Sidetracked Charley

Entry to the Binford-Bell Studio Last night when I climbed the stairs to go to bed every muscle in my body was weary, my shoulder hurt, my back ached, and I was totally aware of everything which had not been done yet for the Angel Fire Studio Tour this weekend. Some things I knew I was going to do this morning at the last opportunity like make the Snickerdoodles. And some things I had decided just didn't need to be done. And too long of a list of I cannot do this also remained. I am not one to admit I cannot do things, but I was too exhausted and too wounded to do them.  I have made it this far after my ski accident in 2001 by adopting the Adaptive Skiing model of "Argue for your limitations and they are yours." And concentrating on progress and not perfection. Not easy for a perfectionist energizer bunny who was always rewarded for doing. While I focus most on the CBT of that accident I also compressed three discs in my neck, damaged my shoulder in a complex man

One corner of the studio with beaded jewelry and the new standing panel paintings. As most of my frequent readers know I have been busy cleaning up for the second annual Angel Fire Studio Tour . And of course I was not going to take the easy way out would have been a simple done and dusted. Fall is my usual time for a thorough cleaning and rearrange of my living space. And I confess I live mostly in my studio. With winter approaching it is a good time to make all ship shape while taking inventory of what might be needed to entertain myself if snowed in for a week like in 2006. Happily the studio tour occurs just when I am doing the fall dust off. Fall is also when my sister and I try to snatch a few days by ourselves and this year it was at the Kamaja Resort on the Rio Grande River. And just before that event I slammed the door of my pickup the wrong way, and activated an old injury of my left shoulder. My theory was a few days in hot tubs and pools at the resort would sol

Bark Camp It seems all the vogue these days to not put dogs into kennel cages. And that is probably spurred on by the number of rescues who spent too long in cages waiting for forever homes. And it is probably an adjunct of the dog parks. And our dreamy liberal belief that all dogs get along when off leash. I have a huge yard which once held four llamas. My dogs, at the time two shepherds and a standard poodle, had a much smaller yard until I sold the llamas. I had begun a day job (all artists should have day jobs) of pet sitting cats and dogs at the homes of clients. Works well with cats. Once a day and they are happy. But dogs require more attention so I began having a dog or two at my house. It began with Summer, an aging golden retriever, when her owners went to Mexico for an extended period. Summer was so easy and got along with my cats (multiple at the time) and my dogs (Magique and Mardi Gras). In my small community word gets out. Soon a few of my friends asked i

Red Sunflower There is a point in August when the wind comes from a new direction and carries with it a hint of cool weather coming. This year I was down on the Bosque north of Albuquerque when fall arrived. Thus proving it didn't have anything to do with my higher altitude in Black Lake. And it isn't just a coolness to the breeze but the smell of fullness or ripeness. Fall smells different than spring or summer.  Changes in color on the bosque I returned to my Black Lake home to find the wild asters in bloom, late cowslip. The rust colored sumac in seed is missed. We missed the wildflowers of the spring because of the winter drought which continued into early summer.  Mare and foal in the fall  I have felt off step through the summer with my edible garden efforts. Root crops did not produce and I lost my Spanish garlic crop for some reason. Greens and chard fed me well but Broccoli and Brussels Spouts were disappointing. But the flowers in my beds made up f

BoBear in Thicke's chair My father was famous for declaring, "No more dogs in this family." That never happened. We always had dogs. Dad at one time raised and trained award winning field champions: Irish Setters and Beagles. As an adult I understand the pain of losing a dog and having to find its replacement in the family, and my father's momentary desire to never do it again. And I did it once. Briefly. I worked for an international construction company who transferred me three times in one year. Finding apartments who would take pets was not easy so I tried it without a cat or dog. I don't do well without fur kids. I like them better than people. And I usually have multiples. The last two years is the first time I have had only one of each. Thicke has made it totally clear he does not want another cat in the house. And he works hard at his role of sole feline. Thicke posing in the sink And it has been three years with only one dog. After Mardi G

The only reason I entered college was because I was suppose to. It is what my senior class did. Or at least my special class of the senior class: the college bound. I took the obligatory tests for college entry, received higher than adequate scores, even got a scholarship offer or two, but it was my mother who filled out my college application to the University of New Mexico, told me of my acceptance, and made sure I got up and out the door at the appropriate time to register. She did that, I now believe, because she knew how dangerously close I was to losing it. Losing me. Mother and I were not close. And maybe at that time when she pushed me out the door further apart than we had ever been. But she made the right decision for me. I had always been a bookworm, and college was full of books, and people who loved books, people who debated books and authors and meanings. And on November 22, 1963 I was going to the SUB, student union building, to meet some of those bookish friends

I have a very high pain threshold. That was a good thing in my childhood when I was having "Say Uncle" fights with my sadistic brother. And in my very athletic youth it probably saved me from an addiction to pain meds. Following my ski accident it saved me from melting my liver or ruining my kidneys with NCIDs. But I had a kidney stone for a year and a half and never convinced anyone I was in pain until I passed out at the civic light opera performance. My nurse sister, who also has a high pain threshold, tells me I should learn to yell and scream and roll on the floor more. But I just refuse to act like a whiny girl. Cowgirls don't cry. You get up, dust yourself off, and get back on the horse. Recovery from my various injuries incurred as a victim of a hit and run on the ski slope (actually he didn't run but it sounds so dramatic) I became very acquainted with pain scale charts. Though I had a very hard time identifying with the numbers. The smiley faces help