Stain-glass Eyes

The "Bob Tree" Dropping Leaves There’s something to say about routine.  I watch the birch, the maple, and the burning bush unfold their fall fashion.  Right on time.  Who knows?  Maybe this is their favorite time of the yearly cycle. During the summer each leaf on each branch works every sunlit hour to make food.  Fall comes and it’s a rest time. Truckey Street Maple in Bloom The monarchs flit around, leaving St. Ignace, right on time.  The geese magically forming a V to fly south.  The dew heavier as each day goes by.  It doesn't need to be a surprise it will soon turn to ice.  It’s routine.  Autumn Leaves on the Pavement The St. Ignace Boarwalk When the sunlight cycle gradually becomes shorter, I start to fight the change in the season.  I resist the inevitable.  I rarely focus on the weather as intently as I do when fall is about to merge into winter.  I want each day to become longer, not shorter.  I

View  of Lake Huron  on a Beautiful Autumn Day (You can see Mackinac Island, behind mooring Catamaran) Snorkeling in Lake Huron has been a passion for me while I’ve been up in St. Ignace, this month.  I plan a lot of my days around the wind direction,  exposure to the sun and small jobs I’ve been doing for my mom around her house. I’m petrified of some of the behaviors I have, when I’m anxious to get back to the shore, and I'm in the cold water and swim solo. Some of the behaviors are:  silently talking to the little fish using the sunken cribs as my bounderies versus of looking above the water line loss of fear of dark shadows under water spending more time coasting under the water after I duck-dive    Another obsession , lately, is watching the little, metal “thingy” on top of the flag pole, in my mom’s backyard.  I can see it through the large windows, when I sit in the living room.  I’ve started to announce the wind direction out loud, several times

When sad things come to me, I’m learning to walk or connect with someone I care about.  It doesn’t always make the sadness disappear, but it helps me endure sadness. I like to clean things, too.  Today, I cleaned my Mom’s porch walls, ceiling and floor boards.  It felt good to slap the bristles of the broom against the light blue siding.  Dipping the broom into the sudsy water and making a wet, soapy trail of water until the broom smacked against the wall.  The long, green hose, from the backyard I kept hanging over the white railing of the porch, ready for me to use, to rinse.  I kept the dial on “Jet” spray. The water making a pounding sound, against the siding, felt good. Sadness doesn’t come without some anger.  I’m glad I can see that now.  I’m better at admitting my anger is real, not something to cover up with denial.  For me, covering it up only causes more sadness.  Not that sadness is cured by anger.  I wouldn’t say it is, it’s just more realistic.  Not rom