Saturday, February 02, 2019

On first feeling knee pain, I figured that whatever might be wrong would self-heal. After two months of pain and with difficulty walking, I sought medical help. An orthopedic specialist diagnosed my knee as having a “meniscus tear”–a condition fixable by orthoscopic surgery, during a half-hour in which I’d be an outpatient, and afterward with a relatively brief healing period. This initial diagnosis needed confirmation by an MRI.

A few days later in Charles Hospital, I donned a hospital gown and padded from a dressing area to another room, chilly and with a giant machine hovering. The on-duty techs positioned me onto a guerney-like sliding bed and positioned my leg and knee for the imaging. They said, “For 27 minutes you’ll be inside a machine-tunnel and must remain still as possible.” They provided earplugs and an emergency button and promised that my head would be outside the tube. The deal was that my painful knee had to be at tunnel-center, and oh well, but too bad, I’m too short for my knee to be in the center and my entire head outside. So, I got slid-in up to my nose. It could have been worse.

I hoped to put myself into a zen mode before the machine noises began, but my earplugs slipped out exactly when early loud thumpings began. I reset the plugs which again slid, but oh well, I could squeeze the alarm device if racket became too terrible. Seconds ticked by and noises became louder, more vigorous. I wondered how to tolerate the 27 next clausterphobic minutes. Said to myself, “Keep trying to zen, zen, zen, and then, ZZZ.”

Suddenly, I remembered many years ago having worked with a fellow who described his experience of being forced to deal with a dreadful toothache while trapped on a long air flight. He said that his only recourse was to try “getting into the pain”. This he managed to do and it helped. Recalling his story, I decided to try “getting into the noise” of my machine. To start, I listened to identify The Big Punches–booms, slashes, poundings–and their Interspersed Patterns–stretches of rhythmic punches. Focusing on these, I imagined myself listening to a piece by Phillip Glass. (Had his inspirations arisen from experiences like this!) Soon, as a matter of fact, I began to compose my very own, “Rhythmic Ode For Jazz Percussion.

Friends, I got into the noise! Almost felt a little sad when a voice interrupted my musings, “It’s over.” The techs slid me out and sent me off to the dressing room. For a few moments, I simply sat in there feeling awed, and yet again, reflecting and marveling at the human brain’s efficiency, its ability to adjust to circumstances.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day, and go with the flow. Diana

Friday, February 01, 2019

Yesterday, during my part-time job in Costco as a sample-server, I slogged through the boring process of handing out chips and salsa. On that slow day, while we pushed snacks for next Sunday’s Super Bowl, the outside temperature hovered around 70-degrees and fewer folks shopped. I yearned to go play with my horses.

Today’s photo is an old favorite from a sneak-click of my cell phone. Adorableness worth capturing! Occasionally, I’m in a lucky position and not caught using my cell phone, which strictly is disallowed for working servers. To us often-bored demo folks, happy kids like this little girl are sparks of delight.

During my years on and off of serving samples, I’ve learned to combat dull shifts by finding ways to keep my brain busy. My usual ways aren’t as risky as flashing a cell phone, but one musn’t be caught doing something beside pushing samples. Yesterday, a fairly new server paused at my table and sighed over the boredom of serving a less popular food item.

I shared some of my tricks and suggested planning for dull moments by carrrying a pencil. To move time along, rip off a bit of server instruction paper and keep it to the side. In quiet moments, create a shopping list, scribble a poem, outline a story or book idea, or jot random notes. While filling cups with samples and hawking a product, one can consider the scribbles and if they amount to anything slightly worthwhile.

One day, long ago, my coolest diversion occurred accidentally. Upon spotting a tiny ball bearing on the floor, I pocketed the shiny object. Soon, unnoticeable to casual observers, I arranged pieces of paper on my serving tray into a faux bowling alley. Shooting that little b-b was fun even if my slightly-warped tray dictated all its action.

This may speak to dull days and secret diversions but isn’t much different from my former working life in a large corporation. Even then, on busy days while burdened with tasks that challenged and preoccupied, I created temporary diversions to refocus and ease my brain.

As kids play, like little girls in princess costumes and little boys in Spiderman outfits, so do adults, sometimes openly, like next Sunday when football fans will cheer and dance while sporting a favorite team’s jersey. Other times, grownups secretely play, by creating diversions from the lackluster to energize their bains.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day…and play! Diana

Thursday, January 31, 2019

A few weeks ago I said farewell to my sweet black kitty. She was 15 years old, we should have had more time together. She had been suffering with lymphoma and was nearly weightless, skinny as a rail and unlikely to hold on much longer. During the thin and thick of our relationship, our lives changed significantly. To me, goodby was as if pieces of my past were fading.

Velvet was a tiny kitten in 2003, a year when I was active with a Southern California organization that rescued and rehabilitated stray cats. Velvet wasn’t a rescue of mine, but when her “then-person” adopted a second kitty, it was from me. Velvet was petite and slender, with striking green eyes that were an exception to her otherwise solid black. Her person had an eye for design and adopted a nearly all-black rescue. This one, healing from an injury, needed more help from me. That’s how her adopter and I became friends and when I first met Velvet.

A couple of years later, I moved to Central Oregon, and eventually, Velvet’s mom decided to do the same. She purchased a home in an adjoining neighborhood, brought her cats, and adopted a couple of dogs. Before long, she and I, busy with our own interests and activities began to drift in different directions. Gradually, in some years that passed we barely were in touch.

Several years ago, my friend called to explain that she was in the process of moving away and asked if I could keep ten-year-old Velvet for a couple of months until she could return for her cat. Long story short, she neither returned nor left a trace as to her whereabouts.

Velvet had been an inside-only cat (the best way to ensure a feline’s welfare). Now, for months, she watched my inside-outside cat, Maxwell, enter and exit. Velvet slowly began spending more time near a slider that opens to an outside small deck. One day, when I opened that door Velvet slipped outside. She tiptoed around and stretched before sinking to her belly, to soak and doze in warm sunshine.

Gradually, I let her outside more. She rarely left the safety of the small deck, and if she did, stayed nearby and returned at my call. I carefully watched her, for unlike Maxwell, she was new to predatory birds, territorial cats, and in general, things that go bump in the night.

While outside, she peered steadily into places critters might crawl, or she simply slept in the sun. While inside, she sat on my lap, padded after me, slept on my bed. Velvet was a reminder of my cat rescue days and her first mom. She kept real those early days in Bend and helping a friend find a house and pets. Almost inconceivably, I lost track of that friend, and oddly, a little proof of that history lived with me.

For the last third of her life Velvet shared my home. My tears of goodbye recalled poignantly the years of our meandering relationship, and also, my double loss.

Dear Readers, enjoy today, with hugs for pets and friends. Diana

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

A friend living in brrr-Minnesota says the local wind chill is -50 deg. F. Her description brings the Midwest’s deep freeze closer and makes it more personal. That astonishing and brutal weather essentially snapped loose from its usual more northern position, and dropped onto our own middle and eastern parts. Aside from intense cold’s negative effects on residents’ daily lives, it hinders air travel, adds evidence of global warming.

My morning photo header is a 2016 selfie showing Rosie and me smack in the middle of Central Oregon’s worst, snowiest winter since the early 1990s. For years, this area’s old-timers warned me (a newbie) of possible periodic really heavy snows. They recalled daily snows unending and deep and wind chills registering way below zero. During my first 10 years in this area, annual snows weren’t overwhelming.

Suddenly, in 2016, snows that began falling didn’t quit for two months. Almost daily, new snow covered still-standing snow and filled the pathways we’d created. The snow depth averaged 3-4 feet, forcing us to plow, slip around, and somehow wade through its knee-high resistance. That season’s weather turned recent arrivals into old-timers. Now, we tell winter stories of our own.

That season challenged relentlessly. Twice daily, to feed large animals I waded downhill, and later had to trudge uphill. I strapped on snowshoes but found that traveling on them requires an experienced user. I tried to purchase a badly-needed snow blower, but every provider had sold out and couldn’t locate more. I attempted to shovel snow, but found its lovely fluffiness too heavy for a softie. Snow in gutters became heavy ice breaking off and leaving a gutter portion dangling outside a window. Fixers were too busy to help. When a portion of electricity failed, professional help wasn’t available. When the sink plumbing failed, I watched YouTube videos and tackled the problem myself.

Now, as an old-timer, I’m at the ready for bad winters. When the next one hits, my snow-blowers are on stand by, trickle chargers will maintain vehicle batteries, the heat pump is new, and my pellet stove is supported by stockpiled wood pellets. Heavy snows taught me lots of things. For example, I know that a broken gutter can hang until help’s available. I’ve taken pains to learn as much as possible about electricity and plumbing.

We define ourselves by how we cope. Regardless of whether we live in chosen or accidental locations, no matter the local weather conditions, individuals with the flexibility to adjust and adapt may remain undefeated.

Dear Readers, have a lovely day, and hopefully, warm weather. Diana

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

I’ve had many adventures while pedaling my English vintage Raleigh Robin Hood Bicycle, circa 1963. It’s carried me up hills and down dales in both Kansas Cities. Those days, I was young, strong, adventurous, and couldn’t afford gasoline for my aging automobile. The bike has remained with me, and occasionally, as a blast from the past I wheel it out. I oil handlebars and wheels, practice thumb-clicking its Sturmy 3-speed Gearbox, and let it roll me down the driveway. I start pedaling, find my balance, and then, wobble up and down a flat street and remember some awful old hills.

Enough biking history, and instead, I’m recalling that yesterday I climbed the stairs leading to my loft and looked around, in dismay but without much surprise, at the dust-covered disarray of disuse and neglect. The mess was anticipated, because one of my knees for months had been painful, and enough to prevent my climbing these stairs. Anyway it’s a nearly-decent excuse for the messy loft.

My knee had failed suddenly, paining me for a long time and hurting so that I barely could tolerate standing and working at my part-time job. I wondered if next summer I’d be capable of climbing into a cart and driving my horse. Maybe I’d need knee replacement surgery with a long healing period, while meanwhile, my animals large and small would require care and feeding. I forgot quickly those danged stairs and the unkempt loft.

Eventually, my knee problem was diagnosed as a torn meniscus, fixable with brief arthroscopic surgery, and me as an outpatient! Knowing this made my knee seem less painful and walking became easier. Okay, let’s not reflect on possible whys, and instead, skip to yesterday’s messy loft atop the stairs. I carried dust cloths and garbage bags, determined to tackle the cleaning.

Eventually, I stood before a wall of dusty shelves stuffed with mostly forgotten books that I’ve dragged from one home to another. While pulling and dusting, I discovered among my beloved classics many surprising titles. For example, when and why did I purchase books on how to raise hermit crabs and bearded lizards, and others teaching how to draw and animate cartoon figures, and big, boring technical onslaughts about repairing computers? The titles suggested dim pieces of a past that I wished to recall, to know when and why I adopted such relatively obscure interests. Yesterday, a piece de resistance was my inability to toss even one not-necessary book. I dusted, examined, and forgave myself for not having pursued some still-intreguing topics.

In a few months, let’s say post-surgery and with a healed knee, I’ll roll out the Raleigh, oil joints, practice with gears, and cruise down the driveway. I’ll pedal toward the loop of streets that circle my neighborhood. I’ll ride the whole way, and with early biking adventures as my baseline, I’ll try to recover some of the forgotten life experiences that drew me to various interests.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day, with good memories. Diana.

This little Ring-Necked Dove doesn’t fear me enough. At my approach, its many buddies make warning sounds and fly up to dense branches. This bird maintains a reasonable distance, more or less standing its ground and determined to continue feeding with my hens. I admire its tenacity, worry about its bravery, and hope for its continuing safety.

Several years ago and first-noticing Ring-Necked Doves on my property, I took a photo of one perched atop a junipher and posted it on Facebook. It earned a few negative comments. Generally, “This bird is non-native, a nuisance, a highly-disliked intruder.”

That attitude set me back and I paused to study the birds. As their numbers grew, they collected in a big tree overlooking my hens’ area where I toss to the chickens multi-grains. Upon my departures, the pigeons fly down and eat with the hens. I don’t mind, for I’ve only a few chickens and lots of grain scratch. I’ve learned to enjoy the doves, and, admire them, for they’re absolutely beautiful flyers, fast and graceful. They watch the goings-on, without bothering me, forage with my chickens, drink from my horses’ watering trough, and fly from tree to tree.

My interest in doves really accelerated after I adopted Gilbert, a racing pigeon, rescued by my friends Dave and Julie Gilbert. Gilbert is gorgeous–big-chested and built-to-fly (a conditioned racing pigeon flies at an average speed of 60 mph for many miles). While Gilbert raced from Washington State to home in California, something made the bird land, find its way into the Gilberts’ barn, and stay–unafraid of Dave who examined its leg tags, identified its purpose, and learned who owned it. That owner didn’t want a failed racer and suggested that Dave find it a new home. So, Gilbert came to live with me, and my Cockatoo, Peaches.

Gilbert is gentle and can be handled, but unlike Peaches isn’t a “people bird”. Gilbert is happiest mostly unhandled, that’s probably how racing pigeons are raised. Today’s racers have evolved from Homing Pigeons, with one purpose: flying competitively against other birds from a distant location and being first to reach home. Winners are the valued birds.

Outside, above my place, “my wild pigeons” fly beautifully, as doves should. (BTW, pigeon and dove refer to one bird, as pigeon is the French word for dove.) My Ringnecks are closely connected in flocks. They perch in a home tree, watch closely those on the ground, and signal at a sign of danger.

This summer, I hope to build a small outside aviary, providing Gilbert with more room to move around, spread and exercise flight wings, but allowing for a capture when it’s appropriate for this sweet bird to be inside.

Dear Readers, Have a great day, look for and enjoy the wild doves! Diana

 

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Imagine my surprise on finding that my small pocket camera had captured several mountains visible from my barn. I shot them casually on a whim and anticipated a throwaway. I’ve tried often to capture this range with a big powerful camera, but always have manipulated lenses and brought images closer, capturing fewer peaks with single shots. And now, this big, good-enough image from a cheap camera!

These mountains, visible from my deck, represent the South Cascades and show a tiny bit of Mt. Bachelor, followed by Broken Top (my favorite), and then, the South, Middle, and North Sisters. I didn’t bother to snap more peaks, visible stretching north, that include Black Butte, Mt. Washington, Mt. Hood, and on a few super-clear days a smidgit of Mt. Hood.

Befoere moving to Central Oregon, I lived in big cities and mostly knew flat country. I was neither outdoorsy nor interested in mountains, but seeking a home less expensive than my big city offered. Accidentally winding up with an easy view of the entire Cascades was of little interest for me.

Eventually, I began understanding that the Cascades are a many faceted bonus. They’re beautiful from a distance, lovely to drive through, and fun to explore on horseback. They’re an ongoing source of interest as a presence that renders, between its west and east sides, distinctly different patterns of weather, flora, and fauna. Plus and noteably, not all its volcanos are extinct.

My affection increased during attempts to photograph the Cascades. These mountains seem mysterious (more or less) depending on the weather, cloudiness, camera location, and a photographer’s mood. Simply put, the range captured my attention from looking closely, learning to appreciate its multi-faceted beauty and potential.

And finally, I’ve captured a sizable portion of the range with a pocket camera!

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day, Diana.

Saturday, January 26, 2019

It’s a string of days to dream about, warmer and increasingly so on the heels of a snowstorm. My horses finally are finding the grasses thawed and pleasing. They’re feeling good, and one hangs around a bit playing with me. She knows I haven’t any treats for it’s morning time and they’ve just been turned out to pasture. She well knows, along with the others, that in late afternoons they may seriously expect treats, for that’s when I come to collect them. From way back in their pasture all spot me approaching and within moments start thundering across the field toward the gate. They’ll be there to meet me with noses hanging over, and I’d better provide.

My pockets are stuffed with the small Cutie Oranges that they love, rine and all. Each horse while being haltered chews, drools, and smells like a citrus garden. My donkey, Pimmy, gets a Cutie. She’ll loosely follow the horses and keep her nose stretched to my pockets. I push her away for these treats are expensive and clumsy-to-carry. Each animal gets only so many–one now while I’m haltering and another when we’re home and I’m removing their halters. These animals aren’t fooled, they know I carry extra, but I must save for just-in-case. There’s no telling when managing a horse might demand an offer of something bright and tasty.

Horses quickly grasp patterns and they’re most comfortable when knowing what to expect. People, too, and for one, me. I’ve learned that it pays to be stingy with horse treats unless I don’t mind being mobbed–risky business with animals that for all their gentleness are too big to crowd a human. Sometimes they argue among themselves who’ll get what; they can keep their arguing away from me, thank you.

It’s very a special feeling as one of my horses takes her treat from my palm and fingers. Her expressive muzzle is soft, friendly, inquisitive, and she, too, savors these moments. It’s fun, seeing her whiskers move, listening to her chewing, and sensing her delight, in our shared moments of pause and pleasure.

Dear Readers, have a great day! Diana

Friday, January 25, 2019

I promised, before writing, to create a detailed outline of my intended blog. A logical roadmap makes writing easier than my usual method of winging into the clouds. Actually, today I awoke with an outline in my head–one I liked–about cats. I scrambled to scribble the ideas but couldn’t find a pencil. My sleepy mind erased all but the word, “cats”. So, here’s winging it, again.

I’m having a personal conflict over buying from Amazon where I’m tempted to seek items not stocked by the local Costco or Home Depot. I’m low on trash compactor bags, and need a trash container to replace the one now bent and unusable that hauls hay waste from my rascal trio of goats.

Amazon carries the items, without shipping charges, and for years I’ve ordered online whatever–from books to watch repair tools, and beyond. Gradually, I’m awakening to the size, affluence, and power of Amazon, and other biggies like Apple, Facebook, and Google. They collect data specific to populations and individuals, and know from our online purchases and searches what we like and need. Billionaires own the data and may use it to expand their businesses, to influence and even gain control of significant portions of a larger economy.

A decision to stop buying online is stressful. Online has made finding products easy while offering significant freedom from shopping in stores. Online makes it possible to avoid crowds, not wander aisles, and no waiting for slow checkouts.

I fear that collected data would let large wealthy entities pick and choose among people, and perhaps offer specifically to the youngest and healthiest less-expensive and better products that all humans need. It would be awful if there were very limited opportunities for affordable health care, access to top providers, availability of lower interest loans, and whatever else that people of all ages and physical conditions need.

I’ll quit shopping online and consider reducing any data I may generate. Maybe it’s a futile exercise for one who posts on Facebook and blogs online. Anyway, this is worth trying as my little part, with hopes that we all may continue to share fairly in opportunities to maintain optimal health and safety.

Dear Readers, have a great day! Diana

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Yesterday, I caught myself trying to express ideas that seemed too abstract. Maybe readers would have been okay with them, but I paused to rethink the ingredients of a good blog. Like all writing, blogs need words that flow smoothly and lead to clear ideas. After thinking this over, I’ve decided to change my usual composing process. Previously, after selecting interesting photographs, I’ve tried writing to them. Today, I’ll write first and then look for a complementary photo.

My difficulties in first chosing photographs and then writing to them refreshes how greatly images stimulate the brain by suggesting multiple meanings. Even my own captures, clumsy and off-the-cuff, suggest a multitude of ideas. Photography’s immense capacity to produce images with streams of possible meanings has lifted fine camerawork to serious art.

I don’t organize ideas before starting to write but simply put fingers to keys and hope for the best. Yesterday, my resistance to planning landed me, with heartburn and mired to my knees, in abstractions. Maybe my blogs will improve by first writing and then integrating some kind of picture. Maybe they’ll also need outlines.

For today’s blog, what photo might I choose? One from my millions of horses? Can I make a case for a meaningful relationship between writing and riding? Can we make-do and hang-in today? Oh my, now, what’s the right picture?

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day and rethink your photographs, Diana.