Joy Rush Number Three Thousand Eleven

So I've been walking every day in an effort to lose the baby/pregnancy/baby/blogging chub.

Losing weight is a lot harder than it was in my early 30s. A lot. One of the great things about the tiny village where we live is the community post office and "general store," both of which are in easy walking distance from our mini farm. And they're downhill from us, so getting there is the easy part and walking home is where the real cussing, I mean aerobic exercise, begins. I usually push my double jogger but today I was a big meanie and I made Gracie walk. She is 4 years old and weighs just a bit more than 6-month-old Laura, so the unbalanced stroller thing is hard to manage on the big hills.

Anyway today I am OH SO THRILLED that we stopped at the post office, because:

See that box of Priority Mail on the handle of the stroller? Now, I used to work with a creative director who had some interesting quirks and tics, one of which was that he believed in carrying a FedEx envelope everywhere to make himself appear important and urgent-like. You cannot make this stuff up. We all thought he was a tad on the adorable but ridiculous side. Picture William Shatner in that recent lawyer show.

(Digressing again.)

Today we walked to the post office and there was a PACKAGE for ME. In a PRIORITY MAIL box. For me. And it gets way, way better because as soon as we hit my lavender hedge, I ripped that box open to find:

The most beautiful purse I have ever seen. Knit with a great deal of talent by Barb, my friend from So, The Thing Is, whom I have somehow been blessed enough to meet in this enormous blogosphere.

I want to say it must have taken love to make that beautiful felted bag. Maybe it was love for the fiber, or maybe it was love for the ability to knit so well, or love that just overflows from Barb's natural state of being a lovely person, but this is my new favorite thing. And it absolutely made me feel loved.

So, the thing is... I would grab this in a fire.

***

And because I can't help myself, I want to say something about friendship.

Whether you live here:

Or here:

Or somewhere in between, friendship is rare as a ladyslipper.

I wish I had a picture of a ladyslipper. I'm not even sure about their botanical name. Here in Oregon, ladyslippers grow wild on the forest floor. I believe they are of the orchid family, and their roots are so incredibly fragile, gossamer thin and barely threading through a bed of loose fir needles. People get big fat tickets (I guess, if they are caught) for trying to transplant these four-inch-tall wild beauties. It's a completely wasteful exercise, you see, because ladyslippers won't transplant. The poachers won't ever enjoy a tiny ladyslipper shade garden at home because the merest shift of the loose fir needles separates the coveted flower from its roots.

It's best to marvel at the ladyslipper exactly where you found it, in an unexpected moment when you were just walking through the forest.

(Huffing and puffing from pushing a double jogger.)