Fading

Her 42 year old head rested wearily on the kitchen table among a Hello Kitty notebook, pink and purple hair bows and head bands, McDonald kids meal toys, a comb, brush, unopened bills, dirty dishes, and assorted magazines. Mornings came early as she made her daughter ready for school. Her little curly headed girl, Rose, munched on Frosted Flakes as she circled the cereal bowl with her Breyer horse. “Mom, do I get 50 cents for icecream at lunch today? Mom. Mooommm.” Rose reached over and tugged her mother’s arm which fell limply from the table. “Mom! What is wrong with you?” she yelled. Toby slowly sauntered into the kitchen rubbing his temples, “Rose, don’t scream. I have a headache. Nadine, have you seen the key to the Jeep? Nadine, come on. Wake up.” He began to massaging Nadine’s back and quickly realized she was unresponsive, in fact, lifeless. He grabbed her shoulders, and she nearly plunged unconscious to the floor. “Rose, dial 911 NOW!”



I arrived at the hospital that evening. I was more than familiar with this sterile unhappy place. Its wall held nothing but countless sorrows and pain for me and many others in my family. Nadine’s oldest daughter had died here a few years before. How could a mosquito bite lead to meningeal encephalitis and the quick expiration of a gorgeous, firey, otherwise healthy 12 year old girl named Leigh? A dear red headed aunt of mine perished from cancer in this hospital. Just a few weeks before Nadine‘s collapse, I sat on nervously with a perfectly normal Nadine, Toby and sundry other relatives as her mother, my Aunt Willa, underwent brain surgery. The family divided the waiting room with tension and harsh judgment of one another, and in retrospect I wished I’d have spent more time with Nadine that day. I had no way of knowing this would be my last opportunity to chat side by side with my cousin. I’ve always loved the way her southern words slid from her lips and ended in surprising careful annunciation. I can hear the unusual dry lilt in her voice as I think of it just now. Her speech came out like a lovely dance with a sudden halt now and then to punctuate the movements. Her talk was steady and never contained much urgency even in tragedy. She’s a woman who kept unwelcome company with tragedy. Her father, a Pearl Harbor vet named Frank, drew his last breath a few short years before her oldest child passed away. Frank loved to tell knee slappin’ stories. His odd looks added humor to every tale; his ears stuck out further from his head than anyone else’s I’ve ever seen. Nadine inherited her sparkly eyes from this man. Nadine’s brother , my cousin Luke, died young mixing meds and alcohol perhaps. He was buried proudly in his blue jean overalls.


Nadine’s hair has always been a full mane of red curls, and her crystal green eyes could pierce a soul- she had the air of an Irish mountain woman Her mouth is perfectly shaped like one I’d practiced drawing in high school art class. She kept her nails perfectly though you could not say the same of her dwelling space. I remember being enchanted with her otherworldly beauty when I was a child. My favorite memory, perhaps not even real, is tightly gripping her body around her thin waist as we cantered on a bareback horse through the woods around her house, her curls lightly brushing my face in the gentle wind. She smelled of moss and ferns in a fresh forest.


Since that day at the kitchen table nearly a year ago, Nadine has not recovered. In fact, she remains in a constant and unexplained vegetative state in the same nursing home as Aunt Willa. Nadine can respond by blinking her eyes. Once for “Yes”, twice for “No”, but I don’t get the impression anyone visits much for her to respond to. The nursing home staff I spoke with say they rarely see anyone visit, me included. I am almost certain Rose and Toby go once a week or so, but I think of the endless hours in between Sundays which Nadine spends entirely alone unable to use her body or voice. What could a woman a few years older than myself do to fill unfathomable periods of time staring at the mobile Rose hung above her bed. Over the course of this year of imposed solitude for Nadine, I’ve been to China, read twenty books, grown a garden, made it through another year of swim team, blogged, painted my daughter’s room, taught my children, cooked a zillion suppers, laughed till my sides hurt, eaten till I wanted to throw up, cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. All the while Nadine breathes the same stale air and listens to the constant moans of an elderly and confused roommate day upon day, night upon night.


I am comforted that Nadine’s rest home room contains a recent photo of Nadine and Rose sitting together in a pose from Wal-mart. Another framed picture features some young girl riding a horse; I cannot tell if it’s Rose, Leigh, or Nadine. At least the staff can see Nadine was once, and not so very long ago, a person like themselves if they‘d simply take a moment to truly look into the photos and think such thoughts.


I’m irritated that the staff address her by her first name- a name I’d never heard before but must exist only on Nadine’s birth certificate. Our family must have tossed her first name out in favor of her middle name before I was born, but the nurse looks at me like I’m ridiculous when I correct him. “Don’t call her Millicent. Obviously, she hates that name. It’s Nadine.” I suddenly want to sob that Nadine can’t rise up and say so for herself. “Are you her sister? You look just like her.” the respiratory therapist asks. “Cousin, but thank you for the compliment. What awful thing have you done to her hair?” It’s shaved in odd spots, long in others, and I’m unpleasantly jarred by a memory of her in ICU the day this crazy thing plunged her into stillness. I cringed thinking of the horrid blood draining shunts spouting from the top of her head like the funnel on the tin man from Oz.


I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been in a situation of visiting a person I love in a persistent vegetative state before. Therefore, I haven’t had practice, and no one has brought forth a manual I could read up on etiquette at such times. At the least, it’s awkward. At the most, it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done before. Nadine’s sharp eyes followed me as I approached her beside. It seemed she dared not blink. I asked if she knew me and she blinked, “Yes”. I think. I spoke to Nadine about her mother down the hall who couldn’t visit for several weeks because of a bout with pneumonia. I hoped someone had explained why she hadn’t been coming to visit. I talked about the pictures and cards around the room from Toby and Rose. I held her hand for a few minutes. I found myself wishing I was an expert at Yes and No conversation, but I simply couldn’t think of anyway to keep that going for more than one second. I told myself to sit still and not talk for fifteen minutes, “Just BE with her.” Time crawled, but I held fast . What drop of water is 15 minutes in a sea of immobility and continual loneliness? She didn’t look away from me, but in my discomfort with staring I glanced around at objects around the room every now and then. After 15 minutes, I told her I was going to find something to put on her lips. Her mouth appeared horribly cracked and dry. A nurse gave me a pack of Vaseline, and I squeezed it carefully across her lips. “Next time I come, I will bring a book and read to you. Some story I think you and I both would like. Would that be okay?” She blinked, “Yes”. I think. I sat a while longer and told her I was going to visit with her mom a while. I kissed her forehead and I back one step away from the bed. “I’ve always loved you. I hope you know that. When we were little girls, I wanted to be like you. I’ll visit again. You are precious to me.” Only I don’t think the words actually came from me that clearly. I fumbled and stumbled in my delivery. I turned to leave, and then I looked back curious to see if I still held her gaze. A single tear streamed down Nadine’s cheek, and she looked directly at me. I held my hand up in a wave and exited. Empty. I felt utterly washed out and full of guilt leaving my cousin like that. I stood for a few minutes in the hallway holding back tears and composing myself to brief walk to Aunt Willa’s room. I whispered some prayers of healing for Nadine and thankfulness for my own richly blessed life, and asked God to help me use my remaining time on earth well.

Deliver me. Place my feet on a solid rock so I might stand up straight and tall again.
Deliver me. All this sadness overwhelms but will not overcome me.
Rescue me. I am crushed but not entirely broken.
Rescue me. Grab my hand, lift me, and I will follow.
Trade in these ashes, and in exchange, give me beauty.
For my mourning, joy.
I will fly.

The tribute to little girlhood.

The Ruby Slippers

It may have started when I watched The Wizard of Oz as a young child. Dorothy's glittery ruby slippers may have made an indelible impression on my five year old heart. Or perhaps it's because I have a beautiful Aunt Artful, with incredible red hair and matching artful and passionate personality. Dorothy and Aunt Artful definitely had something I liked and still do. I like red. I like red hair and red shoes. Most all red hair, but not all red shoes. Over the years, I've procured many little girl red tennis shoes for my Pooh Bear. My four year old princess only dons her favorite sequined pink slip-ons these last summer days which prevent her from wearing the red Keds I always have at the ready in all sizes for her tiny feet. Back when she could not express her definite opinions, I'd gussy her up in one of her thousand gorgeous famous label hand-me-downs dresses, a matching pair of socks, and carefully tie on the appropriate sized red tennies. It never mattered to me if red seemed to clash with the colors and patterns of her dress. To me, she embodied my idea of complete babyhood perfection- ready for an adventure wherever her itty-bitty scarlet feet would take her. Now, I've lined Pooh Bear's room with a tribute down one strip of her bedroom wall with these sneakers from infancy to now. I've noticed other mother's keep a more conventional growth chart instead.

I personally believe the fairies, who live in my Peter Rabbit garden, wear red sneakers, but I have never been able to prove it.

I bought a pair of red Keds from ebay for myself when this obsession with Pooh Bear's footwear began. They offer no arch or other support and look rather like a boy's boat toy attached to my long feet. So, I began a search for the Holy Grail of shoes, comfortable red clogs. My husband and Helen even joined the hunt over the years to present me with the perfect Christmas present. But none of us could find the ruby slipper clogs of my dreams. That is until Helen and I visited Solvang, CA- the dutch clog and other things Dutch capital of the United States. While wine tasting and souvenir shopping, we happened upon a little shoe shop with a giant wooden red clog statue by the front door. I caught my breath at this beautiful sight. Perhaps this was my Oz. We scoured the hundreds of clogs- blue, green, flowered, suede, leather, rubber, sequined, wooden. I nixed nearly every red pair for lack of luster or comfort until Helen picked up a pair and stated, "I think I actually LIKE these red clogs." I think she may have meant "I could possibly tolerate this particular footwear on my dorky, obsessive compulsive friend's feet." Pretty? Check. Red? Check. Comfortable? Let's try 'em on.
"What do you mean you don't have a 9 Medium Modesto Red Softwalk clog? It's all I've ever wanted!" I growl at the saleslady. Helen wisely grabs me by the hands and says, "Take a deep breath. Perhaps we can order them." Yes, maybe the saleslady will be able to return home in the evening with her hair AND her eyeballs after all. Helen orders them for me and I count down the days UPS will deliver the blessed shoes to my doorstep. No such luck. The Softwalk company has discontinued the Modesto mule in red. You'll see in any old google search this shoe continues to come in a variety of gorgeous colors such as aruba, forest green nubuck, pacific blue, steel, amber, and aloe. However, red is OUT.
Buck and Helen endeavor to comfort the inconsolable me with complicated searches over the internet. "Wouldn't these Bass clogs work?" Helen timidly asks in attempts to ease my suffering. She and Buck find the mythical 9 M Softwalk Modesto Red Mule with egg crate soles, only to have the company confirm in email the shoes are discontinued a few days later. Saturday, I call the Zappo.com company who say they have one pair of my size in close-out stock in their Kentucky warehouse. "I'll believe it when they are on my feet" I mutter into the phone. "You will" she assures me.
THE sacred shoes arrived by free express shipping on Wednesday. It took all my self restraint not to kiss the UPS man (and Buck was watching). I put them on my feet as many times a day as I think of it, close my eyes tightly, and whisper, "There's not place like home."

Did you know the real Wizard of Oz ruby red slippers have been stolen and cannot appear at the Kansas festival this year? They will have the blue gingham dress and the witch's hat, and five of the original munchkins including the coroner, so you don't want to miss it. And a special note to the villainous thief who stole the ruby slippers, "Touch my new mules, and I'll get you my pretty. And your little dog too!"

Pooh Bear's first day of ballet class. She fixed her own hair, as usual. At least she didn't cut it AGAIN. And she chose her own jewelry. Though she is not open to my fashion ideas and it may not look like it, I got her to take out about five other hairbows and remove all but one necklace. She is a strong person with her own ideas. I admire her for that.

Wise One Speaks

Wise One, my eight year old son, innocently created smiles and giggles these last few days.

At the soccer field Saturday, this little guy inquired of Buck, "Dad, may I have a dollar to spend at the confession stand? I'd like some candy." Buck, quick witted man that he is, fired back, "Here you go, son. Here's a dollar, but you need to bring me back a couple of 'Hail Marys' and an 'Our Father' with the change." Wise One took the dollar with a big question mark expression on his face, "Uhhhh, thanks dad?"

And then last night, we shared dinner with our usual group of buddies. Alise, a sweet friend of ours, observed Wise One's plate and asked, "Wouldn't you like some meat on that bed of lettuce, cheese, and nachos for your taco salad?" In his dear and pleasant manner he replied, "No thank you. I don't care for any meat. Tonight I will be a veterinarian."

The Dig

I've been waiting for the pathology results from my physician about the waxy small mole I had removed from the skin over my clavicle last week. Mostly, I didn't pine over it, but Sunday I had a long talk with myself about what I'd do differently if my days are suddenly shorter than I'd hoped. The talk contained my thoughts of how to love my family and friends much better than I have today; about the legacy I desire to leave behind. I already try to live closely to the ideal, but I blow it almost daily. Somehow, could terminal cancer mysteriously give me the self discipline I lack now? One conclusion I came to in my chat with myself is that I would spend some of my life insurance money doing things with my family and dear friends that we'd have to save and plan for now. Another conclusion is that I do already possess what I need to love better- I just need to practice it. More.

I called Helen to say I was making a list of ways she'd have to become the mother to my children if I kicked off early. She told me I'd just better stick around. When I talked to my dear husband about fears of melanoma, he mustered a large sigh in the form of a mildly cross (not cross with me, just the idea) "Hmmm." Later he mentioned, "I expressly forbid you from having a lethal form skin cancer." I do love the sense of humor surrounding me, warmly letting me know I am loved. I count for something.

What is it about the prospect of death that makes me take a closer look at life? Why do this digging in the dirt of my soul?

Today I got the call that the growth is NOT melanoma, but it is a mild cancer formation known as basal cell carcinoma. The edges of the removed portion do not contain cancer free cells, so I must go let the doc cut around till no more basal cells are left. Otherwise, I'd be putting myself at risk for the more harmful and invasive skin cancers. I'm ever so grateful my life is not threatened at this moment, but I don't look forward to more digging on the outside of my body. I'm still thinking through the digging I've done in this process on my insides.

Pooh in her favorite part of the fair, The Discovery Center 

Wise one near the sea lions, his favorite exhibit at the fair. 

Boodle is the subject of this prize winning photo. 

Buck by his second place prize winning photo of Boodle. 

Peace and friend talk to the animals at the fair. 

Truevyne's Purse 

What's in Truevyne's Purse?

I could never win the game from Let's Make a Deal where ladies dig in their purse when Monte Hall asks for a mirror, or a comb, bobby pin, toenail clippers, etc., and I am PROUD.
I'm not a complicated woman, so I don't want to carry a big honkin' purse full of things I might need. In fact, I don't want all the hinderances of a purse at all. I tend to be easily distracted when I go out, and am very likely to loose something I don't need to start the car. Does this have to do with shrinking brain power or the four children who scatter like colorful marbles falling from a velvet bag? Who knows which direction or how far they may roll within seconds of the van door opening.
I got my first glimpse of independence from a purse with the birth of my first child. I began to carry an L.L. Bean diaper backpack, and quickly realized I could put anything my purse contained inside the folds and under the protection of the many pockets and zippers within. This system worked for the nine years I toted diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, rash ointment, syrup of epecac, drink cups, board books, an assortment of educational toys, and cat hair. Those days ended abruptly when my last child potty trained. I was left with a large backpack (neatly embroirdered with my first child's name though this was my fourth) containing only a driver's lisence, credit card and a nice earth red shaded lipstick. About this time a friend gifted me with a small hemp and grass woven purse back from her work in Indonesia. Perfect AND cool. However, I left it on top of my car once when loading the children near where college students live and drove off into the wild blue yonder. I went back a few hours later hoping to find it, but alas, it had disappeared. I still grieve the loss of that beauty.
Fortunately, my mother in law brought back a wallet sized kangaroo skin pouch with a cute little koala painted in the middle for me from a trip to Austrailia. All my belongings fit into this with the bonus of an attached keychain. Fancy! I literally wore the kangaroo skin out of that purse. When dimes started dropping through the holes in the bottom, I carefully sewed the holes. When the threads gave out, I reluctantly had to admit even quarters were falling through and give up the ghost and the pouch altogether. Where to find another treasure like this without hopping on a plane down under?
My desparate search lead me to this brightly colored Guatamalan coin purse. I kept the hardware from the koala contraption for my keys which I attached with a leather stip. And, do you notice I hang my sunglasses through the keyring's hole? Clever girl!
This contains:
1. Twp bank cards. I can cut one up, because I just now realized I still had the old one. My purse is lighter already. FREEDOM!
2. Tennessee driver's lisence. When asked for my identification, store clerks comment regularly, "Your hair is much longer now. You almost look like a different person." Don't worry, I'll get tired of long hair and get it cut to within an inch of my skull.
3. Three vehicle insurance cards. I'm tossing the card for my old red truck. It's like driving a haunted house- a little fun but scary.
4. Books A Million discount card. A must.
5. JC Penny Christmas gift card from my dad and his wife. I still have some credit on that baby.
6. AAA card.
7. Credit Card.
8. Health insurance card.
9. Library card.
10. My vet's card.
11. Last year's teacher ID card. That goes in the trash too. Wahoo.
12. Smoothie King Frequent Buyer card. Another personal indulgence revealed.
13. My daughter's new dance teacher's card. Gonna file that instead of carry it.
14. Another library card. Ditching that.
15. Voter's registration. Don't leave home without it.
16. Vonn's Card. A grocery discount card from my trip to Santa Barabara. Won't be needing that either.
17. Loreal Earth Rose lipstick.
18. $11. Much more than I normally carry.

I think a purse or wallet reveals much about what's inside the person. So as the commercial goes, what's in your wallet?

Wishes

This morning my husband came to me as I was getting ready for the day "How do you want the day to go?" This is what he actually meant, "It's my day off. What do we have planned on our calendar?" However, I pretended not to understand. I stopped putting goo in my hair for a moment and stood in silence allowing a big smile cross over my entire face. I wondered if he'd minded my growing silly expression and just standing at our bathroom sinks with me for just a moment while I gathered my thoughts. I squinted my blurry eyes to see if he was yawning at this long pause, because I hadn't found my glasses or contacts yet. I spoke dryly, "This is going to take quite some time. Will you stand there while I tell you *everything*?"
"What?" he asks puzzled. Why don't I just tell him our schedule like he asked? Instead I let collections of wishes fall from my tongue.
"First of all, today I'd love for our children not to argue. I'd like everyone to get along and speak kindly. I don't really want to hear anyone snap, 'Gimme that back! It's mine.' 'Get away from me. You ALWAYS...'
I'd like academics of our homeschool day to be finished by noon so everyone is free to move on to desire directed learning.
I'd like our house to be much cleaner and the clutter would suddenly disappear. Poof.
I'd like time to compose a very clever blog entry.
I'd like a terrific lunch. An elaborate salad and a tasty cheeseburger. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake.
When I go to the doctor this afternoon, they will remove the mole I'm worried about being melanoma immediately, and it won't hurt at all. The doc will simply tap my aching hip and VIOLA, my hip will feel better for the first time in a month. I could even put my running shoes on and go for a nice 5K, or work on some upcoming choreography.
Peace will say, 'Thanks for sewing my flag for scouts.'
Pooh will put sounds together like never before in her reading time.
Boodle will not make anyone fuss, including me or my husband.
We will write a date on the calendar to go to the Dinosaur exhibit for Wise One.
Our meetings tonight with other families will be a blessing for everyone involved.
My husband will sing to me.
Two friends I love dearly would reconcile after years of strife between them.
I'd like to hear a news report that every single person has been successfully reunited with loved ones lost in the hurricane.
Is peace on earth okay to wish for here?
How about just for Iraq to embrace democracy today and the soldiers could all come home tonight and hold their children in their arms and passionately kiss their wives? or husbands?


I don't feel finished yet, but perhaps we could begin our morning, and I can add to the list as more things come to me? Would that be alright? And, by the way, how would YOU like today to go?"

Good Friends, Good Food, Good Stories

Svet, Helen, and I and our zillion children got together at Helen and Clay's Crab Fest 2005. One of the many things I like best about our get togethers are late night talks over a little too much wine and chocolate chip cookies. I am not a big drinker, so when Buck talked to Clay, Clay said he had my half a glass of wine all ready. Isn't that sad? Clay has quite the growing wine collection, and the most I could consume without falling into a coma is a measly half a glass. The last bottle of three bottles of wine I've bought in 2005 still sits unopened.
Anyway, Svet told two stories which I must blog.

The first is about Bary entering the women's rest room at a Barnes and Noble in NYC. Though utterly clueless, he was so convinced he had chosen the correct bathroom, he raised his voice to an unsuspecting woman who chanced meander in while he wisely inspected stalls for utmost cleanliness, "Get out of here. I WILL call security if you don't leave the men's room at once. Criminy!" She, fearing perhaps she'd met an angry postal worker or mentally unstable person off his meds, became visibly upset and rushed out. The flustered woman may have been heading to find security herself. While occupied inside his tidy stall, the clouds of his brain began to part as he heard other WOMEN'S voices just beyond his thin steel door. What on earth was he to do? In one second, entire tragic scenarios flashed like lightening through his mind. Bary had just applied for a new job, he was certain this incident would appear promptly on his police record. He envisioned the front page of the NY Times headlined with "Barnes and Noble Prosecutes Seemingly Mild Mannered Editor". He imagines interviews with his embarrassed mother on Dateline, "He's always been a GOOD boy. I just don't know what happened. We tried to raise him right." Bary stands, zips, and otherwise readies himself to quickly flee this horrid place which he had entered with such unswerving confidence. When the last female voice trails after a closing door, he bolts. In great haste, Bary grabs Svet's arm and drags her unwilling self to the door, "But Bary, I haven't made my purchases yet." She notices his severe red face, heaving breaths, the tightness of his death grip on her arm. She decides to buy her Russian Journals at another time.

The second story:
Svetlana's mother is one of a kind. I've never met a mother, Sonya, more vigilant (perhaps "hell bent" is a wee too strong of a description though I'm not certain) about proper nutrition for her daughters. Svet and her sister were, under no circumstances, permitted to ingest sugar. Perhaps this explains why Svet and I used all the grocery money my mother gave me on Cookies and Cream Icecream and Twinkies the week our senior year she stayed with me while my parents went on a vacation to Hawaii without me. I shared a little story I'd read with Svet and Helen about a child whose mother served bran muffins made with honey, no frosting of course, complete with a lit candle in stuck in the center at her school birthday party. In the snapshot of the blessed celebration, the child was crying.
Svet broke out into unbridled laughter at this little narrative. Once she recovered, she shared a story with Helen and I about her mother's (Sonya) visit with Svet in NYC. One morning of her mother's visit, Sonya desired nothing more than to come to Svet's university library and get to know each and every other librarian and clerk by name. Sonya is extremely gregarious, not to mention interested in the everyday details of Svetlana's ordinary life. Svet thought of a better of this and announced, "We can have lunch together outside in the fresh air instead." Sonya took the hint and thoughtfully replied, "Alright then. I'll bring you some lunch around noon." Svet hadn't had time for breakfast in her hurry to work that morning, and she was grateful for the kind offer. Sonya is an adventuresome type too, and Svet longingly thought of all the interesting shops from which her mother might select their cuisine. There are Indian places with curried chicken and veggies, authentic German bratwurst vendors, fine French delis with delicious cheese and meat sandwiches to choose from all along the streets of the Big Apple.
By noon, Svet felt famished, her mouth watering as she plunged down the library steps out the sliding glass doors, down the cement sidewalk to the stone tables under the trees. "I can't wait for you to taste this" her mother beams from a bench. Svet's face showed visible concern when her mother, otherwise empty handed, pushed a covered white Styrofoam cup with a straw standing like a soldier at attention on top toward Svet's hungry self. "Where's my lunch, Ma?"
"Why, this IS your lunch. It's a carrot smoothie! They've sweetened it with beet juice. Doesn't that sound simply MARVELOUS?"
Svet musters all the courage within her withered and sadly disappointed spirit to speak in a dead pan voice, "Great, Ma. Great." Svet is half sobbing and half knee-slappin' laughing telling the details of this moment. Suddenly, I feel secret unspoken gratitude for my own mother, who would rather die than drink carrots and beets.

Crab Fest 2005 ended with luscious Alaskan crab legs, Maryland Old Bay seasoned whole crabs,
corn on the cob, new potatoes, other homemade salads, and too many delectable desserts to mention. Thank you, Helen and Clay for setting the stage for such a grand weekend. That is, if you ever read my blog again.

The Buzz

So far I haven't blogged my thoughts on Hurricane Katrina. I don't have any profound things to say about such tradgedy, heroism, survival, death, and destruction. I'm asking myself the question everyone else is asking, "What can I do to ease these burdens?" I've eavesdropped on a terribly uncomfortable conversation in the upscale nail salon (yes, I admit to the sin of vanity here) where one woman shouted to another over surreal and entirely too loud tango music, "Why are they (hurricane refugees) coming here to Knoxville? Why can't they just stay in Louisiana in another town till their's get fixed?" Translation: "I don't want a bunch of poor people scrounging in my neck of the woods." It seemed completely unreasonable for me to shout over their shouts and the bizarre music my thoughts on compassion and doing our part to relieve suffering.
The church where my children play soccer began hosting 250 refugees yesterday. Knoxville has no public transportation to speak of and the city is laid out in such a way that walkers are in grave danger, so these folks may be bored to tears. Children's soccer games may offer a break in the monotony of sharing living space with far too many families. My dear husband hopes the coaches will invite children to join us. My first response was not so charitable. As a mother who lets even her 4 year old wander freely around the outskirts of several fields, I thought of how I will need to keep a tight reign on four children who haven't been tethered in this familiar location before. Don't get me wrong, I welcome these people. I look at this as an opportunity to share homemade cookies and swap stories with new guests to our community. I'll just do so with Pooh Bear on my lap. Maybe the cookies will make her happy too.



Now I'll step up onto my soapbox for just a moment.

Through heresay, I heard about an NPR commentary which suggested evolution was demonstrated over intelligent design theory, because no intelligent designer would create such a horrible thing as a hurricane. I disagreed instantly, because it seemed to me the commentator had lost "the big picture"and was looking only through a humancentric lense. What does a hurricane stir up? A hurricane replenishes entire ecosystems. Though immediate life suffers, the soil and waters fill with rich nutrients and bring back balance to the earth after long periods of depletion. Who are we as humans to reroute the waters of the Delta to suit ourselves? Poorly designed flood walls were built to keep water out of a city where it was destined to flow at such times. The water and storms clearly have thunderously spoken that their purposes have been thwarted by us. I hope we listen more closely to intelligent design when the city of New Orleans is rebuilt. It seems humans had tuned out these voices and suffered for it.

Stepping down from my soap box now and avoiding lightning bolts that may strike me when I use paper plates for lunch today.

Gentle Wind

It took us a few days to figure out that the blazing fury of summer has passed, and the cool breeze of fall has begun. I've been clueless to a change in the weather here in TN. I stepped outside in the evening and it felt cooler outside than in. So last night we opened windows around the house and turned off the air conditioning for the first time in a while. Now the homemade curtains made from antique fabric flap in a gentle wind into my bedroom. I haven't been crazy about parting the curtains in my room, since I've been home from Santa Barabara for weeks and my yard transformed into a jungle of gnarly weeds choking the remaining flowers in hardly discernable beds. I don't just have a simple yard, because I live on several acres. I "keep" about 2 1/2 acres of the land. The rest of the land gets an occasional haircut but is mostly wild. I used quotation marks for "keep", because up until this week, the "kept" part looked like the yard of the lawn of your worst neighbor. The one who has weeds growing up through the doghouse though the dog died 14 years before. The embarrassing neighbor everyone whispers should hire a lawn service, but is too cheap to have his broken down car towed out of the driveway.
I have to say I am not this kind of neighbor, because no one really knows there is in fact a house down the long country road beyond our black mailbox. Noone knows or cares about my neglected lawncare habits. I forbade my husband to plant flowers and pull the weeds around that mailbox last year, because I would rather remain uninviting from the road. I'd rather do the inviting myself than have a spiffy mailbox do so for me. In the two years we've lived here, only a few uninvited guests have mosied down our gravel path. The first were two very sweaty and beautiful Jehovah Witness girls looking for converts and putting Watchtower in people's hands. I was busy getting my four children all spruced up for a wedding, and I ran around with tights in one hand for my girl and rifling through boxes for dress shoes to fit three growing boys with the other when they rang the doorbell. The young women looked incredibly tired, and I asked if they didn't mind being somewhat unattended while I scrubbed faces, they could rest on my couch and have a cup of cold water. They expressed gratitude and accepted my offer. The ladies and I talked about one another's faith while I wrestled my daughter into the white sheaths of hose and buckled patent leather mary janes. I have a solid base of belief, and I never mind an interesting yet opposing theological discussion. As I simultaneously shuffled my children off to the van and the ladies to the door, I invited the girls to come chat again. However, I couldn't promise them it would ever be any less hectic. I've never seen them again. Maybe the girls made a secret JW mark on the door post which says, "We already tried. Move on to the next house."
The most unwelcome visitor we've had bang on our door was Mr. Ritchie. A piece of his land meets ours in a far off corner acre. Our first unpleasant encounter with him came when trying to return a dog to him the first month we moved here. The day he parked outside my window, Peace answered the door before I got there, and Mr. Ritchie was quizzing my son in an unkind tone, "Go get your cat!" Peace obediently passed by me to obtain Patches when I asked with a slightly annoyed tone because the way he had spoken to my son, "What is this about?" Peace returned with Patches quickly, and Mr. Ritchie gruffly spoke, "That ain't my cat. I thought you was hiding my cat in your house. It's gone missing and has a terrible bladder surgery that makes it pee all over the house." He turned on heel, climbed into his truck and drove off. I thought of yelling a sarcastic, "Great to see you too! Come again when you have time for some iced tea." I also thought of some select words to shout regarding his cat, but I wisely kept this all to myself. Can anyone explain why I would WANT to hide a cat who urinates all over the inside my house? I'd have to be completely insane to look for ways to bother this man. From that day on, he sometimes shoots his gun when my children play too close to his land in the woods which eventually connect to his property.
I don't mind parting my bedroom curtains today. I've lead a search and recovery team to seek out my yard. I have a blister on my finger to prove I've pulled one too many weeds lately, and the grass is mowed for the time being. Mowing took a few days because my dear husband couldn't locate the key. He had to pick one up at Sears, a 45 minute haul away from home. The next day, the mower wouldn't start and needed a battery charge. The following day, I mowed till my hands vibrated, rump was sore of the seat, and sunburn consumed the tops of my thighs. The cool and gentle breeze smells like a mix of coming fall and freshly cut grass. I finally threw away the offensive dead brown wave petunia which hung on the front porch which I saw at first glance with my head rested on my pillow. Things look like they are coming together...
Our giant fur ball of a dog came in today from the field having been sprayed by a skunk again. His baths take over an hour. Maybe everything isn't quite together.

To be a child...

We met Svetlana (she chose her own name for my blog) and her husband Baryshnikov, one great dancer, and their daughter Anna at the lake yesterday. The family had to cancel vacation plans to the South Carolina due to the crazy gas shortage. The hotel clerk where they planned to stay advised them to stay home, because they might not be able to find gas after this weekend.
Svetlana, in her good humor, suggested we meet at the lake and tell her 4-year-old it was South Carolina. "She's not THAT clever yet. I think we can fool her." I suggested Anna would remember the lake from our previous trips there together, but Svetlana persuaded me otherwise. My sons asked as we got out of the van, "What is the name of the state we are supposed to be in now?" They were definitely in on the scheme. "Anna, was this a loonnnggg drive for you?"
After a swim at the beach and swinging on the playground, we headed to my house for a feast: pot roast, potatoes, gravy, homemade bread, corn on the cob. Svetlana brought liver pate' and a blue cheese crumble salad. Yum! Of course, the food is always good in South Carolina.
Towards the end of dinner, Svet and Bary surveyed Anna's plate which had quite a bit of food upon it. "Eat one bite of potato, salad, and bread, and you may be finished." Having four children and not being an especially good parent, I do not survey my children's plates at all. However, I decided to put on a good show and say to my four year old girl "Pooh Bear, you take one bite of salad and bread too." Pooh Bear thinks this is funny and decides to go along with my sherade by chomping down the remains of some of her dinner.
Svetlana mentions how she'd like to be a child again, "Please beg and plead with me to eat. Read books to me all day long, and let me nap!" She changes her voice a little and calls, "I'd like to turn a few cartwheels in the living room before I have to eat." Yes, I'd like to be a child again too. And I'd like Svet to live next door, because she has always made me laugh so hard my insides hurt. I've know her since seventh grade. She was my IPS lab partner.
After dinner, my boys, with about a thousand prompts, cleared the table. Baryshnikov and I washed up the dishes while Svetlana gave our girls a bath. Pooh Bear emerged scrubbed completely pink by my contientious friend. Me, I put soap on the top of Pooh's head, hand her a soap filled scrunchy, and hope for the best when it's bathtime. Last night, Pooh Bear appeared to sparkle after this particular bath. Isn't the best smell in the entire world a damp, gorgeous little girl with lingering baby soap on her skin and folded up in one's arms in a fresh towel? Pooh picked out some jammies from her stuffed drawer for Anna, whose jammies she brought were unsuitable. A wet towel from swimming had soaked them. I simply don't understand how girls are so flexible. When my boys were around four year old, I had to hog tie their legs and hands, wrestle them out of their favorite stained shark shirt and the only pants they would wear with a lego embroidered on the leg, and plunged them into the tub before they noticed I'd run the bath water. The girls change clothes by the hour and ask for baths.
The evening grew late with laughter, and I hated to see Svet, Anna, and Bary leave. It was 10 p.m., and they had an almost hour drive home ahead of them. Anna was none the wiser that she is really still in Tennessee. She surely conked out in the car before the family car made it out of my long driveway. She probably dreamed about her terrific day in make believe South Carolina.

Garden, Anniversary, Dog Day

My summer garden fades. The zillions of zinnias are turning brown.
Only a few colorful blossoms remain, and I can't bring myself to pull them up until all hope of beauty disappears. The faces of the sunflowers curve downward ready to dry up and scatter its seed for next summer. My children stand under the towering sunflowers and take pretend showers. I've pulled up my yellow squash and zuchinni. I harvested the last of the sugar baby watermelons. The lavendar I started this year still smells heavenly but the blooms are gone.
My goats love this season. As I toss the dying green bean vines into the goat pen, the furry creatures wonder whether to run so they don't get hit by hurtled debris or stay put so they don't miss the next delight flying their way. They munch everthing down to the stalks of the sunflower and corn. Jango, the largest wether (castrated buck), braves the vegetable torpedoes and gets first pick of new leftovers.

My husband, Buck and I finally celebrated our 17 years of marriage at Helen and Clay's cabin while they kept the children overnight. I can't explain how luxurious and precious this time is to my whole family. My children consider the Helen's house to be Tennessee's version of Disney world; a real boy, girls, guns, trampoline, 48 acres, waterfalls, a snack jar, every video game and movie known to man make it so. Helen sees the kids only for the time it takes them to gulp down spaghetti, watermelon or cinnamon rolls. The cabin's just up their long drive, but it's far enough to be absolutely private. Buck and I make our way to Crawdaddy's in Cookeville. Can you believe there is a really tasty restaurant in reasonable driving distance to Deerlodge, TN? We stuff ourselves with wine, salad and steak. After dinner, we go to a coffee house/bookstore down the way. Of course, I beat Buck at cards. It's an anniversary tradition. He's too tired to take me on for Scrabble. I take about two hours between each turn, and tonight he's just not up for the tedious experience of waiting on me to find the perfect word. Back at the cabin, Helen ignites candles everywhere and has prepared a chocolate cake with chocolate mousse and orange marmalade between each lucious layer and frosted with more chocolate icing. Buck and I have enjoyed great food and each other's company without interruption.

Now we are home and today is Dog Day. Ripley, the great pyraneese, needs a bath, but at 140 pounds, it takes both Buck and I to brush, scrub, and clip out mats of white fur. We pull enough hair out of the brushes to start an entire new BIG dog. He smells so much better, for now. As soon, as I put him back in the field tonight, he'll find a way to roll on some nasty stinks all over himself. I needed to take Ripley to the vet, because I let his heart worm meds lapse and it takes me, the vet, and the assistant to lift and hold him on a table to have his blood taken. Since he's a rescued dog, he's very jumpy about anyone messing with him in any way other than pettin' and lovin'. Our cat, Janet, gets her shots. I also pick up flea drops for two cats, wormer for the goats, and meds for my other cat who has some bad looking teeth. The whole shabang is less than $200. Maybe you think that is a bunch of money, but it's not. God bless, Doc Butler. He charges what things cost. No more, no less. He also does not charge anyone anything who cannot pay. I've heard it estmated that this man has donated half a million dollars of service and meds to folks in this area.

I treat Doc Butler and his assistants to a tale from a previous visit to this place.

My eight year old son, Wise One, approached one of the many cats that live in this compassionate vet's office (Doc Butler never turns an animal away). The cat lounged on a waiting room chair, and Wise One obliged the animal with much love. The cat began to drool all over in ectasy, and my boy noticed the cat didn't have one tooth left in it's head. Wise One exclaims, "Mommy this cat must be rich!" Huh? I am stumped and downright puzzled, "I don't understand, son. Why would a cat with no teeth living at a vet's office be rich?" to which Wise One promptly replies, "TOOTH FAIRY MONEY!" Oh, yes. Filthy rich.

The vet and assistants look at Wise One and burst out with a good laugh.

Past, Present, Future

The six year old girl sat carefully down on the stoop outside her front door dressed in her red smocked dress with a peter pan color and oxford shoes on a hot summer day. She began to finger the lace around the ankle of her socks, "I will not move from these steps until she comes back for me." Noone knows she's outside or has asked what she is thinking. "She will come back for me. She always has."

Her grandmother, Eeddie, had lived with her since before she was born. Eeddie bathed her, brushed her hair, sang to her, followed her about as a toddler, pushed her on the swing, made snow icecream with her, played with her, fed her comfort food, picked locusts and grass from her clothes, cooled her with the hose, taught her life lessons about sisters and dead animals, snuggled with her in bed until she fell asleep. The sacred bond between child and loving adult wrapped tightly around the two beings. As any caregiver, Eeddie was the center of this child's world, and suddenly this world was changing. Eeddie married and was moving two and a half hours away to a new town. So, this small girl's universe and it's order shattered as her grandmother's wood stained station wagon pulled away from the curb.

The girl remained on the steps. How does a child express grief and loss? Tears didn't touch the depth of pain now present in this child. The adults around her now believed she, like any child was resiliant. Now looking back from an adult's perspective, she knows her grandmother needed to make her own life. However, the child did not have the advantage of an adult perspective and was caught in a web of hurt completely beyond her control.

How long is forever? The child stayed on the warm cement for just that long. She doesn't really remember what made her move or why. Was it someone calling for dinner? Did she grow to tired, bored, and simply forget her vow? Did she figure out her grandmother would not be coming back after all? Even after she left her spot, the pain remained in her chest. She carried it with her into adulthood.

Until one day, she visited that quiet moment in her memory thirty-two years later. She sought guidance to heal the broken place in her heart. Divine help through praying, forgiving, considering the circumstances still left a void within her. An new inspiration came in the form of thoughts, "What if I take my Creator to that moment with me?" The Creator whispered back, "How about you take your thirty-eight year old self to that child. You know what she needs most." Ohhh! The woman slowly made her way to her present day porch. She was wearing her favorite grey jeans with big pockets on the legs, a wildly colored hip shirt, and comfy clogs on her feet. She awkwardly made her way down to a seated position with legs stretched out on the only step from porch to sidewalk. She crossed on leg over the other. She's much larger than a child now. She tightly closes her eyes and looks into her mind's eye. She sees the little girl close the glass front door of the house from the past and sit silently on the stoop. The woman pauses to watch the girl for some time. She's a beautiful little thing- golden ringlets of curls flow down her neck to the collar of her red dress. Her skinny yet delicate legs and arms met at her chest in her seated position, and she stroked the edge of her sock. The child looked up as the woman makes her way down the sidewalk from long ago. The girl instantly recognizes the lady's blue eyes. The woman places herself next to the child. They do not speak, and they both fix their eyes on the trellis of flowers across from them in the neighbors yard. Passion flowers grow up the structure. As a child, they believed this flower was a treasure noone else on earth had ever seen before. They believed it was the only plant of its kind, and they had discovered it by miracle on an exploring childhood day. The woman broke her gaze from the purple burst of wonder and touched the child's hair. She then wrapped her wildly colored sleeved arms entirely around the girl. The child pressed her face into the woman's breast, and together they began to softly cry. They joined in a singular thought, "Grammaw." The child finds comfort at long last," This woman will be with me, beside me for all my days. She knows me, she loves me, just as I need to be loved. " True inner healing took place in the woman and the girl.




Today I take my four-year-old daughter upon my lap on my front porch stoop. She's snuggles close to me, legs dangling, and leans forward to kiss me. "Do you see the butterfly on that flower, Mommy?" What will break her heart? What events will or have caused her deep sorrow?

I promise to always meet her on the steps and love her as best I can.

Ten Years

How do ten years fly?

I remember the phone call, "We have a newborn at the hospital for you to foster. He needs to stay in a few days so we can monitor him." Gasp! We aren't even finished with our foster/adoption classes yet. How can this be? "Can we go hold him NOW?" "You must wait for security clearance- we'll have that in a few days."

What does a newborn need? Scramble in the attic for the infant carseat. Wash everything. Can't do that- must buy Dreft first. Buy little teeny diapers. Bottles! I've never used bottles with my birth son. Formula. Have to wait to see what the hospital feeds first. Make posters, and banners to welcome you into our home. Wait- we can't remember, let alone spell your unusual names. Buy a babydoll for birthson to care for while we care for you. Call everyone we know, and they begin to make a list of who will cook dinner for us for the next few weeks. People are very soon on our doorsteps with gifts for you in hand. What else does a baby need?

An eternity later, three days, we have security clearance to go meet you. We must scrub with surgical brush and soap and wear scrubs while our hearts pound with anticipation. My husband passes you in the swing and says to himself, "Can't be him. Too beautiful!" But it was YOU. Those giant chocolate eyes, to match the huge hospital pacifier. That swirl of black hair. Those perfect cheeks, arms, legs, body, fingers and toes. That constant stare to the depth of our hearts! We took turns holding you for the next few days. The nurses told us at times you needed rest, and we should go home. Didn't they see how peacefully you slept in our arms?
I hadn't heard you cry until the day we were to take you home, and you had to get some shots to be released. Such a peaceful baby otherwise.

Then at home during feedings, you began to look increasingly more uncomfortable. Next thing I knew you had a fever, and we dashed to the hospital. Fever of unknown origin, but I knew something was up with your formula too. Thought the hospital docs didn't, my pediatric physician took me at my word and let us begin experimenting with formulas, and we found one that would work. Your birthmother was so worried for you and got permission to come see you and meet us. So young and vulnerable you both were.

You were soon able to come home again.

For two years, we visited with Momma Shannon every week until the day came she allowed us to adopt you.

Now the years have flown by, and you turn ten today. What have we done in all those years? What will we do together in the years to come? Maybe more of the same- play guitar, plan projects, build forts, soccor, swimming, flashlight tag with goats, study, cook, celebrate, travel, bike, hike, argue. Maybe something very different we've never even thought of yet. I just know I am honored to have you in my life to share in sorrow and joy. I love you my pearl.
xoxoxo

Dear Husband's Birthday

Here's what I'd do for your birthday if nothing stood in the way. I'd cook an excellent breakfast with homemade sweet rolls for you. I'd watch excitedly as you opened your new ipod, handmade jewelry, new David Crowder cd, fantastic inspirational book, and your "Old Guys Rule" t-shirt. My mom would walk in the door and wink. She'd take the children to Legoland, Disneyland, Seaworld, and Europe for a few days while you and I headed to a cabin in the woods. I'd bring Merlot, a deck of cards, a mandolin, and of course, Scrabble. We'd eat ham with melted cheese on rye for lunch, and ribs for dinner. I wouldn't say one thing about you not eating vegetables. We'd hike and sit by a lake for hours together. I'd let you win a 5K race against me. There would be no mosquitoes. No worries about the livestock at home, Rosie, God Bless Rosie, would have that all taken care of including the baby chicks. We'd have chocolate cake and milkshakes for dessert, and sleep till 10:00 in the morning. Happy Birthday, my love.

Viva La Fiesta!

So, I'm back from my trip to California. Not once did I stare at other people's children and miss mine. I spoke to my family almost every night, and the one who missed me most was my husband. He has strictly forbidden me from dying or leaving him. He's not keen on single parenting after two weeks alone with his progeny. I had contented evenings reading and studying alone. I experienced a treasure of a seminar during the days. Thanks, Kate. I ran to the beach almost every morning. The reciprical gym I found offered free valet parking. Twas fancy. The weather was gorgeous. I now believe the line in that song, "It never rains in California, but girl, let me warn ya."
My dear friend Helen visited with me there over the weekend, since my seminar was only on weekdays. She and I were unaware that Santa Barabara was celebrating Spanish Fiesta Days when planning this trip, but we took in all the crazy sights and sounds. Spanish dancing and singing, craft fairs, great Mexican food and beer. And did you know California has great wine? . Helen and I decided to go dancing one evening and learned something about how very different people dance these days than when we were in college. Dirty dancing is in, and it was to our advantage to dance with each other rather than take up one of the many offers from men to have sex with our clothes on in this public place.
The next morning Helen and some people from my seminar went whale watching. Three hours into the four hour tour, a gorgeous humpback female spent a good 30 minutes playing around our boat. She twisted, turned, dove up and back down. She showed off her magnificent giant body, fins, and flippers. Her tail was simply huge. Did you know whales have bad breath? What came out of her blowhole indicated she was distinctly fishy. She swam within five feet of boat. It was a fine experience.
I trained in my seminar the next five days and was anxious to get home by the last day. My children and husband greeted me at the airport, and I am so happy to be home. My husband bought me roses, and cooked breakfast for supper. The taste of the eggs from our farm is unequaled.There's nothing like crawling into my own bed again. I'm easing my way back into the daily grove. I love this Tennessee life.

Alone

When I was pregnant for the first time, I made a trip to Washington D.C. by myself. I thought of the trip as my last chance to have time to myself. Though I stayed in a friend's apartment, she worked while I came and went as I pleased. I spent days on end in the Smithsonians staring at Picassos, Renoirs, Cassats. I drank in the details of sculture and pottery. I puzzled over Warhol's Campbell's Soup Can. I rambled to coffee houses here and there. Very pleasant and relaxing.
That was 12 years ago, and I haven't taken any long trips since- alone unless you count the ones to the grocery store.
In two days, I will have another chance to rediscover time to myself fora period two weeks. I'm visiting Santa Barabara. I'll have hard but good work in the day, and late afternoon to evenings are free. I'm hoping it's a walk to the beach. Sand between my toes, rushing water sounds in my ears, wind in my hair, and liminal vistas to fill my eyes will do.
Talking to other moms the other day, I mentioned my trip. One looked dismayed and said, "I took a trip by myself once, and I ended up going to the mall to stare at other people's children because I missed mine." Inside I panicked at her words. Anxiety begins to creep in. What if I miss my family THAT much? Or worse, what if I don't? Does that make me a terrible mother to not want to look at children I don't know? When I think about my dear husband's choices with the children I worry a bit. When I went out for a day, he let my 9 year old daredevil try the lawnmower. Next thing I knew, and when no one was looking, I found my boy on the lawnmower looking like he was about to start it. My children constantly already say, "If you won't let me, Daddy will." What about the chaos of an unattended home? What about the looming school year? I'll start teaching late AGAIN this year. What about the things I've put off that I promised I'd get to when I get back? How will I get to it all?
Then I remember, I really love my family even if I'm spending weeks away. My husband is a better man than any I know. And he loves his children in a way they need that I can't give. Houses can be remembered. Time will fall into place as it always does to get to all my self assigned tasks.
I suppose this is one way to survey an abundant life. I have opportunity and possibility always at my finger tips. I feel compassion for others who have emptiness and don't have to things to look forward to. I'm grateful for this part of my journey. It will never come again.

I said to my soul

I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith but the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darnkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. From The Four Quartets, "East Coker" T.S.Eliot

Loss and...

Remember, sister, tears too, are the water of life.

I stepped into the huge and empty marble hallway yesterday. My eyes traveled up the stairwell with gorgeously carved rails. The tall hall echoed with my greeting to a woman I'd never met before. I immediately excused myself to the bathroom, because I needed to change into the appropriate clothing for the occasion.

Just being able to attend was a daunting task. I had to find a sitter for my children on a day and time most folks are at church, and I made some elaborate plans with a friend to overcome the interruption this exchange would cause. Handing over four children prepared for church and swimming, and lunch is enough. However, my daughter was going to a BOY'S house, and desperately needed to drag a suitcase full of GIRL toys making matters more complicated. The cookout that evening required a dessert, so I needed to make and bring that detail along too. I blew kisses once my children were situated in the sitter's van, and drove to my destination.

Beth had organized the event, and I mostly trusted all would be well. Beth has a way of preserving the sacred in a difficult situation. There was gamble in all the unfamiliar faces which surrounded me. The task I'd assigned myself was weighing on me. I was flat out nervous, but struggled to push that out of my mind. I was there for Tara, and my insecurities would taint her time.

You see, Tara and her husband have separated. The legal papers for divorce were signed recently, leaving Tara and her beautiful daughters to make a new way for their family. Beth and she wrote a life blessing to celebrate Tara's new beginnings, and I was amazed to be invited to participate.

Beth handed me a script she and Tara had worked out ahead of time. She pointed to the words and actions, she'd planned for me to do in the ceremony. I realized immediately she was risking too, because she had composed words which she longed would comfort, affirm, bless her friend in a time of tumultuous transition. Beth knows the power of words, and bravely puts them together in an untraditional fashion, tailored for healing. She had the slightest hint of apology in her voice as she explained, "We are using feminine imagery, and I hope you are comfortable with the use of these particular symbols and use of words." She leans in and says in a more intimate, knowing me voice, "You have a special job, because you are a catechist. It's a little more complicated, but I knew you could do it." She led me to a large sea shell full of salt water on a stand, and we worked out my role a bit.

I chat with a few acquaintances, some people I know and like a lot. I'd like to know them better, but so far, I haven't shared much of my life with them. I look to connect with Beth, but she is busy preparing. I keep fighting my mind about the gift I've brought for Tara which has me in knots on the inside. Is anyone else presenting a window to her soul like me?

In walked Magic Meredith Lee bringing her usual peace. Meredith Lee has shared in my secrets and tears, my life. I don't see her often anymore, because our work together came to a halt when I moved two years ago. I hope the future will weave us back together one day. I make myself walk to her, because dashing wouldn't be polite. I don't jump into her arms, because that too, would be impolite. She wraps her arms around me, and I breathe deeply. It felt like I'd been holding my breath before her arrival. "I hoped you could come" I whispered. She answered, "I wasn't sure I could make it, but I'm glad to be here." We go and get water together then create two spaces from one on the couch. Beth sat on the other side of me, and I was hemmed in and cozy.

Beth calls us to order and we begin the ceremony. Here are some of the words:

God calls us to right relationships based on love, compassion, mutuality and justice. Whenever any of these elements is absent from a martial relationship, then the partnership no longer reflects the intentionality of God. No one marries with the intention that her marriage will end. No one claims divorce is a wonderful thing. However, the Good News of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is that we are forgiven our sins and our failures, we are raised from the dead and restored to new life. The death of a marriage, like the death of a the grave, has no power to rob us of the life that is intended for the people of God.

Each woman decorated the liturgy with images of light, bread, wine, milk and honey, cloth, flowers. On my turn, I dipped my finger in the shell and read about the waters of life. I had resolved that my presentation would be clear and untarnished by a wavering voice. I scooped a bowl of water from the shell and took it to Tara. As I looked into her eyes, I needed to pause to collect myself from welling tears. I dipped more water on my pointer finger to trace a tear on Tara's cheek and carefully spoke, "Remember sister, tears, too, are the water of life." She turned to the person beside her and did the same. The bowl circled the room. I remembered the quote framed in another friends home, "In your marriage, may you be so close that when you cry your partner tastes the salt of your tears." Doesn't every marriage begin this way? How can this feeling disintegrate and fall away over time? I allowed myself to spill my own tears.

More healing words and symbols, and soon it was time to present our gifts to Tara. We'd been asked ahead of time to bring something inspirational to us and a token for Tara to sum up our gift. Beth knew my plans ahead of time, so she thoughtfully asked me in the transition time, if it would be to helpful for me to go towards the beginning or the end. I was relieved to " go as early as possible, so I won't be distracted with my thoughts as the others give their gifts."

Beth announced she'd go first to break the ice. She read a piece she had written on the "toad people" who live inside her head- the ones who live deep down, criticize her and demean her. The ones who tell her she's less than who she is. She refers to them as the FCC-the expletive critical committee who want to scare her into less of a life. She tells Tara the ways she shuts the toad people up and how she deals with them. She hands Tara a genu-wine handmade brown, yellow, squatty toad person with wide staring eyes, and a jar with a tight lid to seal it into silence.

Beth's talk took the edge of the "toad people" at work inside my head at that moment. After she finished, she turned to me, and I rose from my chair feeling like I was about to jump off a cliff.

"First I'm going to tell you a story. Then I'm going to do something for Tara" I begin.

About 15 years ago, I knocked on a friend's door. She was sweaty and breathing hard, but she had a pleasant cat grin on her face. I wondered what on earth she'd been doing, so I asked. I halfway expected a peek of a partially dressed man to be behind her apartment door, so I definitely did not comprehend her answer.

"I just had the most....Incredible.......Prayer time" she paused between sighs.

I hadn't ever come from a prayer time looking like that. I came away from prayer wondering if I'd said all the right things and if I was really finished. She looked downright satisfied. She opened the possibility to me, that prayer could be much more than I had ever experience. She had passion and even romance in her prayers. Was that possible?

I began to study and practice prayer. I tried different prayer positions and styles. I read prayer. I wrote prayer. I found new ways to connect with God. Then I found one that leaves me breathless, sweaty and satisfied, and I'm going to do that now for you. Mostly, I do this in my secret place, but this is something that truly inspires me, so I will share it with you."

I sit on the floor with my knees under me. Man, it hurts as I've had knee reconstructive surgery a few years ago, and my knee doesn't quite bend like that anymore. Also, I have a torn muscle up my calf from an exercise injury last week. Beth takes my cue and turns on the CD player.

The music starts- Matt Redman "Breathing the Breath". I see my hands slightly shaking as I begin to move them with the soft piano sounds. I rise and build my dance as the song progresses. It's hard to get up with that bum knee, and I'm self conscious because I am no slender ballerina by any stretch of the imagination. I'm concentrating on the words of the song and my body's interpretation of it. The space is small, but I want to cover it all. Now and then I remember where I am and notice people's eyes are on me. I refocus my attention to the lyrics "I'm breathing the breath that You have given to me" and my arms move up the front of me to outline the invisible life coming from my chest. I am breathing hard and sweaty when song concludes. I am satisfied. I hear clapping, but I don't associate it with myself.
"I've just prayed for you Tara." I hand her the CD with a hug and sit down.

The room is silent for longer than I am comfortable with. Meredith Lee breaks in something like, "Can I move to another seat? I can't possibly follow THAT." I think I hear someone else say, "Noone can." I drink until I drain the last of the water in my glass. I am at rest again.

Meredith then finds her feet and offers her gift. A quote she hesitates to give but is compelled to give none the less. She explains that it's crass, but profoundly true. "The truth shall set you free, but first, it will piss you off." She applies it beautifully to Tara's situation. For a good southern girl, Meredith has got guts.

The next woman I do not know shares a passage from a book. What I remember most was something along the lines of what life might be like if we had a group of older, wiser women gather around us, affirm and support us from one transition in life from one stage to another. She mentioned planning a gathering like that for her daughter after her first menstrual cycle. The passage ended with something about dancing and the woman gave Tara a silver dancer pin. Someone mentioned "synchronicity" and Anne Lamontt looking over to me.

One woman read a poem she had written about a huge tree that had fallen in her back yard during a terrible storm. I'll print it here when I get a copy. She associated it to losing a good friend, but now having sun in a spot in her yard she'd never had before. She pondered what might grow there now. My mind went to Tara in that she had lost a dear friend. Doesn't everyone marry their friend? He and the shade of his friendship are gone, but now she has sun in a place she hadn't before.

Many others shared their gifts and words with Tara, but I'll mention details of the last two.
One recited the PERFECT poem by T.S. Eliott expressing the wanting to know what the future holds, but having to wait until it unfolds.

The last was Laurel. She told a story about losing her mother to suicide at a young age. She remembered storing that pain inside till one day alone deep in the woods, she let it all out. In it's place, she was overcome with a sense that she was never alone and very loved. She carries that feeling always today. Honestly, it shows in her smile, and I just didn't know it till she put words to it. She also drew a simple picture of Tara inside a glowing huge hand. A wonderful concluding gift.

We gathered around Tara and read the final prayer together. We ate and drank lovely things together.

As I departed, I thought of the pain Tara might feel when her home emptied of all her guests, and she went back to an afternoon alone. I knew she would join her sister later, but there would be time in between. Remember that marble hallway? It echoes. I prayed Tara would find the forest in her own mind- the same place Laurel realized she was never alone and so very loved.

Wallpaper

I have a secret talent. Not many know it, but I can wallpaper, and I really like doing it. One can make it a persnickity and tedious job, but fussing over it just makes the wallpaper surley and hard to manage. That's where I come in- I am not persnickity or tedious about anything. I put a piece of wallpaper up and fit it to the space. Not too much fiddling to make it perfect. My compulsive personality makes me uninterested in taking lunch or bathroom breaks. I want to work till a room is done. I suppose the thing I like best is the visual reward at the end. Wallpaper transforms.
One of my dear friends moved into a home last summer which required much work, cosmetic and otherwise. We painted whatever stood still, including our children if they slowed down too much. One room we did not attend last summer was her bedroom. The walls remained drywall and the trim and doors raw wood, and at the beginning of this summer, I asked if she'd like to paint there. She mentioned wallpaper. It wasn't long until I included wallpaper in our every conversation, because of my secret passion for it. I dragged her to my favorite wallpaper store and she took many samples home. She made a delightful choice- a marblely antique white with pressed leaves, but it had to be specially ordered. In the mean time, she decided to redo the ceiling in a fern and swirl method. A couple of days we got together and painted trim.
Yesterday, we worked from 2:30 pm till 11:00 and put up the wallpaper. As we worked, we found that instead of the cabin look we thought the leaves on the paper might produce, we both realized the style was straight out of a gorgeous old victorian home. All her bedroom furniture is antique from her grandma, and it was the perfect fit.
We had one tense moment in the process. My friend dared to ask that we take one difficult piece down that was part around a window and then curving around a corner, and try again. She had stepped on my cardinal rule of not fiddling too much. Starting over on a new piece is persnickity and tedious, and I simply won't do it. Okay, you may think, this is HER room, and she can do as she pleases. I told her she was on her own with that piece if she started over. I mentioned how sometimes wallpaper runs out if giant long strips are wasted. She opted to work with me to make the piece work with me. We didn't need to go to therapy together and work through my stubborn streak afterall.
When we finished, the room was so cozy. Her husband said, "The room looks as it should. The furniture and wallpaper go together well." She is going to hang mirrors and pretty bunches of spices today. I'll have to drop by soon and see the finished effect.
I love transformation. I love changing something for the better. It's my joy.

Hurry up and wait...

I MADE my 8 year old son join the swim team this year. He's one of those boys who is loved for his gentleness and good heart, but he's not so very athletic. For the past two years, I've asked and he's flatly turned me down, "That pool is too long. I could never make it to the other end." He played in the baby pool at 7 years old (!) while his older brothers swam on the team. I couldn't bear the thought of another wasted summer watching this son as he chased three year olds in a foot of water.
I dragged him to swimming lessons in the winter to build strength and confidence. He gained a bit of skill but was still challenged by the length of the pool.
This year, I gave him no outs. He spent a few weeks at swim team practice, stopping during freestyle to stand gasping for breath and then pushing off the bottom and swimming a little ways only to stop again. It was painful to watch. He looked like a drowning cat, complete with scowl and desparation as he clawed at the water. He would be disqualified for pushing off the bottom in a swim meet.
It wasn't too long till a coach showed him breaststroke. He realized he could take a breath each stroke, and it turned his whole swim season around. It was a way for him to make the distance without stopping on the bottom. That day he said," I will never swim freestyle, back, or butterfly. I will only ever be able to swim breaststroke." He spent the next few practices only swimming breaststroke, but he started gaining stamina he couldn't work up to before. So when he experimented again with freestyle, he could make it down the pool without stopping (IF he took his head all the way out of the water like breaststroke). A week or two later, he made up his mind to try backstroke and VIOLA! He figured it out quickly. Soon, he conquered butterfly, and not long after figured out rotary breathing (turning head to side) for freestyle.
Yesterday was the Smoky Mountain Invitational Swim Meet. He swam like a pro if you don't count when he completely missed the start of a race, and didn't begin until all the rest of swimmers were halfway down the pool. He's nowhere near the top swimmers of his age, but he's strong and quite competant in the water.
His Summer goal is more than MET.

Who am I?

It occured to me today I have two books interesting me this summer which are antithetical to one another. I hesitate to mention the title of either, because mostly people would find one or the other completely offensive. However, I'm finding jewels hidden among piles of coal and rubble as I read. Should the authors meet face to face (and this would never happen) I doubt they could even muster civility to one another. One is a book on feminist theology and the other on the wife's subordiance to the husband. Why don't the books sitting one on top of the other, try to tear each other's pages out in a furious rage? How can I find either of value?
I could easily split the people I know along the lines of who would agree with which book, but the truth is.... I see most operating in both spheres just like I do. The women who vocalize most about being under their husband's authority tend toward acting with most authority in the home. The women who vocalize most about feminism tend toward being the most needy. Strange isn't it?
Women I admire put action behind their words. Both authors live out what they believe. Women I know and admire do the same. I have strong opinions. but from these two books, I see I have more work to do in both. I want to see justice for the oppressed, and I know this includes women. I want to have intimacy and vulnerability with my best friend only found in loving him better than myself.
So who am I?

Laughing Out Loud While Reading a Book

I can't remember the last time I laughed out loud while reading a book. Maybe because I mostly pick serious literature or something to study. I need to lighten up!
My husband, who reads only occasionally, bought a book _Praise Habit_ by David Crowder. My husband read it but failed to convince me how funny (and meaningful) it was. My children are wondering, "What is up with her today?" as they hear me laughing sitting on my bed reading.

Here's an excerpt from David's book:

"Last September there was an irregular tapping in my chest. A tapping on my breastplate from the inside. Not a gentle, constant drum but an erratic thud pouding at volatile intervals. The tapping would be slow and with the velocity of the index finger and then WHAM! a fist coming through. My wife took me to the ER. I am afraid of doctors. I am afraid of dentists. Anything medical. Anyone in white. Anyone with access to needles and the education to use them. I can't look at needles without feeling faint. I've never actually fainted, but I'm certain that this is that feeling. The kind lady in green hooks me up to wires. She studies the sheet of paper. She then asks me, "Are you on any kind of street drugs?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are you on any street drugs?"
I laugh nervously, " Uh, I'm not sure what you mean, but I don't think so. What do you mean by 'street drugs'? Like driugs from the street like Tylenol? No, I'm not on street drugs, I'm certain. Yes, I 've thought about it, and no, I'm not on street drugs."
She doesn't believe me. (See author photo.) She says there will be tests and I should just tell her now. "

My husband and I really love David Crowder's music and have been to a show, so we know what he looks like. We agreed he would fit right in around here. His hair is in somewhat a wild fro, he wears black safety looking glasses, and has a nice snarly tuft of hair only at the end of his chin much like our goats.
I hold David Crowder personally responsible for the "guitar love" of our middle son. The jury is still out if I appreciate this love altogether. At the show, my son made his way up to center front just so he could stand and stare at David's hands, sweat glistening and rolling down his guitar as he played. Now I'm getting daily lectures on the differences between semi-hollow bodies and solid bodied guitars from a nine year old.
So, Mr. Crowder, thanks for music on headphones to get me through running my 5K's, opening a door for my son to find joy in strings, and for the laughs and epiphanies from your book.

To Be Known

Drink of Him

Drink Again

Saturate the longings of your soul

Today my mind went to that melancholy place of standing in a huge crowd and feeling intensely lonely. I decided loneliness is the vague portion of larger emotion for me. I've worked just now at putting words to that larger feeling.

Maybe it's sheer arrogance, but I'm longing for people I know to who I am, and that I might have a perspective from further down the road. I call from up ahead, "Catch up. Come with me. Fear and complacency lead no where. Don't be satisfied with the mundane. Get bold. Find courage."

When I sense the direction of something moving from best to good, I become unsettled. I experience disappointment when I know potential is untapped or fading.

The truth is I am impatient.

Always running ahead, I miss the very thing in others I want people to see in me- to be known and valued. I want to remember to stare into any person's eyes and really see the whole of them. Is it so hard to find a person's passion, and dwell with them there for a time? Mostly, I'm too self centered to do so, but when I purposely try, I am always amazed.

My middle son taught me a tremendous lesson on this. He kept asking me if he could call and talk to a person we both know and just to talk. In my head, I discounted this person and thought, "That will be a short conversation. He's about as deep as a puddle." My son never thought so, and has had some lengthy chats with this guy. Suddenly, because my son has decided to treat this person as a human with a heart and brain, my nine year old son has a relationship like I have never been able to muster in all the years I've known this man. Why did it take me so long to see that my judgement prevented me from relationship?

Are all humans like me? Does everyone want to be known and valued? Are we all too busy with our own thoughts to SEE one another? I look for the day when we look at each other with deep respect and understanding, and I realize I have to practice the art of seeking another's life myself.

My mom and her grandchildren 

Organinzing my thoughts

Things I've accomplished before 10 am this morning.
1. Fed, watered, mineraled, and milked goats
2. Fed, watered chickens
3. Picked and weeded a bit in my jungle of a garden
4. Collected eggs from crazy places (argh)
5. Tidied up garage
6. Started Laundry

Still to do:
1. Attend workshops at a conference today
2. Make breakfast for the little guys
3. Freeze peppers I just picked
4. Work out
5. Record swim team times
6. Read some of a book for Tuesday book club and figure out my theology QUICK
7. Tutor my children
8. Study
9. Think of something really fun to do tonight with the fam

What I'd like to do but won't:
1. Go to a bed and breakfast with my dh for the night.
2. Hop on a plane and take fresh bread and cookies to people in London who have lost loved ones.

Chocolate Love

I definately have a thing for chocolate. Last night, I decided chocolate chip cookies were in order since my dh and oldest son have deserted the rest of us for boyscout camp. I get all the ingredients out and realize, alas, no chocolate chips. This is impossible since chocolate chips are to have on hand as much as eggs, milk, and flour. We always have those because we have chickens, goats, and buckets of wheat for grinding. If there was an animal or grain that produced chocolate chips, I'd keep it on hand. Since there is no such beast, Wal-mart will have to provide. I buy bags at a time.
I got desparate and I poured over the cabinets with a fine tooth comb for that hidden stash. None were to be found. Would this stop me? NO! I decided the Hershey's bars left over from our cookout for s'mores were to be raided. Surprisingly (or not) the cookies were great with hunks of Hershey's bar inside.
This leads me to the quote I decided may be next personal motto:
"I thought about giving up chocolate. But then I realized, HEY, I'm no quitter!"

Education to Wonder Quotes

I'm adding to quotes to help me think about my lecture prepartion.

If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in.--Rachel Carson

If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I would ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life.--Rachel Carson

Life isn't long enough to do all you could accomplish. And what a privilege even to be alive. In spite of all the pollutions and horrors, how beautiful this world is. Supposing you only saw the stars once every year. Think what you would think. The wonder of it!--Tasha Tudor

Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.--Helen Keller (The Story of My Life)

Childhood is the world of miracle and wonder; as if creation rose, bathed in the light, out of the darkness, utterly new and fresh and astonishing. The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us.--Eugene Ionesco

The moment one gives a close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world unto itself.--Henry Miller

Stuff your eyes with wonder ... live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.--Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.--Eden Phillpots (in The World within the World by Barrow)

You know you're old when you've lost all your marvels.--Merry Browne

He who can longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead; his eyes are closed. Albert Einstein

Wonder implies the desire to learn. Aristotle

Wonder is the beginning of wisdom. Greek Proverb

Wonder is the basis of worship. Thomas Carlyle

July 4,1005

Here are some things I did today: 1. Wished I wasn't such a nag with my family out loud with my husband. 2. Ate weird food 3. Went to the gym and talked about apple turnovers while I did ab crunches 4. Read a little for myself 5. Read several picture books with my little girl 6. Watched fireworks on tv with my children (sad, but we'd went to some in the park Saturday night). 7. Took a really hot bath to relax while my four year old talked my ear off (oh, well) 8. Watered and harvested from my garden 8. Talked serious friend stuff with Tami 9. Thought about moving to China 10. Looked at blogs- I need recommendations of some interesting ones to follow 11. Got a call from a neighbor looking for his dog who is dreadfully scared of fireworks Maybe tommorrow will be more interesting than today.

Our first goat babies ever. Cowboy and S'more. Any guesses on how they got their names?

City Girl, Country Girl

I am not a real farmer. I am a college educated woman who grew up in the suburbs. After being the kool aid mom one day too many in the burbs, my dh and I moved ourselves to the country to connect our family to nature. Since we've had two years of firsts. First lessons in milking our goats, trimming hooves, growing flowers and veggies, caring for chickens, figuring out and finding a livestock guard dog, giving animal injections, fighting poison ivy, and even animal husbandry.
I have to say all these things have had their challenges, but I am tied in love this land and all that surrounds me.
Here's a recent example. My free range chickens have been acting wiggy. The hens scratched the hay in their laying boxes into strange and wild shapes. They are not laying at all in one of the coops. They are hanging out in different places than usual. I didn't understand what was up til I asked my husband to change the hay to see if that helped them mosey back to the nesting boxes (instead of laying hide and seek eggs behind bicycles in the outbuilding, and in a corner of the goat shed). He found wasps (!) IN the hay. No wonder my sweet little ladies were acting strangely. DH sprayed the wasps out and we are waiting for the girls to return to normal. I hope they do soon. I'm sick of looking for eggs all over the farm.
As I said, I am not a real farmer. Real farmers eat their chickens when they aren't laying anymore. I guess we will have a convalesent home for aged chickens, because I love them so.
We do drink our goat milk, but only one of the five produces. So, we have four other really cute goat pets. Real farmers sell their goats or eat them. My children would never speak to me again if either of those options were chosen.

Education to Wonder

One of my tasks for and upcoming training in August is compose a lecture on the topic of wonder. Today is an excellent day to write some thoughts on the subject to help my lecture gel.

Anyone know the name of the inventor of the electric guitar, distortion, echo, multi-tracking? I have a 9 year old son who would like to shake that man's hand.
Les Paul started early to tinker with sound. He said it all began when he was very young as he noticed he could change the pitch on his Victrola phonograph by slowing down or speeding up the record. Next, he opened up the piano in his living room and tried to manipulate the strings to change the pitch, but he noticed the pitch would remain the same just go shorter or longer. From this he asked the question "Why?" and began his quest, a passion which remained his entire life to work with sound. His natural curiosity made him the waymaker for musicians today to make and record their own sound. His gift was wonder.
What are your ideas on wonder? What questions do your heart dwell on?
I try to keep this gift in mind as I listen to my son turn on his amp and fiddle with the same chord over and over on his electric guitar. My son's wonder drives him to create his own sound, and I have the task as a mother to give him learning space. HOWEVER, what's a mom to do when she hears the same rift for hours at a less than peaceful noise level? "Turn it down please." "Could you play that somewhere else?" "We need to get to swim team. Turn it off." "Did you finish your chores before you started playing guitar?" "Just let me have a little quiet for a while." Sounds to me like I'm trampling wonder. I don't mean to, but I do.
When I look at the child's potential to wonder, I think of it as a means to help him or her find her passion and meaning in life. It's the last thing I want to squash. It's like squashing the person altogether. My challenge as a parent is to give my children the TIME to find and work in their passion, but in American culture, a kid is supposed to get sports, music, foreign language, algebra, history, decimals, AND dinner in the same day. Where is the TIME to be?
In a song I've been pondering lately a line goes like this. "What was said to the rose to make it unfold was said to me here in this place. So be quiet now and rest." I translate rest as time to be and wonder. Sofia Cavalletti calls wonder "an irresistable attraction to activity." She writes about acknowledging the reality of God as being unmeasurable, and unfathomable. We can make a habit of looking God's marvels in the everyday things like the rose or the child. I do.
If I attend wonder, I will see how God surpasses anything in me. Can I place the sun in the sky? Can I make my garden grow? Can I heal my children?
Wonder is the most important thing inside the child to keep intact, becauset it's the main tool to release our potential as humans.
Have you held on to your sense of wonder? Can you recover what may have been lost? I say "Yes!" The gift is always waiting.

My Garden in May

My garden in April

My little guys in our small town 

July 1, 2005

This morning I woke up thinking of all the things I might do today. I decided to blog a little to clarify my thoughts. I have four children and a dear husband, so I have many obligations each day. Today I have the laundry list of sundries like watering the garden, making sure the children are fed, and getting our house and yard ready for a cook out tommorrow, pick and weed a bit in my garden, checking my son's boyscout packing list for camp next week, going for my workout, and borrowing time somewhere in there to do things I really want to do like study for an upcoming course and pick flowers to put all over my house and porch for tommorrow. I have enough zinnias growing to outfit a wedding.
My garden is usually my favorite spot in the summer. However, the zuchinnis, tomatoes and zinnias have gotten so gigantic at the entrance, the path is not as inviting as usual...and I got stung yesterday on the foot when I was out there.
Last year was my very first year to begin a garden, and I decided a regular row garden just would not do. I had in my mind's eye, a Peter Rabbit garden straight out of Beatrix Potter books. When I was discussing the fence to keep out the univited creatures with my husband, he dared to mention we already had t-posts (ugly green metal) and field fencing (not so pretty wire). I invited him to look with a more artisitic eye at fences and gardens the next few days. He found nice carved posts and wooden boards which we filled in with an acceptable wire. I went on to him about a focus point for the middle of garden, so he took me to a garden store to find a trellis, some clematis flowers, and a lovely little statue to mind my plants and flowers. Today, she's a bit hard to find among the towering zinnias, nastursiums, and snap dragons.

My husband and I 

My son and I on the Great Wall