dance

When my oldest daughter graduated from the university, the master of her college used, in her commencement speech, the lyrics of the song, “don’t sit it out, dance” as a kind of youthful metaphor for pushing forward. I liked that. Don’t sit on your butt, dance.

Four years later, when my youngest graduated (same master, same college), in her speech, the master again, oh so casually, brought up the lyrics.

And each time, I cried.

But, fact is, sometimes you have to sit it out.

Today, I could have been kayaking down Wisconsin rivers. I could have been sitting on a Pierrerue patio and watching the sun pass over the grapevines. I could have been (oh, how sweetly close it feels now!) at a Mediterranean bay, watching people let loose on a summer day.

None of the above. Instead, I ride my bike out on the Capitol City trail, past my favorite field of dancing black eyed susans (and that is the only dancing you’ll read about today, here on Ocean),




..past fields where the farmers still hoe their land,





… to Ed’s place, where I leave my bike and take over his under $1000 Ford pick-up.

I’m in the Midwest. Driving a pick-up on a warm Satruday afternoon. I’m moving this week and I take pride in the fact that I am moving myself, by myself.

The very first items transferred to my new place? Terra cotta pots. Soil. Flowers.





The unit isn’t actually finished and so I water the newly planted flowers with toilet water, scooped with a Styrofoam packing piece, left over from who knows what.

It’s the 14th. I go back to the loft, fix a dinner with French bread and watch the Tour de France. With rose champagne, gratis Ed. Thank you, Ed.




I’m not dancing this week. Bear with me, okay?