Driving back from our Mennonite church Sunday afternoon, I gazed out the car window (Martin was driving) at the blue sky--blue the color of what? Silk, the heart of a violet, the sea over sand--an impossible blue, especially in this part of the world on the first day of February.
That morning I had looked out our kitchen window, caught the furry white line of a contrail and I started singing: I SEE A CONTRAIL! over and over to the tune of a Cat Stevens song. I love being startled by a pure blue day in the middle of all this hummy-drummy winter grey.
Well, by the time church, kid-gathering, and grocery store stop was over, I was not as mesmerized by the blue and the sunshine--rather, I was a bit sleepy but most of all I felt worried. I had exchanged stories with friend there who had told me about some tragedies in her life which mirrored some of my deepest worries: one or two are old favorites, the ones that grab me by the throat when, lifting a hungry Beatrix to my breast in the middle of the night, I feel some lump or thickening, when my mind jumps to words like breast cancer, sending shocks deeply into my mind and heart. This worry is a personal favorite, and has never come to anything. The other worry was real. My friend, whom I love dearly, is very ill.
Though we had just sung a beautiful hymn about releasing anxiety to God, I had walked from that good place of peace over to the narrow path between all that is normal and familiar on one hand and all that is baffling and terrifying and unknown on the other. I'm afraid this is a path I find myself on occasionally, and I am always walking alone there. It is my own mental "valley of the shadow--" and this is a valley that shakes me until my teeth chatter if I am honest enough to admit it.
I was completely alone in this sort of valley as I watched the sky, though my children slept in the back seat, and Martin sat beside me. And though my mental image of this path of worry is that it goes straight through a valley, I never reach anywhere on the other side. More often I go wandering around in circles, lost, walking myself more and more deeply into ruts, ruts of my own misery and confusion, my own sadness and darkness. And I am always alone here. You can't take people with you into worry. You can hold the hands of others in sorrow and grief, but this kind of anxiety is a one-person journey. It is lonely and isolating and it is not at all good.
But suddenly, alone in this awful place, someone was there. I can't explain it exactly--except that in my head, I pictured my hands, tightly fisted and white-knuckled, opening, and my worries floating away from me, up from the pit of my own making, over my head, further and further into that real, wonderful blue sky.
Now this is not some kind of hokey visualization--I did not arrange for it to happen (though I believe releasing worries is certainly a choice to some extent), nor did I say HELP ME GOD, though I believe my soul sometimes asks for things despite my own blundering.
But this afternoon I felt Grace lay her hands upon my fists, and just as I coax Beatrix to release some chokable object by stroking the backs of her little knuckles, so did I, in response to other hands, uncurl my own fingers.
The objects of my worries weren't taken care of or resolved, and they did not explode with a puff of smoke--no, I will still struggle with their reality and with my responsibility in the face of such trouble. Sadness remains, but my gnawing, horrible fear was taken away, at least for that moment. The opening, the letting go, is something that must happen every day. But sometimes, like this Sunday afternoon, I feel the breath of joy on my face.
During this time I had been watching the bare hills on either side of the road flash by, seeing the bare spokes of the winter trees. But in the instant after this grace visited me, I focused on one tree, and on that tree's limbs I saw--buds. Buds! Tightly curled, tiny buds on the first day of February! A moment later our car curved around another hill and a whole forest of budded trees spread beneath the blue sky, the tufts of each curled bloom and leaf perfect and visible on the bare brown branches.
This is peace that is beyond understanding. The sorrows of this life--sometimes I feel them dark before me. But I am not alone.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A Moment of Sunlight, A Season of Fat
One nice thing about my office move is that I can enjoy the sunlight pouring into my window. Or at least I would enjoy the sunlight pouring in my window if there were any in this one-horse town.
Gracious me, though! I just felt a ray of sunshine. It wandered through my window and warmed my forehead, radiating down my face and into my body. I'll keep it tucked away and pull it out secretly later today. I don't even feel like sharing it. This is what the deep winter will do to you. I will guard my bowl of sunshine like a rabid dog.
In like way, I hoard little Toblerones from my Christmas stocking in my coat pockets and whip them out at desperate moments. Somehow the feeling of breaking off a little piece with my teeth and turning over those chewy nougat bits with my tongue is a pleasing substitute for sunshine during these endless grey days.
And the Toblerones, and the cookies, and the creamy coffee--it's all doing its work by giving me just that extra special something that keeps me a little warmer. Why fight against evolution? In winter I evolve into a softer, more well-rounded person, and in summer I shed it for long days in the garden. Now that I am over thirty this wintry padding may prove harder to shake than in past carefree days. But I don't give a flipping fig. Bring on the pastries! Bring on the peanut butter!
My good friend and Merry's godmother describes the Goldeneyes in Missoula, puttering carelessly around floating chunks of ice just as we float about in high summer holding a cold beer in one hand. Here's to feathers and fat, she says. Absolutely. I don't know whether she meant this as a recommendation, a "Go ye therefore and do likewise," but that's how I choose to read it. I am going, I am doing likewise.
Stay warm, all ye freezing ones.
Gracious me, though! I just felt a ray of sunshine. It wandered through my window and warmed my forehead, radiating down my face and into my body. I'll keep it tucked away and pull it out secretly later today. I don't even feel like sharing it. This is what the deep winter will do to you. I will guard my bowl of sunshine like a rabid dog.
In like way, I hoard little Toblerones from my Christmas stocking in my coat pockets and whip them out at desperate moments. Somehow the feeling of breaking off a little piece with my teeth and turning over those chewy nougat bits with my tongue is a pleasing substitute for sunshine during these endless grey days.
And the Toblerones, and the cookies, and the creamy coffee--it's all doing its work by giving me just that extra special something that keeps me a little warmer. Why fight against evolution? In winter I evolve into a softer, more well-rounded person, and in summer I shed it for long days in the garden. Now that I am over thirty this wintry padding may prove harder to shake than in past carefree days. But I don't give a flipping fig. Bring on the pastries! Bring on the peanut butter!
My good friend and Merry's godmother describes the Goldeneyes in Missoula, puttering carelessly around floating chunks of ice just as we float about in high summer holding a cold beer in one hand. Here's to feathers and fat, she says. Absolutely. I don't know whether she meant this as a recommendation, a "Go ye therefore and do likewise," but that's how I choose to read it. I am going, I am doing likewise.
Stay warm, all ye freezing ones.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Loving Well
Today has been muffled by snow and the thickness that falls around a house where a child has been sick. In a way it's been long, and in a way it's been a day of grace, a day with no plans, no journeys, no great accomplishments. In days like these I often experience a head clearing, unexpectedly, out of the fog.
A moment of brightness, glimmering only, not overwhelming, as I remade Elspeth's bed with clean sheets, as the girls played in the bath some feet away: I'm singing "All day, all night, Angels watching over me, my Lord. . ." Suddenly I feel comforted, though I had not been asking for comfort or reassurance--I feel as if I am watched over by goodness and love, mercy and tenderness. Even when I do not seek it, even when I forget to know it, it is there, a presence that occasionally surprises me and bids me peace.
This is a secret I have just started to uncover: I do not have to be happy every minute of my life to be content. This year has been intense in its own daily way as I let go of things which I held to and wished for so furiously: my family's proximity, my wish for those I love to be near; my solitude; my writing. At one point recently I finally began to understood: it is okay to feel unhappy sometimes (and goodness knows, with my family, writing, and community, I have very little cause for unhappiness). But it is all right, at moments of frustration and bewilderment, not to feel warm and content and like a well-petted dog safe in her own basket. It is okay to be vulnerable, to be sad sometimes. Before, I fought it, railed against it, desperately searched for things and people to make me happy again. I was not at peace until I had researched my discontent, blamed those responsible, made a bit of a scene, and finally achieved some level of bliss again. I am beginning, just beginning to understand: Joy and peace coexist with discomfort, with frustrated aspirations, discomfort, and with inconvenience.
Also I am beginning to learn the extent of what I must let go. Certain moments, like the silence that fell over the house tonight when the girls were finally in bed and Martin teaching his class, strike me. I recall Elspeth's wet nose against mine after her bath, the way she curved her body toward me and hugged my neck; there is Beatrix's impish, jagged-toothed grin, and Merry's surprise tea time this afternoon. This is not the sentimentality that leads to miserably sticky songs--no, it is the force of joy coupled with the blow of sorrow that such particular sweetness will pass by quickly, that my life also will pass by much more rapidly than I imagine. These things I love so intensely, these things I take also for granted, I must let go of each one. I must let go of every person I love; I must release to them their own lives. So little belongs to me, and so little is mine for very long.
These moments bring me sharply back to gratitude and humility. They remind me of the privilege I have been given. I hold a warm, soft bird in my hands for a minute; the wings extend; it is gone.
To a smaller extent I am also discovering the release that comes with letting go of things. Every thing I rid myself of these days, every item I see depart from my house, I celebrate its going, because its absence opens more space in me. Sometimes I am tempted to rid myself of almost everything, but I am certainly not an ascetic at heart and I love prettiness and I love that my girls are growing up in modest prettiness. There is the loveliness of things but coupled with that is the realization that nothing we own merits any real worth in a monetary sense. Yet I love this beat-up old banker's desk and the ficus tree which speaks spring through the winter and the saris my mother saved from my childhood that now hang in doorways in our house. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to NPR's Tippit's interview about the historical Buddha as I put away and ate more of the piles of peanut butter chocolate-chip cookies we baked this afternoon. I love my new TV that my parents bought me for Christmas and I love watching it. I love Yeungling and I want to relish butterschnapps in hot chocolate.
And tomorrow, I am sure, I will once again pull the covers over my head in a bid for five more minutes in bed, and tomorrow I will inevitably raise my voice and howl over the constant mess in the house. Tonight, though, I have felt loved well. And I have remembered that I too must love well.
A moment of brightness, glimmering only, not overwhelming, as I remade Elspeth's bed with clean sheets, as the girls played in the bath some feet away: I'm singing "All day, all night, Angels watching over me, my Lord. . ." Suddenly I feel comforted, though I had not been asking for comfort or reassurance--I feel as if I am watched over by goodness and love, mercy and tenderness. Even when I do not seek it, even when I forget to know it, it is there, a presence that occasionally surprises me and bids me peace.
This is a secret I have just started to uncover: I do not have to be happy every minute of my life to be content. This year has been intense in its own daily way as I let go of things which I held to and wished for so furiously: my family's proximity, my wish for those I love to be near; my solitude; my writing. At one point recently I finally began to understood: it is okay to feel unhappy sometimes (and goodness knows, with my family, writing, and community, I have very little cause for unhappiness). But it is all right, at moments of frustration and bewilderment, not to feel warm and content and like a well-petted dog safe in her own basket. It is okay to be vulnerable, to be sad sometimes. Before, I fought it, railed against it, desperately searched for things and people to make me happy again. I was not at peace until I had researched my discontent, blamed those responsible, made a bit of a scene, and finally achieved some level of bliss again. I am beginning, just beginning to understand: Joy and peace coexist with discomfort, with frustrated aspirations, discomfort, and with inconvenience.
Also I am beginning to learn the extent of what I must let go. Certain moments, like the silence that fell over the house tonight when the girls were finally in bed and Martin teaching his class, strike me. I recall Elspeth's wet nose against mine after her bath, the way she curved her body toward me and hugged my neck; there is Beatrix's impish, jagged-toothed grin, and Merry's surprise tea time this afternoon. This is not the sentimentality that leads to miserably sticky songs--no, it is the force of joy coupled with the blow of sorrow that such particular sweetness will pass by quickly, that my life also will pass by much more rapidly than I imagine. These things I love so intensely, these things I take also for granted, I must let go of each one. I must let go of every person I love; I must release to them their own lives. So little belongs to me, and so little is mine for very long.
These moments bring me sharply back to gratitude and humility. They remind me of the privilege I have been given. I hold a warm, soft bird in my hands for a minute; the wings extend; it is gone.
To a smaller extent I am also discovering the release that comes with letting go of things. Every thing I rid myself of these days, every item I see depart from my house, I celebrate its going, because its absence opens more space in me. Sometimes I am tempted to rid myself of almost everything, but I am certainly not an ascetic at heart and I love prettiness and I love that my girls are growing up in modest prettiness. There is the loveliness of things but coupled with that is the realization that nothing we own merits any real worth in a monetary sense. Yet I love this beat-up old banker's desk and the ficus tree which speaks spring through the winter and the saris my mother saved from my childhood that now hang in doorways in our house. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to NPR's Tippit's interview about the historical Buddha as I put away and ate more of the piles of peanut butter chocolate-chip cookies we baked this afternoon. I love my new TV that my parents bought me for Christmas and I love watching it. I love Yeungling and I want to relish butterschnapps in hot chocolate.
And tomorrow, I am sure, I will once again pull the covers over my head in a bid for five more minutes in bed, and tomorrow I will inevitably raise my voice and howl over the constant mess in the house. Tonight, though, I have felt loved well. And I have remembered that I too must love well.
Vomit vs. Parmesian
Both have strong odors, but one tastes better than the other. One I ate for lunch and the other Elspeth expelled in the middle of last night. Both, in their freshest form, causes me hard work, but one outcome looks good on noodles and the other. . .
Well, I'll spare you the rest. Despite my regular engagement with world news and literature, I find myself often relfecting on the basic fundamentals--such as the scent of child-vomit. (DELIGHTFUL, old chap.)
There are certain things that I will associate with my children being small, and one of them is the scent, the sight, the epic journey of bodily fluids. It's incredible, actually, how such fluids become acceptable conversation among parents of our acquaintance and at auspicious occasions, say, a holiday or birthday party or a nice dinner. "Say," starts one parent as the others taste the first course, "Did I tell you so and so [fill in bodily function] last night?
"You think that's bad," counters the other, and the discussion is in full swing, each story more wildly disturbing than the other until dessert ends with a wild free-for-all of tossing-cookies and poop and spit-up and goodness knows what, delivered with the same gusto with which single, hip people our age describe an especially challenging hike or sky-dive.
Somehow this is all socially acceptable. It's like a first trip to another country--you end up discussing stomach problems more than world peace or justice or the economy. I suppose it follows, since if the stomach's not right, nothing else is worth thinking of. You can live with a broken heart, after all, or a guilty conscience, but you can only cramp and upchuck so long without begging the Almighty to take you home.
And if there's anything worse than feeling your own stomach heave, it's watching your three-year or nine-month old's stomachs heave. One you can endure in quiet, the other you have simply no control over.
(Did I mention this Christmas, when EVERY single house guest--and there were nine of those and five of us, came down with a horrible stomach virus? We took a wee break to fit in Christmas day and continued on from there).
Luckily this little bug is trifling, and therefore worthy of no real gut-groans, just an irritation in the middle of a snowy, cold, wintry week.
Viva la ginger ale.
Well, I'll spare you the rest. Despite my regular engagement with world news and literature, I find myself often relfecting on the basic fundamentals--such as the scent of child-vomit. (DELIGHTFUL, old chap.)
There are certain things that I will associate with my children being small, and one of them is the scent, the sight, the epic journey of bodily fluids. It's incredible, actually, how such fluids become acceptable conversation among parents of our acquaintance and at auspicious occasions, say, a holiday or birthday party or a nice dinner. "Say," starts one parent as the others taste the first course, "Did I tell you so and so [fill in bodily function] last night?
"You think that's bad," counters the other, and the discussion is in full swing, each story more wildly disturbing than the other until dessert ends with a wild free-for-all of tossing-cookies and poop and spit-up and goodness knows what, delivered with the same gusto with which single, hip people our age describe an especially challenging hike or sky-dive.
Somehow this is all socially acceptable. It's like a first trip to another country--you end up discussing stomach problems more than world peace or justice or the economy. I suppose it follows, since if the stomach's not right, nothing else is worth thinking of. You can live with a broken heart, after all, or a guilty conscience, but you can only cramp and upchuck so long without begging the Almighty to take you home.
And if there's anything worse than feeling your own stomach heave, it's watching your three-year or nine-month old's stomachs heave. One you can endure in quiet, the other you have simply no control over.
(Did I mention this Christmas, when EVERY single house guest--and there were nine of those and five of us, came down with a horrible stomach virus? We took a wee break to fit in Christmas day and continued on from there).
Luckily this little bug is trifling, and therefore worthy of no real gut-groans, just an irritation in the middle of a snowy, cold, wintry week.
Viva la ginger ale.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Snowy Day
This is a picture of Merry and her friend Jenna, created today by Jenna, who is six and pretty as a pixie. Currently she and Merry are in the middle of The Boxcar Children series. Jenna loves making fairy homes outside by special trees. Her favorite color is green.
More snow tomorrow, more sledding, more winter!
More snow tomorrow, more sledding, more winter!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
new digs
Well, the move is complete. My computer is now in my bedroom, and I am having a little trouble initially with the swap. Where is my favorite tree, swinging with winter birds and the lace of summer honeysuckle? The creek foaming at its snowy banks and the slope running down to the woods?
Instead I now see the the lights of cars, flashing by my window, filled with invisible people in the dark.
So I'm mourning my spindly, rag-tag Black Walnut tree as I would a friend or a muse or. . .
But the point is, this is a temporary and welcome solution because now the baby can sleep in peace and I can type in the quiet.
Also, got some good news from the state of Pennsylvania this week: an artist's fellowship in fiction. What does this mean, practically? WRITING. Hurrah!
Elspeth's on a roll this week. An exorcist has been mentioned but I opt for tireless, patient discipline, an unwavering, positive attitude, the inward assurance that I am totally capable of dealing with every lawless act with calm. . .IN MY DREAMS. Mostly we survive, right?--and hope for the best and that sanity will eventually return to us all.
Instead I now see the the lights of cars, flashing by my window, filled with invisible people in the dark.
So I'm mourning my spindly, rag-tag Black Walnut tree as I would a friend or a muse or. . .
But the point is, this is a temporary and welcome solution because now the baby can sleep in peace and I can type in the quiet.
Also, got some good news from the state of Pennsylvania this week: an artist's fellowship in fiction. What does this mean, practically? WRITING. Hurrah!
Elspeth's on a roll this week. An exorcist has been mentioned but I opt for tireless, patient discipline, an unwavering, positive attitude, the inward assurance that I am totally capable of dealing with every lawless act with calm. . .IN MY DREAMS. Mostly we survive, right?--and hope for the best and that sanity will eventually return to us all.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Snow Day
What bliss! Sledding in the company of good people!
The day was perfect: warm, in the 30's, snowing all day, with snow from our horribly cold week underneath. Highlights include Elspeth flying into the forsythia bush and our friend John almost hurling though our tire swing. We capped off the sledding with hot chocolate spiked with Khalua and lots of popcorn.
And of course we made the trek to our friend Sally's house that night for a huge supper-brunch so Martin could witness the Steelers winning their place in the Superbowl.
This has been a rare day, filled from top to bottom with the delight of dear human company.
Thanks to T M for the great pictures, since we are too lazy to dig up our camera.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Knight With Knees Knocking
No, this is not a treatise on the irony of the strong being internally weak.
Actually, Knight With Knees Knocking is a bit character in the children's story I just rewrote--five hundred times. Or almost that many. Martin continues to be a harsh, unfeeling, cold critic--and a very, very welcome one.
No, the deep thoughts I was pursuing as I dumped ingredients for pizza dough just now (besides the one where I struggled with myself briefly before deciding I should indeed eat the rest of the loaf of chocolate-banana bread completely by myself and with complete impunity) were as follows:
1. I'd like to write poetry again.
2. Ooh, that flour looks GOOD in that glass jar with a lid and a scoop. Ow, Baby.
3. I want to eat peanut butter cookies.
4. Maybe I should read a good book while the kids nap.
5. I am possibly a socialist at heart.
6. My head hurts.
7. Cup of tea! Cup of tea!
8. Lead is not good for children.
9. I am not a homeschooler (even though I. . .technically. . .am).
10. Absolutely. I will eat the rest of the banana bread.
How did I improve the world with these thoughts? How did I act on my inner life?
Here I am writing piffle. I have finished a bowl of banana bread slices. I have drunk a cup of tea in vigorous, hurried swallows as though someone will take my sustenance from me if I do not down said victuals in a hurry.
What makes your knees knock, people?
Me, I get those caps clattering when I:
a. Swallow my coffee while it's still super, just pressed, just poured, hot.
b. See Martin clean any part of the house of his own volition.
c. Smell homemade bread baking.
d. Finish writing a letter and affix the stamp.
e. Bury my nose in the neck of one of my just-washed daughters.
f. Fall asleep on the couch without any worries about who will wake up and need me.
g. Shut the door of my office. . .ALONE.
h. Crunch a waffle.
i. Hear good guitar music. (Music is a tricky thing, since everything from Mariah Carey to showtunes have knocked my knees before I acquired what Martin says, nasally, is TASTE.)
j. Find myself in the middle of a really good book--(I have read enough to be thoroughly engaged and lose myself, but I am not mourning the end of the book yet.)
k. Feel the warming earth blow through my open kitchen window in the spring--a warmth accompanied by the popping of onions in a hot pan.
l. Finish writing anything that has surprised me.
Well, I'll spare you the rest. I had a fleeting vision of going through the alphabet but considering I'm only doing super lazy writing at best, I'll stop and let you all contribute. What floats your boat? Rings your bell? Buzzes your buzzy things? Pings your palate? Rumbles your belly? Gurbles your gonads?
Actually, Knight With Knees Knocking is a bit character in the children's story I just rewrote--five hundred times. Or almost that many. Martin continues to be a harsh, unfeeling, cold critic--and a very, very welcome one.
No, the deep thoughts I was pursuing as I dumped ingredients for pizza dough just now (besides the one where I struggled with myself briefly before deciding I should indeed eat the rest of the loaf of chocolate-banana bread completely by myself and with complete impunity) were as follows:
1. I'd like to write poetry again.
2. Ooh, that flour looks GOOD in that glass jar with a lid and a scoop. Ow, Baby.
3. I want to eat peanut butter cookies.
4. Maybe I should read a good book while the kids nap.
5. I am possibly a socialist at heart.
6. My head hurts.
7. Cup of tea! Cup of tea!
8. Lead is not good for children.
9. I am not a homeschooler (even though I. . .technically. . .am).
10. Absolutely. I will eat the rest of the banana bread.
How did I improve the world with these thoughts? How did I act on my inner life?
Here I am writing piffle. I have finished a bowl of banana bread slices. I have drunk a cup of tea in vigorous, hurried swallows as though someone will take my sustenance from me if I do not down said victuals in a hurry.
What makes your knees knock, people?
Me, I get those caps clattering when I:
a. Swallow my coffee while it's still super, just pressed, just poured, hot.
b. See Martin clean any part of the house of his own volition.
c. Smell homemade bread baking.
d. Finish writing a letter and affix the stamp.
e. Bury my nose in the neck of one of my just-washed daughters.
f. Fall asleep on the couch without any worries about who will wake up and need me.
g. Shut the door of my office. . .ALONE.
h. Crunch a waffle.
i. Hear good guitar music. (Music is a tricky thing, since everything from Mariah Carey to showtunes have knocked my knees before I acquired what Martin says, nasally, is TASTE.)
j. Find myself in the middle of a really good book--(I have read enough to be thoroughly engaged and lose myself, but I am not mourning the end of the book yet.)
k. Feel the warming earth blow through my open kitchen window in the spring--a warmth accompanied by the popping of onions in a hot pan.
l. Finish writing anything that has surprised me.
Well, I'll spare you the rest. I had a fleeting vision of going through the alphabet but considering I'm only doing super lazy writing at best, I'll stop and let you all contribute. What floats your boat? Rings your bell? Buzzes your buzzy things? Pings your palate? Rumbles your belly? Gurbles your gonads?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
two minutes
No time for writing! Arg! The few minutes I could possibly steal are now gone, thanks to the fact that the baby has taken over my office for sleeping. A room reconfiguration is in the works, folks. . .
Well, here's a little song Merry was singing this morning at the end of breakfast:
--Praise Bird from whom all blessings flow. . .
Praise Bird all creatures here below. . .
--That's a strange song, I said.
--That's the song the birds sing, she replied, The birds think God is a bird.
So there you have it.
*
Yesterday (after a conversation in which Elspeth assumed we were "keeping" the little boy baby we were taking care of--We can't keep him?--she demanded), Elspeth offered me some invisible medicine for an invisible burn I received for the invisible food I had accepted from her hands.
--That's good medicine, I told her.
--Thanks. My mommy made it.
--Wow. What's it made out of?
--Squirrel.
This conversation should not have surprised me so much--there is a squirrel hunting season here (Elspeth is assimilating?) and I had just told her what sushi (or shushi as she says) is made from, to which she replied, YUCK.
*
Last night when we checked on the girls at 11:30 or so we found them snuggled together in one bed. This is true companionship especially considering Elspeth peed out at about three in the morning.
*
Last night we celebrated Elspeth's stunning accomplishments by throwing a Potty Party. Merry baked a cake from her own recipe and it was absolutely delicious--a carrot cake that will become standard in our house, I think. I'll post the recipe once we try it again.
*
Since Elspeth is hanging on me while I type, I'd better sign off. Oh sigh. I love parenthood. Martin came home from work yesterday full of being back and said, "Silence! I had forgotten the silence of my office!" Me, I had to deal with the curmudgeonly jealousy that threatened to whack me over the head. Silence? Office?
Ah, there will be a time.
I just heard a cry from the first floor: BEATRIX! YOU'RE WALKING!
Hmm.
Well, here's a little song Merry was singing this morning at the end of breakfast:
--Praise Bird from whom all blessings flow. . .
Praise Bird all creatures here below. . .
--That's a strange song, I said.
--That's the song the birds sing, she replied, The birds think God is a bird.
So there you have it.
*
Yesterday (after a conversation in which Elspeth assumed we were "keeping" the little boy baby we were taking care of--We can't keep him?--she demanded), Elspeth offered me some invisible medicine for an invisible burn I received for the invisible food I had accepted from her hands.
--That's good medicine, I told her.
--Thanks. My mommy made it.
--Wow. What's it made out of?
--Squirrel.
This conversation should not have surprised me so much--there is a squirrel hunting season here (Elspeth is assimilating?) and I had just told her what sushi (or shushi as she says) is made from, to which she replied, YUCK.
*
Last night when we checked on the girls at 11:30 or so we found them snuggled together in one bed. This is true companionship especially considering Elspeth peed out at about three in the morning.
*
Last night we celebrated Elspeth's stunning accomplishments by throwing a Potty Party. Merry baked a cake from her own recipe and it was absolutely delicious--a carrot cake that will become standard in our house, I think. I'll post the recipe once we try it again.
*
Since Elspeth is hanging on me while I type, I'd better sign off. Oh sigh. I love parenthood. Martin came home from work yesterday full of being back and said, "Silence! I had forgotten the silence of my office!" Me, I had to deal with the curmudgeonly jealousy that threatened to whack me over the head. Silence? Office?
Ah, there will be a time.
I just heard a cry from the first floor: BEATRIX! YOU'RE WALKING!
Hmm.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
minute
elspeth poured out all the sugar on the kitchen floor. i heard her wails and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. martin is below.
also today i walked into the sunroom to find elspeth had peed in exactly the same spot on the playroom rug as yesterday, and beatrix was again unloading the potted ficus tree in exactly the same spot as yesterday at exactly the same time elsepth was peeing AGAIN in the same spot as yesterday.
fun stuff.
also today i walked into the sunroom to find elspeth had peed in exactly the same spot on the playroom rug as yesterday, and beatrix was again unloading the potted ficus tree in exactly the same spot as yesterday at exactly the same time elsepth was peeing AGAIN in the same spot as yesterday.
fun stuff.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Winter Doings
There are many, many winter doings to record, but it's late--almost one this morning--and I want to be a busy one tomorrow, mailing out packages and baking. I hope to finally finish my decorating tomorrow, too.
I've been struck this year at how Christmas is such a poignant time for many people--a hard time to be away from family, those who are absent for a short while and those who are gone for a long, long time. To those who suffer in this season, I bid you peace and hope you find unexpected joy.
My heart feels full of the many good people I love and who love me in return. Soon Martin and I will celebrate ten years of marriage, and soon we will mark Merry's 7th and Elspeth's third birthday. This season is so packed with celebrations that it is tricky to engage fully in each one, but I mean to try.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Advent
Outside my office window the rain beads on the bare red branches of the stripped black walnut. I suppose this is how my soul should be, this time of advent--still, waiting. But it is not. My soul feels more like a decked-out tinsel tree, laden with blinking colored lights, at times giddy and at time irritated by the tickling of fake snowflakes.
It is December 11th. Just around the corner are the girls' birthdays, our anniversary, Christmas, and a house full of family. There is so much to look forward to, and my mind feels fragmented and busy.
Advent is all about waiting, for preparing ourselves for the baby who changed the world and who changes us daily. Waiting for babies at advent is my specialty, and an experience that brings me closer to understanding Mary's waiting. As our pregnant pastor reflected last Sunday, and as I have often thought, being pregnant is a perfect metaphor for the advent season. At those times of waiting for Merry and Elspeth, I felt filled with life, life that spoke to me in secret ways as I went about daily tasks. I sat quietly as others talked, and the baby would rise to meet my hands. But that life was cloaked in secrets. I could not rush the opening of my gift; I had to wait, sometimes in great discomfort, sometimes overwhelmed by the enchantment of my baby's dancing. This baby, separate from me but inside of me, this new gift for the world and for myself, would be born through the paradox of pain and hope. All I had to do was wait.
But waiting is not very easy. For me, waiting makes me want to fill my life with busyness before an event arrives. I want to be so busy that I do not have time to be impatient. I want to occupy myself with lesser joys so that I do not have a moment to feel sorry that the greater joy is not yet upon me. But that destroys the magic of waiting, the silence that should enfold us, the solitude where we prepare ourselves for Coming.
This solitude is hard to find these days. As I write, Elspeth is up AGAIN from her nap and she scoots around the floor with the baby. I am just waiting for Merry's wail, where she informs me that Elspeth is UP and she is IN BED. I envy the tree outside my window. There are no squirrels or birds or two-year olds hanging on its branches.
But advent is also about seasons, and about accepting, with joy, the season that you and I have been given. Is my life crazzzzzzzy? Then I accept it with joy (this said sometimes through clenched teeth). Some day my life will be different, and I will struggle to accept that change with joy as well. I know myself all too well--always jumping to the next stage in my mind, assuring myself that tomorrow will be more exciting, more peaceful, more something or other.
Little baby, little child, I wait for you. Help me to wait well.
It is December 11th. Just around the corner are the girls' birthdays, our anniversary, Christmas, and a house full of family. There is so much to look forward to, and my mind feels fragmented and busy.
Advent is all about waiting, for preparing ourselves for the baby who changed the world and who changes us daily. Waiting for babies at advent is my specialty, and an experience that brings me closer to understanding Mary's waiting. As our pregnant pastor reflected last Sunday, and as I have often thought, being pregnant is a perfect metaphor for the advent season. At those times of waiting for Merry and Elspeth, I felt filled with life, life that spoke to me in secret ways as I went about daily tasks. I sat quietly as others talked, and the baby would rise to meet my hands. But that life was cloaked in secrets. I could not rush the opening of my gift; I had to wait, sometimes in great discomfort, sometimes overwhelmed by the enchantment of my baby's dancing. This baby, separate from me but inside of me, this new gift for the world and for myself, would be born through the paradox of pain and hope. All I had to do was wait.
But waiting is not very easy. For me, waiting makes me want to fill my life with busyness before an event arrives. I want to be so busy that I do not have time to be impatient. I want to occupy myself with lesser joys so that I do not have a moment to feel sorry that the greater joy is not yet upon me. But that destroys the magic of waiting, the silence that should enfold us, the solitude where we prepare ourselves for Coming.
This solitude is hard to find these days. As I write, Elspeth is up AGAIN from her nap and she scoots around the floor with the baby. I am just waiting for Merry's wail, where she informs me that Elspeth is UP and she is IN BED. I envy the tree outside my window. There are no squirrels or birds or two-year olds hanging on its branches.
But advent is also about seasons, and about accepting, with joy, the season that you and I have been given. Is my life crazzzzzzzy? Then I accept it with joy (this said sometimes through clenched teeth). Some day my life will be different, and I will struggle to accept that change with joy as well. I know myself all too well--always jumping to the next stage in my mind, assuring myself that tomorrow will be more exciting, more peaceful, more something or other.
Little baby, little child, I wait for you. Help me to wait well.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Solitude and Crazy Life
So I'm reading an entry on this great blog, Kicking the Gourd, and suddenly I find myself writing a paragraph or two on the comments. And suddenly I realized I haven't really written in a long time. Also, this comment turned into one directed back at me, with big letters: GO AND WRITE. Seriously, I lose so much time just messing around. By the time the girls are fed and in bed and the house has been saved once again from falling to the ground in a heap of cobwebs and dust, I just can't summon the energy to do anything but peruse some magazine or stare open-mouthed into the TV screen. So R.P., I would add that my life is imbalanced, too. Do I lack the commitment, the sisu, the devotion? Is it enough some days to survive, engaging all day with three sweet faces and congratulating myself that all five of us are still alive at the end of the day?
So with apologies to R.P. from K the Gourd, and with assurances that this comment was really for you, well, here it is:
i have a slightly different perspective on the "giving to people" thing than you. that is because i am in the midst of a crazy parenting phase in my life--three girls, one who just learned how to crawl--and I have to tell myself that it is okay to stop and do something else once and a while besides giving to other human beings. nobody gives perfectly, that's inarguable, and giving to another is a choice whether the motivations begin or follow the act. so i'm thinking, reading your blog, that life is all about balance. a life lived entirely in art and not in true community with humans is empty, no doubt. however, a life lived in constant, active giving to others can also be one of selfishness (to every sacrificial act, an ugly, self-congratulatory underbelly can be present).
i guess i'm thinking this way: i have to be fed by solitude, by communing with god through writing, silence, reading--i need to be filled if i am to be spilled out for someone else. on the other hand, being with people, actively serving and bungling through real life with my hands dirty makes me a much better, much more humble writer.
there is no dichotomy. the two work together, feed and eat one another. jesus' life shows us this. solitude, people. people, solitude. we desperately need both. take this perspective from someone on the "other end" of your spectrum: no time to write, exhausted by people. there are seasons to life, and each season demands that we back up, eye the scales, and balance again.
So with apologies to R.P. from K the Gourd, and with assurances that this comment was really for you, well, here it is:
i have a slightly different perspective on the "giving to people" thing than you. that is because i am in the midst of a crazy parenting phase in my life--three girls, one who just learned how to crawl--and I have to tell myself that it is okay to stop and do something else once and a while besides giving to other human beings. nobody gives perfectly, that's inarguable, and giving to another is a choice whether the motivations begin or follow the act. so i'm thinking, reading your blog, that life is all about balance. a life lived entirely in art and not in true community with humans is empty, no doubt. however, a life lived in constant, active giving to others can also be one of selfishness (to every sacrificial act, an ugly, self-congratulatory underbelly can be present).
i guess i'm thinking this way: i have to be fed by solitude, by communing with god through writing, silence, reading--i need to be filled if i am to be spilled out for someone else. on the other hand, being with people, actively serving and bungling through real life with my hands dirty makes me a much better, much more humble writer.
there is no dichotomy. the two work together, feed and eat one another. jesus' life shows us this. solitude, people. people, solitude. we desperately need both. take this perspective from someone on the "other end" of your spectrum: no time to write, exhausted by people. there are seasons to life, and each season demands that we back up, eye the scales, and balance again.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Giving Thanks
For friends (nineteen of us in our house this year, including my brother!),
For girls all three,
For warm applesauce fresh and local,
(Merry with our friend and pastor Carrie & inutero boy 2),
For this crawling, dimpled baby,
For snow,
For mischevious middle child,
For saucy gourds and pumpkins,
For candlelight,
For sleep
sleep
sleep and holidays.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
