind to Brindy. She became his companion at the woodpile. I caught glimpses of them playing, chasing one another back and forth over the grass in late spring. Tim would grin as Brindy raced, a dark streak on the lawn. She flipped her curled tail, her tongue lolled; she was gaining.

Morning brought the swift breaths of exercise, then a daughter’s cheerful hug and bright eyes. She arrived just as a husband finished step-ladder moves and motions, hanging bulbs of color – red and green and white and blue – the house in its dress for later, the work done before clouds opened wide.

Under steady downpours a drive – to grandmother’s house without horses or sleighs. In the door to aromas expected, yet as always welcome: the bird, the stuffing, rolls, beans, potatoes. Full plates, the tapping of sterling on china.

New friends met familiar family, and in the glow of growing fullness, stories began to flow.

This is the best part: a tale of horses galloping, another with trout, the time I remember first discovering I could upset Dad – when I was four and released all the minnows he’d bought for bait into the shimmering stream.

This is new: the lines on faces, the heads of hair nearly white, the deep, matured voices of grown children. But the laughter rings, a familiar song.

Dishes and utensils clattered in the sink. Down were taken the tables. Tired smiles and stares and it was time to drive home and see them off and wish them well. I wish to gather the moments like fallen leaves.

Press them close in a book of days, with chapters the night hours, glowing like headlights on the way through the pouring rain.

Last week, a bit under the weather, I decided on a change for the blog and web site. This new theme’s called SubtleFlux. The banner picture made me think of Tolkien – at first I guessed it might be a painting. But it’s from a photo, and you can see the whole thing here. The lovely body of water exists in Australia, so not too terribly far from New Zealand, where LOTR was filmed.

My favorite part of this new design for my little web house is its breadth. I can throw my text wide, toss in my own enigmatic or goofy pictures, and add movies or whatever else comes along next in this sphere that’s always morphing and growing faster than my hardware can keep up with. So, hmm, I’d like to try a few now. Do you mind terribly if a spider shows up a little later?

Cecily, from that land of lovely lakes down under, blogged this week about (large) spiders wandering into her home. Our biggest beauty hung around outdoors until just a few chilly days ago, trapping her flies and only startling me the day I did windows. I like spiders… when they keep to their own digs. But feel free to leave before scrolling down the page much further into eight-legged territory.

Before the latest storm took off final leaves, we enjoyed this rainbow view one afternoon. Our front maple’s friendly branches have now returned to greet me with their familiar geometry.

Then, inside the home, we watch our faltering doggy, Brindy, as she winds down, sleeping most of her days away. Our larger-than-Brindy cat, Westley, seems to sense a need for closeness to his buddy. I’ve never before seen him sleep next to the waste basket, but I consider him keeping a vigil of sorts.

And here is our promised spider lady.

Tomorrow, the American holiday for thanks will give us warmth and full tummies. We’ll think of friends, family, and critters we’ve loved, now gone. I’ll be grateful for my mom and for health and for treasures that don’t need to be stored digitally. They’re tucked away securely in my heart.

Last year, the economy motivated his trick:

His boss didn’t even recognize him.

This time, a loan from a friend, inspired use of his brush cutter, and kudos to a Buffy episode made him trickier than ever:

He scared off a delivery guy.

First prize, two years running. And I get to share in the treats.