This is a picture of the moonflower I went out to sniff.  It smelled pretty good.  These are large flowers, about 6" across.  This is the plant  across from the pizza parlor, and the last time I tried to smell it was in the evening, and the aroma of baking bread and pepperoni was overwhelming the delicate fragrance.  This time we went in the morning, so the flowers, which open at night, were getting ready to wilt. It wasn't as fragrant as I remember. I got there just a few days before the frost.  Glad I did. 

Perhaps I do this to myself....

Woke up early this morning and came out here to see what I could research about grieving the loss of a church.  I often feel a sadness when I think about my church.  But the article was about leaving an unhealthy church and the grief process, and I haven't left my church. 

Around Thursday, I begin to steel myself for another Sunday morning.  Sunday morning comes and my disinclination to go to church grows until it looks like a mountain I have to climb. When I actually get there it isn't as bad as I think it will be, yet every Sunday it seems to be the same story.

If you went to my church, you'd probably like it.  The pastor is charming and except for a few bobbles, preaches a good biblical sermon.  I look around at some of the new faces and they seem to be enjoying it. 

This morning I began to wonder if I was in the stages of a grief process over my church. Have I divorced my church and not left?  Is what I am experiencing something like PTSD?   I had a disagreement with my church about music, and I got very hurt and angry.  It doesn't help to tell myself it is a small thing to get upset about, (I've tried) it doesn't help to tell myself I don't really have a right to be so angry, (I've tried) it doesn't help to try to shame myself that my upset is really about wounded pride, (I've tried).  I had a real need, and almost nobody took me seriously. (I didn't canvass the entire congregation, I didn't want to stir up a church fight.) It showed me I didn't have the relationship there I thought I did.  I still don't understand why I have such an intense reaction to the problem, which went away over a year ago. 

I tried to leave.  I went to other churches, but I was like a cat who's been petted against the fur to the point that the next hand near me gets a claw.  Also, I think my church is still better than them.  Has anybody else been through this?  I miss those days I was involved and happy in my church.  I would like to not have to work up resolve to go to church every Sunday.

First Frost/Grape Gathering

Yesterday the weather forecast was 24 degrees overnight, our first frost, so Mr. M. and I harvested the grapes.  These are the original concord grapes that grew all over here when I was young.  Even in town, when I was in Jr. High the way to school was over an abandoned grape farm.  The irrigation furrows and the planting beds were still marked into the soil, and it was a challenge I enjoyed; running over them in such a way that I missed the furrows and landed squarely on the flat planting bed with every step.  It wasn’t dignified to run to school in Jr. High, but since I was often late, I often did.  We had to wear dresses and therefore dressy shoes, and  that increased the difficulty.  Running over the furrows was one of the few things I remember liking about school then.

In September, it was a family activity; driving out west of town with the windows down to smell the grapes.  There are still a few fields, but that potent cloud of ripening concord grape scent that used to permeate the region has dissipated as building has spread west.  I miss it.  I still LOVE that smell.

And we are part of the building that has spread west.  Where we live is on an abandoned grape farm.  When we applied water to the soil, a few surviving grapes began to sprout.  Any plant that shows that kind of initiative after twenty or so years of drought, (6-9 inches of rainfall annually) deserves to be encouraged, so we trellised a few and I was delighted to have them.

The actual concord harvest was more than a week ago, but Mr. M. and I were waiting for every last bit of sugar.  I am glad we waited.  When we started picking, we could see the yellowjacket wasps had been working them over.  In several clusters we found them sleeping, (or dead,) curled up inside an empty grape skin.  Thank goodness it was too cold for them to be active, and we didn’t get stung.  There were also spiders living inside the tighter clusters.  These were definitely still active.  I told Mr. M that I thought it would be a wonderful place to live, surrounded by dusty blue fragrant globes, and he pointed out that it would be right until somebody picked your home. 

Mr. M. did the lion’s share of picking them off the stems for juicing, and he was the one who dealt with the dispossessed spiders.  We juiced two batches.   Grape juice steam is right up there with pumpkin pie as a quintessential smell of autumn.  Mr. M. even cleaned my purple sink, -what a guy!

I can not get used to the sun rising so late in the morning. One good thing about it,  I do get to see the stars if I wake up early enough.  Early morning stargazing is good because it seems darker in the early hours of the a.m. than in the p.m. before I go to sleep. 

When we were visiting Secunda and the Pan, we stayed up  to see the meteor shower that occurs every August.  I think I may have seen one meteor -I wanted to go in, it was a little mosquito-y and cold out there.  Now I wish I had braved the bugs and the temperature longer. 

I still need to smell a moonflower before my summer checklist is complete.  I have eaten tomatoes off the vine and spit watermelon seeds off the porch.  A moonflower and perhaps a picnic and I think this summer will be pretty full.

I remember.

I remember where I was when Secunda called that morning.  She had a summer job weighing potato trucks and was watching the news at her desk.

I remember the surreal horror of watching another plane plow into the second tower as the first tower burned.

I remember the feel of the next few days. We were one nation, united in grief and resolve to never let it happen again.

I remember the churches were packed that Sunday.

I remember bursting into tears at random moments.

I remember trying to hide it from my brand new German foreign exchange student. 

I remember she thought it was awful how patriotic these Americans were.

I remember being so apprehensive about what would happen next.

I remember the concerns about anthrax.

I remember being annoyed by the marketing blitz, and by the tattered condition of some of the flags on car antennaes, though I liked they still expressed a feeling that seemed to be fading.

I remember the National Guard at the airport, searching car trunks as we drove in.

I remember the ridiculous concerns about not profiling.  My mother had her grandmother's embroidery scissors taken away.

I remember the drift into complacency.

I remember the Bible calls us to seek wisdom and love the Truth. I am beginning to see what that means, to love the Truth.

"A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. Our helper, He, admid the flood of mortal ills prevailing."

Where are you, my dear America?  Wake up! Come back to yourself. Remember.