August 8: Quiet Heart

No words tonight. But this song may speak to you.

Jose Gonzalez - Heartbeats

August 7: Dog Days

After an incredible dry spell, my garden is singing in the rain. Glorious to witness the Earth greening up again after becoming scorched.

Florence + the Machine - Dog Days Are Over

August 5: Tori

I adore Tori Amos. Adore adore adore her.

Her lyrics resound with me. If I had an internal tuning fork, she strikes it at perfect pitch. She makes me feel. She has written so many songs that make me wish I'd written them. She plays the piano like it's an extension of herself. She inspires. She is unabashedly herself and it's glorious.

Tonight I was singing this one in the kitchen. At top volume. Aria came in and danced around me in a tribal pattern while banging on an empty cake pan. It was one of those non-traditional moments that have become our tradition. 

Tori Amos - Take to the Sky

August 4: Re-Framing

I have been working from home for several weeks. My normal sitter has been on vacation. I have loved being home. It's one of my very favorite career perks.

Tomorrow I head back to my company's building for the first time in ages. I call work "the box." I don't care for boxes in general. I prefer the outdoors. Less structure. Down with rules. That kind of thing. 

My attitude is not the best over heading back to a confined space where I need to behave for long stretches of time.

Aria asked me if I had to go to the "box office" tomorrow.

Game changer.

I'm going to dress to the 9s. Wear fantastic heels. Pretend I'm attending a Broadway show. Perhaps one with Hugh Jackman in it. I'm going to sip coffee and pretend it's champagne.

Mama's heading to the box office.

I love how turning a phrase on its side can change an attitude.

Prince - U Got The Look

August 3: Lake Jefferson on Tap

Lately, my drinking water from the tap has tasted like a lake. I have two beverages of choice in life: coffee and water. Both require water which I generally get from my tap. It’s been a challenge to hydrate myself lately. I want to avoid the water, both for the taste and the memories it brings unbidden.

Lake water will always bring me back to southern Minnesota – Lake Jefferson. Every summer when I was young, my step-father’s family would rent rustic cabins on the lake. Oliver (my step-father), had vacationed there with his family since he was a kid. It was our only true vacation in youth. I did not appreciate it at the time.

The cabins were without air conditioning or restrooms. There were toilets in a separate outbuilding and two standalone shower stalls. The water smelled like it came directly from the lake. You had to wear flip flops even in the shower. It was guaranteed that a bevy of mosquitos and spiders would join you in both the bathroom and shower. I was always afraid to shampoo my hair – I wanted to keep my eyes open at all times. I’d shake out my towel before drying off. Inevitably something would crawl into it while I showered.

The lake was filled with bullheads and sunfish. There were a few fishing boats. We would go out at least once a day to catch fish. The rest of the time we spent trying to balance while standing on inner tubes on the lake, fishing from the dock, and reading books. As I got older, my older cousins and I would share coming of age tales.

Every night, one of the families was in charge of cooking the meal for everyone. We’d have at least one big fish fry during the stay. We’d all do various activities throughout the day, but gather together at dinner to share stories and big fish tales.

We’d go with Oliver’s parents, his sister and brother (and their spouses / children). As I type this, I feel like it should have been fun for me. We were incredibly poor when I was young, so having a vacation of any kind should have been a treat. There were other kids to play with. There was a lake to frolic in. I enjoyed fishing. I have always loved a boat ride. Bird watching. Picking wild flowers.

There were grandparents there – and family of any sort was rare after my parent’s divorced. We moved across the state and left my dad, all remaining grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, et al, behind. I became an island at 6.

Oliver’s parents were always kind to me. They inherited me when I was just a little first grader and we moved from McGregor to Cedar Falls. We stayed in a tiny home next to theirs while my step-father finished Methodist seminary. We were there six months before being assigned churches in Pomeroy. They had ice cream treats in their freezer for us, made us fritters (a fried type of pancake) with drizzles of brown sugar and syrup on top, and always had a hug. Grandpa wore those old school striped overalls every single day. Grandma always had a warm smile. They were good to me. Very good.

I guess sometimes even a parent can stand in the shadow of their child’s darkness. I did not have a good relationship with my step-father. I suspect the Lake Jefferson trips were so awful emotionally because it meant investing in Oliver’s family (and my heart never could open to them). It would have been an act of trust. Anything associated with Oliver was not allotted trust. Even tiny hearts can create constructs to protect themselves from pain.

Today, I’m going out to buy gallons of water to tide me over until our water treatment plant can correct whatever issue is occurring. I miss drinking water and coffee without feeling haunted by such sad memories. 

Fleetwood Mac - Never Going Back Again

August 2: Balloons

Aria and I attended the National Balloon Classic in Indianola last night. It is a visual feast.

The event starts with three large balloons offering rides. You sit in lawn chairs, watching the balloons inflating, the passengers board baskets larger than you imagined were possible, and the balloons drift away with the wind. A local band plays blues rock. The kids jump on bouncies. There is food on sticks. You are experiencing Americana.

Then over the swell of the hill comes balloon after balloon. Individually owned balloons (some sponsored by businesses) with the small baskets you expect. The sky becomes unbearably, romantically painted in floating balloons. You regret not bringing a camera. You curse your iPhone for not having a better zoom. You snap photo after photo trying to capture a feeling that doesn't translate to a phone app.

Oooohhhhhhs, aaaaahhhhhs. Craned necks. Hands covering eyes to block out the sun. Joy.

The balloons begin descending as the sun joins them.

One final balloon straggles through. The stark beauty of one balloon is not lost on you. The crowd cheers! The pilot waves. 

Silence. A time to refresh drinks and test out another item served on a stick. A child goes missing. Is found two picnic blankets over playing with another child her age.

The next round of entertainment begins. A special balloon, Peg Leg Pete, is inflated. The kids rush to meet Pete.

After an hour or so, the sun has set. It's time for night glow. 

It's like Tangled, that moment in the boat with the lanterns lilting up. Only the balloons don't lift off. I'll be honest. I was disappointed. The balloons were lovely but I imagined floating lanterns. These lanterns were grounded.

Aria and I attended the balloon classic in 2007. She was only 3. My ex-husband had purchased a sunrise balloon ride for the three of us for my birthday. I had just moved to Des Moines. We were mid-divorce. It was an odd present. It felt romantic? But combined with a three-year old in tow? And me SO not a morning person? And him divorcing me and myself grateful for that? A mixed message gift.

We had to arrive at the field by 5:30 a.m. It's over 45 minutes from my home to the field. I brought Aria in her pajamas. We watched the balloons inflating along with the 10 other passengers taking the flight. I lamented not having a coffee.

We took off about 6:30. Balloon rides are surprisingly uneventful. The lift-off is a little bumpy. The floating is simply that - floating. The basket was large enough that it just glides. You look out at the land. You fly an hour or three, depending on your pilot's whims and where you intend to land. Little bump on landing. Hope the cow in the field where you landed in friendly. A road crew in a van comes to get you and bring you back to your car.

For a 30-something, this is beauty (if too early). For a three year-old? Not so much. No toys. Needing to be held the entire time despite being in the 150th percentile in height and weight. Trying to keep her quiet so that the other 10 passengers paying great money didn't need to be bothered. Snide sideways looks whenever she squawks. The fire thingy that makes the balloon lift? Seriously hot and also dangerous for little ones (and mamas with long hair). Not to mention, when you are experiencing something you want to share, you know how you look at the person you are with? You connect? Yeah. I wasn't going to do that with my ex. 

It was a stressful, stressful, ride.

There are many moments and experiences that I have had in life that I wish I could had a do-over. This would be one of them. I would love to experience the beauty of a balloon ride without all the accompanying feelings mine had.

Some day. Maybe. It's not high on my list. 

In the meantime, watching the balloons from the comfort of a lawn chair was a perfect way to spend a Friday evening. And Aria, now age 10, agreed.

Paul Simon - Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard

August 1: Balsamic Moon

I was re-reading my natal chart analysis today. I have had several done - the first by a friend's grandpa while I was still in high school. This most recent one was from astrocenter.com.  

Have you ever done a natal chart? If you know your time and place of birth, charting the planets and studying their effect on your personality is rather interesting. I've never seen one that was not accurate (and incredibly insightful).

This excerpt beckoned me today:
"Born in the three days prior to the New Moon's appearance, Andrea is said to be of the " Balsamic Moon " type. This soli-lunar configuration gives her a spiritualistic character closely attached to generous humanitarian ideals. She is sometimes sorely tried to limit herself to the narrow scope of individual ambition. Indeed, she aims for a humanitarian ideal which would include the outcasts and the unfortunate: she fervently hopes the meek will inherit the Earth."

I had never heard the term "balsamic moon" before. Whenever I'm termed a bleeding heart or feel the need to adopt a child (or ten) from Central America, I'm going to reference the balsamic moon. 

U2 - Wild Honey