swansroost

On Cleaning Up and Mental Clarity, or Cluttered Space, Cluttered Mind, and Perspective

I recently stood on the roof of the ETEC building of the State University of New York at Albany’s campus and looked west toward home. The day was clear and sunny and the view was a stunner. I live at the base of the Helderberg Mountains (hills really) which are, I think, the dark blue line above the tree line (photo 1), also known as an escarpment. Along this escarpment, and part of a state park, is the Indian Ladder Trail. It is a worn rocky cliff edge path with small caves and seasonal falls of water. It is said that Native American’s used it to travel north and south through the area.

I not often enough travel the 15 minutes from my house to the John Boyd Thacher State Park and look east into the distance at the white shiny rooftops and towers of the SUNY campus. In autumn the view is unbeatable. On this day I had perspective from the opposite direction.

Due to the most recent murder and mayhem that has become these United States I have been thinking about things having to do with perspective. I have newly found that I and some of my family are strongly divided by truth and belief. Others that I have only a shallow FB relationship with are canonizing an evil racists rabblerouser. They are perpetuating his belief that empathy is a new-age fake term for weakness and deception. I can only say that the man was documented as having said bad things about good people all in the name of making money. Murder is wrong, but “how you die doesn’t redeem how you lived.”

As perspective changes with the view so the view changes with some much needed clean up. I KNOW that being the visual person I am my brain functions better when I have a clean palette. When I see space in my world I feel space in my being. Perhaps that is why the view from the park overlook is so soothing to me.

And that is why when I finish one project I do a cleaning of my space in preparation of the next project. However, sometimes that cleansing itself becomes a project. Most recently I picked up a few items along side the road; castoffs of someone else’s life. These were “free to a good home.” My favorite price. Cheap is good. Free is better.

This cabinet tempted me for days before I finally convinced my 6 year old grandson that we needed to load it into my car and bring it home. He, being a kindred spirit, was happy to oblige. And, for the brief 2 block ride home he sat, illegally, in the front seat of my car. Yes, we told his mom. Yes, She was angry. No, it will (probably) not happen again. And the cabinet fits the space next to the dryer perfectly.

I scored this charming set (!) of vintage luggage down the street from the same grandson’s 7th birthday celebration. As I was loading them in the car the “owner” came out of the house and said that her mother had used them on her honeymoon after her 1961 wedding. I’ve given them a cursery inspection and scrub with more to come, but oh, the story these bags can tell! I felt like a old movie bell hop as I tucked them under my arms and marched them into my house. Not gonna lie, I giggled.

I already have a small collection of vintage luggage that I use for storage and display. I have repurposed some and have plans for others. I refer you to a previous post June 20, 2016 “Reflections on an Old Suitcase on a Solstice Day,” But the beauty of this blue matched set is like something, well, from a movie. While I would like to keep them together I am not sure I have the space, physically or mentally. I am thinking of dontating them to the local drama club for their prop room.

As clean up and de-cluttering continue in preparation for the next project in the qeue I practice empathy for the children that have lost parents, the spouses who have lost partners and for the rest of us who have lost the perspective of kindness and understanding while the whole world is on fire.

The High Cost of Small Needs

As predicted I had to toss more than half a box of crackers due to expired staleness. I had to buy them when I needed them and then when I needed them again “it’s too late baby, now.” I hate being right.

About 45 years ago crackers sat next to my alarm clock on the night stand. Nine months or so later they were back in the cupboard and became a go to accompaniment to a bowl of Campbells tomato soup, or still the occassional tummy upset. Having hungry children to feed they also served as a makeshift PB&J. And this is where I was today; in need of a makeshift.

A week ago Saturday I bought a lovely loaf of rye bread at the local co-op. It was only $4.99. I say only beacuse my usual loaf from the local grocery store has gone up to $5.99. This beautiful loaf was still far bigger than I knew I needed or wanted but it was the smallest I could find. Today, along with the no longer “premium” saltines, I had to toss about $3.99 worth of that loaf because it had become a science project.

So here I was, PB on the ready and no slice for my smeer. Fortunately I am not above eating a spoon full of peanut butter. Immediate problem solved. But there is still the dilemma of what one does to get around a too large loaf or a too short shelf life. For starters I am pulling out my recipe for starter. I can try, again, to bake a 1/2 loaf of brick, I mean bread.

Last night, as sleep eluded me, I thought I might make myself a cute pair of brown cords to wear in the coming chill of Autumn. I finally fell asleep with images of warm cocoa brown legs making that fun swish-rub noise when I walked.

Over the morning coffee I searched on-line at my go-to store for fabric. At Michael’s.com I searched ‘brown corduroy cotton fabric’. Scrolling through the wrong colors, and less than cotton choices I clicked on what I thought was the price for a whole bolt of fabric. I was seriously shocked to see that they are asking almost $56 a yard (!) for cotton corduroy. I cannot even begin to tell you of the spiral I went down on. If this is the cost of fabric how much are britches ready made at Walmart? Or Macy’s?

This, I think, is the effect of the pumpkin-head-president and his insanity over tariffs. I am truly afraid for people with families that need to dress their babies. I can only imagine that places like second hand stores and Good Will will be very necessary to many. Will we again be saving flour sacks to make clothing? Hardly. These days flour comes in paper bags.

My sister had a paper dress in the 60s. Gee, I wonder what happen to that?

Across the street from the food co-op is this fabulous new little shop called Up Stitch. They sell fabric, yarn, patterns, threads; all the things for crafters of textiles. They too will now be a lifeline for many, including me.

The cords are on hold. I’m off to the grocery store. The starter calls for flour. On the way I am going to swing by the food pantry. That $6 I’m saving will help someone else feed their family.

Fuck Trump.

Shifting Seasons

As this ‘second season in a row that I have not paddled’ begins to close I have come to accept that I no longer crave a kayak. After 15 years of needing to chase every paddle I now accept this change. The feel of a summer afternoon on my skin and the scent of the river at dusk no longer makes my blood tingle with the need to be in a boat. Where once I would trembled with the desire now I just acknowledge the beauty of past experiences and value of those memories. I can still assemble the gear and tie the knots but the need to run to the next launch is gone. The rush of adrenalin has slowed. The fever has cured. Mostly.

Instead I hosed away spider webs and two winters of dirt and debris from the boats, gathered paddles and PFDs, and staged the whole pile for my grandson to haul north for his kayaking adventures. As preparations were being made we shared the memories of our many camping trips together. Paddling was always a part of our trip and it warms my heart to know that he cherishes those memories as much as I do. My season comes to an end. His is beginning.

Upon the boats’ return a break in the hottest summer in my memory gave me a boost of energy to tackle some clean up. Rather than just returning the boats to previous style storage I decided to update my system to suit my new roll. A new design was needed for this new ‘Season of Susan.’

Years ago when the grandson out grew the A-frame swing set I slapped on some 2bys and tarped up a pretty impressive storage system for, at one point, 4 boats. The system turned out to be perfect for storing lumber and bits of wood as well. If I ever have a need for some 150 year old boards from my 150 year old basement walls, complete with hand forged square nails, I’ve got them at the ready.

When I added my 2 E-trikes into this makeshift shed access became complicated. In this new season of bikes not boats I determined that the boats needed to take a “back seat”on the rack. Now I can get to the trikes without moving a boat first. And angels, on a dismantled fireplace mantel that had also come to its’ end of season, watch over my trikes.

From re-purposing swing sets and reusing old lumber to now “Frankensteining” garments, I live with the constant thought of “what can this be next?” It seems to me that by refashioning a blanket or towel into a shirt or jacket gives that item another season in which to shine with purpose. It celebrates the often stunning art of the textile and showcases the talent and craftspersonship of its original maker. I feel great pleasure working with these fabrics and honoring all that they were before.

Thrifted or purchased at an estate or garage sale these castoffs join together to have a new season. A life time of sewing has given me the skills and a lifetime of curiosity has given me the courage to take scissor to slightly worn and maybe no longer loved items and marry them in new ways. It’s fun and a bit of a surprise every time.

With the shift in seasons comes the closet swap; sleeveless to sleeved, short to long, and so on. I was certain I’d find a Tee or two that could gleefully find continued life as a piece of a new whole. Interestingly all I discovered was that in this season of white hair and paler skin tone all I have is far too many gray toned tee shirts. It would seem that with the seeping of color from my person so has the color seeped from my wardrobe. No better excuse to be off to the thrifts in search of new treasures!

Insulation not Isolation, and a Little Inspiration

Surrounding myself with things I love makes me happy. The thoughtful arrangement of trinkets, tools, and toys (!) makes the ordinary everyday a celebration. And finding reasons to celebrate in these crazy times is essential to my mental health. To create beautiful insulation from the ugly reality while practicing self care and not going so far as to become a Long Island Edith is a difficult battle for balance.

Here we are in the first full week of August, 2025. The promises made in the cold weeks of March and rainy days of April to have more frequent and larger protests of this Regime of Crazies have not been realized; at least not locally. I am prepared, anxious even, to DO something to demonstrate my anger. And it feels like protest is on summer vacation.

So, I paint my protest; that canvas, the subject of future posts. I arrange summer blossoms and I prepare summer’s bounty. But the anger is barely contained. So I lash out at yard weeds and hovering wasps (carefully). I sweep stray leaves from the porch and bat at ants that appear to be nesting in my deck chair cushion (!).

What started as hand wringing angst and heart chilling fear has turned in to hard core anger. I want to lash out. I want to punch and hit, and quite honestly cut the tiny dicks off all these cowardly white males who are destroying the futures of our children (their children included, duh) and tie their hands and watch them wither in pain and slowly bleed out. And as they lay dying I want them to watch me take their precious dollars and share them with the hungry and destitute that these white men’s book of myths says they must do to earn their rewards in a heaven that they cannot be sure exists. But I sure hope their hell exists, because that is straight where I wish them going.

Rather than imagining mutilation and murder my younger daughter has taken up boxing to vent her anger. I don’t doubt she has images of slow, painful death for white christian (note the intentional lower case letter “c”) nationalists thriving in her imagination as she “floats like a butterfly,” wanting to “sting like a bee.” Her training goals, “to punch nazis in the face.”

My older daughter, the empath, copes by cultivating a physical space of serenity and hope. She has planted native milkweeds and cosmos next to sugar snap peas and tomatos to create a safe haven for heart, mind, nature and humanity. I fear for her whole health as she feels the pain for ALL inflicted “by man and all his greed.”*

Still we struggle. When my oldest said she is just about ready to go to D.C. to “punch the f**kers in the face” I said I would ride shot gun but that we have to wait until September because everyone is on summer vacation.

*Summers of My Life – Gino Vannelli, 1976

Yesterday I Cried.

I cannot fathom how as a nation we force our fellow humans to eat like a shackled dog. I am angry and I want to punch, hit, and draw blood on all those who participate.

My brilliant zen like brother once said,”Susan, you expect everyone to be as honest and kind as you are. And when they aren’t you beat yourself up about it.”

I participated. I admit culpability in my ignorance and naivety.

I’m not beating myself up anymore. And I sure as hell want to punch someone. I’m pretty sure it will hurt me more than them.

Boxing classes start Monday at the Y.

A Break is Good

A new peace to my mind has been completed and awaiting final installation details.

The Whatever the F*ck Season Is This? has arrived in full splendor. My 3 year old garden beds are showing, finally. I was beginning to think that my life time of knowledge gleaned watching and helping my Great Depression era grandparents grow a successful garden and carefully can the offerings and then my mother doing the same, was gone. Stolen away by memory loss and climate change.

Bee Balm, or bee bomb? Cause wowza, they look like fireworks!

The Puzzle House looks planted in situ. Vision accomplished.

And Gaia is startlingly adaptable; except for the vegetables. I would have thought that just one year of mostly zero tomato success is on me, but two? Something is happening to the season as I’ve known it. The process has changed. The formulas are different. It may be subtle to most and welcome by more than a few but the zone I’m in just ain’t the same.

It’s a delightfully rainy day. A very gentle, cooling mist floats over the modesty rail as I sit here on my front porch listening to the birds sing and the earth sigh. Gaia will be fine without her failed custodians.

And then my mind goes back to my studio where the scream comes from and resistance lives. And I say, “Break over, gotta go back. These F*ckers can’t win. For. SO. Many. Reasons.”

Funeral or Re-Birth?

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America….” I grew up reciting those words, with hand on heart, every school day morning.

Eventually the god of “one nation under God” changed for me. After baptisms of babies, teaching Sunday school and repeating the other pledge; the one that starts with “Jesus said you should….” something shifted. A light came on.

The narrow focus of the Christian god became a bigger god. A more encompassing god. A god that truly says love all your neighbors. God, for me, became, as the roots of trees underground, a connector. The unseen energy that joins all that lives.

That school day pledge, the part that says “…..with liberty and justice for all” means ALL no matter our differences. That is the beauty of the bouquet.

This nation’s current administration of clowns and buffoons, along with a congress of cowards, with one hand in our pockets and the other on their dicks, have ripped down that flag. They have distorted those pledges and made an idol of the god.

Is this the end of a 249 year republic of democracy? Or is it a light shinning on the roots of a grander connection?

Right, Rites and What’s Right

Yesterday was the first full day of summer vacation for my grandson who proudly and firmly announced that he is now “officially” in first grade. I had the pleasure of spending this momentous “one and only” day with this boy. We both launched in with the intention of taking everything it had to offer. To begin I took the boy to his first estate sale. A few days ago I put hard thought into whether or not I wanted to bring a child into the fray. Would he become frightened in a crowd of sometimes over zealous treasure hunters? Would he follow instructions, break something or get hurt himself? Setting my own desires aside, because there was a lot of vinyl (my passion for another posting), I didn’t want this not yet seven year old to have a negative experience in any way.

I am getting to be pretty estate sale savvy. I bring a specific bag, now dubbed the “$30 bag” because that is usually how much I pay to fill it. I wear proper foot wear. I make sure I am hands free, have readers at easy access and plenty of cash. Another thing I have learned is to dress for the heat of tight spaces and many bodies. A trip up three flights of steep old stairs to an attic oven must be taken with an abundance of caution and care.

Faces are becoming familiar (and younger!) and smiles more frequent as I navigate this increasingly popular and fashionable form of stuff reduction. I consider it my contribution to keeping things out of the landfills. I also consciously look with honor and respect at the sum of someone else’s life and passion and feel it is my calling to carry things forward in to a new purpose in life. It just feels right.

This day’s sale of choice was, to repeat this brilliant child’s new favorite response to everything and to the photos I showed him on my phone estate sale app, EPIC!! In listening to the basement chatter later we learned that there were 8,000 (yes 3 zeros) small vehicles of the Matchbox/Hot Wheels variety as well as other less known (to me) brands. A true life time achievement for a gentleman who apparently had spent his adult life as a plumber but who never lost his love of the toy car.

I suppose I had made the decision to attend prior to showing my grandson the photos. His response to the “Do ya wanna?” was epic in its own right. Decision made I outfitted the lad with a small lightweight close fitted back pack so he too would have hands free to navigate doors, stairs, and tall persons. He easily agreed to keep the number of vehicles to 10. This was highly risky on my part as I had zero idea how much this particular 10 were going to cost me.

Neither of us were prepared for the reality. They were everywhere; on shelves, in cabinets, pinned to the walls, tucked behind railings, single in original packaging (IOP) multiple IOP, single parked everywhere.

Magical. Delightful. A child’s dream.

We were part of an early crowd so most of the 8,000 were still present. A little sign priced them: $1 for opened, $3 for IOP, $5 for multi-IOP.

Being a female of a certain age I was not given toy cars and trucks to play with. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t right.

I had dolls. Of course. Yet I coveted my three older brothers’ cars. Truth be told I also wanted their marbles and jackknives. Mumblety-peg anyone? Then when I had two girls of my own I foolishly continued the unenlightened and expected path of ruffles and dolls. It wasn’t until I had a grandson that I allowed myself to “have” cars.

Latest Additions to My Coffee Can Garage

By the time the second grandson arrived I had a decent coffee can collection, some pinched, I mean inherited (!) from my brothers, and the race tracks to go with them. So this seven year old had benefitted from my “need for speed” although my need also includes style, form and substance. I have grown to accept that my cars seldom win; but boy oh boy do they lose beautifully.

While driving home I explained that we needed to “check” his purchases on Goggle to see if any may be worth significantly more money than we paid for them. His “Why?” was a bit gentler than his mother’s had been when I told her someone wanted to buy her precious beanie baby for way more than we had paid for it.

Sure enough the first $3 car we checked was selling for $30 on Ebay. I suggested he might want to leave that one IOP and play with the other 9 and he reluctantly agreed. After a bubbly soak of the new old cars, and our selves, at the “car wash” we settled in to lunch and video games to wait for the sun to dry our wheels before the races could commence.

Very suddenly there was much excitement! The first front baby tooth lost its battle to a chicken nugget and this little boy announced that he is kinda like an adult now. There was no blood, no tears, just an anxious need to save it to show mom and dad…..and the tooth fairy. Soft cooked noodles replaced the remaining nuggets and this new status carried on. Rightfully so.

Rite of passage: Corn on the cob season minus the choppers.

Mid way through this stellar day I received news of SCOTUS recent edict. Basically, if I understand it correctly District judges can no longer declare nationally. Truthfully I have always found it difficult to understand why they ever could; hence the word ‘district.’

The nuances and impacts of this decision are yet to be seen. Frankly the so very un-right wrong things that continue to occur daily under this nation’s gangster administration make me want to return to the innocence of baby teeth, bubbles and water hose. I want the tooth fairy to be real.

Hard Work

Yesterday I returned from a week long change of scenery. I can gage the passage of time and season by the changes that happened in my garden while I was away. The iris, at peak when I left, are heavy with the gooey spent flowers and are now showing last blooms. The sweet william had just put out buds a week ago and now the rose follows suit. The lavender had only a hint of the now fragrance and color in it’s stalks. The peony also just the exciting possibility of pink is now full skirted and dancing brightly in the breeze. Mother Nature hard at work. All of these changes I noted yesterday in a fog of fatigue and late afternoon light.

Most exciting was the changes to my puzzle house. The calendar pages are down a few more and there was room to load in more stock to share with passersby. This little house gave me great joy to work so hard for 3 months to build it. And now I see that others are enjoying it as well.

I spent the middle of my day yesterday driving along Route 2 aka the Mohawk Trail. It is my habit to drive with the windows opened and the music playing. This day’s play list was one of protest and “No Kings” randomly chosen by Pandora with lots of Dylan and interestingly, Springsteen. I was heartened to see a number of overpasses (2) populated by flag waving, “No Kings” sign holding protesters. And in a small New England town intersection were sign holding seniors concerned about their social security that they worked so hard to earn and the future of the country they fought past wars to secure. I gave my horn a good work out in solidarity. These people were not counted in the millions that congregated in our large cities covered by main stream media (poorly IMO) but they count never the less. And they WILL count in the voting booths at mid terms. We all will.

My youngest and her life partner/spouse/husband/friend and father to her two babies have for the past three years generously shared with me a week on the northern coast of Massachusetts. The house is a good sized cape cod shingled classic right on the beach in Newbury, Plum Island. Plum Island, literally an island, is predominately a national seashore preserve with a number of pricy “vacation” homes fit in as tightly as possible.

This year upon a visit to the local museum I learned that Newburyport was once the last stop before Canada for slave carrying clipper ships. There was tremendous wealth as shown by many large (for the time) well preserved homes and historical markers in Newbury and Newburyport.

Packing up to leave from vacation is far easier than packing up to go on vacation. Dirty denims get bagged together with sandy sneakers, last night’s bath towel and yesterday’s tee. Road snacks abound as open chip bags and a few remaining cookies jumble together with the remaining banana (only slightly brown) and an apple (only slightly bruised). Water bottles are filled and cold caffeine is on the ready.

The final walk through is followed by an assessment of just how untidy, dirty, or lived in the house is left for the cleaner(s) who come(s) in to ready for the next guests. This year I saw things “differently.” I don’t know if it was hearing of the Irish “staff” in the homes of those wealthy clipper ship captains at the Mariner Museum or the witnessing of the wealthy at play all around me present day or perhaps my daughter’s MIL still wiping cleaned off counters to “leave them clean,” but I was thinking of those that comprise the “service” that would come in and clean behind me.

Do I leave a space so clean that they barely have a job to do and therefore not work so hard, or not get paid? Or do I leave a space that they have to spend some time cleaning so as to get paid more? Are they getting paid enough either way? Do I leave a tip?

The hard working stick sprites of my puzzle house.

These are part of the “invisible” work force that make it easy to live as a person of privilege. The hospitality works and farm workers. The builders, painters, and maintenance people. The people that make the world run.

I am grateful to my daughter and SIL for providing me the opportunity to be at the beach. However, I don’t know if I want to return there. I know that the color of my skin has afforded me privileges. I hope I have not taken that lightly.

I worked hard all my life. But maybe not nearly as hard as others still do. And where will we be if all of these hard workers are made to go elsewhere?

As I reread that last bit I realize that it reads as all the worry about the current administrations impact on me and my life. Selfish to say the least. But what of the impact on the people living in this threatening time? What of the babies that will lose parents? Children ripped from loving arms and locked in basements?

This is far more than “unfortunate” and “appalling.” Three cheers for the Pope for pushing back against this hellish evil that is our current administration. May they and anyone that supports them suffer painful uncommunicable diseases and financial disasters, and also maybe a permanent expiration date on their ED meds.

Spring and A Promise to Continue

Spring is the earths fulfillment of the promise to continue. Things that have been hidden, tucked away under not so rich soil, aka dirt, and dead leaves warm, wake, and try to push their way up toward the sun and impossibly blue sky. I feel the daffodil as I lay abed when the sun peeks in, pushing me to get out from under the cozy down alternative and start a new day. I am joyous and hum a senseless ditty as I prep the coffee and plan to take some time to just bask in the sun as I tackle the required cleaning that tandems this miraculous celebration of rebirth.

I’m not much of a gardener these days. I am now what I have coined as an extreme passive gardener or, Gigi the EPG. Gone are the winter days of perusing the seed catalogues and graph paper bed diagrams. I don’t devour the Farmers Almanac and commit it’s weather predictions to memory. This brain doesn’t hold the data like it used to and sadly due, I believe, to climate change the Farmers just can’t call it like they used to.

But still every few days in Spring I wander my yard and see the evidence of my past labors. I watch as the snow on the mountain makes its appearance. I note that perhaps come Fall I should plug a few more bulbs here or there and I should probably figure out when to throw the caladium tubers into a fresh pot of dirt. The snow on the mountain, Euphorbia Marginata, is from my childhood home. My mother got it from my grandmother’s garden and I got it from my mother’s. It continues. The clematis out back is also from my mother’s garden. I hope to be able to transplant it to my daughter’s new home in the fall.

The lilacs are good and leafed out now. There will be blossoms in May. I had an old bush break off a good size chunk in the fall. I watched it get rained and snowed on and in January I dragged it out and chopped it up. I used many of the twigs and branches to fashion my stick sprites (see a future post here) and threw a couple limbs into a snow pile. When the snow pile melted I popped the branches into a small bucket and made sure it would stay good a wet. Note the EPG mode. When the leaves started popping on the mini-trees I informed my two daughter’s that their “trees were ready.” They each got pieces of my garden. It continues.

Needing to get the tree out of the bucket and into the ground at my youngest’s house I tagged her 6 year old to do some heavy lifting. He mostly reveled in the hope of excavating dinosaurs and celebrated with abandon the permission to get his hands dirty. His eyes turned saucer when I told him that some farmers drop their drawers and sit in the dirt to test soil readiness for planting. Sitting in the hole sin pants was just a step too far for the boy. But he too, taking a cue from his Gigi, took some moments to bask in the sun. And it continues. Tomorrow I protest.