The experience of tubing and rafting in the mountains of Tennessee, North Carolina, or Georgia has taught me an innate definition of COLD river water. In fact it has become the default setting for my mind when trying to plunge into any water, be it pool, ocean or stream- to tell myself, "It can't be as numbing as a North Carolina river!" and in I go. The Toccoa, the Ocoee, the Chattooga, Nantahala, Hiawasee, -all local Southern rivers, Indian names as well, names that conjure any number of cold water adventures.
Today, in this tradition, 6 of us donned our gear and drove to Blue Ridge, Georgia for tubing on the Toccoa River. We first chose a cloudy, overcast day after unseasonably chilly weather throughout the South, causing a temperature of only 71, mid-day. After risking directions from a kindly octogenarian named AJ, we persevered beyond his tiny hand-drawn map to locate the tubing company located in the National Forest. Bright pink tubes welcomed us, the only customers. We saw this as a warning, but intrepid enthusiasts, we plunged in; or rather I desperately hoped to not plunge, as the occasional breathtakingly cold splashes sufficed to elicit gasps and chills enough.
Ahhh, the wonder of being one with the river, hearing its tumbling waters, floating safely on my tube, and gathering fodder for future tales. We may have searched and hoped for the rare glimpse of sunlight for awhile, but the rhythm and speed of the river soon took all our attention.
There came the bend where I was somewhat alone, tho' still in view of the others. Seeing much frothy water ahead, I aimed to the right bank, paddling furiously with my one green Croc, and too late noticing the drop-off ahead of me!! I grasped overhanging limbs and held myself there, waiting and deciding how to best proceed to avoid a bailout. The looming boulders grew larger, the eddies swirled faster, dropping deeper. My sons with a measure of frivolity noticed my undue distress, and to their credit, all followed to my rescue. I was certain of disaster, but as I released my stalwart branch, while firmly holding to one son's hand, I threw caution aside as we sailed over the rapids, relieved and believing for more. With each dousing, growing wetter and colder, I also grew braver 'til at the final huge, boulder-strewn drop, I just held on and laughed. How else to be one with nature? How else to impress my family, but with the bravery of my modest wilderness skills?
Taking a summer sabbatical, a reprieve from the ardors and privileges of modern communication. No internet, no email, no house phone, no fax, no cable, no DVD, no XM. I am up for a quiet summer of listening, basking in the space of sacred idleness. Here goes...
The many particulars of cashing out on a 4-BR home with wide porches and decks and yard to pare down to a 1-BR treeloft over what once was a garage, are, and should well be, tasks consuming my body, soul, and spirit, all at once. As I viewed the options surrounding the move, each belonging, each tangible item inhabiting our home, answered the question, "where do you go now?" The responding options reveal my life at this juncture, all avenues heading in dissimilar directions. 
I was surprised to realize that I like old metal. Old as in parts and pieces, trains, farm equipment, wire trays, spokes, lawn furniture, and the feel of tin and heavy iron especially. Grates, bolts, radiators, latches, hinges, chicken wire, hydrants, gas meters, manhole covers, one way signs. It's a tactile thing, it puts me in touch with my rarer masculine side. I also like shiny metal, bronze, silver, aluminum, and the platinum of my feminine side. I harbor a couple of chipped aqua electric fans, wrought iron ornaments, and numerous topiary frames. Perhaps it is the aging and mottling that i appreciate, the strength of stuff well-made in a previous time of hard work and acceptance. Perhaps the item I fondle in a thrift sale calls to me of a simpler reason to exist, before modems and chips and monitors. Perhaps I just like giving new purpose to unusual pieces, no longer useful or in working order. Maybe the favor will be returned one day. 
The custom of children gathering flowers from nature to flower the bare cross at Easter is a precious reflection of simple metaphor. Death produces life, the seed falls in the ground and reproduces itself, out of despair comes living joy and hope. This photo is on the cover of an illustrated children's book by Brian Wildsmith about the legendary history of the Cross. The simplicity of the cover illustration bespeaks the childlike wonder needed to embrace faith. "Except you become as a little child..."
Has it been so long since I've attended a bridal shower? Weren't they always just a mix of women smiling and ooh-aahhing over new kitchen gadgets, linens, and nighties? And a bride-to-be awaiting sage advice from requisite relatives and sassy friends? I assumed it was only the dainty mints and crustless sandwiches that would reveal my age, but it is rather my new-found delight in party games! I found myself racing the clock to transform our team's toilet paper wedding gown into the splendor of a Vera Wang. I snatched and tossed paper clues from the grab bag to help my team guess the most wedding Catch- Phrases. And writing a nonsense poem to which we all contributed only 1 incongruent line was right up my alley. Truth be told we women have a need to laugh and play together in a congenial group setting. Else why would we all still be lingering after a mere 4 1/2 hours for a Saturday Bridal Brunch?
"The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go." Dr. Seuss
