Summertime Checklist

For many of us, having something to look forward to can make the "stuff of life" a little easier to handle when the going gets tough. Here's a short list of what I love about summer in Ashland and what, at this rainy point in the late spring, I turn my hopeful heart toward. Drop a comment and add to the list....

1. Rarely setting alarms and moving to the rhythm of a more natural inner clock.
2. The sound of cicadas singing.
3. Falling asleep to the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan.
4 . Eating every meal on the back porch.
5. Walking barefoot through newly watered grass.
6. The sound of rotating sprinklers on a wide lawn.
7. The smell of Peter Buckley’s barbeque being lit up - night after night.
8. Sitting directly in front of a floor fan.
9. Weeding the garden early in the morning.
10. Long meandering hikes through dusty quiet wood.
11. The familiarity of a Sousa march being played in the band shell in the park.
12. Wading in an icy cold creek, to the point of bright red numbed toes and legs.
13. Bare skin.
14. Looking out from under the brim of a straw hat.
15. Potluck dinners under shady arbors.
16. Raspberries.
17. Crispy, drip down your chin, wet red watermelon.
19. The sound of neighbors laughing through their open screen doors.

20. Candlelight.

21. Ginny reading in the hammock.
22. Going to into an air conditioned movie house and walking back out into a sauna two hours later.
23. Picking and eating - straight from the garden: snap peas, pole beans, warm rip tomatoes.
24. Cotton dresses.
25. Marveling at the 4th of July territorial parade watching shenanigans.
26. Dancing under the moon.
27. Sneaking around the neighborhood after dark, playing hide and seek.
28. The thrill of the lemonade stand.
29. Driving with the windows down.

30. Cold beer - in quantity - combined with an equal share of good friends.

31. Putting away the lawn mower - job well done.
32. The first thunderstorm - it’s electrical charge and that delicious smell of wet, hot pavement.
33. Popsicles consumed in a good people watching place.
34. Outdoor concerts with starlight and half moon rising by the fourth song.

35. Driving to the coast - and the way the air temp drops 30 degrees on the other side of the tunnel!
36. The purple vetch that covers the foothills until mid July.
37. Campfires - story telling, poking sticks into the coals, the way the flames make faces glow.
38. Picking blackberries..eating blackberries...picking - eating - picking - eating.
39. The sheer voluptuousness and bounty of the stalls at the Growers Market.

40. Painting in my bikini.

41. Sprinkler games.
42. Gracie playing fiddle tunes outdoors at dusk.
43. Fresh Basil...armfuls of it...
44. Sinking - more fully - into the warm, full, ripe, inviting moments of each day.

Remembering springtime in Wales

When I close my eyes,
I can see those childhood haunts
and an ocean with waves rolling back against
the shore we're standing on.

the sweet dreams I used to have
with the swell of tall grass about my head and body,
all the secret special hillsides that my heart took photos of,
and the scores of music I wrote 

while wildly running through pastureland after sheep....

A bryn noel
has rustled the papers
atop the desk in my mind,
and every favorite poem, prayer and lyric returns -
unforgotten.

If every ache inside I have felt, every spasm of longing
for my homeland,
were to take me back,
I should have been there the second that I left
and dwelt on until eternity
searching only for a love to share it all with.

Thus,
we would be complete,
and I would never again
close my eyes to see.


"Matti" by Martha Lee Phelps

Khaki-colored Halo

I was lying by the pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch in Death Valley, California. The dry heat felt wonderful against my skin and combined with the the lazy conversations unfolding around me, I was being lulled to sleep.  Sound snippets of children laughing in the water, mothers calling out and friends engaged in small talk floated past me. I heard a deep baritone voice behind me inquisitively address someone in my vicinity, “I see that you are journaling. Is that something you do daily, or is it an exercise for this trip?” “Well,” came the response from my left, “if you assure me that you’ll keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you.” 

‘Hmmm, secret journals?’ I pondered with eyes closed. I pulled my consciousness forward and slightly turned my head to squint at the second speaker. The journaler was sitting in the shade of the pool deck veranda.”You see, Diane goes away for three weeks each summer to a work conference,” he began, (I’m thinking about who Diane might be - his wife? Co-worker? Friend?) “and she misses the kids and I terribly each year when she goes. She can hardly sleep at night. Last year, I had the kids writing her letters constantly, which I sent off every other day.”  

I felt myself smile at the image of kids bent over lined paper writing sweet kid-like descriptions of summer activities, and I inwardly nodded with approval at how I imagined it would feel to receive such a letter from a child of my own. 

     “Well, I found this old journal of hers that was empty, and I thought that this year I would take time to write in the journal every day until she has to leave, and then I’ll slip it into her suitcase before she goes -- so that when she unpacks, she’ll be surprised by it, and - you know - have something to read from home.”
    “How nice of you, “ observed the friend who had climbed out of the pool by this point and was drying off with a towel as he listened to journal-man’s story.
    “It’s just bits and pieces about the kids and their adventures, stories about special times I remember, and of course - some sharing about my feelings for her. Just that sort of thing.”

By now I had turned my entire head and was using my hat as a sunshade. I gazed at this unusual man. Now, I wanted to look at this person. I wanted to see with my own eyes, what outward appearance is worn by someone who clearly has such a large, tender and giving heart?

Nope. There were no outer visible signs on this average looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt and crumpled khaki trousers. There was no special birthmark, tattoo or unusual tribal marking. There was no halo or sign inscribed with the words: “I pay attention to my beloved. I care when she is lonely. I practice compassion. I observe the small but beautiful acts of daily life in my family and make note. I am willing to give of my time, care, creativity and present moment for the benefit of others - especially those whom I love.”

    “Wow,” I said under my breath and turned my face back toward the sky. On my right, my daughter heard my single word. Something about the short exclamation made her look up from the book she was reading,  “What?” she pondered. So I quietly described the conversation I had just overheard.

As I explained this man’s journal to my daughter, I felt a welling of emotion. Whereas the details of his life story were minimal, who he was inherently was largely apparent and very impressive. He was a good man and a loving person. The situation reminded me of times I’d read literary passages to students and asked them to tell me what they’d learned about the main characters based - not on their physical descriptions - but on the character’s very actions and dialogue.

What do our actions reveal about us? What, among the day to day exchanges that we have, might be considered “small” on the surface, but are actually very big? What little things do you do that can ease another’s heart? Which simple acts demonstrate steady and reliable devotion and kindness?  What secret journal are you keeping that whispers “I love you” in it’s quiet reflections and might forever change a reader’s life?

Evolution of a Tulip

As fate would have it, the deer that cruise our neighborhood have made a trail along the south side of the street. Turns out, tulips are one of their favorite springtime morsels and even though the north side of the street had hundreds of them throughout the month of April, the deer didn't diverge from their trail....even down to the very last blossom in my front yard. I sighed. I swore. I muttered and wailed. And before the summer's end, I will fully surrender - dig up the bulbs - and plant them safely in the back yard where our beloved pup can watch over future blooms. Meanwhile, sensing the inevitable a couple weeks ago, I started photographing the last standing tulip. Here's what I came up with - for as long as it was there. To see these photos in a larger - full screen format, simply double click the desired image. Enjoy.

(Please remember: Photographic images, art and writing on this blog, unless otherwise credited or noted, are © Martha Lee Phelps. Please do not cut, paste, or copy what is being shared, be it for personal or professional use, large (screensaver) or small (facebook profile picture) without my permission. Full resolution, signed reproductions are available for purchase. Please drop me an email if you'd like to order any image that has appeared in my blog or my website's portfolio. Thank you for your support. ~ mlp)

Tribute to the birth of a Welsh poet

From the third story bay of an abandoned
250 year old woolen mill,
I stared across rolling pastures along Felinfach Road.

It was, quite certainly,
the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld:
the narrow lane disappeared round a corner,
while perfectly tended hedgerows
loosely held back wildness and the fertility of
rambling dreams.

Never had I seen so many shades of green.
Never had I felt transported
simply by drawing breath,
and never, ever, had my heart been all-at-once
unfettered
and calm.

At ease for the first
time in life, I experienced vast
Silence wrapping around my small body
(a dark, rich, purple tapestry
very like those that had once rhythmically
unfolded off the dusty looms two floors below me)

and I was alone.

I might have been afraid,
as each fiber of my soul expanded.

I might have leaned back
against the safe smooth timber beams,
and closed my eyes against the spinning prayers of hawk in flight
toward Aberystwyth.

I might have fled, yet
my ancestors convened.

“Bare witness,” said my Grannie
as she reached her soft gnarled hand toward mine, and gathered
me into the circle. “It’s time.”

Then, looking into my eyes, the old ones began to whisper.
They told stories of warrior’s hearts, uncommon loyalty and
the glorious rise of the great Bear.

They recited poems of faith held fast
through long hushed winters, as well as
ballads of the Beltane Queen and passions’ sweet adventures.

Laughing, the men bellowed songs about harvest fires
while the women,
skirts swinging and checks flushed,
made the floorboards tremble with their breathless dancing.

Smells of wool and
wood, sweat on sun-browned shoulders,
fermenting ale, sweet cream and
raw sugar, and the smoke of
tobacco kissed by fire
swirled like incense all around.

Joy raised the rafters, and translucent memories,
like particles of dust in sunlight, filled the old building
and showered everything within.

Finally, embraced as a child
who has arrived at last on home’s doorstep,
they marked my eyes
with rich dark coal, and baptized me in the name of
Mystical Grace and Love.

Then, Ceridwen nodded with a smile.

She guided me back to the lofty opening and pointed across the shire,
“Look there, daughter. This is your poem.

When you lose your way;
when you have forgotten who you are;
when the wildness has been tamed and the colors start to fade,
remember this day, and your heart will follow.”

She kissed me sweetly on the lips,
filled my lungs with her blessing and
left me there gazing
across the rolling pastures of Felinfach Road.

Quite certainly,
it was the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld.


Felinfach \ velin-vahk \ meaning “a small mill.”
Ab·er·yst·wyth \ˌa-bə-ˈris-ˌtwith, -ˈrəs-\ the geographical name of a Borough in W. Wales on Cardigan Bay
Ceridwen \ce-rid-wen, cer(i)-dwen\ is pronounced ke-RID-wen. It is of Welsh origin, and its meaning is "fair, blessed poetry". Celtic mythology: name of the goddess of poetic inspiration. Also supposedly the name of the mother of the legendary sixth-century Welsh hero Taliesin.

Tardy Due to Detour

I’m running a tad bit behind this morning, but what the heck. It’s Friday, after all, and the sun is shining in truly glorious ‘queen of the heavens’ fashion, and I’m my own boss-lady; so hey, what’s a few extra minutes? See, this is one of the perks of having a home studio.

Having been a public schools teacher for sixteen years and then an “in the office - in the field” park manager for another decade, I think I have a thorough understanding of the schedule many working parents keep. I know about early (and late) staff meetings, punching in by a certain clock time, being unreachable all day long, sprinting to do my banking between work’s end and the bank’s close, squeezing the household and garden chores into evenings and weekends, that panicky feeling one gets in their gut when the alarm clock doesn’t go off, showing up even when ill, giving my kids every spare moment and giving my friends the meager leftovers. Of course, I also remember the regular paycheck, the decent benefits, the community of co-workers, the measured successes that could be seen and appreciated, the uninterrupted flow of the days, the clear boundaries between work and home, the clear boundaries between “on” time and “off” time, and the rhythm of the calendar that gave me a sense of balance and calm.

I remember both sides of that particular and very special coin.

Now, I have a different coin in my pocket. It’s a little foreign to me, so I’m still learning it’s value. On the one hand, I can work any time of the day or night. If it’s a beautiful morning like this, I can opt to take a walk right now - and work on my client’s website after sundown. But of course, if I choose to work in the evenings, then my children get a little less of me when they need my time and attention. So when interesting weather beckons, I choose carefully.

Scheduling my days requires a precise, mildly uncomfortable-at-times discipline known as “keeping on track,” wherein there are constant neon sign-like distractions winking and flashing at me. Friends and family know exactly where to find me and in loving, uninhibited fashion sometimes drop by to say “howdy.” Those who do it too often or stay too long have suffered my impatience, as I truly don’t like being interrupted when I’m “in the zone.” Neither do I always answer the home phone, even though it’s ringing only a few feet away from my desk. After all - if I were “at work,” I couldn’t answer it there, so why should I do so here - “at work?”

But the wonderful flip side is that there are many occasions when someone will call first (what a concept!), and I’ll be able to take a coffee break with them down the street at the Roasting Company, or we’ll go for a quick power walk, or I’ll sit on the stoop with them for fifteen minutes and hear the latest news. It can be lovely and rejuvenating, and often helps stimulate fresh ideas for my next wave of industriousness.

The importance of keeping the place tidy is greater now, for client visits, so I’ve learned to juggle some of my chores at the same time I’m operating in my office. Starting the washer or dryer is a walk down the hall, taking out the recycle is three minutes of fresh air, and sweeping the kitchen gets tacked onto lunchtime (which I also get to share with my fourteen year old most days, when she walks home from school for a quick bite).
The home-based cubicle offers multitasking at it’s best, which says a lot - since I personally think multitasking with anything other than domestic chores is a bad idea, but that’s a topic for another day!

I absolutely miss my professional community and the sense of being a part of a greater good that one can sometimes attain in a cooperative environment. I definitely miss the regular salary and benefits, but have learned a lot about faith, hard work and creating abundance. I sometimes miss the respect and understanding that others have for more easily defined careers, but I have huge gratitude for those who take the time to acknowledge and encourage me to continue pursuing work that I love.

So this morning after dropping off my youngest at school, as I drove through town, I saw an elderly man in a bright tropical shirt standing in the very very brisk 30 degree morning sunlight with his thumb out for a ride. I pulled over. My hitchhiker climbed into the warm car, smiled broadly at me and introduced himself. “Walter” had just missed the bus and was on his was to an AA meeting on the opposite end of town. I asked him if there weren’t closer meetings to his home, and he replied that there are, but he just loved the community of friends he has at the further location. I drove him all the way to the meeting while we talked about Ashland, her people, about how times change and how grateful we both felt to be where we are on such a fine day. He was kind and hopeful and reflective. The drive was simple to make. As I dropped him off and shook his hand, I said a little prayer of thanks for many many things.

This too, is one of the perks being the CEO of Martha Phelps Studio: on my way to work, I can choose to make a slight detour, and it can make a little difference.

May you all have a wonderful weekend, and may your schedules afford you an opportunity for a detour or two. ~ mlp

P.S. Thanks for the tardy pass, AJ! See, I wasn't just putting on my lipstick!

It Ain't No Million Dollar Mansion

Do you ever look at something you own, something you’ve seen hundreds, even thousands of times, and find yourself surprised that - not only are you still happy to see it, but you are still - after all these viewings - a bit shocked and genuinely thrilled  to realize that what you are seeing belongs to you?

Last night as I walked around turning off lights and locking doors, I realized that even after two decades, I am extremely thankful for our old funky house. I regularly have the experience of feeling startled - not just by my continued fondness for this place - but by the fact that I’ve been here enough years now to outrank those in my childhood home. I look around at its overly familiar turf thinking, “Wow, we are so lucky,”  and there is a sensation of incredible good fortune that washes over me.

The story of our little house is worthy of several blog entries. In fact, this may well be the first of many. There would be an entry about it’s age (103) and historical merits. There would be another about the number of times it’s been “remodeled” (3, maybe 4) and what that has entailed. Yet another entry, or maybe two, would offer accounts of the Crowson family (who I bought the place from in 1989) along with some sweet anecdotes of how they gave this home some of its special moxie. And those tales naturally, would chronologically navigate straight into stories of living, personal history: the last twenty years and now.

Yes. I have lived at this mailing address for twenty years. Good grief!

Twenty years tallies up to a whole bunch of “lotsa time” in one spot. For a nomad, military person, or perpetual adventure-seeker, I’m guessing this situation would be inconceivable and even uncomfortable. Yet I’m realizing that for me, twenty-mostly-happy-years in this particular dwelling equals deep tap roots, investment beyond dollar bills, memories tenfold and a solid foundation of joy.

Let’s get perfectly clear here. The events, people and experiences that have evolved at this locale may inspire some heartwarming yarns, but it ain’t no million dollar mansion on the hill with a view. This is not some movie version of the place you invite old friends from a college reunion to have cocktails by the pool. We have neighbors within arm’s length (that’s no exaggeration), so issues of privacy and sound are continual; we have bermuda grass in the front and puppy-induced potholes in the back; there are occasional vermin in the shed and piss ants near most of the faucets; ancient wavy window glass rattles in the living room when heavy trucks drive by; the doorways are drafty in the winter; the yard - like so many in the historic district - is roughly the size of a postage stamp; the plumbing in the kitchen (which is not 103, but a mere 70 years old) sends me S.O.S. signals regularly, and the upstairs toilet handle needs to be jiggled to make it stop running. This is NOT the perfect “retirement house,” “trophy house,” “artist’s retreat” or craftsman showcase. This dwelling has...character.

What it is, beneath the surface flaws, is a safe and gentle place to sit down and take a deep breath. There is life here - art on the walls, live music played every day, color everywhere (because it’s just paint, right?), a dining room table seasoned by amazing meals-company-laughter-wine-flowers in vases, honesty spoken in every room, passion that passes back and forth - like a summer’s breeze (and sometimes like a gale force!) from the front door to the back, a garden tended with care and courage, and plenty of clear creativity - spicy opinions - and simmering dreams. Most who come around here can feel the pull of joy in the walls, and those who abide within know the goodness of fit and gratitude of belonging.

It’s a good thing to say “thank you,” to whatever roof you find overhead. Even when it feels as though God may be conspiring to blow the top off of everything around us, it’s nice to realize the blessings of both literal and metaphorical shelter, invite those we love to join us within and share our hearts.