Argh!

Just found out that my TSH is up to 3.97 or something. What in the world is going on, Mr. 'Roid?

Much better

I'm feeling much better. Yesterday was our anniversary. We celebrated it by going out to a very beautiful little nature preserve near where my man grew up. It's on the bend in a creek, where limestone bluffs tower over the water and hundreds of flowers were blooming in the lowlands among long, green grass. The sun was going down, making all the blue bells, violets, and wood poppies glow faintly. It was very quiet out there. We decided to go out to our favorite French bistro this weekend, and to go on a little adventure sometime in the near future. We also discussed future big adventures to the wilds of the East.

My guy said something so sweet, something to the effect that while I had a real adventuresome part of me that couldn't be contained, he felt he had sent that side of himself into deep dormancy, and it was time perhaps to wake it up a bit. Though the logistics are complex, he actually seemed excited by the prospect of wandering the Obscure Corner of the World a bit together.

Now, about far more important matters: the bra of which I spoke. It is a Hind Motion Adjust bra, and for me it works well. It's got little cups like a swimsuit with ample room to accommodate my small boobs--I mean, I'm B on a good day. However, for ladies with more generous busts, it may not be the answer. There were a lot of cool, fancy running bras with individual, shaped cups that looked like potentially back and boob-saving devices worth trying on at least.

And the horse you rode in on.

I'm really fucking blue, fed up with my unending slog.

Or at least I was yesterday, most of which was spent tromping around in icy cold rain with twenty or so pounds of library books on my back, hungry yet uninterested in eating. I have no idea what I'm going to do for work come September, the truly awful thing about studying an OCOW (grad student teaching positions are impossible to find and my department has, oh, one assistant instructor spot). It's not a huge deal--I can freelance and get on my guy's health insurance--but damn it, I'm sick of all this endless not-happening and shit news. You know, when no matter how many widgets you stuff in their boxes, they just keep on coming down the conveyor belt with no end in sight. Endless, fruitless labor.

So this morning, I cried in my husband's arms. I want something to look forward to. I want something to change. The only thing really firing my imagination at the moment is training. And returning to OCOW. Something we've been trying to avoid talking about, for various logistical reasons. But he's willing to go, if it's for 6 months to a year. Or better yet, if I got some sort of postdoc in Europe.

Yeah, and the weather here sucks. That and my period are to blame for the majority of my sadness at the moment.

On a sillier note, I invested in some really cool running shoes that fit amazingly well. They are all red and orange and shiny and light. I can't wait to take them for a spin. I also got one of those super jogging corset-y bras. I barely need it, but wow. Stabilization doesn't begin to cover it. Those puppies aren't moving a centimeter, but they aren't smashed and smooshed into oblivion, either. What will they think of next, folks?

That reminds me. Thanks for all your support. It means a lot, gals.

Consolation Prize

I've gotten so that I give myself a treat every cycle when I could theoretically get knocked up and then the Red Army marches in, arms swinging, baritones blasting. This month--the Reds knocked this morning--it's a new pair of running shoes from the fancy-pants jogging store and the sign up fee for triathlon training. Fortunately, I almost instantly start feeling fantastic once the red star starts gleaming. Though I always feel stupid for hoping. This month, I had lots of fun symptoms and I really had some hope.

Thanks for playing, Shinejil! Better luck next month.

The Green Beast and the Gift

Yesterday, I had a very odd experience that I'm not sure I can put into words.

I'll start with something more mundane, to set the stage. Yesterday evening, my advisor--a wonderful, nerdy Bostonian and a killer, ego-free scholar--had a bunch of grad students and foreign scholars over for dinner. Most of my fellow grad students are married to women from the Obscure Corner of the World. I used to joke, in fact, when I was back on the dating market after my divorce that I too was going to marry a woman from OCOW, as it seemed to be a requirement for the field. No one seemed to find this as funny as I did.

So, I began talking to one particular fellow student who just finished his MA thesis, a translation of an interesting but obscure set of legends from the 15th century. He bragged about a certain obscure publisher agreeing to publish his work. The green beast crawled up, grabbing me with its long, fine claws. It began to whisper, "You're working twice as hard as this arrogant idiot and are twice the scholar because you love what you do, not your own fucking ego, and he's getting a book and has a daughter. Grrr, hrrrm, rowl..."

I kindly congratulated my colleague and we started talking about how social anthropological theory proves unhelpful in our field, where so much basic research remains to be done, etc. Or that's what I was saying. He was going on about the lack of scientific rigor and how he was basically too smart for that jive. If I hadn't been so busy with the green beast, I might have had energy to knock the retarded chip off his shoulder.

And his daughter: She's very pretty, but oddly unloved. Oh, I'm sure both parents would declare their love for her, but it's hard to get love from a narcissist, and it somehow gleams in her eyes. Her presence has not made her parents, especially her father, happy. Her care is a duty, not a joy. That's really the dark secret of many parents: They may love their children, but they don't really like them that much. That realization banished the green beast and made me very, very sad for both her and my silly, self-centered colleague.

In my quiet battle with the green beast, I was helped by a very strange experience I had had on the walk over. I was wandering through the professorial ghetto, where the Priuses run free and the yards overflow with towering trees in bloom. Dozens of amazing scents wafted past me on the warm, strong wind: sticky sweet honey, powdery lilac. I suddenly felt an unexpected wave of the most perfect, complete joy, something so light and immaterial, that I felt like I could easily transfer it to anything I touched. I felt that I had been given a great gift, some kind of wild salvation that was always present but rarely heeded, and that it was transferable. I had no idea, and still don't, what exactly this gift is. But it was so buoyant and so...not about me as a selfish individual.

These sensations, recalled in the heat of battle with myself and my resentment of my infertility and my desire for recognition, brought the green beast swiftly to heel. Then my husband arrived, and we enjoyed the rest of the evening together.

Focus, focus!

I used to get all the old-school symptoms of PMS: irritability, cramps, you know, the classics. I still get premenstrual symptoms, but they are all overwhelmed now by an insane spaciness, a fog that just won't clear. I blame progesterone.

When I was put on progesterone supplementation (pills, not suppositories or injections for you aficionados out there), I basically lost all power to think straight. I would wander through my days, falling asleep whenever seated and not drinking tea, looking like one of those big sad-eyed children you see in seventies velvet paintings. Except it felt really miserable, though as I tell it, it sounds pretty fun.

I'm suffering a minor bout of a related state. I've got a chapter to show my advisor and I'm trying to email it to him, but my mind just drifts off on a puff of lilac-tinged air as I sit here, attempting to give it one last read. I've even had a splash of caffeinated coffee (oh my!) and the fog remains. I have no will to do anything and would probably spend the whole day wandering through the neighborhood looking at all the pretty flowering trees. It's like my body is producing its own marijuana.

Again, this sounds fun, but I want to focus. And I can't. In moments like these, I start to hope for my period (I know, crazy, but I'm just telling it like it is) so that I can think straight again. Nine months like this? Fucking a.

Yesterday, I went for a bit of a run. I'd been slacking for the past few days, and suddenly got a burst of energy and had to go outside. I ran down our local rail trail, which shoots past farms and fields, trailers and tract homes. The red buds and other trees were all in bloom, and the tiny leaves were spreading on the trees. It began to rain, big, warm drops. Everything suddenly smelled so good, and it felt so good to run with the rain falling on me. I felt such joy and freedom.

We're going out to my mom-in-law's this weekend to get started on the garden out there--yes, we have another, bigger patch out at her place--and have dinner. We're also going to go morel hunting. Fresh morels, sauted in a touch of good butter, are basically better than any other food I know. Yes, even than chocolate. Hmmm... chocolate-covered morels?

Okay, I'm returning to my fog now.

Virtual Garden Tour

Thanks, Kate, for the inspiration! I want to brag about my garden, too! In the spirit of socialist competition, which is kind of like elementary school competition when everyone wins. Except I'm going to do it with words as I'm too lazy to try to photograph everything.

As you've likely guessed, I love plants. If I had more time and money, our yard would have no grass, sort of like Melanie's but sans pool and not nearly as nicely maintained. And with way more vegetables, madly taking over all available space.

Out front, we inherited from previous owners some ugly-ass yew and mongo pine bushes. The kind that look like you ordered them from a catalog that came with your cubic zirconium watch, planted in an environment that can only be maintained with liberal doses of toxins (read: Roundup). The bushes are very stupid, but too healthy to kill. So I tolerate and even pity them, using them as a backdrop for more interesting things: lilies, lysianthus (gorgeous flowers, easy to grow), foxgloves, giant delphinium (they are not whistling Dixie, folks), a rugosa rose (love them), a little hydrangea, some daylilies, hostas, phlox, etc. Next to the driveway is a long bed of strawberries on one side, hollyhocks on the other (they better bloom this year...).

The same idiots planted those awful corporate firebushes right next to a beautiful, graceful little Japanese maple. They were ruthlessly hacked to the ground. That's where some of the gazillion little bulbs went, and I keep having to sit outside next to it, looking at the teensy little species tulips (way hardier than hybridized), little miniature daffodils, grape hyacinths, and my beloved striped squills. They are just so beautiful and delicate and perfect together under the maple's unfurling scarlet leaves. Sigh.

The one thing the previous owners did really right was the giant border of peonies at the back of our yard. Our little backyard is kind of cool: the neighbors behind us have a thick, green cordon of different evergreen and flowering trees, so it adds some privacy, and really shows off the peonies when they bloom. At night out there, it's pitch black, which I love. I put in a big clump of fragrant daffodils that you can smell through the open windows in our bedroom, as well as all over the yard. They seem to be naturalizing.

Our yard. Well, let's say that grass is my sworn enemy. I hate lawns and think they're a waste. My dislike of the lawnmower, even the push kind, is likely behind this. So we put in about ten raised beds for veggies, as well as an herb and flower bed running along the whole side of the house. Uh, and then another bed around the birdbath. And one along side this little privacy screen we made... Okay, so the damn flowers are everywhere. I take full responsibility.

Which flowers? Oh, how nice of you to ask! Columbine, these creepy black iris that came with the house, more bulbs of various sorts, Joe Pie Weed (a massive, 8 ft explosion of a plant. And this is the minature one!), red valerian (very pretty and tough), bee balm, coneflower, brown eyed susans, Solomon's seal (such a beautiful shade lover!), butterfly bushes, lavender (if you're in the Midwest, try the Munsted variety; it doesn't mind our awful weather.), blah blah blah...

Okay, I'll stop. I know, I need to take a deep breath and step away from the trowel. Is there a 12-step program for gardeners with issues?

That wasn't so bad...

So, I'm already back from my dental adventure. Who would have thought that getting a screw in your head could be so easy? I'm a bit sore and numb, but other than that, I'm fine.

I was offered Halc1on, but as it's a Class X drug especially in early pregnancy, I decided to opt out. Am I the optimist or what?

Okay, I'm off to ice my face, eat soft foods, and read trashy books.

A Nice Day at the Orifice

If it's not one end, it's the other. My endless dental saga continues today with the penultimate step to replace the funkiest tooth in town--really, the dentists were emailing pictures of my genetically malformed tooth to each other and exclaiming that they hadn't seen something so bizarre since dental school. Today (sorry, this is gross), they put the titanium screw in, from whence will hang my fake tooth when the leaves fall. It takes about six months to heal and stabilize, before they can actually attach the pretty, external, toothy looking part of the implant.

Please, remind me that there will someday be an end to all this really, really expensive rooting around in my orifices. I'm ready for some new problems to deal with.

Still spot-free.

Thanks Again

...for all your kind thoughts and support regarding my dad. It means so much. I know a lot of you have been through or are going through similar things with your loved ones, and sharing your sympathy really helps a lot.

When People Resemble Their Blogs

...in a good way. I got to have a talk and a cookie with Io, who rules. She's just as cool, sassy, and clever as you'd think by her blog, and she somehow managed to take some time out from her busy schedule to meet up with me. I'm thrilled.

Perhaps because we'd read all sorts of dark, difficult shit about each other, the small talk felt more substantial and we could quickly get to interesting things about our lives and what matters to us. Io was even kind enough to listen to my ravings about my dissertation and its connections with Scooby Doo. And she did so stone-cold sober. I learned a lot about big city politics and Charlie's great escape and triumphant doggy return.

Who said nothing good ever came of IF?

This Weekend...

My parents drove up to come to the singing group's big spring concert. They came the second night and it was a bit rough: I have to admit it, I was a tad embarrassed by some of the hams in our group. I like to sing, and I think songs make for a good evening's entertainment, without any fancy-pants whistles and bells. Just make the music really good, and give the audience enough info so they can appreciate the songs' context (as much of our repertoire isn't in English). But some folks like to be on stage for its own sake. It irritates me.

Then, yesterday morning, my dad told me that he has cancer. It's early stage, very localized, and a common probles, so there are lots of treatment options, should the first line of attack fail. But it makes me really sad. The sweet man, he didn't want to burden me with something he didn't feel all that worried about. He wasn't taking the whole thing artificially lightly, but he knows he'll make it through this one. I feel strongly that he will, too.

Even without the "will he die?" question--I mean, my father will leave us eventually--it makes me so sad to think of him suffering. Even if it's only medications and a minor outpatient procedure. I've always been so close to my dad, and he has been such a good guide to me. So, basically, the point of all this is I'm very sad.

The Earth Moves

Earthquake! And I just felt an aftershock.

We woke at 5:30 this morning to what felt like a prolonged clap of thunder, only it was coming from underground. My guy and I bleerily looked at each other as the cats flipped out. "Earthquake," he said simply.

My heart pounded, though I knew we weren't in any danger. It was strangely exhilarating, to feel this great force of nature, the very ground beneath our feet, vibrating, resonating like a giant subwoofer. Nature usually slaps us Midwesterners around via clouds and wind and plagues of locusts, but not earthquakes.

I'm just awestruck.

Oh, and still no spotting.

Bizarre buds and a plan revised

It's an absolutely gorgeous sunny spring day, when the air is so rich and nourishing you wish you were off somewhere remote, like a big empty meadow, where you could jump around naked without anyone seeing you.

Did I mention I'm a hippy?

All sorts of things are coming up, and I'm happy that basically all my plants made it, except this stupid, huge salad burnet I bought on a whim. The bastard tasted like soap and took over way too much herb bed real estate. There are also these bizarre looking things that appear to be some kind of bulb from the gazillion I planted. They look like little pink toucan's beaks on long sticks. What the hell are they? I can't say.

I had a moment yesterday after my acupuncture appointment, when a cloud passed over what's been an incredibly sunny few weeks since Dr. Spunk did his womb-spedition. Even though my acupuncturist said everything felt really strong and balanced, my mind and therefore my mouth started spouting all sorts of gibberish about money and drugs and odds and annoyance at the thought of IVF. Basically, I got all ahead of myself and anxious for about fifteen minutes. My poor acupuncturist, who's more or less a friend, didn't quite get it and was being very kindly down to earth, but what I really wanted to some encouragement. I want a siboombah, not a "your body will do what it can."

Sigh. Don't you hate it when someone wonderful, like, 90% gets it? But is missing that crucial 10%?

I went away feeling foolish, one for revealing my madness and two for having the madness in the first place. I stopped by my husband's work, where he was taking a break and was in a very sweet, loving mood. I asked him if he would be willing to wait until July to try the drug route, and he said sure, that one month wouldn't matter and then we'd know for certainish that the surgery wasn't enough to knock me up. Fortunately, my guy is descended from a venerable line of E. European cheapskates, so he's more than willing to see if we can get babified for free.

If no luck, then we hit the injections. I've only got so much IF mojo in me, so we've decided to fuck the Clomid. It's stupid and it doesn't feel...health promoting, you know? Like it's doing something not so good to you. By the way, dear comrades, for those of you who can compare, how do the side effects of FSH measure up to CC? Besides the smack in the wallet?

Selfishly, I'm also looking forward to training for one extra month without having to worry about giant monster ovaries. And continuing this mad dissertating streak I'm on (I've written 20 decent pages in the last week). And not fixating on my ladyparts and their wacky ways.

Or at least, not too much...

Distraction! Distraction!

There are many gals out there right now, struggling with loss, cycle-angst, waiting. I always wish I could do something Martha Stewart-y like make them an origami wombat from handmade Peruvian paper that would spill goji berry truffles from its folded insides, but frankly, I'm just not that kind of gal. And it's near impossible to email an origami wombat.

So instead, I recommend directing your browser (as our annoying NPR affiliate so snootily puts it) to this estimable wikipedia article.

It is a very valuable review of the recent history of Russian humor. It is offensive. It is fantastic.

My personal favorite, which likely reveals a lot about me on some level:

Lieutenant Rzevsky (a stock character in one branch of the great Russian joke family) and Natasha Rostova (of War and Peace fame) are riding together through the glorious Russian countryside. "Lieutenant, what a beautiful meadow!" cries Natasha, clapping her lily white hands together with joy. "Guess what I see there?" — "Ass, mademoiselle?" — "Oh my dear lieutenant, no! I see chamomile daisies!" — "How romantic, mademoiselle! An ass amid chamomiles!.."

An ass amid chamomiles. I think that's the working title of my autobiography.

Very superstitious

[cue that awesome line from the Stevie Wonder song]

So, I was sure that me writing my oh so positive post about being spot-free would scare the Dread Pirate Spot out from his lair. In fact, I almost didn't mention it, convinced I'd jinx myself.

But guess what! I'm still crazy, of course, but I was wrong. Clear as a whistle.

You see, in the past, I swore there was a connection between me mentioning to some very, very close friend--like my bestest buddy from New York who is both herbalist and physician's assistant--and it starting the next day, or even the next hour. At the end of my cycle, I knew that even entertaining the happy thought of possible pregnancy would equal icky spots the next morning. Sort of like the magical, period-beckoning powers of the peestick.

I guess we humans are hard wired to start making up weird rules and interconnections when we face a situation that defies our logic and runs out of our control. I'm having a hard time believing that the surgery actually helped, that after years of being told nothing was clear and nothing could be done, that it's done. Just like that. Problem solved, more or less. This little, awful thing that was torturing me, riddling my worst hours with thoughts of life-threatening diseases and permanent sterility, might be over. I still can't embrace this thought, fully, for fear that I'll get kicked in the gut by some silly streaks on the toilet paper. Such a little thing, and yet it's held such a big place in my life.

Taxing

Cold, especially cold wind, taxes plants. But despite temperatures dipping near the fateful freezing mark, the blossoms in our backyard are holding on. This makes me happy.

Something else that makes me happy: We owe fewer taxes than we thought we would. With the stimulus checks, we'll be just fine. Though I have to say, you'd be amazed at how much you can owe as a grad student.

Finally, good news on the hooha front: no spotting yet this cycle. For this, I am grateful. It's CD 17, and nothing midcycle (which I've had for years, even before the really creepy spots appeared). Just nice egg whitey stuff. And I feel so good physically.

Damn it, feeling good is so boring.

The singing group I'm in is preparing for our big concerts this Friday and Saturday. Everyone is on edge, especially because one member has an OCD-type personality and has trouble with delegating responsibility. Or, actually, she can delegate, but then she just redoes everything herself. I've somehow managed to keep myself out of the drama zone, but we've got two mega-rehearsals this week and I don't know how long my composure will last. How does every supposedly pleasant activity turn from art into bizarre playgrounds of the ego?

Actually, it's y'all

So, some overly kind and indulgent commentors asked me what my secret was after a particularly sane post a few days back. I just figured it out: It's you guys.

Now I feel like I'm pulling something akin to that stupid Time "Person of the Year" award a few years ago. You! You did it!

But it's true. I won't have been able to feel so good and able to cope if you hadn't shared your stories, dark moments, anxieties, joys, hopes, etc. with me, and comforted me in mine. I wrote a while back about how I first turned to blogs in hopes of knowing my future. I wanted to find out what was wrong with me and read about someone who figured it out and got knocked up or "cured" or whatever. I read obsessively in spurts and usually went away upset and twice as anxious.

Now, I get this curious sense of human interaction, of a sorts. And that is very calming and healing. I see all kinds of women struggling, and I know there's nothing particularly special or heinous about me. My evil brush with slutdom didn't cause this, nor did my alcohol misuse, nor my "waiting." None of us, regardless of our past decisions, deserve to be here. We just are, and what will happen depends more on our wallets and random chance than our rectitude and worthiness.

So, thank you. You've done so much, with just your words.

More boring drivel from the ivory tower

I showed my advisor my first dis chapter yesterday. He liked it! He said it was the freshed, most interesting chapter he'd read on my general area and topic in a long, long time. I'm so relieved: I've been sticking to the appropriate academic tone, but I want to keep things as lively as possible. So I put in all the oddest stories I've come across. I think truly bizarre examples say a lot.

This, and some other positive academic developments, are the perfect distraction from my less fantastic achievements of being Baby's Bane and getting my poor translation project kicked to the curb by academic publisher after academic publisher.

I think the rejection hurts differently, though. When I've been convinced I'm pregnant--though never convinced enough to relax and POAS--and then gotten my period, I've felt let down and baffled and thwarted by forces I don't understand. The rejection letters make me feel more let down and insulted and injured by people I don't know. After all, this is my creation that I have full control over, and no one wants to take it seriously. At least, not yet.

The nice thing is: if I never get this silly thing published, it's not a tragedy. This somehow makes it easier to get all stubborn about it, to work harder and feel that I'm getting somewhere. Even if the only other person who sees it is my advisor.

Magnolias

This year, the magnolias are representing. Last year, they were blasted by a last, late frost, taking most of the blossoms of fruit trees along with them. The peach at the overgrown edge of our backyard failed to produce a single fruit.

This year, the porcelain and blush buds are creeping open and a faint scent fills the air. In the evening, it mingles with hyacinths and the smell of good, raw earth.

I just feel so good right now, engaged in my writing, sound in mind and body, somehow strong enough to quiet my own torturous mental meanderings down the paths of what-ifs, delusions of surprise pregnancies, and possible money-sucking procedures. I think about the nervous hope I held last year, when I finally had a few spot-free cycles and I was just so sure I would be pregnant in a matter of weeks. That hope, like the magnolias, was blasted in bud. After that, hope seemed pointless.

No such grasping confidence this year. Just a feeling that life is unfolding as it will, and that I'm doing my damnedest to be healthy. I want to use this time to gather my strength, should I need to take that long, needly march into IF land. I want to remember this grounded feeling of fortitude, and carry it with me into those dark places I am so afraid to reach.

Stupid Things I Have Done, Part VI

Thank heavens, not something that happened during my presentation, which went very well. Everyone on my panel was really interesting and supportive, being much further along in their careers than I am. I got to catch up with some old friends I haven't seen in a while, see a city I'd never seen before, have some fun road trip action with my guy.

Enter stupidity. We were driving back yesterday, making good time, and we decided to stop at Mammoth Cave National Park in southern Kentucky. A lovely spot, and a very interesting park. At the very first pull off we spotted, we parked and noticed a trail map. Cool! Just what we needed after a long drive and a weekend of poor diet involving ice cream and breakfast buffets. It was a hike/bike trail and looked like it would be about ten miles to the end and back. We merrily set off on the level gravel trail, hand in hand.

It was all very fun at first: the interesting historical signs, the lovely woods, the increasingly sunny day. Until we went down a huge hill and suddenly realized we weren't anywhere near the end. My guy started to get really frustrated and thirsty. Having had a less Southern breakfast than he had, I for my part was feeling lightheaded, and my hippy shoes, which I had worn thinking the trail was too developed to require hiking shoes and socks, were biting into my feet. At the side of the road in front of us, plump families sucked down large bottles of liquid and feasted on ample picnic spreads. With my hubby reaching his breaking point, we decided to turn around, since we had no idea how much further ahead the visitors center/end of the trail lay.

The first mile after we turned around was awful. We trudged silently along, feeling every pang of our discomfort. But then, slowly but surely, we started to feel fine again. Our pace quickened. Soon we were swinging along, talking and even laughing. The lightheadedness turned to a minor pang in my stomach, the pain in my feet dulled to a minor annoyance, and my guy stopped glowering at every puddle he couldn't drink from and looking like he was on the verge of assaulting every biker with a water bottle.

By the time we reached the car, we were very happy, but no longer distressed. The stupid thing--setting off on a 12-mile hike with bad shoes and no water--became a humorous adventure, as well as a lesson of sorts. I touched the edge of my endurance, and saw that there was so much more there my body could give and adjust to. We had just scratched the surface, and we were built to handle so much more.

Toward the end of the Kentucky march, we saw something extraordinary: a bright yellow and black butterfly. Though spring is definitely further along there than it is in our neck of the woods, I was really surprised to see it, the only indication of larger insect life on our very long walk. I couldn't help but think, "it's a sign." Of what? I can't say. But my guy and I laughed out loud when we saw it, fluttering past us and high up into the trees.

Gone Fishin'

I'm off to a major Southern metropolis, to an academic conference for a few days. I'll be back Sunday, and will return to blogland then.

Squills

This spring has been particularly chilly and gloomy, more Twin Peaks than the usual roaring Midwestern spring with its confusing ups and downs. But the plants are getting a slow, steady dose of rain and they are gently emerging from the clay (it's all clay here, folks). In a fauna parallel, the little peepers in the cattails nearby have begun their high froggy white noise. It's all very soothing.

Yesterday, my MIL came over for dinner, as she often does on Mondays. The sun was starting to go down behind the thick layer of clouds that has sat over us for the past week or so, and a few raindrops were falling. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I noticed something tiny and white under the Japanese maple in the front yard. I excused myself and dashed outside, kneeling down.

It was the striped squills, Puschkinia. They were so delicate and small and beautiful, white with a pale stripe down the center, in little clusters. Not far from them, the deep blue Siberian squills bloomed.

It was so heartening to see something... working. Doing what was expected. Coming up and blooming. I feel like I've been on an endless, trudging walk lately. There is always more work to do, no matter how I push to cross things off my academic to-do list. There are the requisite rejection letters that are slowly trickling in regarding my book proposal. There's the endless IF death march. It was nice to see something that was just--done. And done so beautifully.

Aw, Shucks.

Before I do anything else this morning, I have to thank dear, sweet Luna for passing along a little love late last week, in the form of the "less-than-three," a graphic, not quantitative measure of bloggy affection. Behold!


I'd like to pass the love along to two of my many, many favorite bloggers: Ahuva Batya, who has so much heart and humor, and Mrs. X, who blogs with such dignity. Thanks, ladies, for your words and your kindness.