Mister Hat

Paolo had a great birthday and got a cowboy outfit - yes, really. I gave him a hat and a belt to match, and his mom got him the plaid flannel shirt and he had the boots, a wedding gift from my brother, so that goes back a few years.

To understand this hat, you have to picture Rod's Western Palace. It's off the freeway in Columbus, and you know it from the full-sized fiberglass horse standing on the front porch. A wooden Indian says 'How' to customers, and cowboys croon over the P.A.. You've got cowgirl chaps and riding britches, saddles, lariats, whips, spurs, horse-shoe earrings and lone-star necklaces. You've got pink boots and brown boots, turquoise boots and white boots, for all the cowfolks in your life.

Well, this cowboy hat was so authentic, Paolo had to take it back to Rod's to get it blocked. They steam it and put in the crease on the crown, and a curl in the brim. The man behind the counter was so po-faced in his grey felt hat, deep-yoked shirt and fingers hooked around his shiny belt buckle, I thought he'd ask Paolo to show him a picture of his hoss - or at least his 200 acre spread - to prove he was a re-ul cowboy before he'd shape the hat to Paolo's skull. (Ok, so Paolo's English accent didn't make him sound like a minor character from Brokeback Mountain, but our counter-cowboy had ingested so much of Rod's soundtrack and southern atmosphere, he'd got a good picture of himself as Mr Stallion. All non-hat knowledgeable people who stumble into Rod's from mainstream america were geldings....)

And I felt thoroughly ashamed to have only 5 acres and no chickens until I saw a Mexican fella skulking around the hat counter. He caught my eye and gave me a sly grin, as if to say these gringo cowboys don't know sh*t. That made me feel better, because I knew that guy had more cowboy in his little finger than Mr Hat had under his button fly. Later I saw the same guy pick out a pair of black matte boots with a square silver toe which were solid working plus a little bit of show, an easy double for salsa on Saturday nights.

We climbed into our SUV and drove home to the range. Paolo will look fabulous riding the tractor this summer in his black cowboy hat, button-down banker's shirt and sarong.

The Moms of Powell

Ok, we get bored in the 'burbs some of these gray days. At the bank, the sour face of a middle-age woman (and then in Kroger...and then at the Y) inspired this rap. Why's everyone looking so miserable? Cheer up guys. It's not the end of the world.

Dah boom boom boom...

We drive da SUV
we on da cellphone constantly
Da moms of Powell
Da moms of Powell.

We like da blonde highlights
we stay inside at nights
we drink da wine
and wish we could go back in time
da moms of Powell
da moms of Powell

Kroger is our only store
we shop there more an' more
what we buy is instant trash
but we give dem all our cash
da moms of Powell
da moms of Powell

Da YMCA is our gym
we swim and stretch and spin
and when we finish wit da pain
we weigh and see what weight we gain
Da moms of Powell
Da moms of Powell

To da soccer we are slaves
to da dance class, gymboree and skate
we buy our children many ting
and ourselves dat diamond ring
but when the bank say cash is due
we look around for someone to sue!
da moms of Powell
da moms of Powell

Happy Christmas everyone. Don't spend more than you earn. Make cookies instead!

Time Candy

Everyone has their time candy. The thing they do when they're avoiding that thing they should be doing. Mine is reading New Age websites. I'm particularly addicted to Solara's NVisible and her work with the 11:11. Ok, don't switch off. Hear me out. As an addict, I'm also a connosieur, and I read Solara's because she's so damn accurate. She says things like: this week we're releasing pockets of the past, and it's going to be painful but quick (my paraphrase. check out Solara if you want the horse's mouth). Purification. And that's what it's been like for me.

The weather's doing some purifying in Ohio at the moment. Traffic lights are at a horizontal as high winds kick leaves into crunchy brown vortices. I'm in Borders, and Tony Bennett's singing his creamy and mellow 'there'll be peace at Christmas' while the wind snaps branches in the parking lot. And that's sort of what it feels like in my body at the moment: that abiding peace that's moved in and decided to make a permanent home in my chest, but at the same pockets of the past burst, showing me the fear I used to feel reaching out for my deepest desires.

Overlaying it all is this vision of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest where my family lives. I missed Thanksgiving for living too far away for the 20th year in a row, and I'm really done with that. I'm beginning to seriously dream how we can make life there a reality for us within the next 2 years. (I've actually set a personal deadline, but I'm not telling yet.) It inhabits alot of my thinking during dawdling time - dishes, driving, or catching myself staring out the window, body in Ohio, spirit in Oregon.

When I moved to Ohio, I had these dreams of going along a river road looking at houses. I saw how the light moved in bars through the trees, and how the bank cut steeply above the road. Six months later, I drove along the same road looking for houses with a realtor. That hasn't happened yet. But I have begun its precursor - the dreaming. Make it an expansive dream. Give it room for everyone to grow and thrive. Dream big! This is the intention, the planning phase. I can feel it coming, like when a woman knows she's pregnant before she takes the test. The exciting part is the journey, our onward journey of never-ending change.

May peace inhabit your heart.