Dancing with myself

Have you heard that song? Research tells me it's a Billy Idol song - a guy I don't know much about. But the one I like is by "Nouvelle Vague". It took me awhile to figure out what she was saying. And she just keeps saying it over and over. "Dancing with myse-elf".
That's what I do. I dance with myself.
It started innocently enough - adding background music to the workouts in my bedroom.
Before I realized what was happening, I was dancing all over the room.
And I continue to do this. Sometimes, I overdo it - the muscles in my arms get sore. I threw out the 5 pound weights I was dancing with. Then I threw out the 3 pound weights. Now I'm down to my old 2-pounders. I've had those babies for 20 years.
I'll dance to anything. Oscar Peterson. Feist. That Taylor Swift girl. Even when Lang Lang plays Hungarian Rhapsody - now that's wild! And the volume goes up and up.
"I've started dancing with myself" I said to a girlfriend the other day.
"Oh. Really?"

Bird Feeder

When we get a lot of snow, and the feeder is empty, the birds can't find anything to eat. The snow covers the stray seeds that drop to the deck.
The red-headed woodpeckers are the culprits. They have this "jerky" way of feeding. Their heads bound into the feeder and seeds blast out everywhere. I can hear them against the kitchen window - "that pesky woodpecker is back again". It's like they were having a seizure of some kind. Sometimes, they'll leave an enormous mound of seeds on the floor of the deck. Which bugs me no end. But it's all right. Because in the wildlife world, every seed will eventually be eaten.
But when there's a big dump of snow, the tiny chickadees can't get through to them.
Right after breakfast, I fill the feeder. This causes a frenzy in the neighborhood. The tweets and twitters are out of control, and there's not enough that can be said. I talk right back. "Okay, Okay - don't get your shirt in a knot. There's plenty here for everyone".
By the time I get back to the kitchen window, the traffic is wild. Little birds everywhere.
Oh no - there's the woodpecker again!

Insight

You know that "Aha!" moment?
I was reading an article about it. The human brain is fascinating. I'm convinced it's the biggest miracle of the world. The more we learn about it, the more we realize how little we know.
I loved the imagery in the article - the "conductor" stands at the podium right inside your forehead. He directs the brain from there.
Insight doesn't repond well to intensity. You have to leave it alone for a bit. You can't push it. You put in all the details and walk away.
Just like memory - I'll think of it, he says. I'll think of it. And sure enough - when he's brushing his teeth, there it is. Crossword puzzles are another good example. The word is so close. You fall asleep and when you pick it up with the second cup of coffee, there it is. Magic.
The left hemisphere is the "strictly business" part of the brain. The right hemisphere is the "let's go for a walk and relax" part of the brain. Insight seems to come from here.

Death

No woman expects to watch her daughter die.
I have a relative who did this. We've not been good friends so I wasn't sure how difficult this had been for her. But recently I've discovered that she's struggling.
I've been sitting here trying to write her a letter.
What can I say? I read someplace that we angst too much about this - that simply saying you are heartbroken and sad is quite enough
I have a son who is exactly the same age as this girl who died. In fact, I just talked with him on the phone. "Mom, I'm devastated. I had a crush on this girl when I was 8. It's cruel. It's just too cruel to find out that she is dead."
Death happens. It happens. What else can you say.

Poetry

I've taken to poetry these last years.

Strange. The poetry, I mean. Some of it's really strange.

But it's more fun than it used to be. It doesn't have to rhyme and it can be about anything. The last one I read was about sitting on a bus beside a really fat guy. Trying to find room for your arm on the arm rest, and feeling very very small. And yet somehow comforted.

I get a daily Writer's Almanac in my email. It always starts with a poem. Today's poem was about spring. I noticed a strange thing as I read it. One word was repeated from the previous sentence. Usually a verb.

The poetry in my New Yorker magazine can be weird. It seems to jump from thought to thought and they don't seem to go together. Is this a test?, I'm thinking. Am I supposed to catch your meaning here?

But even if there's a cartoon on the same page - I read the poem first. And if I like it, I put it on the frig door. Life moves in delightful patterns, don't you think?