A Moment of Reprieve How Are You Holding Up?

 

Perhaps the field by our house once looked like this--all the Camas flowers are gone now.

  

An open field exists not far from our house that somebody, I don’t know who, sneaked in when I wasn’t looking, leveled a parking place into the field, graveled it, and put boulders around the periphery so cars wouldn’t drive past the parking area.  Yesterday, my husband and I parked—not the way we did when we were dating—this was in broad daylight, sunny and warm, and we saw a walking path covered with wood chips that looped around the field where a couple of people were exercising their dogs.

It tickles me to see a large man leading a teeny tiny dog; the man saunters, the dog looks like he has a centipede under his belly, for he makes about a hundred mincing steps to the man’s one.

Such was an elderly gentleman and his dog who exited the path near our vehicle. We greeted each other, and the dogs greeted each other through the car window. His dog was the cutest little thing, an all black Yorkshire Terrier. You know how we use a baby voice when greeting a teeny dog? Anyway, the man told us that he had lived his entire life in the house that abutted this field, and that his grandfather had once owned the property, which was about 100 acres.

To the south of the field, a large residential housing area had bloomed in what was once an expanse of Camas flowers. This field would be like that,he pointed to the houses, but it was once a nomadic Native American campsite, and that saved the field.

Camas plants have large edible bulbs, which was one reason the Native Americans were drawn to this part of the Willamette Valley. The man told us that they would dig a pit, bury the bulbs, build a fire above the bulbs, and leave the buried trove for a day or so. When they dug up the bulbs, they would be a congealed mass, almost like a syrup, and sweet, a concoction that can be used to flavor food, and a substitute for honey, which is hard to find. Besides, a bulb doesn’t bite you, as bees can, and you can come back to fresh new bulbs the following year. That is, if you don’t take them all the first time.

“I bet they found artifacts here,” I said.

“Oh yes, that is why the area was saved.” His grandfather’s flower bed once held a mortar, a grinding stone, which he had found in the field. Many arrowheads were discovered in this area. "I found one myself," he said.

Yesterday offered us a brief respite from the frustrations of the world.

 

This Leads Me to Wonder, How Are Other Households Doing?

 It became clear, for the umpteenth time this morning, that teeny irritations fill the spaces between the monstrous ones. This leaves us in a constant state of anxiety.

This conclusion popped up when I tried to wad a piece of paper, for it wasn’t really paper, and no matter how much I crumpled it, it had a memory and opened back up into its full glory. I wanted to remove a lipstick from its package, and that required scissors, for it was encased in hard PET or HDPE plastic. I don’t know why, for display? Protection? For additional frustration in our daily lives? The lipstick tube had tape fastening the top to the bottom. That should have been sufficient protection, but it wouldn’t hang on a display rack or fit neatly into a packaging/mailing box.  

Here we are drowning in plastic, suspected to harm humans. (Some attack the endocrine system and thus could harm newborn infants, and our Secretary of Health and Human Services is attacking Dunkin’ Donuts for using too much sugar. (I notice two rows of Easter candy in the grocery store. Hey, we can find sugar if we want.)

I mentioned minuscule irritations, but when we put the little ones on top of the big ones, they add up to a mountain. You know the big ones I am talking about, we have a President who thinks Gavin Newsom is the President of the United States, and our man in the White House—you know the one who bashed out a side of the structure, so he can spend oodles on a ballroom. A ballroom? Oh, there is a rumor that it is a money-laundering scheme. (Remember, he is shrewd in Real Estate—escalate the value of property, get investors, do the work for cheaper than the money collected, and pocket the leftover money.) He is still our President.

 

Our White House resident lies to our faces, antagonizes our allies, insults world leaders, oh yes, and shoots people in fishing boats. (Drug smugglers? I don’t know.  So, arrest them, don’t bomb them.) He bombs a foreign country—against the law, rapes young girls—against the law—brags, manipulates, and gaslights, and he is still there. He can fart while talking to two little girls—a complete lack of decorum—and his supporters stand behind him, looking the other way. The gas and food prices are going up—he is still there. He sweeps up immigrants, sends I.C.E. into our cities, they shoot people, he defends them, and he is still there.

 

While we want to stop illicit drugs, almost every ad on TV (I never saw them until I got a new TV) is an ad for some pharmaceutical.  AI is putting out false faces of recognizable people who tell us I don’t know what, but it is becoming increasingly hard to tell truth from fiction. AND AI WANTS TO WRITE FOR US! And we didn't ask it to be in our computer and on our phones.

And we wonder why people feel crazy.

Go out, find a green field, and give yourself room to breathe.

💓💓💓💓💓💓 

Or write to me and tell me I’m all wrong.

Jo 

 

P.S. Hope for the future:  

Ah Ha, I found a photo in my camera of Camas flowers taken at my daughter's place in Creswell, Oregon. They do still exist.

 

"Wednesday" October 31, 2025--This Blog Post, So Say my Stats, Received More Views Than any Other

This post was published on October 29, 2025. The highest view count was two days later on October 31, 2025 it received 76,118 views. I had to go back and recheck for I thought I had added an extra number. No, it was 76,118. Man, I love you guys. I must not have paid attention to numbers then. I wonder what caused people to click on my blog that particular day. Was there a glitch? 

76,118 has dropped to around the 500's. I guess I'm slipping or you don't like me anymore. www.blogarama.com/ used to find readers for me, I didn't know I was on it, and now that I try to register on blogarama, and it goes blank.

All those views and no one subscribes. How odd.

Yet if I check the all time ups and down of the numbers on their  graft, that day October 31 is still the all time high. Isn't that Halloween? Ah ha, something is fishy. 

I was about to send a submission and wanted to tell them about my blog--that's why I got into this mess about numbers.

Normally I try to follow Andy Warhol's advice.

"Don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art."

 

Wednesday: this is the all-time high numbered blog post.

When I say I want the magic back, I mean the little things that, if we are aware, we see almost daily.

 

This morning, I sat in the shower thinking of such things. Once while driving west on a road in Eugene, Oregon, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a rainbow brilliantly displayed in the rain splattered eastern sky. In front of that rainbow, like the movie intro of E.T. riding his bike in front of the moon, a small flock of white birds flew past, illuminated by the setting sun.

 

It was so exquisite I wanted to turn around, but I managed to tear my eyes away from the scene and continue down the road.  

 

I look into the sky and see a 250-ton piece of metal —a heavier-than-air vehicle —carrying I don't know how many people, pushed through the air by jet engines the size of whisky barrels.

 

 Impossible.

 

Once daughter dear and I sat in a booth by a window at a beloved Mexican Restaurant in Rancho Santa Fe, California. As we joyfully dipped our chips in guacamole, we lightly discussed whether it was possible to manifest. "Well,' I said," we couldn't manifest a train here for there are no tracks."

 

Not a minute later, a large semi—one of those trucks who’s back trailer is covered by a tightly stretched tarp, stopped at a stop light outside our window.

 

Printed on the tarp was one word: "Trane."  (A technology company.)

 

We laughed, and often remind ourselves that miracles happen, and that the Universe likes to play tricks, and that answers come in mysterious ways.

 

I sometimes lose the lightness and I want it back.

 

I missed Tuesday's blog yesterday, too, so I am writing to you today. I did read something profound yesterday, though. It was from Martha Beck:

 

"The simultaneous destruction and creation of an individual can be compared to the moment of awakening. This isn't just about learning something new; it's about a fundamental, radical shift in human consciousness.

 

"Awakening is the transformation of that same caterpillar into an altogether different creature—one that can fly."—Martha Beck.

 

You have heard that the caterpillar's metamorphosis into a butterfly isn't a simple change; it's a complete breakdown. That poor caterpillar liquefies, but what emerges is all reassembled into a gorgeous butterfly.

 

I have read that if you are watching a butterfly struggle to emerge from its chrysalis and feel inclined to help, don't. It kills the butterfly. The butterfly must go through the struggle—like us being born—it rests for a few moments, allowing its wings to dry, and then it soars.

 

"When a human being awakens," writes Beck," the 'caterpillar' we leave behind is the part that fears, suffers, attacks others, grabs for power, wealth, and status, and lives in terror of its own destruction. 

 

"The 'butterfly' we become is at peace with both life and death, confident that the universe will provide for us, open to brilliant creative ideas that may pull us out of the mess we've created."

 

Thanks, Martha.