I am at school, Palm Beach Community College, in the library computer lab. It is a comforting place with the subdued murmerings of people, the soft "fleip floip" of sandels, and the quick pit-pattering of keys as people type. There is a feeling of contented productivity--no rush, no panic (three weeks until finals), and row upon row of focused faces. I like school. I like this school--especially for me right now. I am only auditing a math class--beginning the process toward a PhD in math. I never finished my English PhD and don't have the interest in starting that over again. There is nothing that I would want to spend a year reading or thinking about where English literature is concerned. If I could find a program that explored the relationship between writing and learning, I would love that--but at the moment, I am too wrapped up in Nathan and Brent and my garden to look too far abroad for that.

I have been so very caught up in the past--my past--these last two weeks. Re-hanging the pictures and artwork that Brent and I have collected over the past 25 years.

A tall, tan, grey-haired man just signed in to the lab. He reminds me of Brent--the way he walks, the unconcerned look on his face. I miss Brent during the day. Somehow just hearing his voice over the phone doesn't fill the ache that I feel when he is away from me.

I have found pictures that I'd forgotten. Brent's parents will be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this summer and I'd also been going through our family photo albums to find pictures for a PowerPoint that Mikie is making as a surprise. Pictures of mom, Brent, Martha, my two brothers, Susan--my three children as infants and in school. Pictures from Utah, Iowa, Texas, Argentina, Florida--other family members and family friends. I see a much older face in the mirror now (I have been focusing on what I look like to myself, and the world) and I understand why a bit better after reviewing all of this history. There are almost 50 years of living in my face--it is good that I look different after all of it.

Oysters, bunt cakes, limp bunnies, photos, family, missing Brent, summer suntans, don't cut your hair because then you won't be beautiful any more, confessions of a fabricaholic, corrugated plastic, clay pots, there will be none of that nonsense here, And we began to live after the manner of happiness. I am not always pleased with the skin on the face I have or how the dark circles under my eyes betray sleepless nights--but I am very pleased with the life that has gone on underneath the skin. I could have never have thought that I could be this happy.

It is past midnight--tomorrow is Saturday. Aphid annihilation is on the docket. I was taking photographs of the buds on my gardenia tree--it's a carolyn thing--and there were aphids all over the newest leaves. Not good. I lost an entire rose garden to mold. It maybe impossible to control Florida humidity. I will not go down easy into the good night on the aphid thing. Living "Green" be --whatever--ed. Tomorrow. Aphids out fertilizer on.

Those two thoughts are not necessarily connected.

Another carolyn thing.

The bumblebee was a fantastic extra from my foray into my yard/personal forest. Cool.

Bumblebee Florida

Roo looks down, too

Peter from down-under

Nathan Alexander in Florida in April

It is April and my own computer is currently wounded. I am making due with the family-mostly-Brent-computer. He got himself a tiny portable for taking notes at his meetings. He has also begun to scan the huge pile of papers ("documents") that constantly surround him. I am trying to be supportive, but it seems that he needs more time to fix my "help" than it would take him to just do it himself. Kind of like having your toddler clean up his own spilt milk--you can either teach a principle--or actually get the mess cleaned up. I usually chose to work with the child first and then avoid the area until I could return to finish up the job alone. Brent doesn't have the luxury of so much time--so he suffers with patience and love--so that I can feel like I am an essential part of his life.
I had to pick up timothy hay yesterday. In the store, there were two entirely exquisite dwarf rabbits just come in from the breeder. I indulged myself and picked up the smaller of the two. She was black with doberman pincer markings--tiny puff-white bits of fluff and whisker on each side of her nose and mouth. Fearless, she got her bearings and then began to explore my shoulder and cheek. It reminded me of Peter when I first met him. He has continued to own the house--I didn't think that I could handle another type-A personality. I do pray, though, that she is adopted by a person with wisdom and intelligence who knows what it takes to provide a nurturing home for such an animal.
Rabbits, like toddlers, need space and time and understanding.