My Way of Living:
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The world is made up many different types of people. In my simplified version, there are Bloggers, and Non Bloggers. It's my blog, I can do that here. There's also a secondary group consisting of Background buddies… long suffering non blogging friends, and loved ones who get to know much more then they ever thought possible about the blogging world.

Gotta love anyone who can listen to a Blogger ramble on without their eyes glazing over after the first few minutes. I love mine, bless his non- blogging heart. While he doesn't quite understand the difference between Word Press, and Blogger, or why one over the other, he does try to be as supportive as possible. When I finally wander down to the TV where he is sitting in our matching recliners, sigh… bleary eyed, and half mind-edly still living in the blogging world, he always asks how it is going, sweetie that he is. Working behind the blog stuff doesn't interest him either, tweaking, sorting, and decisions about plugins, widgets, and themes are not something he finds interesting, but he's good at listening. For a little while at least…as soon as I see him nodding off, I change the subject.

As bloggers. It's ingrained in our lives. It's as much a part of how we see ourselves, as anything else in our makeup, we live and breathe blogging. It's our identity along with the myriad of other wonderful things that make us uniquely who we are. And we couldn't do it without the support of our background people. The ones who tell us it's all going to be fine, when no one else reads our posts. When something doesn't work right in our blog. The one's who offer to track down the person who left a mean comment on our blogs and give them a hey, that's not nice take that back kind of talking to.

Let's celebrate the background people, the ones who are"the situations we blog about, who make the funny comments we repeat on our blogs, and sometimes even become our slightly unwilling photography models." Where would we be as bloggers be without our background people? You rock our blogging worlds background people…you keep us
blogging on! PS: Dedicated to my background guy, the one who will listen to my blogging post when I read it out to him, give me his honest opinion, and then not be offended when I ignore it and hit publish anyways. And never say"I told you so." I have another post coming up at the end of this week about blog hero's. The techy, and knowledgeable people who so happily give us advice, show us how, and help us out when we need it. Thank goodness they are all part of our blogging worlds. The WP move…for those of you that are interested. Going along smoothly, almost done, it's down to widgets, plugin's, and final tweaks. I'm still trying to fix a few things, and then we will be taking this baby for a test drive. It's pretty, and bright, with lots of white space, you all know just how visual I am. I'd like something clean, uncluttered, and easy for you to read. I want my new home to be a fresh, beautiful place, sparkling with laughing light.

Bright lime colored garden clogs clip along the path wondering where the snow went so suddenly. No more slipping, cold feet, spring is a delight. Cat drifts between my legs, playful, warming black, skittish in the sun. Sniffs deep of something mysterious, dirt scattered high, rolling in the dry gardens under the pine.

Birds swoop by, waving hair, seed scattered on the ground feverishly pecked. Unwelcome Crows caw in the trees, territorial, new, jangling the neighborhood. The mind planning, sunning, thinking, reminding. No twisting, no weights lifted, stretch in the warm sun. Not the time for gardener's boot camp. Patience that those weeks of moving tender shoots, and scattering of seeds will wait until later. Try my patience, turn my resolve. This gardener yearns to plant. To think.
To dream of fashioning something beautiful out of nothing, with dry soil, and tiny seeds.

Trees burst overnight with buds. Swelling not just in bodies. Weeds appear to laugh at efforts to shake them free with feet, determined to stay, and thrive. Cat crouches, furry bottom wiggles, streaks across the lawn, birds scatter. Children's laughter drifts behind him across the grass. Weeds still remain.

For now. Plot, dream, wander. Through garden beds. Weeks will run, time will out, the garden will still be there. Sun warm, fingernails dirty, trowel in hand, it will wait. Time will heal,the garden is impatient. And so am I.
Jane@Muddy Boot Dreams On a Wednesday: Slivers of moments captured in a weekly post, evolving, descriptive, a memoir of life.

PS: A big thank you for your supportive, and understanding comments, it's been a journey, but I am hopeful that things will get back to normal as my back heals. And yes, my fingers are itching to get back into the garden, but that has to wait a little while.

What is it about Men, and their recliners?
That love/love relationship they have with big comfy chairs.
Overstuffed, overly large, comfy, cushioned, clicker hiding, reclining comfort.
Usually delegated downstairs to the “man cave” along with the big screen TV, so as not to add a note of discord to the beauty of the feminine decor that inhabits the main floor in many houses.

Years ago, one of the biggest choices, and compromises in our then new marriage was the choice of furniture for our new home. The experts will tell you it’s all about children, where to live, money… but it’s furniture, trust me. His stuff, your stuff, how to combine our stuff… big time.
My husband came without baggage, other then a absolutely tasteless off white vinyl Swedish modern, IKEA knockoff, footstool equipped Sears special.
He declared undying love for it. I declared undying love for him, but not for the chair.
A tie breaker? A deal maker? Would it be him, or the chair, or would I have to live with the evil step child of a chair in order to be happily ever after with Prince Charming.
We compromised, and went shopping.
Thus began the search for “I’ll know it when I find it.”
Months later, and more stores then I ever want to visit again, after numerous discussions, disagreements, compromises, and bargaining, he happily settled into a beautiful, clean lined recliner that we could bo th live with. It cost as much as a few mortgage payments but we were happy.

Finding something that pleased both of our tastes was a lesson in subjectivity. But we finally learned to live happily ever after with this new step child, both of us coming to love the chair that took center stage in our living room.
Time marched on, we moved up here the chair took a beating from the moving company that manhandled many of our precious items. It started to grow metal springs like curly hairs from it’s back, transforming from a gentle well behaved piece of furniture to a squeaking, sagging, jolting beast shedding foam chips, and black greasy dust every time someone sat in it.

We gazed with dread upon flyers, and catalogues… how would we ever find a chair that would fit into our family without discord.
We searched, he sat, I encouraged, he declined, I sighed. Chair after chair, store after store, there were contenders, close calls, and compromises. We were rather rusty at choosing, it had been more then a decade since we last adopted a step child chair.
Then one snowy blustery, the first day of spring he found it. He spied it sitting in a row of 20 or so like minded chairs, he sat, he reclined… and declared it the one. Like true love, he knew instantly.

I’m not sure what the future will hold, it’s his true love, I am merely the [wicked] stepmother… but you know, it might grow on me like the other one did. Tell us about your recliner stories… especially if they are the horror story ones… lol.

Being able to sit down to eat a meal after so many months of pain is… Well, totally wonderful. Indescribable.
I hurt my back last summer, something went the wrong way, my back went the other, and I herniated a disk. L5, low down…it was pressing on the sciatic nerve that goes all the way to your toes. Yes it was a very big ouch.

Not nice at all.
I don't suggest it.
Apparently I was one of the unlucky 5% of people who require surgery.
And it affected my ability to blog, there were months when it was difficult to get near the computer. Because I couldn't sit, I would stand at my drafting desk, write a sentence on the laptop, pace out the pain, and go back.
There were times when I thought I might have to give up blogging.
To distract myself, I decided to research a move to Word Press, and go ahead with the name change that had been in the works for ages. What else can you do?

And then a cancellation call came from the hospital.
The surgery was last Tuesday, while I am glad it's over, I still can't believe it.
I'm very thankful.There were a lot of prayers said. And answered.
I'm also thankful that you've stuck with me through what has been a erratic 7 month adventure.
It's been a long road.
I'm looking towards the future, I've got some interesting things for you, and for the future of this blog as soon as I am healed.
Lets see where our blogging journey's takes us.
PS: Thinking spring, and sending warm up wishes to all.

Rustling birds disturbed by progress down the rural road fly by, flicking from branch to branch. Soon there will be nests, eggs and chicks. Life moving in circles.

My heart swells when I see the mountains bearing less snow, spring is arriving. Bleeding hearts, red stems shaded, cold, but determined to grow through the soil.

Pink blossoms give me a heart shaped thrill. Ferns unfurling, hairy, and brown, green hidden deep, soon to show. Hosta striped stems swirl from the ground, poking, pushing. Buds breaking, no spilled tears. Branches ripening, reviving.

Come spring! Come warm weather! Leave, snow covering the brooding mountains. Bring shine, and laughter to our world. Reach deep into my gardener's heart, and make it swell. PS: If spring has not reached your part of the world, I will send a wish that it will come soon.

I wrote and scheduled this post last week, and completely to my Gardener's embarrassment forgot that it was the first day of spring today. There's a pretty good reason why, and I will be sharing that along with a few other things on Monday's post, see you then.

Winter has returned to the dark hole it hibernates in to avoid the other seasons, the snow is nearly gone.

It feels as if it was never here. Invigorated by the warm breeze, we, and I use the term we loosely, had just finished raking the entire yard. And surveyed the cleaned up brown patches flecked with emerging green with a sense of accomplishment. One item ticked off of the spring cleanup list. A hour later the wind rose up in a fury.

Gust swayed the tall Fir trees, cracking branches with a terrible bangs, blowing dust, gusting from every direction. The tidy landscape changed to a full on scattering of enormously long branches impaling the soft ground as they fell from 40 feet up. Too dangerous to stay outside we retreated inside. And watched with dismay as all of our hard work was undone.
We were out there too soon, and have to cleanup once again. We could view it as a chore, something that had to be done, reversed in a matter of hours. But in that sweet moment we were living life, the warmth of sunshine on our pale seasonal skin, air fresh in our lungs as we called out to neighbors walking by. The breeze mingling in the strands of our hair, jackets thrown to the ground, green blades of grass revealed with each raking, that moment can't be taken away from us. Laura at Simple Serene Living wrote a encouraging post about bookmarking life, living the moment as it comes. It made my heart sing, and it was a good reminder, despite our best intentions, we sometimes rush through life, missing moments when they come by. Being outside in the spring sun, that was a"bookmarked" moment that made the work worth while, despite the outcome. Do you find yourself rushing, ticking off items on your to do list, or do you tend to live each moment as it comes? I think it's truly hard to keep living in the moment, but oh, when you do…it's sublime.

PS:
My move to Word Press, and a new URL, is on the back burner for the next little while. That's OK, because thanks to Brenda at Cosy Little House, I just figured out how to resize my images properly, so I will have some time to practice. Like the spring storm, life can have a way of throwing things at you. You have to be able to move with it, stay flexible, and move forward, so that's what I'm doing here. The new URL will go live, just not this week, or maybe not the next week either. I'll make sure to let you know what to expect when we are once again, closer to that date. For now I am encouraging you to live those fleeting moments, things change rapidly in life. More PS's: Have you checked out our The Over 40 Blogging World facebook group? If you are over 40, it's a wonderful place to hang out with fellow bloggers who are supportive, and passionate about blogging. And…one last thing. My World Wednesday isn't on for this week, look for my next post on Friday, see you then.

It’s the petite department… again.
I feel like Godzilla lumbering among a group of sprites.
Little women, tiny, short, petite, small… did I mention short, are everywhere flitting about.

My Dad wouldn’t be caught dead standing here under the glaring florescent lights, with sore feet, and aching back from peering down onto what I swear are shorter then usual racks of clothing.
Maybe I’m just the replacement husband, the fill in, the handler.
The one standing on the sidelines awkwardly hanging onto a corner of her handbag, parcels weighing down my arms. Pretending that I did not accidentally wander into this bastion of femininity, also known as the “petite department.”

Where is the normal sized stuff I want to shout!
Actually where is the tall girl/women department?
There isn’t one, ther e never is, there are not enough of us to warrant our own department.
It’s becoming a Mother/Daughter shopping ritual for me to stand there acting like I’m really about 2 feet shorter then my six one, lurking in the “petite department.” I’m outstanding, and I don’t mean talented, did you catch the drool tone of my voice, underlaid with love for my Mom.
Please don’t leave me a comment telling me how much I should appreciate my much shorter Mom, I love her dearly.this is just a odd situation, that’s all. And I guess if you are not tall, you are really not going to understand, just pretend, and laugh nicely.
I love spending time with her, but when we end up “just to take a quick look dear,” in the petite department I really stick out. Couldn’t that become the domain of my normal sized sister, the one who doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb, a green giant, or a bean pole?
I dread the double take of the sales clerks, as they sally forth with armfuls of delightful little frocks… something I haven’t fit into since I was 12.
“My dear” one well meaning salesperson whispered into my ear one time … ”you are shopping in the petite department, and you my dear, are NOT petite.” Really, and all this time I had no idea.
Ack, I'm… I’m tall, I had no idea.

Since then I always make sure to only rifle through the doll sized clothes when no one is gazing at me… it’s a great way to look like a shoplifter.
Each time I look into the magical dorky mirrors in the petite department, the woman who is towering over the glass looks tired, pale, and her clothes that seemed to be perfectly fitting when she left the house, are now too short in all areas. What do they treat the air with in here? Shrink spray?
Even the chairs are petite… ever seen a six foot one skinny giantess slouching on a wire framed boudoir chair? Hang out with us, and you will.

The worst is the sad look of sympathy from a well intentioned sales associate who purses her lips and apologizes for not having anything to fit my extra tall arms and legs. I kind of knew that when I read the sign over your store… ”Good things come in small packages”
Yes, but equally good things come in tall ones also. Jane @ Muddy Boot Dreams
If you were a reader of Laurie’s blog I love a cloudy day, you will be happy to know that she is back to blogging, here’s a link to her new blog. And if you have never visited her drop by and say hi, she’s delightful, and we are all thrilled to have her back.
http://ilovedacloudyday.blogspot.ca/

“OK, why do we need these again?” He asked for the third time. I explain that finials are there as a decorative element on the curtain rods, and they also [jokingly] help stop the curtains from falling off the end. But who knows, I am certainly no expert, maybe they do. “What are they called again?” “Finials” “Fin-e what's?” “Finials. Why? “Um…, I don’t know. They just are, and so are the ones on the top of the lamp.” “ Let’s move on to the paint for the cupboards, now do you prefer Cookie Dough, or Cloud white?” I ask. “What do you mean, they both look the same to me, you choose.” “Do you want to use the satin, or should we use the semi-gloss?” He remarks something that sounds very much like, “this isn’t a wrench, and I am not interested in it.” He’s a guy, a man, and male, you know, they really don’t love talking about paint colors, or decorating. But then to be fair, I don’t really love talking about oil changes, and battery levels, engine power, or rev’s per minute. But I do try to make sure to find a solution that works for both of us. It’s a far cry from when I grew up, my Dad worked, and my Mom worked the home. So when the decorating spirit hit her, Dad would come home to a sunshine yellow kitchen, and I mean SUNSHINE YELLOW! Good morning star shine. It’s a good thing that their royal blue bedroom was across the house, it might have clashed wonderfully. Although our bathroom was adorned with hot pink flowered wallpaper, like every other friend’s house. Remember the avocado green bathroom fixtures? Or the lavender? I was so jealous of my sister’s lavender striped wallpapered room, with the pale purple walls, because mine was RED! Everywhere red, how on earth did she find a red polyester bedspread? Oh what about the Burnt Orange craze of the seventies. My eyes are still smarting from that glare. The wall to wall carpet that covered the floor, and halfway up the walls of our “Rec Room,” the one with the dark brown squares that deftly hid the giant wolf spiders. Ah the good old days, and now thanks to all the decorating shows, we are fountains of good taste. At least until the next generation declares our favourite colors to be old fashioned.

I am still in a spring cleaning mode, and now it is focusing on the house. Last night I mentioned to Gar that I would like to give the bathroom a fresh coat of paint. He was almost asleep, and when I asked him for his opinion on a appropriate color, his answer was"hot pink".

Now I know that he was teasing me, and there is absolutely no way that we would paint it that particular shade. But am I not tempted?

Cold hands, warm heart. Rush last steps to home. Winter chill settles on skin.

Rough branched pussy willows, blossoms so soft. Gathered from the ditch…precious winter gift. I'm the first. This time. Oh dear… Birds of a feather flutter startled. Once again, the look… Mental note, make noise first. Breath exhale, deep, winter yoga, no rush. Relax. Steel key rasps, knob squeaks. Door glides, bringing. Fresh air clinging, as it rides to warmth.

Sun glows through windows once again. Missed, beloved, stay longer, come more often. Bring meringues if you would, please. Snow cover, winter rolls over again in it's bed. Toes cold, tongue tasting. Lips sweet. Mocha, how I love thee…

Let me count the ways. Deep, dark chocolate secrets wafting from a cup. Coffee rich, vibrant, depths inside, withholding tales. Birds gathered, seed flying, big trees hiding. Cat watching, tail twitching, inside's the place to be. Mocha overtaking fresh air, hands heavy with cup. Creamy, dreamy, scented love of sugar.

Sun lowering, mountains glowering. Fog returns from it's shopping trip. Cloaked Eagles cluck in annoyance. Perched like Christmas tree toppers up high. Day, giving back to dark soon. Pink meringue, gooey treasure, crispy crunch. Cat batting at sprinkles on floor. Caffeine rush, sugar high.

Virtuous reward for cold walk. Winter waves from the fields… Pink meringue disappears, bits and pieces, sun behind a cloud. Coffee drunk to the dregs. Meringue a memory. Cat hungry, birds fed. Sun down, fog in. My world, Wednesday… He of the fur, and I of the coffee, sit and dream of dinner.

It was as if Winter had woken up, and rolled over in it's bed. Neatly folding back the white quilted blanket it uses, and exposing parts of Spring underneath all of that snow.

Allowing the day lilies a small toe hold in the garden. Hesitant green sprouts appearing in the frozen earth. Snow recedes at a pace that should exhaust it, showing the brown hairy stems of rigid ferns hidden since November. Fuzzy, muted tones of the moss that stretch toward the rare light, mingle with dead, and decayed foliage. Fog settles on the still white fields, competing with the o verflowing ditches, murky with a combination of ice, mud and hope. Today overflowing puddles where there was a thick white covering before. Birds swoop from tree to tree, calling, sounding like a herald of the next season.

A preview, a promise, loosening the tight grip on the edge of the white blanket of snow that smothers the fields. Melting piles, washing down roof tops, dripping off of the branches. Spring seeps into minds, conversations…jackets undone in the sun. Tightened when frost coats the needles of the fir trees in the early morning, chill, damp, and dark. By the afternoon, the fog goes behind the mountains, up the valley, to those who live in ice for longer. Returning with the echoing blasts of the late train that night. A cycle of winter to spring and back again, a disagreement of which season is to take over, and for how long and when.

Can you find the magpie?
We are merely the viewers of this game between the seasons…not players, nor willing audience. Until Spring steps up for it's turn, and then we applaud, cheer, and stamp our feet in approval, and hope for a winner. If you enjoyed this post you might want to read this one.