ITCHY MATTER

Friend or Enemy?
A spider bit me on my butt while I was sitting on the throne. Suddenly I feel this lump rising, itchy like crazy. Now I am tolerant of spiders. Say 'hi' to them when they crawl by. Let them be. But when I rose from the toilet and saw this green culprit, I had murderous intentions. One swipe would have landed him (her? Naw I like to think it was male interest) in the toilet bowl swirled away with all that liquid. Would serve him right. But, although I am not Buddhist, I still think a life is a life. I couldn't bite him back on his butt, to teach him a lesson. But I didn't see him as a welcome guest in my house anymore either. I would never put a bug out in winter to freeze to death. Winter would have been a bigger dilemma. But hey, the snow bells and the crocuses are celebrating spring. Yesterday I enjoyed lunch and supper outdoors with friends at my picnic table. Under the umbrella for a bit of protection from that glorious sun. (This umbrella defuses light rather than blocking out the sun.) I brought a few plants out from inside, and a small pot with children-of-the-sun daffodils. I entertained some friends with lunch and with supper. What a day it was! But back to the spider. I picked him up, gave him a scolding, brought him outside, and told him to stay out and not come back with a whole spider family. Well, doesn't quite go with spiders that way, does it. Maybe there is a nest full of eggs somewhere in my house. I think I better check the toilet before I sit down, next time.

Wild Thing

A STORY OF SPRING

From under the piles of snow, even before it was all melted away, appeared those sweet, brave snow bells, in full bloom. Amazingly white, whiter than snow, reaching up to the sky. A patch of little beauties, in a mantle of healthy green, slender leaves. Around them still messy garden residue from last year, brownish, but with signs of green sprouts coming up, promising that crocuses, daffodown dillies, and tulips are not that far behind.
I had been afraid that that particular spring pleasure had been taken away from me. Late last spring, without my consent, while I was away, my flowerbeds had been dug up and over planted with things busy body neighbours thought would be more aesthetic to look at. But, o joy, the bulbs survived. Wild Thing happy now. In the wake of of robins and red winged blackbirds, my snow bells appeared again. I apologized to them for not having greater trust in their survival skills. They outsmarted human intervention.

Tid Bits

Man, I have been off line for weeks. Nothing changed in the blogger area. Dovetalers and Mental Blog supporters are not exactly suffering from blogger mania, are they?

Tell you about my cat Yona. I discovered him to be my protector watch cat. He sat on the kitchen window sill, looking out. Being not quite there, I heard this deep, and threatening growl. I looked up. It came from Yona. I look out, a stanger was coming up the driveway. Wow, my cat was alerting me to danger!. It was only a postman, but not our regular one. Yeah Yona!!!

Simon who was outside, knocked on the door to come in. I let him in. Thought he'd stay. But he ran into the living room, picked up his rawhide bone, and wished to be let out again, to lay on the snow and chew.

My friend told me about a family in her church. the grandmother had died. They told the children that she had gone to heaven. Later they visited the funeral home, and viewed the body in the coffin. The youngest child, piped up, "Mommy, are we in heaven?"

Star Dust

Our body is a composition of atoms that were once cooked in the Big Bang and the furnace of our sun. We are literally star dust.

Our sun threw out materials of superheated gases that revolved around our star. Eventually these gases cooled to form a mass. After billions of years rain filled some crevice in a rock. The stagnant pool of chemical soup was then supercharged by lightening. From that rare combination of a spark of charged chemicals life began.

Just the right combination of chemicals held that charge allowing it to begin the first steps in writing the history of life in DNA code. A code that has evolved into three billion characters carrying with the message of a universal will to be.

bobby bacon

Am I Certain?

Every measurement or observation carries with it uncertainty. If we require unequivocal certainty to make a decision about anything, we simply wouldn’t make any decisions.

Am I certain about that? Smiles, of course not.

Uncertainty is okay though. We can be certain about uncertainty.

In the late twenties and thirties much of the development in physics was lead and influenced by German institutions. It was an uncertain period of time where colleagues are friends one day and then sworn enemy the next day.

"The more precisely the POSITION is determined, the less precisely the MOMENTUM is known" WERNER HEISENBERG (1901 - 1976).

And no one will ever be certain of Heisenberg’s motives or intentions during the war. Perhaps his motivation was merely to survive.

In more recent times Colin Powell, I believe had good intentions. Mr Powell was unique in the sense that there was a high degree of confidence worldwide in his character as a man who spoke the truth compared to any other member of the Bush administration. He was given evidence of Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction. Likely a trusting man that couldn’t imagine that evidence was being manufactured for him to present to the UN. He was certain he was presenting credible information.

Perhaps the next US administration could be kinder if they are less certain and self-righteous. A scientist, a theologian, a politician or a reporter would have a greater degree of credibility if they expressed more doubts.

We don’t require certainty to make a decision. In that regards we would look at potential outcomes of decisions in terms of prediction and probabilities. Our concerns about the probabilities should contemplate whether an action would cause more harm than good.

Any planned action that may cause harm to people or to the planet lacks credibility.

MEMORIES OF MOMMY

There are sometimes these days. Today is such a day for me. I want my “MOMMY!”

She's in the kitchen. She seems to spend a lot of time there. I shuffle up and lean into her, while she's stirring something in a pot on the stove. She looks down. A smile on her face. She lifts my chin , strokes my hair, and asks, “What's the matter, don't you feel so good?” I shake my head. She feels my forehead. Wipes a tear from my cheek. “You must be tired. Maybe something is coming on. Come.”
She draws up a reclining chair from the other room, puts in a blanky, and settles me down. I lean comfortably into the cushions while Mommy starts to boil some water and fuzzes about. While she is cooking up things, she tells me little stories, and sings me songs. Songs are stories too.

She sings about the little cradle softly rocking in a tree. It has flower curtains. Two tiny birds built it together with love and expectations. And look how intricate and delicate. In it are two little eggs. Two baby birds are born. Mommy Jay sings a song in purest ecstacy, a song so very, very sweet . And the tiny cradle gently sways like a ship on the rolling sea.

She sings about a green valley full of little flowers gently swaying in the wind, to the sound of a murmuring waterfall. The water softly sprays every little flower, even the very smallest one.

She sings about a poor, little robin red breast in the snow coming from a forest, so hungry, knocking on a window of a house, and a little girl opens and feeds the little one sugar and bread crumbs It then flies back to the forest, but comes back every day.

Mommy comes to my chair and sits down on the arm. She puts a tray in my lap with a soft boiled egg in an egg cup, the one that is decorated with a yellow chicky, and a bowl with hot cream of wheat porridge with lots of sugar. Mmmmmmmm!!!

While this winter is dragging its feet, sending more frost, more snow, making walking into tricky exercises, me feeling tired, sluggish, stick in the muddish, wishing for sunny days when I can run out in shorts and a t-shirt, bare feet in flip-flops, hop on my bike...

This particular stubborn winter day, waiting for spring... not knowing what to wear, tired of all those winter outfits, not knowing what to eat, tired of winter dishes...tired anyway...

Is it a wonder that I want my “MOMMY?”


I send my writers friends this lamentation. I cannot read or answer comments. See previous posts for reason.