When looking at a Gauguin Tahitian painting, you don’t merely see – but actually feel – the humidity and the greenness of the leaves.

God blesses me in small ways. Like letting Bill sleep quietly so I can listen to the rain outside my open window late at night, with the occasional car splashing by. Ducks quacking. Low thunder roiling as I lay on top of my covers clad only in panties…

I was at Easter dinner the other day with my husband’s family. Upcoming travel plans came up in the conversation and the requisite Vegas trip by one family member was discussed.

She said she’s seen all the shows and has no desire to see more, though her daughter and daughter’s fiancé have expressed interest in going to one or two.

“I hate magic,” I blurted out.

I really do. The audience all knows the magic is “fake”, that each trick isn’t borne out of some mystical or otherworldly force.

And yes, there are fans who sit and wonder “How did he (or she, though I’ve never seen a she but I’m sure they’re out there) do that?”

I don’t know and I don’t care. If you’re a performer and you’ve gotten to the point that you have a standing, paying gig in one of the biggest entertainment cities of the world, I’m going to guess the average bloke, like me, won’t be able to figure out how you “did it”.

And to sit and think about it is more work than I want to do when a) I’m on vacation and b) I’ve spent a good portion of my last paycheck on tickets to the performance. If I can figure out your sleight of hand, then you’re probably not that good.

Same goes with circus shows. I have to admit I’ve never seen a Cirque du Soleil show, and maybe if I ever do, I’ll be a changed person.

But I cannot get my head wrapped around the fact that the people performing are SUPPOSED to fly through the air and catch on or whatever to another person flying through the air. They’re SUPPOSED to twirl in the air and land on some other trapeze or whatever.

Over the years I’ve read about one circus performer or another whilst dying in an act. I feel bad and sad. But I also wonder, why were they even doing that? What possessed that person to think that sailing through the air with the greatest of ease both a viable and guaranteed mode of income?

But hey, if that’s your thing and you enjoy it, go for it. I get the appeal – the costumes, the non-9-5 office workday, the spectacular feats that average Midwestern people like me could never (nor want to) do. And I’m happy people are employed in these shows. I do not begrudge them. I applaud and support the performers, as well as everyone else behind the scenes, but I, as a person, have no desire to sit through 3 hours’ worth of “amazing feats”.

Then I remember my husband and son, both of whom are electricians. How many in their field of work die each year on the job, working to make money for their families?

More than I want to think about, for sure.

Our neighbors – and friends – across the street have two little girls, ages 5 and 3.

Looking out the window in my den, it’s like having a TV tuned into my own private channel.

The parents are a good 20 years younger than us, but we have a blast together. The dad, who loves the outdoors, has instilled his love of the outdoors into his children. Shine, rain, or snow (this is Minnesota, after all) the girls get dressed for the weather and play either outside or inside the open garage.

Whether it’s watching them ride their bikes or draw with chalk on a hot summer day or seeing them pull each other around in on a sled during winter, it’s a welcome break from my work or writing.

We gave the girls our daughter’s old trampoline (which was practically brand new but which she HAD to have despite on the cusp of being a child and a too-cool-for-school teenager). At first, our neighbors put it up in their front yard. Fortunately for me, the past couple of summers I was able to watch the girls have hours of fun jumping on it. When they moved it to their backyard I told them I was a bit bummed.

My kids are obviously past the stage of frolicking in the front yard and stomping in puddles. I loved those days of espying on innocent fun. I’m not even sure, however, to tell the truth, that I appreciated them as much as I should have at the time…

Right now I’m watching the girls across the street in their little raincoats. They’re picking up worms on one of the first all-day rain showers of the year. It’s as good as TV show as I’ve ever seen.

A lighted candle transforms any room into a cozy, intimate den and makes it a place in which you’d rather not be anywhere else.

Does anything smell more delicious, feel more invigorating, or look more foreboding than the first thunderstorm of spring?

Isn’t the point of crackers just the means to an end of the savory taste of the cheese put atop it?

Anything more annoying than people who eat on the phone while talking to you?

Quite simply, no.

I’m never truly happy unless something is bugging me.

It doesn’t have to be a big bother. In fact, it’s usually something minor, like I’m irritated by having to cancel a charge on my credit card that I never authorized.   

Though I can’t remember exact times, I have experienced states of euphoria. These are minutes when everything is perfect. I can only describe it as a chemical reaction. My whole body feels light and my head tingles. It will come upon me suddenly when I realize everything in my life at that exact moment is perfect.

I’ve wondered if it’s what hippies used to travel the world over for (with requisite backpacks slung over their shoulders and mom and dad’s cash wadded up in their jeans) searching for enlightenment.

During those times I consciously try to not think of anything.

But inevitably, all good things must come to an end, as they say, and a nagging thought starts to creep up in my head and eventually my mind becomes aware of a sliver of something that may not be just right.

And strangely enough, I’m OK with it – much like an itch that feels good when scratched.

These pesky thoughts keep me on my toes, my mind rolling. If I was in a perpetual state of nirvana, would I get anything done? Would I ever challenge myself? Would I want to think deeply about anything?

Is this an odd, perhaps some would say dysfunctional approach to life?

Sure. But after 51 years of thinking this way, I feel comfortable with it.

After all, I do some of my most creative thinking when I’m confronted with a real – or a perceived juicier problem.

Keeps life inside my head interesting, at least.

In fifth grade, for some forgotten reason, my best friend and I had a difference. She was mad at me and didn’t want to talk, look, or walk home with me, something we did nearly every day for six years.

I was devastated. Perhaps because of that spat or for some stomach bug I didn’t feel well and missed school the next day.

In any regards, the next day that I did show up to school my friend bombarded me with all the love and affection I knew I demanded and deserved of her.

What had happened, whether physically or in her mind, to overcome any transgression I committed earlier in the week?

I didn’t ask and I wasn’t told. But the smug satisfaction I felt of once again being allowed into the fold has not been forgotten. In fact, I wish I could, in fewer words, pass that on to the kids when I hear that phrase – my best friend doesn’t want to play with me.