Seeds, Sentiment, Magic

Sorry to illustrate a post about seeds with a flower I grew from a bulb, but hey, this is what's blooming in my garden today. The photo shows my little rock iris.

Today I started to plant my garden. Well, that's the truth if you don't mind a little embroidery. My garden is entirely indoors, so far, and all I planted was a slew of impatiens seeds.

It's hard not to get, well, impatient while planting those little buggers. They're small. Very small. I have to take off my glasses to see them. I end up hunched over the seeds and the flats like a clumsy horticultural Mr. Magoo. And so they make me feel old. Planting tiny seeds relentlessly tracks my presbyopia from year to year. (If you clicked on that link, you're probably young enough not to worry about it yet.) One of these years I'm going to need bifocals. For now, I can get by without them, but only because I can leverage my nearsightedness, Magoo-like.

Anyway. There aren't a whole lot of smart reasons to grow impatiens from seed. They're readily available from any nursery - even Wal-Mart. It's true I want a lot of them (for my too-abundant shady beds) and I'll save a little money by starting them myself. That is the official rationale.

If I'm honest about it, though, I'll admit it's not really about economizing. Not at all. I just love seeds. And so I'll promiscuously start almost anything indoors, weeks before I can really garden outside. I keep watch on the seed coat as it softens and relents. I'm spellbound by the improbability of the seed leaf emerging from its harsh husk, sometimes after years of dormancy, wakened from sleep by the kiss of moisture. I hold my breath in fear of damping off (the plague of seedlings). I'll dab my own spit on any recalcitrant seed coat that threatens to trap the leaves, then coax out the tender greenery. So much wonder and anticipation even before the first true leaves, never mind the flower and fruit.

I'm no different from my son the Tiger, who planted beans in his kindergarten class last week. He doesn't know exactly what to expect. He just knows they're magic. And he's waiting for that magic beanstalk to emerge, leading places only he can imagine.

The World Sparkles and Spins to a Halt

Last time I posted a picture of this vine, it bore a clematis blossom.

Today we woke up to an ice storm that kept the kids home from school for the third day running. They'll be home tomorrow, too; we've blown through all of our snow days, and then some.

The university closed due to weather for only the second time in the past eight years. In Columbus, Ohio State canceled classes, too.


All this ferocious beauty. The neighbors' Japanese maple was one of the few trees that seems not to have lost any twigs or boughs. Lots of people lost power. I got lucky.


Oddly, we had a lake in our backyard in the midst of all the snow and ice. In the foreground, you can see my butterfly bush, bowed but not quite broken. It's an apt enough metaphor for all us beleaguered parents, wondering when our kids will ever return to school.

My boys have been pretty great about letting me tinker with lecture material while they play. The Bear has even shoveled snow as stoically as his North Dakotan ancestors. (It probably helped that I bribed him.) We're just all really ready to get back to a normal routine.

As for me, I've felt a bit better the past two days, though still far from normal: less tremor-ish and a lot less stupid. I'm off the Bactrim now but the improvement predates that. So the mystery thickens, and we're doing more tests. I luckily got in to see my doctor yesterday ... because today, even the clinic was shuttered due to the storm.

A Bear, A Tiger, and an Awesome Inauguration

I watched the inaugural festivities in the university's grand (i.e., scandalously expensive) new student center, surrounded by dozens of friends and colleagues and happy strangers. (Oh, and my husband, too.) We shared high-fives when Biden supplanted Darth Cheney. We cheered when the clock struck noon and made Barack Hussein Obama our 44th president. And I wasn't the only one who spent most of the hour teary-eyed. I am, as the Germans say, "built close to the water," but yesterday seemed to a high-water day for an awful lot of people.

My kids had a different take on it. The Bear thought the ceremony was "very cool," but his class had to do math worksheets while the TV droned in the background. Aaargh! History in the making, and the kids are cramming for those damn standardized tests! I have sympathy for the third-grade teachers, who are evidently feeling the crunch from all the snow closures; we've had five days with two-hour delays, plus three actual snow days. But still!

The Tiger watched the inauguration in the cafeteria at lunchtime. His take? "It was not awesome." (The Tiger currently divides his whole world into two categories: awesome and not awesome.) And why not? "There were only grow-mutts." Only adults. He was only slightly mollified when I told him about Sasha being close to his age - and apparently about as bored as he was.

Aside from those few miniature dissenters, it was an awesomely awesome day. We kept the kids up way too late at a party, where it was also awesome to see a bunch of fellow campaign volunteers for the first time since November 4. Catching up on things today ... well, that's been not awesome. But oh, so very worth it.

With all due respect to my dear little Tiger, I loved Obama's sober tone. I loved his call to collective responsibility. I loved his reference to "putting away childish things." I happen to think it's awesome that there's a grow-mutt in charge of the White House again.


This, by the way, is the poster I won in the end-of-campaign raffle for all the local canvassers and phone bankers. Look closely and you'll see where Biden signed it during his stopover in Athens. (My winning it was undeserved; lots of people put in way more hours than I.) The pic below gives you a better view of Biden's scrawl.

Christmas Wonder through My Little Bear's Eyes

So last night we're driving home from services, reflecting on the message of compassion and joy that we'd just heard. From the back seat, my little Bear asks:

Has the Earth existed for more than a googolplex seconds? Or less?

Let no one tell you that science and wonder are at odds.

(And don't ask me how big a googolplex is. That's what Google is good for.)

This picture of my forsythia in its holiday finery is totally cheating; I took it a few days ago before the snow got washed away. For Christmas Eve, we had warm rains.

Persistence

It would be too easy to turn these little guys into an inspirational statement. So I won't.


They are just themselves, my tough little pansies, rearing up through the snow and ice yesterday, the 17th of December. Today the snow melted and they're still there, standing a bit taller.


I may see them as embodying persistence. You get to pick whatever metaphor works for you.

Garden Timing: Snow Easy Feat

I love my garden. I love digging in the dirt. And yet I'm a terrible gardener when it comes to timing. I can never get it right.


So this afternoon found me digging through snow in front of the house, frantically trying to plant a slew of tulip and daffodil bulbs before the ground freezes solid.


Sure, there are reasons for my bad timing. I had to get Obama elected (singlehandedly!!), then had to wait until my back felt better, then had to finish the end-of-term grading. Even today, I was rushing rushing rushing before the sun went down and my assistant (the Tiger) lost patience - both of which, predictably, happened toward the end.


And yet, I got 200 bulbs in the ground. Not well. Not deep. But they're in. Tomorrow, more snow is supposed to fall.

I'm pretty sure that's an unsubtle metaphor for how I manage my life.


And now we wait and hope for a reprise of last spring's glory.

All photos courtesy of my garden porn collection. Today's bulbs went into new beds; I'm hoping that these tulips - photographed in April 2008 in front of my house - might return for a third year.

My Blue Heaven

Who knew it could be such fun to feel so blue?

In the whole state of Ohio, only one county went more heavily than mine for Barack Obama: Cuyahoga County, at 68.5%. Athens County came in second, with 66.5% for Obama, and that despite our heavily white population. (The New York Times shows county results if you click on the states.) My friend and candidate for state representative, Debbie Phillips, also won, helping regain the Ohio State House for the Democrats after many years of Republican control. (I got to hug her at school pickup today; I'm still waiting for my hug from Obama.)

I was watching the returns at home last night when the networks called Ohio for Obama. I did the electoral math and realized the election was over. We hauled the Bear out of his bed and whooped and hollered and shed a few tears. We put the Bear back to bed and opened a bottle of white wine (I'd been too busy to even buy deodorant, never mind champagne). My sister, who'd supported John McCain, called from California to congratulate me on singlehandedly tipping Ohio for Obama. She was as gracious as McCain in his concession speech but a whole lot funnier. I do love my little sis.

Of course, my part in the campaign was minuscule. I didn't stop out of school to work full-time for the campaign, like my former student Rence. Nor did I practically move into the local headquarters like my friend Vicky. I didn't get a mere half hour of sleep on Election Eve, as did my student Meredith, who helped lead the on-campus campaign.

I'm stunned by the dedication and sacrifice that went into Obama's victory. I'd love to know how many people volunteered for the campaign. It must be in the hundreds of thousands. It has been a thrill to bathe in the spirit of common purpose - to indulge in hope and make it real.

My part was small indeed. Okay, so I did face down a man with black teeth. I braved vicious dogs. (And by "braved" I mean "cowered before them.") Everyone who's heard about my adventures canvassing in Pine Aire Village thinks that Mr. Blacktooth was definitely a meth head and maybe had a lab of his own hidden in one of those decrepit trailers. I'm no expert on meth (and thank goodness for that), but I remember similar scenes from a Donna Tartt novel, The Little Friend, which featured a character with a serious meth habit and nasty teeth. Now I have a vivid visual to go with the book when I re-read it someday. The irony is that my encounter with Mr. Blacktooth did nothing to advance Obama's win, since he was a non-voter and apparently a nasty racist to boot.

My impression is that most volunteers gave the time they could afford - and then a bunch more. Maybe that explains why so many of us are about to collapse today, even those of use whose contributions were modest; we're almost too tired to feel the joy. Our families gave of their time, too. My husband ferried the four of us through the woods on Sunday, navigating ridges, hollows, and perilously steep driveways while I dropped literature. He tended the kids during most of my outings. But my boys also went out canvassing with me a couple of times, including the final round of get-out-the-vote door knocking yesterday evening.

I hope my sons look back on this someday and feel like I do now: privileged to have played a bit part in overcoming the scars of American history.

I hope they'll look back and say, with pride and pleasure: Yes we did.

(Although I do have a few pansies blooming right now, this one is from a few months ago; it just happened to have the right color.)

The Big Chill

We're due for our first hard frost tonight. Maybe my mini-ecosystem will be spared; sometimes it seems to be blessed by a merciful god, graced with warm soils and mild air pockets. Other times - not so much. So this afternoon, in the blinding October sunlight, I went out to the garden and gathered in everything tender.

Yes, that's an eggplant, barely larger than my cherry tomatoes. I've always had horrible luck growing eggplant. I keep trying, anyway, just for the idea of it. I suspect that reveals something about my character that really ought to stay hidden. It's not unlike the dog who's sure he'll get the better of the skunk, this time.

The butternut squash are also miniatures, and not by design. They're the sole survivors of marauding squash bugs and vine borers and spotted cucumber beetles. (The last of these have moved on to our roses, the little bastards.)

I actually love the first weeks of fall more than just about any other season. I love the advent of a new school year, the sense of possibility and beginning again. (Maybe that's why I've never really been out of school since I was five?) I love the turning leaves and the sharp edge to the morning air.

But now the season is about to twist on its axis, making the decline of Eden evident and inevitable. This is the bookend to the golds of spring, the fulfillment of the Robert Frost poem I quoted here last spring while the daffodils held sway:

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

In the morning, I'll tally up my losses. Tonight, I've still got this, the summer's final bounty.

Antidote to McCain's Toxic Campaign

I've always liked Donna Brazile's plainspoken, no-bullshit manner. I've known she's a smart strategist and analyst. I had no idea she could be this inspirational. These words of hers - her refusal to go to the back of the bus - moved me almost as much as Barack Obama's speech last March on race in America.

This is the perfect antidote to the hatefulness of the McCain-Palin campaign this past week:

All A-Flutter

Since I'm still in California and completely fried from a translating job I just finished and from the sunburn I got today, here are a few pretty pictures in lieu of my usual blather. (Yep, I used sunblock. No, I'm not capable of leaving all my work behind on my vacation.)

Let it never be said that Kittywampus is all doom and gloom - or even all politics and sex.

These butterflies were at Discovery Kingdom, a former dolphin exhibit in Vallejo that has morphed into an odd but cool combination between a zoo, a marine park, and a general amusement park. They still have dolphins but the butterflies are a heck of a lot easier to photograph.










All of these pictures are mine except for the last one, which my husband took.

I Pass the Bear Test as a Mama

Well, here's the consolation for being a disaster as a 1930s housewife: I got the Bear's highest rating when I arrived home last night. Still sleepy from the ride to the airport, he informed me, "Mama, you get an A plus plus. And Daddy gets an A plus plus."

That's an A++. My students should be so lucky to get a grade like that from me - ever!

Okay, I'd just increased my market value by going out of town for a few days, but even so: I marvel at how forgiving my children are. I marvel at how they are thriving with their imperfect but (apparently) good-enough mother. I have so many moments where I'm impatient or distracted or just worn thin by their squabbling. And yet, at the core, they know how much I love them, and I know how much they love me.

Yet another of my mate's roses.

Transplanting

Last night, as I was finally putting my pepper plants into the ground (a coupla weeks late, as usual for my garden), I got to thinking again how odd it is that we use the word "transplant" both for that and for putting a new organ in a human body.

I've had some reason to ponder this because we've known for a while that the Bear's teacher would be receiving a kidney transplant as soon as the school year ended. She entered the hospital this afternoon and will receive her new kidney tomorrow. Ever since she survived a childhood kidney cancer, she's been running on half a kidney, and now that half-kidney has just worn out.

She was able to schedule the surgery so precisely because her donor is a close friend. It's an extraordinary story. After she went through a hard divorce (not that any are easy!), she became friends with her ex-husband's first wife. Apparently they found they had a lot more in common than just their overlapping marital history and the co-parenting of their children.

And so it's her ex's ex who is going to save her life. She volunteered and turned out to be a perfect match - one more thing they've found in common. Both of them feel it's a miracle. I'd say it's an amazing act of generosity and friendship, too, and a reflection of the Bear's teacher's own goodness and kindness. (If you want to read the rest of the story, it was reported last month by Nick Claussen in our local independent biweekly, the Athens News; I've been careful here not to include any details beyond what's already public.)

Her students don't quite grasp the gravity of the situation, though she's talked directly about it in an age-appropriate way. She's young and strong and courageous, as is her dear friend and donor, and I think it's going to be okay. Still, we'll all feel better once we know that the surgery gone well and they've gotten through the first few weeks.

I don't believe in the healing power of remote prayer, but I know she does, and I know she would appreciate the prayers of anyone who's so moved. Superstitious or not, I can't help but send up a little prayer, myself, even if it's addressed "to whom it may concern," that both of them will find strength and healing. And I'm sending out my warmest hopes that this new kidney will take root just as strongly as my tomatoes and peppers do in my garden.

Female Desire Week - Klinsi Edition

Since it's been declared female desire week, I'm going to post a few pictures of one of my favorite all-time lust objects. This is not a theoretical post. Nor is it a fitting response to the original question from Laura at the F-Word, who was asking why there are so few images of sexy men on sex-positive sites or porn for women sites. Kittywampus is neither of those things (well, I guess we're sort of ambivalently sex-positive) but we do like us our men. That's not to ignore those like belledame who were asking - rightly - what about lesbian and bi and queer desires. It's just that I'm an unreconstructed hetero gal and so I'm going to post what makes my pulse quicken.

And I might feel goofier about this if purtek hadn't already covered the hockey beat, or if Lynn Gazis-Sax hadn't declared her earlier penchant for Björn Borg, but here's the thing: for sheer perfection of the male form, soccer players leave me weak in the knees. They don't have the overdeveloped upper physique that football or baseball players tend to cultivate; they're not inconveniently tall like many basketball stars. Some do have an unfortunate tendency toward mullets, but that can be easily remedied with some sharp scissors.

I do love the game, too. That's one of the main things I gained from my time in Germany. I love the excitement of it, the aesthetics. I even kind of love how - to paraphrase Clausewitz - soccer is the continuation of war by other means, because it usually gets no uglier than Zinadine Zidane's famous head-butting incident in the final game of the 2006 World Cup. It's a pretty civilized way to carry out national rivalries (apart from the occasional hools). I love how it can bring a million thrilled fans onto the streets. I love how it's okay not to have a winner at the end of the game.

But: I also really, really love those legs. Tremendously powerful, muscled, well-defined legs.


And they are devilishly hard to find on the Internet. Believe me, I spent a chunk of this afternoon searching for photos that show my all-time favorite soccer player, Jürgen Klinsmann (aka Klinsi), from head to foot. I didn't find many but I sure had fun trying.
















Mostly I found some lovely head shots, maybe because he's a coach these days (for the German national team in the 2006 World Cup and now for Bayern München, Germany's strongest league team). I guess once you're a coach, you've landed on the mind side of mind/body dualism? I'm pretty sure he still has spectacular legs, but I can't muster actual recent evidence.

So note the forearms in the next shot, which are pretty hot in their own right. And then scroll down for some video that gives you a fuller picture from his days as an active player.

(AP)

(Reuters)

I've provided photo credits where the original source included them, but many were uncredited at their source. Clicking on the photos will take you to where I found them. Usually I try to be overscrupulous about copyright, but in the service of lust this time I picked up the nicest pictures. If anyone objects, I'll take 'em down.

And finally, for a glimpse of legs and motion and the unrestrained joy that I think makes him not just handsome but sexy (hit mute if you don't think the Europop adds to the atmosphere):

You Can Call Me Professor Sungold

Okay, I'm enough of a stickler for titles after my sojourn in Germany that I'd better qualify that. You can call me Visiting Assistant Professor Sungold.

Technically, I didn't quite get the job I interviewed for, but I'm still very, very happy with the outcome. I was offered a job I didn't know existed: a visiting gig that's renewable for up to three years. It's full time, but honestly it won't be that much more work than my current purportedly half-time deal. It carries benefits, which means I won't have to depend on my spouse anymore for health insurance. (He's now healthy, but his medical history is complicated enough that it's been nerve-wracking for him to be our sole safety net.) And here's the fun part: I expect I'll get to teach some new classes. Yay!

Oh, and I'll be making more money than I've ever earned in my life. This doesn't mean much, since the last time I had a full-time job (not a grad student stipend, not freelance contracts, not adjuncting work) was twenty years ago, and I was working as a pseudo-engineer at the time. So if you adjust for inflation, I was still "better off" before I quit my job for grad school in 1988. But let's pretend we're ignorant of basic economics and just celebrate my good fortune, okay? The dean was far more generous than I expected, and I'm tickled pink.


Another internal candidate who's already done a three-year visiting stint got the original job, and I'm pleased about that, too. She's smart, a fine teacher, and dedicated to the program. For a number of reasons that I won't go into here (because they belong to her story, not mine), hiring her represents exactly the commitment to fairness that I think Women's Studies ought to stand for. I'm not at all surprised to see this coming from my chair and colleagues. They're wonderful people in every way. I don't just respect them intellectually and politically, I like them very much for human reasons, too. Hovering in the background is a nice measure support from our dean, which portends well for the future of our program.

I don't know what'll happen for me after the next three years, but it opens some doors without slamming any shut. This could be a step toward a permanent position, especially if I do a good job. And from there, who knows? An endowed chair in feminist blogging? Empress of the universe? Wherever it ends, I'm feeling giddily, awesomely happy.

Chives/hardy geraniums, yellow rose whose name I forget, and Will Goodwin clematis from my garden. Actually the roses are my husband's babies, which is why I'm usually clueless about their names.

Propitiation

I have an interview tomorrow for the job I mentioned a few weeks ago. Yes, I should have told y'all that I got an interview, but I'm afraid of jinxing myself. And no, I still don't believe in demons, but my oh my, can I be superstitious. I'll be okay, whatever happens, but still I'm nervous. The last real, formal job interview I had was in 1987, I think.

In case I've tempted the gods - or satan's own hosts! - here's a propitiatory offering in two parts. The iris is the sexiest thing I've captured yet in my garden (click for the full-sized version). The poem is by Robert Hass from Praise, my favorite book of poetry, ever.

Like Three Fair Branches
From One Root Deriv’d

I am outside a door and inside
the words do not fumble
as I fumble saying this.
It is the same in the dream
where I touch you. Notice
in this poem the thinning out
of particulars. The gate
with the three snakes is burning,
symbolically, which doesn’t mean
the flames can’t hurt you.
Now it is the pubic arch instead
and smells of oils and driftwood,
of our bodies working very hard
at pleasure but they are not
thinking about us. Bless them,
it is not a small thing to be
happily occupied, go by them
on tiptoe. Now the gate is marble
and the snakes are graces.
You are the figure in the center.
On the left you are going away
from yourself. On the right
you are coming back. Meanwhile
we are passing through the gate
with everything we love. We go
as fire, as flesh, as marble.
Sometimes it is good and sometimes
it is dangerous like the ignorance
of particulars, but our words are clear
and our movements give off light.

-- Robert Hass, Praise (1982)

Floral Antidote to Sordid Scandals

I’m not so daft as to think that a smattering of beauty really fixes anything that’s wrong with the world. And yet – one perfect tulip is a lovely antidote to the ugliness that seems to be dominating the news.


Talk about self-luminous.

From my garden in front of my house.

Self-Luminous

This week in the religion, gender, and sexuality class I'm helping teach, we read an account of the Buddhist creation myth. One of the fun things about teaching is having a chance to learn about stuff that is completely new to me. At least in the humanities and social sciences, I think this is virtually always true, even if you're teaching in your own research field. But it's even truer when half the course is really outside your area of expertise. So this Buddhist origin story, the Agganna Sutta, was all new to me.

And since I'm so not an expert on it, I mostly just want to offer a modest appreciation of its beauty.

There comes a time . . . when sooner or later this world begins to re-evolve. When this happens, beings who had deceased from the World of Radiance, usually come to life as humans. And they become made of mind, feeding on rapture, self-luminous, traversing the air, continuing in glory, and remain thus for a long, long period of time.
(This is from the version I read for class. Here's the whole Agganna Sutta but in a slightly less beautiful translation.)

Such gorgeous language. Feeding on rapture! Self-luminous! Imagine such an existence.


The catch is that if you've got self-luminance, you don't get to have a body. Later on, as the earth solidifies from liquid to a sweet milky substance to plants (a nifty evolution story), the formerly radiant beings grow more solid. As they solidify, they come to know cravings. And so, although there's no Eve to take the fall for the Fall in this story, sex becomes a polluting force. (Buddhism has its own issues with women and the flesh, as it turns out.)

But even so. I would like to be self-luminous and traverse the air for just an hour, as long as I didn't have to stay in the World of Radiance. The funny thing is, I feel like I have my share of radiance in my own little earth-bound life with all its cravings, desires, and beauty.


The petite red tulips come from the Bear's elementary school; the others, from my garden. All photos by me.

Ephemeral Gold

Since I need to be working on my infernal overdue article, and since I want to be mucking around in my garden, I'm not going to say much today. Instead, I'll defer to Robert Frost, who I think might've had my little garden in mind when he wrote this, one of my favorite poems: "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.


Her early leaf's a flower


But only so an hour.


Then leaf subsides to leaf.


So Eden sank to grief,


So dawn goes down to day.


Nothing gold can stay.

And yeah, I realize that's an awfully melancholy sentiment on a mild spring day awash in unfamiliar brilliant sunshine. Yet this poem has been running through my head all day as I've biked past trees that are just leafing out green-gold, the very newness of their buds whispering a story older than Eden of transience, loss, and rebirth.

All photos are from my garden, taken a few days ago.