Painting the background

 

One of my fellow painters catching rainbows

Dear blog,

We found a solution to our goat's naughtiness, for now. We tied up the billy. And two other goats that seem to lead everyone over fences, and into trouble. And it seems there is a nice, beautiful calm.

        I have been wanting to write about my sister's play. And as it finally cool today, I'm upstairs, and happy to have this wet windy cool blowing in my room. Though I do wonder if it's going to be too soggy to sleep outside. I guess we'll see.

This year for the play, my sister did a lot extra stuff. She designed an airplane prop for the director. We had an old trash-can lid that we thought would make some good art. She used the garbage can lid, then used some old wood and carved out a propeller and made it so it could spin. Then she made airplane wings out of some old styrofoam, and painted them. It was so genius, I sometimes feel a little imitated by my sister's abilities.  She also a built a mirror stand for one of the actors to interact with, in addition to being in the play, and really supporting it in so many ways. It seemed like she was an assistant director.

      

      This year, for the play.

            I was watcher. 

        And support crew when ears were needed, and sandwiches needed to be made, and things like that.       

It actually seemed pretty dynamic. And as it happened, I was there for some of the most memorable bits, without the extra work of singing and dancing.

            I wasn't on the cast list.

            I wasn't on stage for the last bow.

            No.

            Part of me was, at least.

            The background.

            This year the play was, "The Drowsy Chaperone."

The director asked a guy who usually paints their sets to paint this really long big 40ft wall.

            The week of the 24th of July, I went with my sister to one of her play practices, and thought maybe I could take some pictures, because I'm usually the only one taking pictures. So they needed someone to do that. And perhaps, help paint, a bit.

            I got there, and was very glad to see all my play family.

            They greeted me so warmly, it felt good.

            When they started their practice, I got my camera out and started watching. It felt so good, just watching. I felt like we were both giving a gift.

            One of seeing, one of being seen.

            The director usually sits in front, but he chose to be in the play this year, in addition to directing it.

            So I sat where he usually sits, and watched. It felt oddly nice. I liked this place, instead of on the stage. It was weird, watching, and being watched at the same time, from this vantage point.

            It made me wonder if the reason why we put on plays in the first place is that the watched, and the watcher are looking for some part of themselves.

            The watcher, mostly smiling, and clapping, and seeing things that might go better, but mostly appreciating that someone's putting a show on for him to see.

            I took some pictures, and enjoyed all the effort, and music, and song and dance they were doing. Then my sister came down and watched with me when she wasn't in a scene, and so did the director.

            Then in the middle of the performance, Scott, the one painting sets, arrived, and beckoned me to him.  So I went and talked with him a bit, and he asked me to mix some old paint to see if it was any good.

            I was not particularly thrilled. I've realized long ago that painting sets narrows my focus, and is actually a pretty solitary job. The year I helped run wires for the sound and lights, I had a lot more fun.

            I felt torn because I just wanted to go back and just watch.  He had forgotten to get paint can openers, so I ran to my truck and looked for something to open the paint cans.

            In my hurry to find something to open the cans I found a screwdriver, but dropped my car keys, and could not find them.

                        It was not a good feeling.

                        I had just come to see the play, and now, I had lost the keys, looking for paint can openers.

                        I searched everywhere.

                        I couldn't believe how stressed I felt over that.

                        I asked God for assistance, and found them, finally.

            Thankfully.

            I came back and opened the paints, all the while feeling a little sad to be missing my spot taking pictures, and watching.

            Scott asked me if I was coming back to paint sets, and I told him I didn't think so unless it as a Saturday when they put up all the wires, and things, and it's a day when both me and my sister could come.

            He asked me If I could use a measuring tape to draw a straight line, and divide it, and put some tape paint tape down.

            I wasn't thrilled about this either.

            Either way, I had to wait until the play practice was done to do that.

            So I went back to watching.

            Truth was, when he asked me to help, I sensed he wasn't feeling well, and some part of me knew that I was going to be painting this wall, even though I said I had not planned on helping much.

            Saturday the 29th rolled around.

            I had three choices.

            My sister's father in law passed away.

            And I could go to the funeral.

            Or I could stay home.

            Or I could go help paint sets.

            I wasn't sure I wanted to go to either place, I didn't want to go the funeral. I don't like funerals.

            And painting sets on blistering hot, cement, had already been burned into my memory from previous years.

            Having a hard time deciding, my sister quoted me the ending lines of the play.

            "A staff drops," she says, "and it makes his record skip, so he can't tell what the characters is saying."

            "Live while you can?" he wonders.

            "Leave while you can?" he wonders.

            "You have to decide. Because you can't tell what the character in the play is actually hearing, because he's listening to a record, and that's really the punch line of the whole play. "____while you can."

            The "what" is what you choose.

            Okay, I shrugged, and decide to live while I can. I felt that this moment felt very crucial, I felt like I was going to battle. I knew I need to gather a lot of stuff, and material, to have on hand. The wall was big, and I had a suspicion that though I was planning on leaving early, I'd be there till dark. I knew it was going to be hot.

            So hot.

            I knew we needed water.

            And hats.

           Bess and I did our best gather all needful things that we could think of.

            I even packed in my crystal singing bowl, in case of a moment where we had an empty space. And a moment where we might just "be" together.

            I felt like it was some sort of test. I know that sounds weird. But when you're going into a place you've been before, and you know how hot, and hard it will be. You want to go prepared. And most of all, you want water.

            So we went early in the morning.

            While everyone was on stage, and rehearsing, I started painting. Scott hadn't really painted the wall much. But another nice girl was working on blocking the bottom of the wall with some paint.

            Scot had only done a very little section of a some painted wood. The director had sprayed an odd color of tanish pink on the wall that Scot had picked out---not my first choice of color. But you have to work with what you have.

            The director told me to repeat the wood pattern Scot had started. Which looked like it involved a lot of measuring lines. Oh gosh...

            The wall was very big.

            One section was to be painted like a man's room.

            The other wall was for the fancy wedding parlor.

            There were double doors, and a small door on the side.

           

This was a long, vast, ponderous wall.

I brought some of my paints, but there weren't many colors there, as Scot hadn't come with the paints, or brushes yet.

            I wasn't relishing the idea of painting while everyone was on stage, and in the heat, and repeating the pattern Scot had set out.

            Lines.

            Me and lines.

            Measuring.

            Hot cement.

            Claustrophobia.

            Felt like God had set me in a fiery frying pan.

            Live while ya can?

            Hmmm....

            As the sun rose higher, the cement heated up, and the cast was dancing in front of me, around my cans of paint.

            Then in the middle of painting, the director comes from behind, and says,

            Scot just called, he was in the hospital with heart and lung problems, and he wont be able to finish.

            "Will you be in charge of wall?"

            My heart sunk. I had planned on leaving early...

            I knew this was going to happen.

            All I had was mostly the paints I had brought form my supply.

            My own little roller.

            Scot had all the rest of the supplies, I believe.

            The other girl, the Directors daughter in law, had brought some sponges, and some paint brushes.

            So with my paints, and her stuff, we started, with our widow's might.

            The temperature climbed to about 105 degrees.

            Live while you can, kept echoing in my mind. "Yeah, if you don't fry yourself while you're living...!"

            "Okay," I told the director.

            So, I painted. But I felt rather delirious.

            All the people's fumes really affect my antenna's. It's hard for me to zero in on such a narrow view, when you can feel the people around you.

            For a while I had a very hard time delegating, because there were three other helpers, and it's hard to have a vision for a wall you hadn't had any ideas for.

            Mostly, the magic thing that happened, after my mind settled down, was realizing perhaps a job of a director of anything, is to see what strengths of those willing to help, and letting them flow.

            Appreciating.             

            Realizing how many artists there are around you.

            And knowing that we are all wanting the same thing, to help. To have it look good. To enjoy each other.

            To make the job easier so one person doesn't have to do it alone.

            The magic of that wall was unity.

            We were painting the background.

     

A girl named Emily, who was in the cast, offered to help. I swear she resembled Emily Dickinson. She had painted her shoes beautifully. Each shoe had a different silhouette, with a message on the back, "Stars can't shine without darkness." I took several pictures, as I wanted to remember the message written on her shoes. She reminded me of a younger version of myself. Excited, eager, fresh, willing to come, and bring her own paints, and brushes, an artist that was so ready to share.

            And the other girl, Kristen.

            Another artist.

            Smart, and talented, fun. Someone who could actually understand me, more than most people, as sometimes I have a hard time articulating my thoughts into spoken words. She got my vibe when I talked.  

            That was really unusual.

            At the peak of the hottest part of the day, we all adjourned, and went to the director's house.

            My sister had brought some apricot juice with some kefir and I swear it saved my life, because I kept on forgetting to drink, and it was so, so very hot. And I felt so tired, and my brain and body felt cooked. I didn't realize how repeating the same pattern of wood trying to keep straight lines in this big of wall, would be so tough.

            After consulting with my sister, who measures wood all the time, I decided to just measure a bit, and then just paint, and try to get the pattern as best I could. If any of us were too picky we wouldn't get the wall painted in time.   

            The dress rehearsal was on Monday. So today was the day.

            I was so glad we stopped when we did, because it was hot, hot! And I had been kneeling on hard, cement for so long, my knees and legs were screaming at me.

            After resting for a wee bit, my sister went with the director to go buy more paint for our wall, and some brushes.

            The director's sons, and daughter-in-law sat in the living room, chatting, while I watched mostly, strumming on a ukalele. An interesting thing happened as we all were sitting there together.

Conversation changed to deeper subjects.

I got out my singing bowl, and it set a very calm mood.

        And when Bess came back with the director, we all started singing with the singing bowl, and the director's wife came in and sat down, and brushed her dogs. It seemed for a moment, everyone felt it, that, home feeling.

    That now, everyone searches for on the stage was just here.  For one moment, it felt as if we were all there, in the now, the whole show, here, in the directors living room. I felt that that one moment was worth coming for.

          

  The director kindly made us a meal, and while he was cooking on his porch, a huge bunch of deer, with antlers shuttled through his backyard. I was able to snap a few pictures. 

 A mini storm rolled in, and it rained a bit, so we were all happy it had cooled down, as Kristen had gotten a bit of heat stroke.

    After we ate, we went back to the outdoor theater, and started painting the wall again. My sister and director bought some green paint. And some rollers.

            A roller that would have really helped me paint nice even lines when I was working on the wood bit!

            Bess had an idea, and braved the wall, and rolled out the green paint, without any measuring tape, just using her intuition, and other eyes, to keep her lines straight.

            As the day waned, and the clouds put on a show, and we paused and watched a rainbow.

            No more was painting a set a solitary thing.

            The wall was so big, and so vast, and had started out with so much intimidating emptiness, I realized that the wall just started happening, for better or worse.

            We were all artists, and the respect we had for each other showed, because we really just wanted to do the best we could with what we had.

            None of us had really planned on painting the wall, or finishing the design.

            Yet here we were.  The sun was going down. And though we were too tired to spit, we were all really working as a team.

            We used the sponges Kristen had brought to create patterns.

            One would be painting, and the other would ask, how does it look?

            One would go far out, into the audience, spot for us, to tell us where to place the next paint, or sponge pattern.

            Move the sponge this way.

        

    "No. Move it over to the right. Good. Perfect."

            So we'd take turns directing, and painting.

            The one close up to the canvas had to use the eyes of the other to know where to place the paint. If the lines were straight. If it needed to be a different color.

          

  I don't even feel like I added that much, but mostly, as an element of just my me, my soul essence.

            Ten o clock.

            Eleven o clock.

            Lights were turned on.

            And we were painting in the dark.

            Emily had an idea of outlining the sponge patterns, and we thought it was a good idea, so we started doing that.

            And bit by bit.

            We painted above the doors, a dark purple.

            And all in all, it looked pretty good, considering. We all knew we could paint it better, if we had more time.

            We all knew that the pink that Scot had chosen wasn't the greatest color.

            But it was what was there.

            So we worked with it.        

            And the magic of the wall.

            We were painting the background as best we could.

            Was it fabulous? Was it a Michelangelo?

            No.

            But for that day, it was our Sistine chapel.

            A chapel of unity. Where not one person could say that they painted the wall. No.

            Someone had built the wall.

            This was an old wall that had been used, and reused, year after year, painted different play after play.

            If it could speak it would say many things, of the plays it had seen, of the paint that had covered it, and the many different stories it had been a parted of.

            The director had used a spray pump to spray on the pink.

            Bess and I had divided it in two.

            Scot painted a small section of wood molding.

            Some cute teenagers had painted the doors, and the mounding around the doors.

            And we all painted some part, and section of the wall, some alone, some together. 

Emily later painted some clouds to go behind a window.

            But what was special about this wall, wasn't the paint. Wasn't the color, or even the design.

             It was the unity that was painted into it.

   By the time we left, we were all friends. We had painted the background as best we could, with the paint, and tools we had, with the time we had, with the people that had volunteered to help.

            And though, not many people who looked at the wall, thought it very beautiful. Most actually were pretty cranky about the colors.

            But if you had been there, in the heat, with the prospect of having to paint that vast wall, on the spot. Emprov painting. You would know love had gone into that wall. And though when I got home, I felt as if I'd burned a lot of oil, and I felt slightly delirious, and my knees felt like I might take several days to walk without pain.

            When I looked at that wall during the performance, I was satisfied.

            I wasn't in the play.

            But something else was.

            In the background.

            A space a canvas for the characters.

            And while the actors were dancing on stage, it accented something beautiful. That I hoped the abundance could see.

            The place of coming together.

            And in a way, I felt apart of the play.

            Part of the background.

            And I feel we are all in some way.

            Painting the background.

        

    As I watched the final performance, I realized how much the audience came, hungry, looking to be seen just as much as the actors.

            Hungry souls.

            And no matter which side of the curtain you fall on.

            The one watching.

            Or the one watched.

            The director, or the directed.

            We are all just looking for a mirror.   

            For a way to see ourselves better. To see the truth better.

            To see the truth better.

            Looking for signs and clues to know the truth beyond the stage, and the masks, and the costumes.

            And sometimes we switch roles.

            Sometimes we are the painter, sometimes we are the painted.

            Sometimes we spot for the painter, to know where to best place the pattern.

            But the story is still the same.

            We are painting the background, or foreground, or some way, all the time.

            Revealing truth as we walk the roads, and paths, trying to live while we can.

            To love while we can.

            To learn who we are.

            Who we are not.

            What actually matters.

            What doesn't.

            And if the record skips, and you can't tell what the last lines are that are being said.

            You do the best, while you can.

            That's all anyone can do.

            Even if it's hot.

            Even if you hadn't planned on staying this long.

            Even if you know the wall painted, or not, will be painted again, and forgotten.

            And hopefully as the curtain falls, or rises, we see that we can't really judge the play, or the actors, or the background, or the director, especially if we know we are painted into it every part of it, in some way, or some form.

             Especially when we've been on both sides. When we know what goes on behind the scene changes. And what is visible, and beautiful up front. What goes into supporting those who are on stage.

            The canvas, the painter, the costume maker, the one's playing the drums, or the piano, or the one's watching.

            We are all just painting the background in some way.

           

           

           

I scribbled this down after last year's play...it seems appropriate to share now.

           

When All Work Is Done

When you’ve traveled to the end, and back.

When you’ve seen the sights.

Gathered souvenirs.

When the crowd you worked so hard to entertain.

Vanishes.

And all that you gained, slips away.

When you shed your skin.

And bones.

And flesh.

And all the strings you wound around your soul falls away.

What will be left standing?

What will you say?

What will be left?

As you look around.

At the grand stage, and the props that once made you proud.

When the audience leaves.

And the music stops.

When all the grand script is peeled away.

And we have no more words left to say.

When all we’ve gathered, is like feathered fluff.

No more acting.

No more holding on to stuff.

Will you dance, when you’re all alone?

Quiet.

At the last performance.

When we take our last bow.

Here in this last play.

I’ll say thanks to the director.

To all the bits of glitter.

The grand finally.

Fireworks in the sky.

Lightening in the distance.

Thunder rumbles. I feel the wind, and rain drift by.

For one distant second, we can feel the real. We know that the truth is that behind the scenes of this grand play.

Where we get rained out, and have to come on another day.

We know that the truth is found behind the act.

The now, is here, where the real is at.

It's not the grand bow, and the burst of applause.

But it's found in the long hot days, and the rain, and the brain fog.

The times we stood, and sang a song.

The unity we felt, as we all pushed the props on.

The knowing that if someone forgot their lines, that someone else would fill in that time.

That for better or worse, it’s all coming, going, and gone.

For one moment, no matter how nice.

We are just playing a part, and we hope it turns out nice.

We do it, and then let it go.

It’s just a performance, and a little show.

And now, here, I sit, as everyone goes home.

On the stage.

And I know the show still must go on.

Here in this space, the crickets chirrup.

Where no one else can see or hear.

This is the space that will never disappear.

And in this space, though unassuming.

Is where God is.

Where all the actors were once loud, and booming.

Here he stands, still the same, now, forever, the beautiful silence looming.

The grandest invisible actor, now on the stage.

His script is the beautiful, empty page.

Revival

Dear blog,

It's early in the morning. I’m in my tent. I feel quite liberated, writing in this cool, little hut.

I had a solar light I was using. But I was worried that I might wake up my sister who is in a tent a little ways off from me (I got her a tent like mine, but blue) and set it up while she was gone to a play practice.

She came back, and was so very happy that she had a new house. She calls it her mansion.

Now our backyard really looks like the gypsies moved in.

I just turned the low light on my laptop. So hopefully I’m not disturbing anyone.

My brother migrated to the middle room of the upstairs for the past year and a half, so if I go into my room to type nights or mornings, we don't like to wake him.

So it’s all just dance. Trying to figure out how wave and turn, and use blocks as a directional.

I love to feel the morning ambiance. My own hum.

 Now I’m very aware of how noisy my computer keyboard is. It sounds really mechanical, like heavy rain coming down on a plastic roof, that stops and starts. Some keys sound louder than other keys.

Odd. That. Rattling, and clacks.

I hope I don’t wake my sister from my writing rain sounds. But this rain might. If someone based a rainstorm off of my writing rhythm sounds. It would be an unpredictable rain. A weather forecaster would have their hands full.

This rain would start, people would take out their umbrellas, only to suddenly have the rain stop.

And start.

And stop.

Much like how I've been writing.

And then burst out again, rain for a while, and then pause. Only to rain for, hopefully a longer duration, as my writing juices get primed.

Other times, there would be light showers, off, and on again.

Some days it would really just come down, and that would be a good, nice rain. We need more of that kind of rain.

              
One of my kittens keeps jumping onto the tent, climbing to the roof and peering in, watching me. I keep trying to get it to stop, as I’m concerned for the welfare of my house.

The crickets are humming. The stars are shining above me. The air is cool, fresh, alive.

The eastern horizon is starting to light up, as the sun makes it way up.

There’s an owl hooting in the distance. A moon dove.

 Dogs are barking.

The roosters are crowing.

Truck’s engines are roaring. I can feel the hum of people waking, and the feeling of urgency to get everything in order so they can take their children to school.

There’s this beautiful patch of clouds above me, glowing from the light coming from the horizon.

It’s an interesting thing how the sky is black at night, and gradually blue, and yellow, and purple, and red in the mornings.

I had to look up why the sky is blue in the day, and dark at night. As I don’t ever remember asking the question, so I knew the answer.

               The answer. Basically blue particles scatter faster than the other colors. At least that’s how I understand it, and the earth’s atmosphere helps create the color. When it’s red at sunrise or sunset, I believe it’s because the way the sun’s light is hitting the earth. I can’t remember exactly why--something to do with the distance of the sun and earth. I thought it was interesting.

               This is something that makes me wonder about my own self.     

               Is my soul much like the blue sky?

               Does each one of us have a unique atmosphere, so some of our sky is black with very little light. Some always red, and fiery. Some blue, easy to scatter out of the way.

               Do we reflect light, and color when it is shined on with the right light?

               Do my own stars come out when it is dark only?

               Am I just a mirror that reflects light, and darkness?

               Are we all just little canvases?

               Sometimes it feels like that.

               Someone hugs me and I can feel their darkness, or light. Sometimes I can shine on them.

               Sometimes they can shine on me.

               Someone walks into a room, their weight, their energy sometimes feels so loud, It’s difficult for me to want to stay, especially if they want to keep their load.

               Last week I felt like someone handed me something quite black. My heart burned, and burned after interacting with them. I felt so off. It felt like they handed me codes, ones they had believed, codes that were not true.  It was so strange, and difficult to understand, I felt really offline for a couple days.

               It sounds weird. But I think this is why sleeping in a tent is so nice. You can let mother nature sing you the truth of you are, and who you are not. It feels like the more time you spend with real things, like your own heart, and your own natural rhythms, the more you can discern what good feels like. What love feels like. What being at home, in your own little tent, feels like.

               So when you do come out, you know when something feels off.

               Speaking of which….the Billy goat is now trying to break into my spaces……give me a sec.

               What turds.

               Now they are tap dancing on top of a place where I keep grain. Loud enough to wake up everyone.

               Ah…gee.

               Morning ambiance. Hmm...

               The cats are leaping, leaping, one grabbed my scalp and really nailed my head with its claw.

               Is it me, or does it feel like everything feels magnified?

             

  Oh…but the sunrise is fantastic!! Wow…

               Ah I have seen many beautiful sunrises, this past couple of months. So many starlit nights, appreciated...

               Wait a sec...Had to go chase the goats again!!! They got inside the fenced area.

               They have been behaving extra badly since my last post.

               I think I need to write a retraction.

           

    The day after my last post, one goat jumped through some mechanical belt from a car or a tractor, (don’t ask me how) and got it wedged around its belly. It wasn’t the kind of belt that stretches. It was tight. Like a weird, tutu. We had to rope, and wrangle it down, to pry it off of it…

  It got itself through a loop.

 Oh dear. I have to stop again, the goats are into trouble again!!!

 I may be back…sometime…that’s the trouble about being outside. You become a watchman, and you become aware of so many things. You know when the chickens are in trouble, and all these things you would not be aware of if you were inside…

               Many hours later….I am back.  The goats were getting into the outhouse. I knew they were turds.

    Despite the goats, I had a very good, fabulous, deliciously, beautiful mornings. One of the top ten good mornings of my life. A kind of good morning everyone should have. Easy, and fun, and slow, and loving. I got to watch the clouds bubble past me in my tent. It seemed, when I stopped writing, the goats settled down. Sheesh.

Then my sister got the urge make a fire, and cook on our little cooker, and made eggs and pancakes outside. The smell was so delightful, like being in the woods, and smelling smoke, and frying onions.

My mom even joined us for a bit, which is good, because she walks not so good these days. We ate, and watched the cats, and then after wrangling the goats again. We decided the morning was too beautiful not to go swimming first thing, so we just took of on our bikes to the canal, and floated down a couple times.

There were bazillions of crawdads in a ditch that just had water going down it, and one little fish, with a yellow spot on its top. My little-kid self was having such a good time, I decided to go back to the house, get a bucket, and a net, and save the wee fish, and a few of the crawdads and put them in a container so the birds didn’t get them.

As soon as I got them into their new home, my cats thought them great entertainment. The crayfish/and fish show.

I’m hoping it will distract them from jumping on my tent.

I have so loved sleeping outside. It is my happy thought, seeing the sun rises, and sleeping with my purring cat, and watching the stars, and seeing fireballs streak across the sky, and listening the sounds of water in the ditch as it flows past. I’ve enjoyed it to such a level, that when you love something so much you want to share it. My sister and I brainstormed how to get my mom to enjoy the benefits of this. We are certain it is good for your health, mind, body spirit.

Someone gave us a hospital bed that wasn’t in use, so I wheeled it out, de-spidered it and put a mattress on it.

 My mom was in pretty low spirits, so we coaxed her outside. And I brought all her blankets and pillows, and a lantern, and her ipod, and her cd player, and set up a little table. She was a good sport, and decided to give it a try. She surveyed the bed area, and sat down, and I got it so she could watch one of her shows on her ipod. I could feel a happy hum float off her. She liked the mattress, and said she’d try sleeping outside. When it was dark we tucked her in bed. She lasted till five in the morning. And seemed pretty happy. I don’t know if she’ll try it again. But I’m glad to have shared a bit of it.

My tent is too hot now. So I'm in the house. Hoping the goats behave.

               Good goats. Sheesh.                  

                              Hah!

                              Good ones?

Whoot? I'm wondering about my own words. Good ones? Maybe If I say it over, and over again, it will make it so.

                              They are like terrible-two year olds, and tweens with horns, that can reproduce, and eat anything in sight. They will loot, and pillage, and smash, and eat, and move through your yard, and your neighbors yard, and harvest anything that can be swallowed.

                              If there is a fence, or a barrier, they’ll find a way. I don't know why the army hasn't utilized their special their abilities. They could just turn a herd of goats loose on a country, and come back, and everything would be goated.

                              Good ones? Who I kidding?

                              My goodness. They are goats!

                              They can't be anything but goats. Not unless they evolve.

                              And if they are good goats, that means they are good at eating.

                              Sheesh. I think I need to refine my writing, so they aren't listening in.

                              They broke into my garden, and ate that giant sunflower---that same flower the picture I just posted a week ago. It's like they knew I'd posted it.

                              Rubbed their cloven hooves together. And said.

                              Yes.

                              We are good goats.

                              We eats things.

                              Perhaps I should have said. They are obedient goats.

                              They stay where they should. And come when I call. They only eat weeds.

                              I did manage to save some giant sunflower seeds, which is one good thing.

               But they also ate an apricot tree I had planted, and they ate all the leaves on one of my apple trees, and stripped down a row of my sunflowers, as if the shredding hail wasn't enough, the poops!

                              They couldn't stand one day not having pasture, while the hay was being cut.

                              I don't even know why I own goats.

                              They were here when I arrived on this planet.

                              And I have never not owned them.

                              When my sister's moved away, then me and Bess took care of them.

                              It was just something we did, for pretty much my entire life.

                              We keep them because the milk is healthy. We live on it. We make this most yummy goat milk kefir. I even made goat milk ice cream. And it was really yummy.

                              Maybe I should own sheep. Sheep milk has to be just as good.

                              Or zebras. Zebra milk.

                              Or a butterfly garden.

                              Or cute alpacas.

                              Something fluffy, and soft, and good, and doesn't eat plants.

                              The last time they got out, they tipped over the pen with baby chicks in and my cats ate them.

               The chicks. Not the goats.

               But that would be okay with me right now.

                              Goats.

                              Seriously.

                              Why?

                              Who would like some pasture stripped down?

                              These devourers respect no thing.

                              They are so unconscious. Like strange alien children with no compass except their ever moving mouth.   

                              Can anyone vouch for them?

                              The other day, my sister told me emphatically that she thinks that God put us on a babysitting planet to take care of all the children.

               Kids, goats, humans.

               "Oh, God, why! No!" We both howled.

               "Did we do something wrong in a past life?" We wondered.

               "Where are all the nice ones?"

               "Where are the wise people?"

               "Are there only just wee strange, hungry, weird children here?"

                              Children.

                              The scriptures say that we are children.

                              And it seems accurate.

                              And entire planet full of them.

                              Children running the county.

                              Children, mommies and daddies.

                              Children teaching children.

                              Children feeding children.

                              Children pretending they know something when they don't.

                              Scared, hungry, bossy, wandering kids, everywhere, looking, wanting to eat sunflowers, I guess.

                              Will eating sunflowers bring them to the light?

                              We don't know.

                              Children, kids, Goats running churches, and universities, teaching us how to eat faster, how to consume more...

               I put them up for adoption ASAP.

                              I think Mary Poppins would have her hands full, even with her bag of tricks, parenting this load children….

                              I hereby release any attachment I have ever had to these wandering creatures. To the goat nature that seems to be running this planet. And ask that a new nature be put into all creatures, from the fruit fly, to the chickens. To mothers, and fathers, and kids, and children.

               This is my prayer, an asking for a renewal of spirit in a world that feels so like my goats. So devoid of any soul compass, that deep feeling and knowing. To revive the heart of every soul on this planet to remember a time when no soul was hungry.

               For eyes that recognize what beautiful, green pasture we all have, and the wisdom to care for it and each other, better.

               To better live. To better enjoy life. To better follow bliss. To better be in heart. And if we must all be children, to be children of divinity, and have that blueprint downloaded into our being.

                Yes.

                It's long overdue.

            Let all unconsciousness dissolve in the love and light that is flooding our planet.

            Let our goat natures fade away into an angelic truth, that can change the fabric of the universe.

    Let all mouths that take, be confounded. Let all who rob light, never rob again.

    Let everyone's true oil burn brightly.

    No one need be without light. Or oil. If you just follow those who hold up their lamps.

        Let there be a revival of all that is good, and fun, and loving, and honest, and whole, and healed, and right, and living, and flowing, and peaceful, and powerful, and wise, and abundant.

        Let the good ones, the truly, good ones, finally, have a voice.