sobelle

From San Francisco...sending best hopes to you after your terrible earthquakes.

San Francisco fog... we're livin' it! =)

Over one month after the initial explosion and sinking of the Deepwater Horizon oil rig, crude oil continues to flow into the Gulf of Mexico, and oil slicks have slowly reached as far as 12 miles into Louisiana's marshes. According to Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal, more than 65 miles of Louisiana's shoreline has now been oiled. Based on low estimates, at least 6 million gallons of crude have spewed into the Gulf so far - though some scientists have said they believe the spill already surpasses the 11 million-gallon 1989 Exxon Valdez oil spill off Alaska as the worst in U.S. history. (39 photos total)




http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/05/oil_reaches_louisiana_shores.html

Sitting with my Mom in neurological ICU in Harborview hospital in Seattle.

While I was in California seeing my new grandbaby... Mom was off on an Alaskan adventure.

She was heading back to the lower 48 and in Watson Lake, Yukon Territories when she had a stroke and, apparently, a heart attack.

She would have loved to know that she got to ride in a Lear Jet to Seattle.

I have had John Lennon's song lyrics in my head for days now "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans"




my beautiful mom in 1951 soon after she gave birth to me

I'm just happy to be here! ::toasts::

Helping to spread the word...


counteragent's little sister-in-law (14 yo) is very sick. Her diagnosis is uncertain and right now the family is searching for people they call "comparables" -- people with similar symptoms and treatments that they've used.

Please, take a few minutes and check out their blog at http://jenjensfamily.blogspot.com/. (There are also links there to more detailed information about her condition for medical professionals.)

Figured I should share a poem for poetry month...

Tulip Elegies-II

Geese bleat over the roof, conversing
somehow with stars as we drowse
beneath constellations of beating wings.
Rearranging staggered lines they steer
a sunward pattern, calling out
as they fly, naming the long way.

Below, under shovels of dirt
the dead move imperceptibly,
turning into other shapes of life.
Tulip bulbs shift under dark horizons
of winter and wedge against years
of decayed shale. Shoots form within,

still trapped, and a miniature blossom
waits in each bleached kernel. Last spring
winged leaves fed this future and wilted.
Now, unmoved by geese or moonlight,
bulbs listen through solstice nightfall
for the searing call of one hot star.

Denise Low