Little m Long a

Karma

I thought I might spread a little bit of good karma. You know, do something altruistic.

I only needed an hour.

I paid for 5.

So that the person happening upon the spot after I had left it might have a little gift.  A little something to make their day just a tad brighter.

I guess snapping a picture and broadcasting my intentions pretty much eliminated any altruistic benefits from the gesture.

Maybe the karma will stick.

Zella is our very own Anton Ego.

“I don’t like that.”

Her typical critique offered at almost every meal.

Regardless.

There’s no go-to meal with the kid.  One day she might ask for seconds or even thirds of a serving of Mac and Cheese.  The next time you serve it — nothing.

“What part don’t you like, Zella?” Ive asked.

(And then making a gesture with her tiny little arm she starts at the top of the plate,) “From here … (and in a sweeping motion brings the arm across the plate to the bottom) … “to here!”

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Every once in a while we we stumble upon tiny glimpses of our past.  Little bits and pieces of heritage and history.  Answers to why.  Snippets that account for what.

Forgotten artifacts carelessly tossed in a corner of the attic.  An old coat or shirt dry rotting on a hanger in the back of the closet.  Dismantled or broken appliances, furniture or toys.

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The alarm was telling me that it was 5:30 am.  I didn’t believe it.  “No freaking way,” I mumbled.  I gave it another chance to convince me.  In fact, I gave it five more chances to convince me.

At 5:30 am there is time to prepare coffee.

Time to check the weather or stare at an empty in-box.  Save for the reminders from my Google calendar that I have nothing to do today.  At least I’ve got all day to do it.

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So I’m in the car, as I often am, and I’m listening to the radio, as I often do.  I’m a participatory listener in so much that if there’s music playing, chances are I’m tapping my foot or pounding out the rhythm on the steering wheel.  I’m usually singing along.  And on a really good day, there’s head bobbing.

Today was a good day.

The sun was shining this morning and my resolve to will spring’s arrival seemed to be working.  I’ve done things to make sure that spring will be here in very short order.

Tangible things.

Noticeable things.

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“Take that!”

“And that!”

She was an easy target.  Her reflexes have little definition and she’s easily distracted with false moves.  I alternated stabs from ribs to stomach and back again.  She was powerless against my superior swordsmanship.

She fought gallantly though, without fear.  Laughing in the face of defeat.

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It’s funny how certain things, things that have been in your possession for years, things that had no particular significance when they came into your being other than that they just were, can all of a sudden hold deep meaning.  Importance.  Relevance.

St. Francis of Assisi

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I stepped on a moonbeam at the top of the stairs last night.  The damn thing nearly tripped me.  Funny thing, moonbeams.

That actually has nothing to do with anything but for some reason I felt it needed sharing.  My world seems to be spinning at an alarmingly fast pace as of late.  Not out of control, mind you, just faster.   I’m struggling to keep pace fearful that I’m going to miss something important or at the very least fail to recognize that something significant is happening.

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Zoë:  Dad, what’s for dinner?

Me:  You’re sitting right next to it.  I told you that you’d see it again.

I made a nod towards the bag from Panera.  The bag from Panera containing the uneaten portions of sandwiches and soup that were left over from lunch.  The kids had begged for something to eat and were beside themselves with excitement when we stopped to pick up the soup and sandwiches.

They ate practically nothing.

Zia, whom I thought was sleeping, chimed up from the back seat:  Well, in my world again means tomorrow!

(We had spaghetti.)

Time away does not necessarily equate to time productively expended.  Words have been tacked up less than frequently of late leading one to believe that I may have used that energy in a more useful manner.

This is not the case.

The allure of winter wonder has all but faded.  The varying degrees of contrasting shades of white and gray have grown monotonous.  Sky gives way to barren landscapes.  The lines are blurred.   They are all vying for the same colors and the palate is as monochrome as it is cold.

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Red on White

There have been times where I’ve seen 15-20 of these guys (male and female) waiting turns to get at the bird feeder.  Thing about cardinals is that they tend to be a bit camera shy and it was way too cold out for me to keep standing motionless waiting on the herd to return.

(I know it’s a flock.)

Anyway, I just love the contrast of the brilliant red of these birds with the stark white of snow and barren trees of winter.

It’s day 41 of my go at project 365……

That’s all I really have to say about that.  I’ve yet to glean any great wisdoms or similar life altering knowledge from the experience.  You can see all of the pictures to date at the three six five page (the link is also at the top) or by heading straight over to my flickr 365 set.

(By the way–full disclosure time.  The above photo was cropped.  To my knowledge, there is no 365 rule about cropping of photos.  Or crappy photos for that matter–good thing.)

It should be later.

But it’s not.

It feels later.

Not hours.

Days.

Like maybe Sunday.

But I’d be watching football.

Not sitting here.

Wondering.

Why the week isn’t through.

Maybe it’s the magnitude of deeply significant events.  Could be my complete lack of mental capacity.  Maybe I’m finally manifesting the negative consequences of poor choices at an earlier age.  Or maybe I’m just forgetful.

The raccoons, Zander and Zella, turned four years old yesterday.  Four.  Years.  Old!  Customarily on each childs’ birthday  we recount the day of their birth.  The details surrounding how each child came screaming into the world.  The kids love it, so much so that the stories are often repeated throughout the year.

I should be able to recount the twins’ birth with ease.  A multiple birth after having been through multiple births should stand out.  And yet I have great difficulty doing just that.

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“Dad!  Dad!  There’s a noise!  We heard a noise upstairs!”

The twins, bright eyed and animated as ever came running into the kitchen.  They clutched my legs, trembling.

“What do you think it was?”

(I knew exactly what it was.  I had overloaded the washing machine—again—and as it tried to start it’s spin cycle began to shake pretty strongly.)

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