BELLY ACHE

I have a "green apple" belly ache. Actually it is NOT a green apple belly ache, it is a raw cauliflower belly ache. And this is opposed to the raw broccoli belly ache. All are painful. All result in a lot of gas -- translate that as pain in the gut and shshsh... "farts." Could that be farts, or fasts or whatever. Pain nonetheless.

The Sonoma Diet is big on these raw first tier vegetables. Free food. Eat as much/many as you like. Great fiber. Low calorie. Broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce, celery, Nothing is ever said about the abdominal gas OR the abdominal pain. The pain is almost unbearable. Doubling over pain. Hard to get through the afternoon at work. Hard to get through the evening at home. What is going on? Don't know. Just know that there is pain, there is gas, and maybe, luckily tomorrow the scale will register minus at least a pound. Maybe.

STASH

I have always thought of the word "stash" as a noun. As in the fabric stash of a quilter -- piles of rich wonderful fabric in all colors and patterns just waiting to become part of the next quilt, or at least some future quilt. OR the yarn stash of a knitter -- groups of wooly threads in a variety of textures and hues begging to become the next sweater or hat or mittens or at least some soothing, warm garment in future.

Now I am looking at the word as a verb -- as in "to stash." The dictionary tells me that it is a putting away into a secret place for some future time/use. Hmmmm. Today's declutter was just such a stash. A heart wrenching, meandering into the past. The newspaper used to line the box was dated November 19, 1963, two days before the assassination of President Kennedy and two days before the closing for this house I still inhabit. Forty four years. Doesn't even look like the box was ever opened, or if it was, just to peek in and then put away again.

Inside the box there are three tiny shoe boxes: one contains the soft, delicate, white, leather shoes from my husband's infancy. Just think, his mother kept them for all her memory years and now here I am opening them up again, the memories having died with her too many years ago. And yet I have the shoes. The two other boxes seem to be the first and second pair of shoes from our first son. The sales slips remain in the boxes with the well worn, high topped, many times polished, white, lace ups. All those memories of first steps and first falls.

A white sweater, still new, in its original wrapping. Kimonos made by my grandmother and her sister for this first grandchild. Stained, but neatly pressed and folded before being packed away. First birthday outfits. Buntings, some well worn, one still new and unworn. Bankies. A hand embroidered quilt done by my mother when she was awaiting my birth. Embroidered carriage robes done by my mother-in-law for her first born.

I keep the shoes, the quilt from my mother, first birthday outfits. The rest can go to babies who really need them. They certainly are not very serviceable stashed away in box on a shelf to be opened one day when all the memories have passed on with me.

THE 24 HOUR RULE

Once learned, the 24 hour rule has served me well. I'm not going into the embarrassing/hurtful experiences that taught me this rule; suffice it to say I have learned. Well....for the most part....I can be pretty hostile and vehement with words and it is easy for me to get carried away with myself

Following the rule was pretty easy when I was dealing with snail mail. Just don't put a stamp on the envelope for the waiting period, then if it's a go, apply stamp and mail. With the onset of e-mail I had to learn the lesson all over again. Hitting that "send" button can be automatic. Now I do not put in the address of the recipient for the 24 hour wait period. It has been a live and learn experience and thankfully most of the people on the butt end of my indiscretions have been forgiving.

Now that I am sorting and tossing through this DEcluttering process, the 24 hour rule is serving me well again. The bag "to go" needs to sit for the wait period. I have changed my mind about a few of the items that were going to be tossed. They may be tossed the next time around, but not this time.

BRUGMANSIA

We are enjoying the most wonderful weather -- sunny, dry, warmish, coolish at night. The brugmansia are giving forth their final blossoms of the season. They are breath takingly astounding in their size and abundance. And their fragrance is unbelievable. If I could bottle this delicate trace of gingery, rose I would wear it exclusively.

These flowers are all pot grown this year. Soon I will be taking cuttings to root for next year's crop. I still have the "mother" plant that I brought from my sister's as a cutting several years ago. There have been many generations since then. And she now has a new brugmansia in a pinkish color, a cutting of which I hope to bring back with me this trip out at the end of October.

The brugmansia pots were part of what I have named Pakki Island. For some unknown reason an area in the center of the back yard is an island of pachysandra. A couple of years ago I stuck in a couple of hosta transplants at the back edge. Then last year I planted one of my royal hostas in the center of the island. This year, hoping to draw some humming birds, I started experimenting with some perennials and two buckets of impatiens AND my brugmansia pots. I added a bird bath which the robins have enjoyed. And hummer feeders. But, alas, no hummers. I am ever hopeful.

It is time now to bring in the hummingbird feeders and scrub them up for next season. Come mid April or the beginning of May I will hand them out with newed hope. Barbara Crafton finally realised her dream of hummers last season after a few hopeful years, so there is precedent for hope.

EXERCISE? -- NOT!

Almost two weeks since I have been on the treadmill. Weights are gathering dust. And me? I am as happy as a moth in wool. I have given myself permission to relax into each day as it unfolds before me. Attempts at the morning crossword; morning pages which have segwayed into mostly autobiographical snippets, decluttering, some picture taking in the garden, perusing my favorite blogs -- and some new found ones too, discovering "being" and not doing.

I am approaching the end of my seventieth year. Exercise is good. I'll pick it up again next week. A healthy food regimen is good too and I seem to have found that in the Sanoma Diet. SOoo, I've got the "body" part together.

As to the mind, I have always been curious about a variety of things. I so deplored the disappearance of the library card catologue system because in looking for a something, I frequently stumbled over something else. I have followed so many branching topics and developed interest in a lot of strange things. Goats, for instance. I remember reading up on the raising of goats, milking, breeding, cheese making -- it went on and on. Never really wanted to DO it, but throughly enjoyed the knowledge of the doing. The Internet has taken the place of my card catalogue perusing. If it exists, its on the Internet in one form or anther and so aside from books I shall always have challenges for my mind.

So, I have pretty much established a body program that I can live with for the next seventy years, and the mind is always working on something. I am never at a loss for an Internet search or figuring out how to build a something from unlikely materials -- styrafoam bookshelves was my latest inspiration. Always something challenging.

That leaves the continuing quest to further develop and nurture the spirit.

CREATING SPACES

Sorting and tossing is creating space, make that prural -- spaces. I am even thinking of them as "sacred' spaces. So sacred that I am filling them in with empty boxes so that another in this household doesn't try to fill them up with his stuff.

The buh-byes are not many. I came upon a box filled with shells, beautiful collected stones, smooth and artistically mishapen pieces of driftwood and, wonder of wonders, ingredients for potting up indoor plants. Now, why in box? How can I appreciate these lovely things in a box hidden on a shelf in the cellar? SO, out they come. The shells and stones are dispatched to corners in the gardens; the driftwood I will use on the dining room table to enhance flower arrangements, The miscellaneous ingredients for potting are beiing gathered from the seven corners of the homestead into one giant Zip-Loc. Ah, space.

And the empty space can now be filled with an empty box and I can move on to the next box, then the next, and then the next. Is the goal here to have shevles full of empty boxes? No, the goal is to be rid of unused, unneeded "stuff." The goal is to organize into like boxes the stuff that needs to be kept -- and I am thinking that there is less and less of that.

A box of yarn, not used for twenty years. My color preferences have drastically changed in that time period. I am now into softer colors, no browns or yellow ochre, no bright reds. Buh-bye. A two foot stack of Cloth Doll magazines. I am never going to make all those dolls -- buh-bye. More space. I am loving this. I am freeing myself from unwanted ties to the past. In fact meaningless ties that have been hanging around. For why? Those rocks and shells were collected over many, many years from a variety of shores. I cannot put a name to any of the shores or even remember the time of wandering and collecting. Let it go. Move on. Go forward unencumbered. Life is good.

GOD DOESN'T CREATE JUNK

This is the message from today's sermon. "God doesn't create junk." I am not junk. Straight Barbara is not junk. My son Jeffri is not junk. Gay Jeffri is not junk. My straight son, Scott, is not junk. My deceased gay husband was not junk. God doesn't do junk.


Taking this to the next level I must accept that ++Peter Akinola of Nigeria who detests and defiles gays, is not junk either. This man, this Anglican Primate, this Christian leader who wants nothing to do with any gay or lesbian person, who would have them disappear; this man is also not junk.


As a Christian, I have a hard time with this. To accept that such a person is created by God in God's own likeness as am I, is almost unacceptable. But accept it I must. BUT I do not have to like him. I do not have to like him and all those that stand with him. And I don't. I don't like any of them. They are an abomination to me. If this is one of my sins, then so be it.