Bee Therapy

My basil patch in full flower

I have been writing a lot (A. Lot.) lately about focusing on small things to center myself. There is a lot of noise and overload on many fronts, and some large family matters (my side of the family) that have really hit hard and, in my case, triggered my PTSD. Warren has been giving me support and comfort; we earlier this month passed our 17th wedding anniversary and I am daily aware of how much light and joy and love and strength he gives me. 

Even without a wedding anniversary, I am so grateful for what he has given me; he lifts me up. All the same, and this is one of those times, I sometimes stumble and fall back into those outside matters. So I think I caught him a little off guard yesterday when I said that I had thought of maybe going back to therapy.

After saying that out loud (as things sound different when spoken outside of our head), I thought back to the things I had learned 22+ years ago with my brilliant therapist. Can I do this, "this" being work through where I am, using those lessons? 

Later that afternoon, as I turned over the therapy question in my mind, I said to Warren, "I have an idea of how to move forward." 

Warren looked at me. "And...?"

"Bee therapy."

Bee therapy? Yes, bee therapy. 

I always let the basil patch go to flower in the fall and this year is no exception. As we move deeper into the fall, the bees take over the basil flowers.

So after announcing that, I grabbed a garden stool (thank you, Amanda!) and set it in the garden in the recently cleared lettuce patch, which is right next to the basil patch. I then sat down and waited.

But not for long. 

A Sunday bee

At this time of year, in the basil patch, bees fly in, bees fly out. Bees burrow their heads deep in the basil flowers then pull out, go sideways or up or down to another. Repeat.

I repeated therapy again today, albeit early afternoon when the sun was on the patch and it was considerably warmer. Yesterday in the cooling air there were perhaps a half-dozen bees. Today, in the full sun, I counted over two dozen. 

A bee today

Bee therapy.

As I watch them and their singular focus, my mind slows down. My body relaxes. Bit by bit, I find myself letting go of the emotional bundle I am holding.

I hope we are in for a very long autumn. As I mentioned in my last post, we just had our first frost. It was a light one, but frost is frost. I know at some point the bees will disappear for the year. Some of them are already showing their lifespan is growing short.  I even petted a bee yesterday. It had landed on a stem before I got out there and was clearly too tired and worn to lift off. I touched it very gently and it wiggled, slowly, one antenna, but did not move.  

Bee therapy. Who knew? 

"I'm ready for my closeup..."

Taking Stock

The zinnias are still in bloom; this was earlier this summer

Last October 1st, I wrote about inventorying the food in our freezer, thinking, smugly, "well, of course I know what we have in our freezer. Sheesh." And, as I confessed in that post, I clearly had no idea of what was in our freezer.

As September wore down and I started looking ahead to the coming winter, I thought maybe I should take a look in our downstairs freezer and see where we stood. It was only by pure serendipity that I came so close in time to the 2024 inventory (which was, admittedly, spurred in no small part as a result of emptying out my father's house when he moved in Assisted Living  and I came to see just how much STUFF he had in the house). So I blithely went down to the basement freezer and started moving, reorganizing, and counting up what it held. And, no surprise, I was just as stunned this year as I was last year. 

I dictated into my Notes on my phone and even a few weeks later, my discoveries crack me up:

Freezer notes

Other than 6 quart bags of historic apples, no apples.

7 quart bags of sliced onions.

Two bags of frozen turkey for justice bus.

Eight bags of hamburger buns for justice bus.

10 quarts of corn kernels; two additional bags of what looks to be corn kernels, frozen and smaller quantity probably for corn bacon quiche.

22 quart bags of zucchini and squash. Wow!! Far more than I hoped for!

6 quart bags of chopped sweet peppers, plus a gallon bag holding five individual small baggies of chopped sweet peppers.

11 Packages of chicken thighs, two each. Three packages of sliced turkey for sandwiches.

3 quart containers of already made navy bean soup. 

In frozen quartz containers: black bean soup, turkey/vegetable stock with note great for dumplings, lentil/onion soup, chicken stew (that would be from Boysel’s) chicken stew (small container, same source) 2 quart containers of meat stock/broth: maybe chicken?. Plus another quart of turkey broth in a quart container.

One pack of boneless chops.

Stopped inventorying all the ham slices packages, because arm started bleeding and I need to stop! [Note: I have fragile skin. A prior skin tear opened up while I was moving packages and containers around. All is well.]

But certainly far more than I did hope and feeling much more optimistic about getting through the winter for, truly, pretty cheaply while eating well. And we are still looking at local harvest: I have a lot of peppers in the garden, apples are coming into season. With luck, I can buy a lot of markdowns those at Kroger so the pies I make for Jaime and everyone else won't break us. [End of notes]

And since that inventory, we indeed have added apples (marked down, of course), 10 pounds of butter (a stunning sale that came out to $2.85/pound after applying a coupon to the sale price), homemade chicken broth, and more chicken thighs. We have FAR more zucchini stashed away than I had dreamed, which pleases me to no end. So I am not worried about what the fall and winter hold for us. Taking (some) stock of our food was productive and gives us both an idea of where we are. (And following up on the freezer, I did a partial inventorying of our pantry of foods: dried beans, rices, cereal, and so on. All is pretty solid there too.)

Taking stock of our freezer made me think about myself and about taking stock of where I am. As I have noted, the last several months have been overloaded, not always in bad ways, mind you, but overly full. At times, I feel as if Warren (who is also very busy given his business, his playing, and his new teaching duties) and I see each other in quick passings, and both of us are making an effort to find time each day to shut out everything else and just connect. 

As to the issues and demands personal to my time, I am still sifting through them. I even made a very, very rough "diagram" with categories such as "HAVE TO," "Do B/C Important," "SHOULD/NEED," and "Important/WANT TO." There are some items I cannot change, primarily that I am the sole adult child responsible for my father (HAVE TO). He is thriving in Assisted Living, which is great and a huge relief for all of us. But I am the one running the errands, handling his needs, and while I do not resent any of it, it can be exhausting. I am still recovering from the unexpected June hospitalization, doing well, but watching my health issues (SHOULD/NEED) and having to accept that the likelihood of my ever regaining my pre-hospitalization strength and energy is slim to none. (Probably none.) I am walking regularly, albeit not at my pre-hospitalization speeds (again, gone) and that is a plus. You get the idea.

I even noted I wanted to write more, bake more, do more photography, spend more time with Warren (Important/WANT TO). I even wrote "Travel??????????" 

In my last post, written as Yom Kippur came to an end, I wrote about how to move into the New Year with my putting more focus on repairing the broken threads of the world: "world" being this community and pieces of my life that I could do better at threading together. And maybe that's where I am in taking stock. 

We had our first light frost of the season last night. Warren and I covered the tomatoes, the peppers, and the deck planters with sheets. I am glad we did; there are still vegetables to ripen. There are still flowers to sit outside and marvel at. There is still time to watch the bees mine the flowers, the butterflies dance, and the small birds fly in and our of the garden. 

Small moments, little bits. All precious. 

A Small Moment

Headed for the Justice Bus

Small interactions. Sometimes that is all it takes.

I dictated this into Notes on my phone (one app I do use sometimes) this morning and thought I'd send it out into the world tonight.

I was at the Law Library early this morning because it was our monthly Justice Bus (a family law Clinic) and Judy, our librarian, had to go to the dentist. I wanted to be there to make sure we were ready for clients and our volunteer attorneys in another hour.  While I was waiting and walking around, the employee who cleans the building came through and I offered her a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie that I had baked last night to go with our hot sandwiches.

She was delighted. She took the cookie, did her work in the library, and started to leave. I was just walking into the main library lobby when she turned, came back, and asked me if she could ask me a question.

I told her I didn’t know if I could answer it, but I would do my best. Her question turned out to be one I could answer. A close friend had just lost her husband and the woman asked me about local probate attorneys. 

I lit up. Probate! We have a Probate Help Desk in this county, run through Andrews House and funded by our Probate Court. I told her how to reach the program (call Andrews House) and that the Probate Help Desk would allow her friend to get a free one-hour consultation by a vetted probate attorney. That consultation would give the friend information to make some decisions, including whether she needed an attorney. I wrote down the phone number for Andrews House and handed it over,  As she left, she thanked me. Her face was lit up with how she could help her friend.

After she left, I thought: this is what community is about. This is what mending the broken world, Tikkun olam, is all about. This is what we do here at the local level to help our community, regardless of faith, politics, income, race, gender identification, or primary language, to help our community.

Yom Kippur is ending here in Ohio in about, oh, guessing by looking our my west study window, about 30 minutes. That brings to a close the High Holy Days, during which Jews often focus on how they can be better going forward into the New Year. I did not observe Yom Kippur in more traditional ways (and I am exempt from fasting because of my health), but this felt to me like a superb way to bring the High Holy Days to a close.

It was a great start to my day.

After Three

The 3rd quarter of the year ends today and, knowing that we are not buying groceries until later this week, I am running the numbers on what we spent and thinking ahead to the final three months of the year. After I posted our 2nd quarter numbers back in early July, I noted that I was hoping to hold to $200/month, but wasn't sure we would be able, given the economy. 

It is always nice to be surprised. Positively, I mean.

For the months of July, August, and September, we spent a total of $595.18, which comes to an average of $198.39 a month. Of that amount, only $18.92 was spent on household items such as aluminum foil. The rest was all food. All. Food. 

[NOTE: The main reason our household expenses is so low is that we pay nothing (as in $0.00) or next to nothing for dish soap and laundry detergent by using cash "rewards" I get from CVS. My father's meds are filled there, credited to my Rewards account, so I get those household items when CVS runs a sale.]

In September, we did two "replenish the pantry" shoppings, one at Aldi and one at our local Walmart. I had comparison-shopped online first, and so had a specific list of items that Walmart had lower prices on than Aldi, anywhere from 10 cents or more (up to about 20 cents). Warren and I compared impressions afterwards. We agreed that Walmart is more stressful, packing is way harder using our own bags, and there was less selection; our local WM is small and does not have a full-fledged grocery store. I think, looking ahead to October, we will do our larger stock up shopping at Aldi: better selection on many items. Not to say I won't check prices, but for what we are likely to be buying this month, it will be Aldi with some fill-ins from Kroger (a butter sale this weekend!) and Walmart.

For 2025, with 9 months behind us, our average monthly grocery spending comes to $195.58. If we can hold our monthly spending to about $200.00/month through year's end, we will come in for 2025 at an overall $200/month average. Given these times, I will gladly take it. 

I recently did a freezer inventory to see where we stand for the winter. I will be sharing that in another post, but let me just say that it was encouraging. Especially looking at that $200/month goal.

Onward! 

Apples

Coming in the next five years

We recently made a rocket trip to Rochester, Minnesota, for a routine check-in with my specialist there. Mayo Clinic is in the early years of a five BILLION dollar expansion, with targeted completion in 2030, and when it is finished, my beloved Mayo will look even more like the Emerald City of Oz. 

Despite the rush of the trip (it was hemmed in by Warren's classes, medical tests here, rehearsals, and more), we nonetheless fit in a stop that I have dreamed about for years.

Years. 

Decorah, Iowa is about 72 miles south of Rochester, Minnesota on US 52. Decorah is a small community (about 8000) with a private college in the town. We weren't there for the college. No, we were there to stop at and explore Seed Savers Exchange, a non-profit organization that, per its website, is "the nation’s largest nongovernmental seed bank of its kind (some 20,000 varieties) at Heritage Farm" (which is where we were). 

I was not disappointed.

The Exchange encompasses about 890 acres, some of it in pasture, some of it in orchards, some of it in experimental gardens (experimental in that they are testing the viability of old, old (literally or figuratively) seeds). 

Okay, I splurged at the Visitors Center. (Yes, I know: "splurge" is a word I never use.) Some seeds for us, some seeds for friends, a Seed Savers T-shirt, and an etched small gourd ornament for our Christmas tree. (The ornament, unfortunately, was lost somewhere between Rochester and our home.) We wandered through some of the experimental gardens; these zinnias were part of that:

And then we went to the Historic Orchard.

Oh my. 

At the Historic Orchard (one of two orchards on the property), the apples date back into the 1800s. Visitors are allowed to pick up to five gallons of apples for free. We were the only visitors in the orchard, and Warren and I wandered through, both gaping at the assortments and picking various ones to carry back with us to Ohio. You would come across a tree maybe only five feet tall, bent over with apples, and then turn to see a much taller one of a different variety.

One of the smaller trees; I could pick from its very top.

In the end, we picked a tote bag full and put it in the car to carry them home:

Our haul! 

The next day at Mayo, we shared a meal with dear friends who drove down from Minneapolis to spend a few hours with us. While we laughed and talked in the Eisenberg Cafeteria (truly the best food in downtown Rochester, and there is great food in Rochester), a woman came up to our table. We had been talking politics, and I thought maybe we were too loud and she wanted to comment.

Not at all. She pointed to my Seed Savers t-shirt and asked me if I had been there. 

I beamed. "Yes! We were just there yesterday! It's amazing!" 

She asked more questions: How far away is it? Was it easy to get to from Rochester?

With every answer, the smile on her face grew wider.

She had to be in Rochester for the next two months for treatment. Before that started, while she could still get out and about, she wanted to go to Seed Savers Exchange.

She then posed her own question.

"Do you know they partner with Svalbard?" 

I nodded; yes, I knew that.

"I was at Svalbard this summer," she added.

Now it was my time to ask questions. Svalbard! What took her to Svalbard? Was she visiting? Was this a tourist trip? 

No, she had worked there this summer. We all stared at her. She smiled and added, "I only work above 61 degrees or below 61 degrees." 

While we puzzled out that answer, she laughed and explained: "I'm a polar scientist."

Only at Mayo can you be eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria and have a polar scientist come up to to you and start chatting. I hope she made it to Decorah.

We drove 11 hours the next day, Tuesday, to get back to Delaware, and we made it in good spirits. After an evening of only necessary tasks and a morning of catching up (the laundry, the mail, checking in with my dad), I turned my attention Wednesday afternoon to the historic apples.

Apples.

Lots of apples. 

A sink full of apples

Apples with textures and colors and tastes that I have never seen, let alone held, peeled, and tasted. These apples predate the "modern" varieties of the 1900s, let about those apples of the current century. Some were the size of a child's fist. Some had green flesh beneath the peel. Some had orangish flesh. Some were truly snowy white. 

Nearing the end of the apples

It was exhausting. It was amazing. 

The long view

The kitchen was full of the smell of apples. My fingertips were stained a light orange/red from peeling so many apples. After it was all over, I had six quarts of peeled and sliced apples, labeled "Ancients," in bags in the freezer. 

I penned this out last night and am typing it in this afternoon. While I wrote, Warren was an hour away in Mansfield as the Mansfield Symphony opened its 105th season. (Warren has played with it for 45 years of that 105-long year run!) I no longer go with him on performance day, as the afternoon rehearsal and evening concert make for a 11+ hour day, beyond my capacity, but I went up with him for the Friday night rehearsal. Given our week of travel and appointments and labs and scans and family matters, let alone the apples, even "just" going up for the rehearsal was about the limit of my energy, but I did it with love and delight.

And, by golly, we have apples. I swear there is still a faint tinge of apples in the air of our home. 

And that, my friends, is a gift. 

Notes on Small Things

More time for this?

When our neighbors Mark and Mary go out of town, I feed and check on their cat, Sammie. Mary and I were talking this afternoon and, as they are going out of town later this month and then again in November, I wanted to get those dates on my calendar.

I still use a paper calendar. Two, actually: a large one that I keep on the kitchen table, and a small one (a very small one) that I carry with me. Our events and activities and appointments are color-coded: Warren sky blue, me pink, and joint appointments/events a mild green. I make sure that what goes on one calendar goes on the other.

Mary goggled at my calendar. She asked the obvious: "Why don't you keep your calendar on your phone?" 

"Because I don't want to be tethered to it to any greater degree than I am already."

She laughed, then gaped when I opened my calendar to this month and she saw pink after pink after pink.

"I want less pink on my calendar," I announced. 

Mary got me immediately.

These have been hard, overloaded days—yet, still, whatever. Medical appointments have taken a chunk of days with more to come through next week. So has taking care of things for my dad. like picking up and delivering prescriptions or toothpaste or...yeah. I don't note Dad-types of things on the calendars unless they are an outside appointment. If I did, because I have started using orange for him, my calendar would be a patchwork of orange and pink. Not good.

I am picking up some online continuing legal education credits this month; those are on there. Not on the calendar but a constant: housework, our own local errands, the library.

You get the picture.

As we ate supper out on our deck tonight, I told Warren I was not unhappy, but I am worn out. (Add to that exhaustion our both getting our 25-26 Covid and our Fall 2025 flu vaccines yesterday.)

In short, t.i.r.e.d.

"And I am not making time for things I want to do, like write or take pictures," I said. "Look at that bee in the petunias. I mean that kind of thing." 

Warren came up with a practical observation, as he often does. Had I taken care of the things I absolutely had to get done today? Yes? Then let's get the dishes done (he washes, I dry), and then go write. Or read. Or...you get the idea. 

I just penned these lines out while sitting in our living room, then came upstairs to type them in. Absolutely it feels good.

My friend Katrina recently wrote that she noticed my blog has been focusing on small things, and the comfort that seems to bring me. She encouraged me to continue to keep that focus, as it would help me to get through some of everything going on.

As I finish these lines, I can hear the crickets through the open window and even catch a katydid or two piping up. 

And that is enough for now. 

Skyward

Photo by Samuele Bertoli on Unsplash

Yesterday started very early. I had a 7 a.m. appointment in Columbus with my oncologist, which meant getting up at 5:30 to be on the road by 6:15.  I dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Waiting for Warren to come down, I stepped out on our back deck to see how much the temperature had dropped overnight. It was still dark with no hint of sunrise, so I looked up to see if there were any stars visible.

There were stars and there was Orion, hanging in the northeast sky, brilliantly lit. It was my first fall sighting of it.

Orion is my favorite constellation. Robert Frost put Orion in his poem "The Star-splitter," which has been a longtime treasured poem in my mental poetry collection: "You know Orion always comes up sideways..." Orion is one of the very few constellations I can readily identify, which is certainly a part of why it is my favorite. And way back in my misty past, I first saw and had someone identify Orion in a brilliantly dark Wisconsin night sky, seeing it from the outside walk surrounding the telescope dome at Yerkes Observatory. That first view of Orion, of knowing what I was looking at, has stuck with me.

I called Warren outside to see Orion and we both marveled at the sky. Then we went on with our morning.

The time came for Warren to head to class, I walked outside with him to give him a kiss and wave goodbye; both are important to us. When I turned to go back into the house, I noticed a moth resting on the lintel between the storm door and the house door. It must have fluttered on it when we stepped out. I opened the storm door wider: "Go on, little moth. You don't need to be in our house." 

It was then that I noticed that one of the moth's wings was badly damaged, almost as if something had bit a chunk out of it. 

Oh. I figured I would have to pick it up and set it on a bush.

The moth had other ideas. When I bent closer, it fluttered up off the lintel and flew into the front yard, heading towards one of the flower beds. True, it flew in a jagged, erratic fashion, but fly it did. 

That moth made an impression on me. "That's me," I thought. Or rather, I hoped that was me: yes, damaged but still able to move forward. Maybe jagged and erratic at times, but still going.

Orion in the morning and a moth giving me a lesson in flying midday. And all I had to do was look up.