This morning I woke up thinking of round river rocks. Spring is beginning to soften to summer, time to hike again. Here is eastern Washington, the sky is so different, clouds move quickly, changing colors, shifting shapes, then the unadorned sky remains, that unforgettable sky blue, the color of the gods, protection. I never see a turquoise without feeling warmed by these stones.

Round river rocks remind me of how I tried to learn how to skip rocks, that magical skipping when you throw a rock and it makes these hops before sinking down, its own waves. Allen was there. He taught me to hold the rock just so, slant my wrist, and then throw with force. I only tried once, for my rock slammed into some little kid's stomach.

Tomorrow we go back on the road, south to Oregon, and we're both ready to see again the Willamette Valley, our friends, and those places along the river we used to walk. I think we've been in Spokane long enough to call it home. It feels good to sink into the geography of a place, to come to know the stones, the waterfalls, so full now with melting snow and rain, and family here, close to my heart.

Yesterday we hiked through the Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge with members of the Spokane Audubon Association, who were more than generous with their spotting scopes. We saw the elusive and rare Trumpeter swans in flight; our favorites, Yellow-headed Blackbirds perched on cattails, Ruddy Ducks with brilliant blue beaks, and a Great Horned Owl with two little owlets.

Best of all, we hiked through these wetlands and Ponderosa Pine forests, surrounded by just-blooming Camas and lots of bird song. We surprised a Western Bluebird (male) popping into a nest and spotted a very fat coyote on a faraway field. Apparently winter was mild here, and hunting was good. Still, a few minutes later, that coyote circled around and scouted our group, close enough to make us a little nervous. It was fatter than any coyote I've ever seen, fat enough to be taken for a wolf. Don't mess with mother nature.

Five hours of walking and sighting maybe 30 new birds brought us home with sore feet and a renewed appreciation for wetlands. Enjoy the pictures!



Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge

Spring has sprung here in Spokane. The air is filled with the sharp sweet smell of cherry blossoms. Sparrows, crows, robins, chickadees, and sneaker hummingbirds all chirp almost hysterically. Some 75 degrees today. Time to pack away those sweaters, though Rachel tells me it once snowed here in June.

The Dirty Dozen Band, featured on NPR, had a special song for Allen as his plantar fasciatis has reactivated. Check out their rousing rendition of "My Feet Can't Fail Me Now!" Good news, better sensation in that left foot. Bad news, too much walking brought that fasciatis back! Now he has the "boot" (foot splint) to wear every night. But he progresses steadily and is beginning to talk about possible trips. What siren song calls us to travel to Ireland for two weeks in the fall? Maybe? All depends on the neurologist if Allen can fly by then.

Meanwhile, we're going vegan, following dear Uncle Gerry's gift of Dr. Barnard's book, Breaking the Food Seduction. We're on Day 4, and I can report that tofu is fine, nutritional yeast also works well, but soy yogurt may be a taste too far.

This morning it snowed. I was up early, about 6 am, and saw three deer in the field next to our apartment. My grandfather would have gotten the gun and talked about the wonderful flavor of venison, but I just watched them graze, their brown bodies nearly hidden in the gusting snow, the grasses still brown and yellow from winter. Every so often, one would lift its head and peer around. Allen says these suburban deer know very well how to survive in this block-sized woods. But I worry about them, how they cross Freya Street, whether they go up the hill, to sleep safely, hidden under the pines.

Allen's finished his medical tests (head to toe and more), and he's cleared to train for his cross-country bike trip (scheduled maybe next summer). I think we're going to be vegetarians. Mostly. Our apartment feels more and more like home, though we're still settling in. I unpacked five more boxes of books yesterday. The next two weeks we'll be traveling -- to Leavenworth with friends, then down to Corvallis. I'll miss my quilting ladies and Rachel and Nick, but all is well.

Rachel says I should be honest. I'm not sure I trust the future in the same way before Allen's stroke and our move here back to the Pacific Northwest. Most mornings begin with writing and revising, and that goes well. Maybe in another two months, I will be finished with Standing Stones, a novel of the clearances in 19th Century Scotland. But I haven't been writing poetry.

This month I'm trying to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. What wonderful creativity others have posted, and what a rich tradition we writers can be inspired by -- those who have written before us, those who are writing now, those who post prompts (Sunday Scribblings, Carry On Tuesday), and those who read our work. And those who have the courage to look past the superficial.

I'm still remembering Peter S. Beagle's poem about the unicorn tapestries in his latest collection, We Never Talk About My Brother, and another writer friend who has written the most beautiful poem, "All Things Matter II" in response to this prompt from Carry on Tuesday: Write a poem that uses this line somewhere: "We are each the love of someone’s life".

So if a poem is a kind of meditation, an opening of the heart, a joining to a writing community that stretches well past the field outside my window, then I am as honest as I can be.

Quilt on . . .

The Waterford Quilters opened their annual show today, this sunny Saturday in Spokane. Nearly 150 quilts were on display, and the show featured Georgie Gerl, an accomplished quilter who specializes in stunning quilt designs. Many of her quilts are featured in Asian Fabric, a magazine for passionate quilters. My two-sided African quilt was on display with the rest -- the slide show has just a few pictures (I'm still getting used to being in one place AND taking pictures).



Waterford Quilters

I've come to love my Thursdays with this group of 10-15 women who meet to work on various stages of WIPs, applique, hand quilting, and counted cross stitch. We talk more than we stitch, but stitch we do as we admire each others' works in progress.

Allen and I just came back from a week's stay in Corvallis, a nice 6-1/2 hour drive south to Oregon, over the Columbia River, past Mt. Hood, down the Willamette Valley, almost still our home, and a chance to see friends, hours of good talk, hugs, and promises to return. Then back we came, north to Spokane, where, at 4,000 feet, winter still can be seen in bare trees and in traces of snow last night.

Updates . . .

I haven't been writing. Maybe nobody noticed. Since Allen's stroke, which was mild, our life has changed dramatically. After the flurry of moving into a new apartment, unpacking, and finding doctors, food, and library, we're finally at home. At home enough to think about traveling south to visit friends. The docs say it will be ok. On the seven-and-a-half drive, we'll need to take a stretch break every hour. Except I worry if he'll really be all right. And that's the reality behind this blog. Not every day is a good day. Allen says it's ok to say that.

Earlier this week, we passed our tiny wetland, really just a marshy pond, fenced all around. Sometimes we've seen mallards poking through the reeds. This sunny afternoon, we heard a frog croaking, a sign of coming spring. The next morning, the hills were dusted with light snow. Nothing like the east coast, but still snow. And now the little pond is silent. I remind myself it's February. March and April will come.

I checked in at Subversive Stitchers to find the work of Rose Hughes profiled along with the most amazing healing quilts. What a rich mix of pure creativity and quilting resources from this online community. Not to mention courage and hope. And so I've pulled my quilting out and will try to piece together a healing quilt for those I love.

Ordinary days . . .

I should be grateful for ordinary days. The morning begins sunny and bright here in Spokane, a high of 44 today. This would be a respite for family and friends on the east coast, struggling with snow drifts nearly as high as the cars they've dug out, with another, hopefully smaller storm coming in next week.

Our life seems more normal every day. Ordinary. We've been in Spokane under a month now, Allen's making steady but very slow progress. He begins physical therapy next week. The hardest part of recovering from a stroke is, for me, internal. Every time Allen has a headache or is tired, I worry about another stroke. Some days, he does have less energy. Some days, he's almost his old self. He's able to walk for up to about 25 minutes most days. He's reading again. And we have gone to the movies, out to dinner, and will go to Rachel and Nick's next concert on Sunday, Mozart's Requiem. I'm not sure we'll make it through the entire performance, but we'll still hear part.



Some things we used to take for granted, we can't any more. Allen encourages me to connect with our new community, to make it my home. I've gone grocery shopping by myself, took my first Yoga class yesterday, and as I drive around the neighborhood by myself, I wonder if this is my future.

Yesterday I submitted Standing Stones to the literary contest at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. That was more than stressful, but I learned so much from the process and from critiques by two valued online writer-friends. Of course I found a typo AFTER I sent the sub in. But it's turned in. On time.

I just finished reading Sue Monk Kidd's The Mermaid Chair, a delight I've postponed for several years. But the narrator paints mermaids! The story of Sedna and Asnara appear in the story. The reader is drawn inside a marriage that has for too long been stagnant. Kidd's ability to build sympathetic characters, believable conflicts, achingly beautiful settings, and poignant reflections is infinitely satisfying.

I'm used to posting pictures and impressions of our wild and far flung travels here. Everything has changed. I don't know quite what to write now, perhaps just to consider the ordinary, the amazing gift of each day.