Kate over at The Tate School posted a link to Randi's idea about yesterday being Get Real Day. I've wanted to do this for a while, ever since Allison over at Geronimo got the mistaken impression that I have it all together.
The truth is, my life is neither all-together nor falling apart. As my husband says, it kind of goes in waves. Our house will be very, very tidy and organized, and then it will be very messy and out-of-control.
This past weekend, we were working on celebrations and making memories. Special dinner, special dessert, volleyball, bowling, choir practice, piano lessons, working on speeches for competitions, taking time to visit with friends, algebra class, thrift store shopping, Spring term planning, taking an evening out to watch a mediocre movie and eat CiCi's garlic bread, going to church, reading aloud, doing schoolwork, etc, and that hasn't left much time for cleaning. This will be perfectly clear to you when you look at the pictures. Delight, my friends, in Thicket Dweller's inadequacy. And I didn't even show you the basement or the litter boxes or the chicken poop on the porch.
I'll be honest with you. I didn't really realize how messy it was until I started taking pictures! I've just been caught up in the busyness of everything. And when your house smells like milk chocolate cheesecake, it kinda gives you the impression that you simply MUST be Betty Crocker. But now, I see the light. And the laundry.
So, tomorrow, as part of preparing for our special lunch guest, T.M., we'll be arising early to CLEAN the house and GET THE LAUNDRY DONE. And, just to make me feel better, I'll post pictures of my CLEAN house. Which one is the real me...the one with the clean house, or the one with the messy one? Depends on which day you drop by.
But there will still be chicken poop on the porch. That's just reality. Deal with it.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Bunnies!
I blinked my eyes and tried to focus on the blob that was standing at the foot of my bed. It seemed to be making some kind of noise. Talking, I think. I squeezed my eyelids together tightly and then opened them again. Ah, it was Monet, my second-born-son. And he was very excited.
"The rabbits had babies! And they're all okay! They had nine! Or ten! We can't tell, but they're all okay!"
Okay. This was starting to make sense. Yesterday, when Monet had gone to do his chores, which include taking care of the rabbits, he had found three frozen kits in the nest box of our outdoor cage. About a month ago, the indoor rabbits had given birth but had...ahem...eaten the babies.
So I ambled downstairs after my trip to the potty and peered into the tank that holds our three indoor rabbits. There they were, a mass of tangled bunny legs and ears and bodies, tucked cozily into a nest of hay, bedding and fur. The mama rabbits had done their jobs and all of the babies looked squirmy and happy.
I counted them all--the black ones, the white ones, the grey ones and the spotted ones--and there were fifteen. Fifteen! After checking the mamas, I confirmed my suspicions. Both mamas had their babies at the same time, creating a mound of warm, wiggly kits.
As long as the mamas nurse the babies--and they definitely are lactating--we'll have fifteen healthy bunnies in no time. Then Sweetheart and Monet will be able to take them to market and earn a bit of money for all of their hard daily work of feeding and watering the rabbits.
Sweetheart, of course, is already lobbying to keep them. All.
"The rabbits had babies! And they're all okay! They had nine! Or ten! We can't tell, but they're all okay!"
Okay. This was starting to make sense. Yesterday, when Monet had gone to do his chores, which include taking care of the rabbits, he had found three frozen kits in the nest box of our outdoor cage. About a month ago, the indoor rabbits had given birth but had...ahem...eaten the babies.
So I ambled downstairs after my trip to the potty and peered into the tank that holds our three indoor rabbits. There they were, a mass of tangled bunny legs and ears and bodies, tucked cozily into a nest of hay, bedding and fur. The mama rabbits had done their jobs and all of the babies looked squirmy and happy.
I counted them all--the black ones, the white ones, the grey ones and the spotted ones--and there were fifteen. Fifteen! After checking the mamas, I confirmed my suspicions. Both mamas had their babies at the same time, creating a mound of warm, wiggly kits.
As long as the mamas nurse the babies--and they definitely are lactating--we'll have fifteen healthy bunnies in no time. Then Sweetheart and Monet will be able to take them to market and earn a bit of money for all of their hard daily work of feeding and watering the rabbits.
Sweetheart, of course, is already lobbying to keep them. All.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Happy Birthday, Bo!
The dirty dishes are still on the table.Stealing a moment to write is the only way I can get it done, so now, after dinner, while people are busy digesting their food, I'll steal this moment to write about Bo's birthday dinner.
My husband, Bo, is my very best friend in all of this world. I don't know how God chose to bless me with such a wonderful man, but He did. I don't know how God chose to challenge Bo with a woman like me, but He did.
I have known Bo for twenty-two of his thirty-nine years. We've been married for sixteen of those years. I keep waiting for the day when he realizes what a mistake he made when he married me. I keep expecting him to look at me one day, with his head cocked inquiringly to one side, and say, "Wait a minute. Is *this* the kind of person you *really* are? How could I have been so blind?" (or "bling," if I hadn't corrected my typo).
But he hasn't. He has stood by me, stuck up for me, encouraged me, taught me, corrected me, advised me, listened to me whine, celebrated with me, argued with me, made up with me, cared for me, sought me out, desired me, and loved me. I can't, truly, imagine life without him.
So, today, for his birthday, I do one of the things I actually know how to do somewhat well. I cooked for him. And he helped!
He had requested barbecued chicken, asparagus, cheesy potatoes and cheesecake. I added a bit of pasta with alfredo sauce. And while we were out on Saturday morning, he picked up a salmon steak and a tuna steak to throw on the grill, too.
After church, we started the grill and put the chicken on to cook. This recipe takes about two and a half hours, beginning with a spice rub and ending with a homemade Memphis-style barbecue sauce, with apple-juice basting in-between.
I wanted to take a photo of the dinner once it was on the cloth-covered table, but I didn't because I was too lazy to go downstairs and get the camera. After the meal was all over, I wish I'd have taken the time so that I could take an "after" picture. The white tablecloth was smeared with barbecue-sauce, bones lying about, delightfully dirty dishes scattered here and there. It's the dirty dishes that remind us how much our food is appreciated.
So, now, while the dishes await, I wallow in the afterglow of a fine family meal and begin to plan tomorrow's piece de resistance...the Milk Chocolate Cheesecake with Oreo Crust and Fresh Strawberries.
Happy Birthday, my dear man. I love you more than my earthly soul can express.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Speed Post!
In which I quickly recap the things that we did today so that I don't forget, because I officially have "can't remember stuff" syndrome.
Since Monday is Bo's THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY, we went out shopping for goodies for birthday dinner. Bard had choir this morning, so we were up by 6:30 (quite a feat for this Bohemian family) and out the door by 8:00. It takes about an hour to get to Bard's choir practice, so there's lots of nice talking time along the way. It helps that the radio in the car is broken.
While we were on our way to choir, Houdin was with Linda and Em helping to assemble 600 pizzas to sell as a fundraiser for our Speech and Debate Club. After the assembling was completed, Linda took Houdin and Em on a route to sell the pizzas door-to-door. The idea of doing that makes me break out in hives. I can't can't CAN'T ask people for money without sweating large droplets of life.
While Houdin was selling pizzas and Bard was singing, Bo and I were shopping. We went to a hoity-toity health-food store that I used to shop back before I owed my life to the bank. Honestly, I think I could live on hummus. But Bo had other ideas. After all, it was his birthday dinner! He chose a tuna steak and a salmon steak for the grill. I chose Stonyfield Farms French Vanilla yogurt, the whole milk kind with the cream on the top, to go with the granola that I'm going to make using PeacefulLady's recipe.
When we arrived home, we put the groceries away and then I headed out to pick Houdin up from his pizza selling venture. He and Em had sold almost 60 pizzas! Another family had a dozen left, so I joined Linda, Houdin and Em and we finished the route and sold the rest of the pizzas. One young man reported that he sold thirteen pizzas at one door and another girl was excited to share that she received a $38 tip on a $12 pizza.
We came home and at, what else? Pizza! But tomorrow, it's tuna steak and barbecued chicken with cheesy potatoes, asparagus and cheesecake. YUM!
And thus ends my speed post. :-)
Since Monday is Bo's THIRTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY, we went out shopping for goodies for birthday dinner. Bard had choir this morning, so we were up by 6:30 (quite a feat for this Bohemian family) and out the door by 8:00. It takes about an hour to get to Bard's choir practice, so there's lots of nice talking time along the way. It helps that the radio in the car is broken.
While we were on our way to choir, Houdin was with Linda and Em helping to assemble 600 pizzas to sell as a fundraiser for our Speech and Debate Club. After the assembling was completed, Linda took Houdin and Em on a route to sell the pizzas door-to-door. The idea of doing that makes me break out in hives. I can't can't CAN'T ask people for money without sweating large droplets of life.
While Houdin was selling pizzas and Bard was singing, Bo and I were shopping. We went to a hoity-toity health-food store that I used to shop back before I owed my life to the bank. Honestly, I think I could live on hummus. But Bo had other ideas. After all, it was his birthday dinner! He chose a tuna steak and a salmon steak for the grill. I chose Stonyfield Farms French Vanilla yogurt, the whole milk kind with the cream on the top, to go with the granola that I'm going to make using PeacefulLady's recipe.
When we arrived home, we put the groceries away and then I headed out to pick Houdin up from his pizza selling venture. He and Em had sold almost 60 pizzas! Another family had a dozen left, so I joined Linda, Houdin and Em and we finished the route and sold the rest of the pizzas. One young man reported that he sold thirteen pizzas at one door and another girl was excited to share that she received a $38 tip on a $12 pizza.
We came home and at, what else? Pizza! But tomorrow, it's tuna steak and barbecued chicken with cheesy potatoes, asparagus and cheesecake. YUM!
And thus ends my speed post. :-)
Friday, February 24, 2006
Say it with me. "Volleyball is FUN!"
Tell me, why is it that when a child admits that she actually enjoyed something that she insisted she wouldn't like but her mother said she would, like, say...oh, I dunno...volleyball, for instance, and the mother says, "Aha," the child replies with, "You know what? I'm never going to tell you that I like something again."Why is it that the child doesn't say, "You know, Mother dear, you were so very correct in your assessment and I do believe that from here to eternity, I will trust your wise, insightful judgement and will never again insist that said activity will be no fun, lame, and, basically, right out"? Why is that, exactly?
Does anyone know?
Wunnerful, wunnerful, wunnerful
Today is a gloriously lazy day. I have barely had to yell at a single soul. Each of my children did their morning chores, though they did get up quite a bit later than morning. Because I was awoke at 3:00 this blessed A.M., I fell asleep when The Baby came to visit this morning. She nursed until I zonked out--zonked means sleep--and I awoke to the ring of the phone. It was my dear artist friend Fred who has been way mobie sick for a while. Respiratory infection. It went through his whole family, except for his wife, he said. Nasty. "Maybe it's Osama," he said. I laughed, but I told him that I have another dear friend, Ralph the dairy farmer, who really believes this. "Well, when everyone's getting something like this, you have to wonder," Fred replied.
About halfway through my conversation, the natives became restless. Monet bounded into my room excitedly announcing that he'd done all of his chores and he wanted to make pancakes. Certainly, I said. I'd like to say it all went well after that, but apparently he decided to try a recipe from the Little House cookbook since we've been listening to On the Banks of Plum Creek. He didn't have whole wheat flour, and he didn't have buttermilk, so he decided he'd just leave them out. Fortunately, his big brother Houdin came to the rescue. Unfortunately, Houdin then felt that he was deserving of the opportunity to griddle a batch of the pancakes in exchange for saving their lives, but Monet very strongly disagreed. The amazing things my kids fight about...
After another lovely conversation with Linda, a new friend of mine, I changed out of my pajamas (at 3:30 in the afternoon--SINFUL!) and drove over to pick up the schoolteacher of the local Amish schoolhouse. She lives near the schoolhouse during the weekdays and I taxi her back home on Friday night. The day was just gorgeous, and as I approached her house, I could see that all of the maples, for as far as I could see, were hosting dangling white buckets. Sugaring time. Driving by, I could see that most of the five-gallon buckets were about a quarter full of clear sap.
"How much sap do you get?" I asked her.
"Between 50 and 150 gallons, depending on the season." That, boiled down, amounts to about 1-4 gallons of syrup and a LOT of hard work.
Once home, I made dinner. Whole wheat spaghetti with Newman's Own sauce and hamburger, whole grain bread, and peas.
When Bo gets home (he's running late tonight), we'll head out to the homeschool group's volleyball night. I hope I can keep my spaghetti down.
It's a good thing there are wunnerful days like this to make up for the ones that really stink.
About halfway through my conversation, the natives became restless. Monet bounded into my room excitedly announcing that he'd done all of his chores and he wanted to make pancakes. Certainly, I said. I'd like to say it all went well after that, but apparently he decided to try a recipe from the Little House cookbook since we've been listening to On the Banks of Plum Creek. He didn't have whole wheat flour, and he didn't have buttermilk, so he decided he'd just leave them out. Fortunately, his big brother Houdin came to the rescue. Unfortunately, Houdin then felt that he was deserving of the opportunity to griddle a batch of the pancakes in exchange for saving their lives, but Monet very strongly disagreed. The amazing things my kids fight about...
After another lovely conversation with Linda, a new friend of mine, I changed out of my pajamas (at 3:30 in the afternoon--SINFUL!) and drove over to pick up the schoolteacher of the local Amish schoolhouse. She lives near the schoolhouse during the weekdays and I taxi her back home on Friday night. The day was just gorgeous, and as I approached her house, I could see that all of the maples, for as far as I could see, were hosting dangling white buckets. Sugaring time. Driving by, I could see that most of the five-gallon buckets were about a quarter full of clear sap.
"How much sap do you get?" I asked her.
"Between 50 and 150 gallons, depending on the season." That, boiled down, amounts to about 1-4 gallons of syrup and a LOT of hard work.
Once home, I made dinner. Whole wheat spaghetti with Newman's Own sauce and hamburger, whole grain bread, and peas.
When Bo gets home (he's running late tonight), we'll head out to the homeschool group's volleyball night. I hope I can keep my spaghetti down.
It's a good thing there are wunnerful days like this to make up for the ones that really stink.
Hot Buttered Pretzels!
Randi, the "cheekymama" from I Have to Say, shared a recipe for pretzels. that her daughter has been making to treat her family. I promised to share my favorite pretzel recipe, which I found on the King Arthur Flour website. If you're a baker and you haven't tried King Arthur Flour, do yourself a favor and give it a shot.Hot Buttered Pretzels
INTRO
Pretzels are available crisp and hard from your grocery or, if you're lucky and in the right place, soft and chewy from street vendors. Our recipe is for the soft, chewy kind.
INGREDIENTS
Dough
2 1/2 cups King Arthur Unbleached All-Purpose Flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
2 1/4 teaspoons regular instant yeast
7/8 to 1 cup warm water*
*Use the greater amount in the winter, the lesser amount in the summer, and somewhere in between in the spring and fall. Your goal is a soft dough.
Topping
1/2 cup warm water
2 tablespoons baking soda
coarse, kosher or pretzel salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
INSTRUCTIONS
Food Processor Method: Place the flour, salt, sugar and yeast in the work bowl of a food processor equipped with the steel blade. Process for 5 seconds. Add the water, and process for 7 to 10 seconds, until the dough starts to clear the sides of the bowl. Process a further 45 seconds. Place a handful of flour in a bowl, scoop the slack dough into the bowl, and shape the dough into a ball, coating it with the flour. Transfer the dough to a plastic bag, close the bag loosely, leaving room for the dough to expand, and let it rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
Bread Machine Method: Place all of the dough ingredients into the pan of your bread machine, program the machine for Dough or Manual, and press Start. Allow the dough to proceed through its two kneading cycles, then cancel the machine, flour the dough, and give it a rest in a plastic bag, as instructed above.
Manual/Mixer Method: Place all of the dough ingredients into a bowl, and beat till well-combined. Knead the dough, by hand or machine, for about 5 minutes, till it's soft, smooth, and quite slack. Flour the dough and place it in a bag, and allow it to rest for 30 minutes.
Preheat your oven to 500°F. Prepare two baking sheets by spraying them with vegetable oil spray, or lining them with parchment paper.
Transfer the dough to a lightly greased work surface, and divide it into eight equal pieces (about 70g, or 2 1/2 ounces, each). Allow the pieces to rest, uncovered, for 5 minutes. While the dough is resting, combine the 1/2 cup warm water and the baking soda, and place it in a shallow bowl. Make sure the baking soda is thoroughly dissolved; if it isn't, it'll make your pretzels splotchy.
Roll each piece of dough into a long, thin rope (about 28 to 30 inches long), and twist each rope into a pretzel, as illustrated. Dip each pretzel in the baking soda wash (this will give the pretzels a nice, golden-brown color), and place them on the baking sheets. Sprinkle them lightly with coarse, kosher, or pretzel salt. Allow them to rest, uncovered, for 10 minutes.
Bake the pretzels for 8 to 9 minutes, or until they're golden brown, reversing the baking sheets halfway through.
Remove the pretzels from the oven, and brush them thoroughly with the melted butter. Keep brushing the butter on until you've used it all up; it may seem like a lot, but that's what gives these pretzels their ethereal taste. Eat the pretzels warm, or reheat them in an oven or microwave. Yield: 8 pretzels.
NUTRITION
Nutrition information per serving (1 pretzel, 85g): 171 cal, 4.7g fat, 4g protein, 27g complex carbohydrates, 1g sugar, 1g dietary fiber, 12mg cholesterol, 444mg sodium, 63mg potassium, 43RE vitamin A, 2mg iron, 66mg calcium, 44mg phosphorus.
© 1998-2006 The King Arthur Flour Company, Inc. Norwich, Vermont • 800-827-6836
The Importance of Being Earnest
Sometimes I find that I don't blog, not because I have nothing to say, but because I have too much and can't seem to narrow it down. Today is such a day, but I'm choosing to blog instead of just letting all this good stuff wander away from me.Since it's actually 3:30 in the morning right now, I should really say that yesterday is the topic of my entry today.
Why am I awake at 3:30? I just don't know. Other than a niggling cough, probably from my sinuses, I don't know why I can't find sleep right now.
So, for the past hour, I've been wandering around the house, trying to figure out what to do. I don't feel like reading. I don't usually raid the refrigerator at night. I definitely don't want to clean. I sat for a while and looked at the stars and thought about Bo's upcoming birthday (he'll be 39 on Monday) and wondered about what he might like to do. Dinner out? Dinner with friends? Dinner at home with the family? A movie? Roller skating? There's a ballroom dance on Saturday. We've never been ballroom dancing. Maybe that?
My thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday, and I started thinking about all of the interesting things that have been happening in my life that I haven't blogged about, simply because they don't fit into a neat little theme. Within the past two months, I've found myself on the path to some of the best friendships I've ever had, met some of the kindest, friendliest people I've ever met, and found that certain things in my life that have been up-in-the-air have been falling into place. But I haven't blogged about them. I only wish I could tell you why.
I think part of it is The Importance of Being Earnest.
If you're not familiar with the play written by Oscar Wilde in the late 1800s, I'll tell you a bit about it.
See, Jack was given charge of a young woman, Cecely, and it was up to him to be her responsible caretaker. Unfortunately, all work and no play made Jack feel like a dull boy. In order to have a bit of fun without spoiling his reputation and negatively influencing his young charge, he adopted and alter-ego--Ernest.
While Jack was in the country, he was Jack. But while Jack was in the city, he was Ernest.
This was all well-and good until he was found out by his city friend, Algernon.
What Jack found, which is what most people find who develop an alter-ego, is that, eventually, the two converge. The world becomes smaller. It becomes impossible to keep the lives separate. All of his comings and goings are brought to light after his city friend, Algernon, discovers "Ernest's" address in the country via evesdropping and decides to pay his friend Jack a visit as that scoundrel, Ernest.Algernon. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.
Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?
Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country...Now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]
Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.
Algernon. Where is that place in the country, by the way?
Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited... I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.
Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?
Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.
Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!
Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.
Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.
Jack. What on earth do you mean?
Algernon. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.
I guess you could say that this blog is my Algernon, the thing that ties all of my Jacks and Ernests together.
It's not that I'm trying to hide anything from anyone. Not intentionally, anyway. But what I find more and more is that I, like most other people, compartmentalize myself according to who I'm with at the time--partly for the reason that I have certain things in common with some people and other certain things in common with others. If I'm with my Christian friends and acquaintances, I feel free to discuss Christian things, like the spiritual meaning of The Chronicles of Narnia and my history of listening to Christian music and the good things that the Lord has done for me, but not to discuss worldly things. When I'm with my non-Christian friends, I feel free to discuss the latest Harry Potter book, or the latest independent film I saw. Of course, there are also the rare friends with whom I can discuss all of these things--these are my Christian friends who share my love of books, movies and music as well as my love of God. Being with these friends is, indeed, refreshing.
This happens in other social circles as well. Family vs friends. Friends vs neighbors. Homeschooling friends vs non-homeschooling friends. Unschooling friends vs school-at-home friends. Environmentally-conscious friends vs non. Pro-life friends (and here, I mean pro-life across the board) vs non. Readers and autodidacts vs non. Folk music lovers vs non. And it goes on and on and on and on. I'm someone more unique with each person I talk to.
But here, thanks to my electronic Algernon, all of these converge. While I would likely not talk to my Unitarian friend about my personal convictions about Biblical translations, neither would I discuss my complex convictions about movie ratings with a non-believer. While I don't feel that a school-at-homer would understand my relaxed approach to family learning and seizing learning opportunities instead of slaving to rigid schedules and textbooks, neither do I feel that a radical unschooler would "get" my insistence on daily handwriting, copywork and piano practice and my feelings about importance of learning self-discipline. Some of these conversational choices come from simply discussing common interests, some from not wanting to offend, and some from the attempt to avoid judgement and rejection.
Here, the world becomes increasingly small. The city me meets the country me. Or, should I say, those in the city meet the country me and and those in the country meet the city me. Jack and Ernest and Lady Bracknell and Algernon and Cecely and Gwendolen are all in the same room. At the same time. And, initially, it makes Jack quite uncomfortable.
One benefit that I've had in blogging over the past three years is that I have had a certain level of anonimity. I've been able, through using pseudonyms and being selective about who I share my blog with, to allow myself to write fairly freely about some of the goings on of my life. But as my world has become smaller, more and more real-life friends learn about my blog. Either I meet someone via my blog who happens to live near-by and becomes a good friend (hi, San!) or someone who lives nearby discovers my blog through other social activities (hi, Irene!), or someone who knows me and loves me wants to share with others what I've been writing (hi, husband!), or I feel compelled to tell someone I know about my blog. I have to admit, I don't do this often. For me, it really reveals who I am, and exposes me to judgement, criticism, and rejection. To consciously allow that is very, very difficult for me.
Tonight--or, last night, I should say, now that it's approaching 4:30--we had a visitor to our home.
Pastor Larry, the pastor of the church we've been attending for the past month, came to join our family for tea. It has been a very, very, very long time since I've had my pastor in my home. I believe the last time that happened was when Bo and I were married in our tiny house over 16 years ago. While Pastor Larry spoke with us, asking us about our family history, our move from Big City to Big Country, something very interesting happened. My dear husband mentioned to Pastor Larry that I am a writer. It turns out that Larry is a writer as well. And, in light of that, my husband felt compelled to share with Larry, upon his asking if I have ever been published, that, indeed, I'm published daily--here, on my blog.
I have to admit that I was very, very hesitant to share my blog address with Larry. Not because I doubt your integrity, Larry. But because it's just another occurence of Jack meeting Ernest. Of worlds converging. And it comes at a most interesting time in my blogging life. Just this week, I had decided to stop being so worried about being judged by others...
...and just *write*.
You see, I know for a fact that there are people in my life who have judged me harshly and maybe even unfairly and often inaccurately by what they've read on my blog. I know because they've told me outright. And when they haven't told me outright, others have told me for them (be careful who you gossip to--your words don't fall upon deaf ears). There have been people who have been very unkind about the words I've written here, either publicly or behind my back, and I have to admit that those responses have hurt me. Discussion, I can handle. Disagreements, I can handle. Blanket judgements and disdain, being demeaned and rejected--that's hard for me. No, even more than that. It tears me apart. It haunts me. I have a very hard time recovering from those kinds of careless actions.
So I've been cautious about who I share this blog with. More and more, it's like baring my soul.
After Pastor Larry left, Bo asked me how I felt about him sharing my blog.
"It scares me," I admitted.
"Why does it scare you?"
"Because I'm afraid of being judged..."
"Your writing, or yourself?"
"My self," I answered.
Bo thought for a moment, and then he said, "Well, I thought about that, and I thought about your blog, and there is nothing you've written that is inappropriate. There is nothing on your blog that I would be ashamed to have someone read. And besides, don't you think it's good to just start with the ending?"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I suppose it is."
But it's hard for me, because I hold out such hope for my relationships, and I've been hurt so many times. I've been called cheeky, and manipulative, and ridiculed for "telling my troubles to the world." I've been accused of living in a dream world, not facing reality, thinking myself superior, not seeing my own faults. I've been condemned for being proud of my children, worrying about my children, overprotecting my children. I've been accused of being houseproud, obsessive-compulsive, hyper-sensitive, a self-important upstart. I've been told that I'm too bold, that my husband should "tighten his reign" on me, that I share my convictions too freely.
And so I'm leery. I'm afraid. I don't want to come under fire anymore.
But I simply can't. stop. writing.
And, really, I don't want to. That's what the two-week blogging hiatus was all about. Trying to discover if I really wanted to write. And I do.
To be completely honest with you and, more importantly, with myself, the people who have made the above judgements on me really have nothing to do with my life now--most of them spouted their opinions and have, for the most part, disappeared. They don't know me day-to-day, don't have a relationship with me. How could they? They're the kind of people who vomit their opinions and judgements upon others and then walk away, wiping their shoes before they go, wondering why they still carry that stench with them as they move on to destroy the next human spirit. I know that these people are unhappy with themselves, unsettled, maybe even jealous. At the very least, they're quick to pass judgement and don't really care to be understanding, don't really take the time to find common ground, haven't made a commitment to find out who I really am. I'm sure I'm not the only one they've hurt.
But to be completely fair, too, how could they find out who I really am? I don't even know who I really am! That's part of the reason I write--this blog or anything else; as a means of self-discovery.
And that's a fun subplot of The Importance of Being Earnest. In the course of wooing his true love, Gwendolen, Ernest/Jack is questioned by the young lady's mother in order that she may verify his worthiness of the young lady.
Lady Bracknell. Are your parents living?From there, Lady Bracknell shows the proper indignance at such a thing and expresses the utmost curiosity in Jack's unusual beginnings.
Jack. I have lost both my parents.
Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?
Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me... I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was... well, I was found.
Lady Bracknell. Found!
Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.
Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?
Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.
Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?
Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag - a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it - an ordinary hand-bag in fact.
Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?And so, Jack/Ernest, inspired and motivated by his love for the fair Gwendolen, goes on a search to discover who he truly is. In the end, after all of his searching and confusion and pain, he uncovers the truth. He is, and has always been, just as he has said, Ernest.
Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.
Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?
Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.
Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion - has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now-but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.
Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.
Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.
Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.
Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter - a girl brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!
And, ultimately, that is my goal. Not to go Brunburying about the countryside in search of trouble and attempting to avoid scrapes, but to help to uncover who God would have me be. In this journey of self-discovery, in my writing and through the organizing of thoughts into semi-coherent essays, while I wish that I could avoid judgement, I know that such a wish is unrealistic. Therefore, in my writing, as in my life, I strive for a higher goal.
I hope to always find the vital importance of being earnest.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
If I Had a Magazine...
Thanks to the people over at Flagrant Disregard, you can make fun things like this magazine cover. What fun! If you have a few minutes to waste (or an evening, if you're a perfectionist), go make one of your own! 
An Unschooling Day
While the kids did have to do a modicum of lessons, like handwriting and copywork, I spent the good part of the day dusting and organizing and beginning my spring cleaning projects. That pretty much left the kids to their own devices. I can't pretend to know everything they did, but here are some of the things I know:
The Baby and Sweetheart dressed up in their prettiest dresses and danced around the Gathering Room. When they tired of that, they pulled out the Polly Pockets. After that, they made a domino rally.
While this was going on, Sweetheart put in On the Banks of Plum Creek on CD and we listened to that while I dusted and put up my spring decor. After that was over, they listened to part of Madeleine L'Engle reading A Wrinkle in Time.
The boys and Sweetheart have been working on a project of creating a Viking village. Houdin collected about fifty pizza box lids after his choir's pizza party which he is making into shields. They hope to make viking costumes, too, and a bunch of other viking-y things. If you can suggest any good viking books, let me know.
Houdin cleaned his room, the hallway and the kids' bathroom. Big, big thanks to Houdin for doing a good job on that.
Houdin and Bard went to their youth fellowship tonight. They were to take their favorite snack. They took some great big containers of strawberries from Sam's Club along with sour cream and brown sugar. Ever tried that? My MIL turned us on to this treat. Dip the strawberries in the sour cream and then the brown sugar. Delish!
Ironically, Monet and Sweetheart are now watching a DVD of Good Eats, a gift to us from Impromptu-Mom (Thanks, IM!) and it happens to be about strawberries! Since the older kids whisked all the strawberries away, Sweetheart prepared a fruit dish of grapes, orange and apple slices. She has made a declaration today that she wants to skip the "other stuff" and eat healthy food from now on.
Bard spent part of her day blogging about her birthday event. Houdin spent part of his preparing a persuasive speech about fast food. I've been reading some of his materials and I'm learning quite a bit.
Overall, it was a pretty good, relaxing day. Did I forget anything, Bard?
The Baby and Sweetheart dressed up in their prettiest dresses and danced around the Gathering Room. When they tired of that, they pulled out the Polly Pockets. After that, they made a domino rally.
While this was going on, Sweetheart put in On the Banks of Plum Creek on CD and we listened to that while I dusted and put up my spring decor. After that was over, they listened to part of Madeleine L'Engle reading A Wrinkle in Time.
The boys and Sweetheart have been working on a project of creating a Viking village. Houdin collected about fifty pizza box lids after his choir's pizza party which he is making into shields. They hope to make viking costumes, too, and a bunch of other viking-y things. If you can suggest any good viking books, let me know.
Houdin cleaned his room, the hallway and the kids' bathroom. Big, big thanks to Houdin for doing a good job on that.
Houdin and Bard went to their youth fellowship tonight. They were to take their favorite snack. They took some great big containers of strawberries from Sam's Club along with sour cream and brown sugar. Ever tried that? My MIL turned us on to this treat. Dip the strawberries in the sour cream and then the brown sugar. Delish!
Ironically, Monet and Sweetheart are now watching a DVD of Good Eats, a gift to us from Impromptu-Mom (Thanks, IM!) and it happens to be about strawberries! Since the older kids whisked all the strawberries away, Sweetheart prepared a fruit dish of grapes, orange and apple slices. She has made a declaration today that she wants to skip the "other stuff" and eat healthy food from now on.
Bard spent part of her day blogging about her birthday event. Houdin spent part of his preparing a persuasive speech about fast food. I've been reading some of his materials and I'm learning quite a bit.
Overall, it was a pretty good, relaxing day. Did I forget anything, Bard?
The Barmy Blogger: In Which I Am a Moron
My daughter, Bard, wrote a post about her surprise sixteenth birthday. If you haven't done so, go over and read it and give her some words of advice. :-)
Feeling Better
Today is better. I've been taking advantage of a burst of energy in order to get some cleaning done. I cancelled my appointment with the young lady who was supposed to come today to do an interview, photograph me in my kitchen and take two recipes from me, all to print in a column she writes for a local newspaper. I rescheduled for next Wednesday. Bard and I plan to feed her to the gills; Bard will make manicotti and I will make bread and Houdin will make NY style milk chocolate cheesecake with oreo crust. Decadent, all.
Impromptu-Mom called me this morning, which was a wonderful treat. I was able to get a few things off my chest while I listened to her little Peanut keep her mama running. It felt very, very nice to get a phone call from a friend. All too often, I'm the one doing the calling.
And then PeacefulLady called me and invited me to breakfast tomorrow morning. Hurray!
So now, I'll get back to work cleaning my cupboards and taking down the last of my winter decorations. Spring is on the way!
Impromptu-Mom called me this morning, which was a wonderful treat. I was able to get a few things off my chest while I listened to her little Peanut keep her mama running. It felt very, very nice to get a phone call from a friend. All too often, I'm the one doing the calling.
And then PeacefulLady called me and invited me to breakfast tomorrow morning. Hurray!
So now, I'll get back to work cleaning my cupboards and taking down the last of my winter decorations. Spring is on the way!
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Reality Check
I've been thinking about this for a while, this meme that does what other memes don't dare to do. Most memes are so happy-happy-feel-good things that really do serve a purpose. But one day, while reading this blog entry, I realized that I rarely admit what a flawed person I am. And believe me, I'm very, very flawed.
So, in an effort to show Allison and all others how very flawed I am, here, for your horrified enlightenment, is the Reality Check meme. Feel free to fill it out and pass it on or merely delight in my inferiority. If you brave the meme, make sure you leave me a comment to let me know where to find your post.
How many overdue library books do you currently have? None, but I have an $18.00 fine for the last ones I returned. And I just paid my previous fine off in November.
When was the last time you changed your cat's litter box? I actually have four litter boxes. Two are in the garage, and two are in the house. The two in the house have been changed this week. The two in the garage are about two weeks old.
How many things do you currently have in your house that you borrowed more than a week ago and have not returned? At least eleven, that I can count off the top of my head.
How many checks have you bounced this month? Four. They didn't actually bounce, because we have overdraft privileges with our bank (read: we don't have any money so they charge us more of it), but I had at least four checks this month that overdrew my account. Money sucks, basically.
When was the last time you said something unkind to someone? Uh...less than two hours ago.
How many people are you holding a grudge against? Nine.
How many loads of laundry are waiting to be done? At least eight.
When was the last time you changed your sheets? Three days ago.
When was your last mammogram? I've never had one.
How many days' worth of dishes are in your sink? Suprisingly, about half a day. Normally there are at least two items that have been sitting dirty for two days or more.
How many articles of clothing are laying on your bedroom floor? At least fifty. Too many to count.
How many of your bills are currently past due? Four. Five if you count the library fine.
When was your last dental appointment? Over four years ago.
How many points do you have on your driver's license? Four. I've had two speeding tickets in twelve months in which I was traveling 15 miles over the limit.
When was the last time you scrubbed your toilet? At least a week ago. I'll do it tomorrow. I promise.
Have you ever said you'd pray for someone but knew you wouldn't? Yep. I hope to change that, though, since I've created a prayer basket for our mealtimes.
What's the oldest thing in your fridge and how old is it? There's a bowl in the fridge that has a lid on it, and I have no idea what's in it. It's a fairly large bowl, but I'm afraid to look inside. I'd say it's at least two months old.
When was the last time you read your Bible? Sunday in church.
When was the last time you backed up your important files and photos? Um...I don't think I even remember when I last did this.
How many bags/containers of snack foods do you have in your house? A billion. But 95% of them are organic corn chips. Is that okay? They were given to me by a friend for Bard's dance.
Do you know where your keys are? Normally, I do. But right now, they've gone AWOL.
So, in an effort to show Allison and all others how very flawed I am, here, for your horrified enlightenment, is the Reality Check meme. Feel free to fill it out and pass it on or merely delight in my inferiority. If you brave the meme, make sure you leave me a comment to let me know where to find your post.
How many overdue library books do you currently have? None, but I have an $18.00 fine for the last ones I returned. And I just paid my previous fine off in November.
When was the last time you changed your cat's litter box? I actually have four litter boxes. Two are in the garage, and two are in the house. The two in the house have been changed this week. The two in the garage are about two weeks old.
How many things do you currently have in your house that you borrowed more than a week ago and have not returned? At least eleven, that I can count off the top of my head.
How many checks have you bounced this month? Four. They didn't actually bounce, because we have overdraft privileges with our bank (read: we don't have any money so they charge us more of it), but I had at least four checks this month that overdrew my account. Money sucks, basically.
When was the last time you said something unkind to someone? Uh...less than two hours ago.
How many people are you holding a grudge against? Nine.
How many loads of laundry are waiting to be done? At least eight.
When was the last time you changed your sheets? Three days ago.
When was your last mammogram? I've never had one.
How many days' worth of dishes are in your sink? Suprisingly, about half a day. Normally there are at least two items that have been sitting dirty for two days or more.
How many articles of clothing are laying on your bedroom floor? At least fifty. Too many to count.
How many of your bills are currently past due? Four. Five if you count the library fine.
When was your last dental appointment? Over four years ago.
How many points do you have on your driver's license? Four. I've had two speeding tickets in twelve months in which I was traveling 15 miles over the limit.
When was the last time you scrubbed your toilet? At least a week ago. I'll do it tomorrow. I promise.
Have you ever said you'd pray for someone but knew you wouldn't? Yep. I hope to change that, though, since I've created a prayer basket for our mealtimes.
What's the oldest thing in your fridge and how old is it? There's a bowl in the fridge that has a lid on it, and I have no idea what's in it. It's a fairly large bowl, but I'm afraid to look inside. I'd say it's at least two months old.
When was the last time you read your Bible? Sunday in church.
When was the last time you backed up your important files and photos? Um...I don't think I even remember when I last did this.
How many bags/containers of snack foods do you have in your house? A billion. But 95% of them are organic corn chips. Is that okay? They were given to me by a friend for Bard's dance.
Do you know where your keys are? Normally, I do. But right now, they've gone AWOL.
In which I vehemently hate money
We just returned home from the library's science and storytime programs. Monet and Sweetheart have been enjoying the "wacky science" class put on by M. for about a year now. I was so encouraged to find that this winter they have had so much of a response from homeschoolers that they created a new class just for us. I, of course, missed out on signing my darlings up for the class, so we participate in the regular class instead. I hope to get signed up for the homeschool class next session.
I still don't know why today is such a fog of a day. Honestly, I just feel like I work and work and work and work and I can't get ahead.
And a very big part of it has to do with money.
There are so many things I want to provide for my family, and I feel like most of it takes money. Joining the local gym. Taking field trips. Going on vacation (which we haven't done in about a gazillion years). Making nice meals. Taking fiddle/banjo/dulcimer lessons. It all costs so doggone much money, and right now, I'm piece-mealing my dinners together because money's so tight from week to week that I can't make a full-blown shopping trip.
I think the thing that really set me off today was step dancing.
I'd just come home from driving an Amish neighbor. It's not really something I enjoy doing, but I feel right now that it's the only way I can justify piano lessons, algebra classes and extra-curriculars. I had driven one woman at oh-too-early in the morning and then had another woman to pick up from the birthing center--she had a baby girl yesterday. When I arrived, she asked me if I could take her to the neighboring town for a "quick" doctor visit because the baby had a rash. I really didn't want to do it because I was due home to make cookies and soup for a homeschooling family who had a very serious car accident two weeks ago, but because I felt like I could use the few (and they were very few) extra dollars, I said yes. "Quick" turned into a half-hour, and I began to feel taken advantage of, yet when the new mama came out of the office and told me that the doc had looked at her newborn baby girl for about three minutes of that half-hour, announced there was nothing wrong with her and the rash would go away on its own, charged her $75.00 and told her she'd see her in two weeks, my heart went out to her.
When I arrived back home, the house was well on its way to shambles. I knew that Bo was expecting a guitar student, so I encouraged everyone to clean as much as they could for about a half-hour to prepare while I made the soup (the cookies, miraculously, were provided by the family of the new baby. I decided to give them to the car-accident family instead of keeping them myself. We certainly don't need them). As always, Bard was the productive one, even though she had several Algebra lessons to do in preparation for her class later in the day. She cleaned while I cooked. By the time I was done, I felt that things were shaping up fairly well.
And then a good friend called and asked a favor. They had misprinted some fliers for their business and needed them all unfolded and stacked so they could be sent through the printer again. "There are about ten boxes," she said, "and we'll pay you $XXX to do the job." Of course I'd help, I said, but the amount she was offering seemed too much, and I told her so. "It's a mundane job," she said, "and that's what we can afford to pay. R. will bring the boxes over shortly."
As I was cooking, Bo came into the room and I told him about the little venture. "They don't need to pay us to do that," he said. R and P have done some wonderful things for us, and were very instrumental in our moving to this neighborhood.
"That's what I told her," I said, "but she insisted." Bo went back into his office and I continued to cook.
As I was stirring the lentil soup, I came up with an idea. I'd recently signed myself and four of the children up for Irish step dancing classes in our community and had been ferreting away money to try to pay for them. Since Bo had been willing to do the task for free, or at least volunteer the kids and I to do it for free, he certainly shouldn't mind if I allocate the funds for the class. I knew the budget was very tight, especially with the output for Bard's birthday dance, but this was windfall money! Unexpected blessing! Surely this is what the money was *meant* for.
So I announced my plan to Bo assertively, because I've been trying hard to work on stating my needs outright instead of beating around the bush or begrudgingly doing things myself.
"Well, let's pay off debts first," was his response.
Now, I know that his intentions were to use the money for immediate financial need and to give me the money for the step-dancing classes before it was due, but I just didn't know how to handle his response, so I didn't handle it well at all. I shut down. I blew up.
I did go to him and apologize, but I still feel frustrated and out of control of my life. I want to beautify my home, educate my children, improve our quality of life, *live* a little, and I feel like I have no way of doing these things because of this cursed thing called MONEY! And because I'm supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, I have no real way of contributing, other than cutting back. But I have. I've cut back about as much as I can on household expenses, short of using the Sears and Roebucks Catalog for T.P. Because things were so tight, we were forced to increase the rent for our friends who are living in our cabin, even though I know they're trying to make a financial peace plan, too. But their rent doesn't even cover the yearly taxes on our property, not to mention maintenance of the road (we have to pay the township to resurface the road) or our personal lane (which turns as muddy as can be in the Spring). Dreaded, dastardly MONEY!
Even after I apologized to Bo, tension remained. "why are you so angry with me?" he implored. I don't know. I really don't. But something deep within me is very angry with him, with my dad, and with myself.
I left to deliver Bard to her algebra class and the soup to our friends and my dad to the library. when I returned, the house had basically erupted. There were dirty dishes all over the counter, in the sink and on the stove. There was half-eaten bowls of soup--three of them--dotting the countertop. And what's worse, the huge pot of soup that I'd made which was intended not only for lunch today but for tomorrow as well, when a young lady from a local newspaper will be coming to--get this--photograph me in my kitchen and print it along with two of my favorite recipes. The lentil soup was to be one of them. And since I'm flat broke, I can't afford more ingredients.
And the kids hadn't practiced piano, even though I'm busting my butt to pay for their weekly lessons.
And the house had been a disaster area when the guitar student had been there.
And Houdin announced that one of his turtles is missing.
So, yeah. There you have it. That's why I couldn't single one thing out. It's just snowballing.
And that's my pukefest for the day.
I still don't know why today is such a fog of a day. Honestly, I just feel like I work and work and work and work and I can't get ahead.
And a very big part of it has to do with money.
There are so many things I want to provide for my family, and I feel like most of it takes money. Joining the local gym. Taking field trips. Going on vacation (which we haven't done in about a gazillion years). Making nice meals. Taking fiddle/banjo/dulcimer lessons. It all costs so doggone much money, and right now, I'm piece-mealing my dinners together because money's so tight from week to week that I can't make a full-blown shopping trip.
I think the thing that really set me off today was step dancing.
I'd just come home from driving an Amish neighbor. It's not really something I enjoy doing, but I feel right now that it's the only way I can justify piano lessons, algebra classes and extra-curriculars. I had driven one woman at oh-too-early in the morning and then had another woman to pick up from the birthing center--she had a baby girl yesterday. When I arrived, she asked me if I could take her to the neighboring town for a "quick" doctor visit because the baby had a rash. I really didn't want to do it because I was due home to make cookies and soup for a homeschooling family who had a very serious car accident two weeks ago, but because I felt like I could use the few (and they were very few) extra dollars, I said yes. "Quick" turned into a half-hour, and I began to feel taken advantage of, yet when the new mama came out of the office and told me that the doc had looked at her newborn baby girl for about three minutes of that half-hour, announced there was nothing wrong with her and the rash would go away on its own, charged her $75.00 and told her she'd see her in two weeks, my heart went out to her.
When I arrived back home, the house was well on its way to shambles. I knew that Bo was expecting a guitar student, so I encouraged everyone to clean as much as they could for about a half-hour to prepare while I made the soup (the cookies, miraculously, were provided by the family of the new baby. I decided to give them to the car-accident family instead of keeping them myself. We certainly don't need them). As always, Bard was the productive one, even though she had several Algebra lessons to do in preparation for her class later in the day. She cleaned while I cooked. By the time I was done, I felt that things were shaping up fairly well.
And then a good friend called and asked a favor. They had misprinted some fliers for their business and needed them all unfolded and stacked so they could be sent through the printer again. "There are about ten boxes," she said, "and we'll pay you $XXX to do the job." Of course I'd help, I said, but the amount she was offering seemed too much, and I told her so. "It's a mundane job," she said, "and that's what we can afford to pay. R. will bring the boxes over shortly."
As I was cooking, Bo came into the room and I told him about the little venture. "They don't need to pay us to do that," he said. R and P have done some wonderful things for us, and were very instrumental in our moving to this neighborhood.
"That's what I told her," I said, "but she insisted." Bo went back into his office and I continued to cook.
As I was stirring the lentil soup, I came up with an idea. I'd recently signed myself and four of the children up for Irish step dancing classes in our community and had been ferreting away money to try to pay for them. Since Bo had been willing to do the task for free, or at least volunteer the kids and I to do it for free, he certainly shouldn't mind if I allocate the funds for the class. I knew the budget was very tight, especially with the output for Bard's birthday dance, but this was windfall money! Unexpected blessing! Surely this is what the money was *meant* for.
So I announced my plan to Bo assertively, because I've been trying hard to work on stating my needs outright instead of beating around the bush or begrudgingly doing things myself.
"Well, let's pay off debts first," was his response.
Now, I know that his intentions were to use the money for immediate financial need and to give me the money for the step-dancing classes before it was due, but I just didn't know how to handle his response, so I didn't handle it well at all. I shut down. I blew up.
I did go to him and apologize, but I still feel frustrated and out of control of my life. I want to beautify my home, educate my children, improve our quality of life, *live* a little, and I feel like I have no way of doing these things because of this cursed thing called MONEY! And because I'm supposed to be a stay-at-home mom, I have no real way of contributing, other than cutting back. But I have. I've cut back about as much as I can on household expenses, short of using the Sears and Roebucks Catalog for T.P. Because things were so tight, we were forced to increase the rent for our friends who are living in our cabin, even though I know they're trying to make a financial peace plan, too. But their rent doesn't even cover the yearly taxes on our property, not to mention maintenance of the road (we have to pay the township to resurface the road) or our personal lane (which turns as muddy as can be in the Spring). Dreaded, dastardly MONEY!
Even after I apologized to Bo, tension remained. "why are you so angry with me?" he implored. I don't know. I really don't. But something deep within me is very angry with him, with my dad, and with myself.
I left to deliver Bard to her algebra class and the soup to our friends and my dad to the library. when I returned, the house had basically erupted. There were dirty dishes all over the counter, in the sink and on the stove. There was half-eaten bowls of soup--three of them--dotting the countertop. And what's worse, the huge pot of soup that I'd made which was intended not only for lunch today but for tomorrow as well, when a young lady from a local newspaper will be coming to--get this--photograph me in my kitchen and print it along with two of my favorite recipes. The lentil soup was to be one of them. And since I'm flat broke, I can't afford more ingredients.
And the kids hadn't practiced piano, even though I'm busting my butt to pay for their weekly lessons.
And the house had been a disaster area when the guitar student had been there.
And Houdin announced that one of his turtles is missing.
So, yeah. There you have it. That's why I couldn't single one thing out. It's just snowballing.
And that's my pukefest for the day.
A snag
For a month now, I've overcome a bad habit of mine. Nailbiting. I don't know if it's a nervous habit or if it's taking my perfectionism the the nth degree by obliterating anything untidy, but for the past month, I've let them grow. Daily, I look at my nails and evaluate them. This one is still too short. This one's awfully squarish. They need to be a bit longer, but not so long as to accidentally scratch a child while we're at play.
Nine out of my ten nails show no sign of having ever been gnawed. One has been a refuge, a nail-biting outlet, but even that one is on its way to greater lengths.
But today, as I was getting out of the van, I knocked a finger into the door and gouged a dent in one of my longer fingernails.
A snag.
My snagged fingernail makes me want to give up growing my nails long. I don't know why, but it just does. I've ruined the good thing. I've tainted something. And now it seems like there's no use.
That's how I feel today. There's no use, I think. I can't get it completely perfect, so why try at all? And if I'm the only one who really cares, what does it matter? And if I can't identify the problem, is there really a problem to begin with?
I've hit a snag today.
*****************
A great sadness is upon me. I have many reasons but none worth singling out.
Overall, I feel mechanical, unlovable, angry. There is a spirit of futility and failure, a lack of passion and a temptation to simply toss my arms up and say, "I quit."
I know that my feelings are affecting my family, but their unloving actions are affecting me. Do they love me? Well, yes. But in their humanity, they do things that invade my soul; their actions sometimes insist that they don't care.
On days like today,I feel like I'm spiraling downward. There is no right answer, no right action. I feel like Ebeneezer Scrooge, haunted by past, present and future, trying to figure out if my spirits are brought on by an undigested morsel of cheese. Or am I overtired? Or am I feeling without purpose? Or am I truly, honestly and completely affected by the members of this household who refuse to simply make a bed, clean a room, take out the trash, feed their animals, put their dishes in the proper side of the sink, practice their piano, oversee the child, teach a lesson, make a meal.
Ah, but I said there were no issues worth singling out. I suppose that these issues aren't single, though. They're multiplying. And just when I think my head's above water, just when I've come up for air and I'm about to gasp deeply, a tidal wave comes and pulls me to the depths again.
*************************
I want to wrap this up tidily, but there's no way to do it. I don't have an answer. I haven't been given a revelation. There are no trite words or inspiring phrases to pull me from my funk.
It's simply a snag, and I either have to gnaw it down and forget about it or clean it up and let it grow healthy again.
Nine out of my ten nails show no sign of having ever been gnawed. One has been a refuge, a nail-biting outlet, but even that one is on its way to greater lengths.
But today, as I was getting out of the van, I knocked a finger into the door and gouged a dent in one of my longer fingernails.
A snag.
My snagged fingernail makes me want to give up growing my nails long. I don't know why, but it just does. I've ruined the good thing. I've tainted something. And now it seems like there's no use.
That's how I feel today. There's no use, I think. I can't get it completely perfect, so why try at all? And if I'm the only one who really cares, what does it matter? And if I can't identify the problem, is there really a problem to begin with?
I've hit a snag today.
*****************
A great sadness is upon me. I have many reasons but none worth singling out.
Overall, I feel mechanical, unlovable, angry. There is a spirit of futility and failure, a lack of passion and a temptation to simply toss my arms up and say, "I quit."
I know that my feelings are affecting my family, but their unloving actions are affecting me. Do they love me? Well, yes. But in their humanity, they do things that invade my soul; their actions sometimes insist that they don't care.
On days like today,I feel like I'm spiraling downward. There is no right answer, no right action. I feel like Ebeneezer Scrooge, haunted by past, present and future, trying to figure out if my spirits are brought on by an undigested morsel of cheese. Or am I overtired? Or am I feeling without purpose? Or am I truly, honestly and completely affected by the members of this household who refuse to simply make a bed, clean a room, take out the trash, feed their animals, put their dishes in the proper side of the sink, practice their piano, oversee the child, teach a lesson, make a meal.
Ah, but I said there were no issues worth singling out. I suppose that these issues aren't single, though. They're multiplying. And just when I think my head's above water, just when I've come up for air and I'm about to gasp deeply, a tidal wave comes and pulls me to the depths again.
*************************
I want to wrap this up tidily, but there's no way to do it. I don't have an answer. I haven't been given a revelation. There are no trite words or inspiring phrases to pull me from my funk.
It's simply a snag, and I either have to gnaw it down and forget about it or clean it up and let it grow healthy again.
Happy Sixteenth Birthday, Bard
For about a month, Bo and I and a community of friends kept a great big secret. Now that it's over, we can talk about it. Recently, in the process of explaining to people why we were doing what we were doing, I almost apologized by saying, "We don't make a big deal out of birthdays." I don't know why I do this, try to gauge what people think is frivolous and undermine my own life to suit their opinions, but I often do it.
The truth is, we do make a big deal out of birthdays. We may not spend a whole lot of money or buy extravagant gifts, and we may not decorate with balloons and streamers. But, regardless, birthdays are a very big deal to us. Everyone in the family celebrates, almost as if we're each having a birthday. Each person has their own favorite cake or meal they like to have for their special day. Each person has a personality that lends itself to certain types of gifts, and each birthday holds it's own special sentiments.
For example, six is a landmark. It's the year when the birthday child gets his or her own copy of A.A. Milne's Now We Are Six.
Eight is another landmark. It's when they can have their first sleepover party.
Ten is another. That's the year they enter double digits. A special meal is in order.
At twelve, they get a dozen birthdays. Twelve days of doing small things to make the special day last for almost two weeks. Plus, the gifts, while they may be small, come in dozens. A dozen flowers. A dozen postcards from all over the country. A dozen packs of gum. A dozen dollars.
Thirteen is the next one. Magical things begin to happen after a child turns 13. On that day, the child can choose a special friend to accompany them (usually the child's best friend) and they join Mom and Dad, everyone dressed in their finest clothing, and they all enjoy a meal at the finest restaurant of their choice. At this age, a young lady can choose, if she so desires, to pierce her ears.
Then there are a few years to wait. It's not that the fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays aren't meaningful. They certainly are. It's just that they aren't landmarks, so they don't have some unique significance to them.
But then, there's sixteen.
Bard, being the oldest, is always the first to experience the birthday traditions-in-the-making. This year was a new experience for everyone.
As many of you who know us or read this blog regularly know, we have been enjoying folk dancing for about a year and a half now. For you who are shaking your head and wondering why we would ever enjoy such a thing, you've likely never tried it. If you have, it was in fourth grade when the opposite gender had cooties and you danced to a scratched record in your school gymnasium.
Folk dancing now is different. It's aerobic. It's fun. It's a way to meet new people and get away from the television/computer/video games. Imagine music like in Oh Brother,Where Art Thou. Imagine the kind of stuff Nickel Creek cut their teeth on. If that doesn't suit your fancy, imagine elegant English Country music and gliding along a'la the dance scenes in Pride and Prejudice. Still not convinced? How about some Celtic stuff? How about finding a pretty girl swinging into your arms? Or on the converse, how about seeing young men kindly ask young ladies to dance simply because they want to dance and they both need a partner? Still not sure? Well, all I can tell you is that you need to try it. Once you get on the floor, you'll likely be hooked.
So, for this sixteenth birthday that Bard just experienced, we did a combination of the things that we love best. We rented an old grange hall, hired a caller, gathered up a band, sent out invitations for a good old-fashioned folk dance complete with a carry-in dinner and after-dinner music jam.
And then we lied our weasley black guts out.
Bard, Houdin, Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby were left completely in the dark. We didn't even tell my dad about the plans. Behind everyone's backs, we persuaded families into participating in our evil scheme, and before you know it, we had almost 100 accomplices. And we couldn't have done it without them.
This past Saturday afternoon, while Bard spent the night and morning with her good friend Ash on trumped-up charges of going to a college book discussion group, we told the other kids about the plan, packed two vehicles full of provisions and headed to the hall.
while the kids put together a banner, I hung photos of Bard all over the dining area. Photos of her on the day she was born all the way up to the day she blew out the candles on her sixteenth birthday cake. And I panicked, too, because that's just how I am. What if no one came? What if they all backed out? What if the caller got sick? What if Bard and Ash got in an accident on the way to the hall? What if there wasn't enough food?
But, as usual, I worried in vain. There was PLENTY of food. And delicious food, too! Yes, there were people who didn't come, and that was a bummer because I kept a guest list and limited the number of attendants to 85, so I had to turn a few away. Aside from that, every time a person RSVP'd, I added the funds that would generate to my tally; we asked people not to bring gifts, but to contribute $15 per family to the band instead. So we did end up about $75 short because people either responded that they'd come to the dance and only came for dinner without paying the $15.00 or didn't show up at all without letting me know that I could fill their spot. Note to those of you dear readers who do this type of thing to your hostess: DON'T!
But in spite of that, it was absolutely wonderful. Bard was completely surprised, the caller was fantastic, the band was just perfect, and some family friends who have four very talented boys performed a few songs during the band break, including a special birthday song just for Bard. It was completely and totally delightful. The same family stayed after dinner and led others in a music jam on the stage while the younger kids ran around, the older kids laughed, danced and played games, and the parents visited and cleaned up the hall (though there was very little to clean!).
Everyone who participated expressed their thanks and gushed about how much fun they had. And if you look at the pictures, you can see that they certainly weren't lying about that.
I only wish I could do this every month--could afford it, get the participation necessary, have the funds to make it work and, of course, the energy to do it.
But I'll just have to settle for the fact that I have four more (at least) sixteen year-olds on the way.
Details of the event will be given from the daughter's perspective. Soon. Right daughter?
Monday, February 20, 2006
Gravity
Quote of the Day: "I could be more imaginative if there were no gravity." ~My ten-year-old son, Monet.I'm breaking my blogging fast with this quote from our drive home from choir this evening, primarily because it shows the quirkiness of my life and my children, and I thought it would be a fun way to fall back into blogging.
But after thinking about it, I find that it's highly applicable.
For the past year or so, I've had quite a difficult time blogging. Every bloggable thought or moment that enters my head is met by opposition. "That's not funny. Who would ever be interested in that? What if so-and-so reads it--what would s/he think? If you blog that, you'll hurt your child's/husband's/friend's feelings. If you blog that, you'll come across as unspiritual. If you blog that, you'll come across as too spiritual. Why would you blog something so whiny? Are you starving for attention or something?" And, finally, the kiss of death, "You don't blog often enough, so you've lost all interest anyway, even if you did blog about something interesting. There's nobody here but us crickets." ::chirp chirp::
(It doesn't help that in the four minutes since I've been up here and asked for privacy that each of my kids has come in at least once--the baby twice--and I feel like an ogre for being impatient with them. Is it really all that wrong to expect private time?)
Writing is catharsis for me. I have written through some really nasty times in my life. I began writing as a way of coping with my mother's chronic illness. When I was five years old, I wrote and illustrated my first story. "It was a sad day. My mom went to the hospital. We went up the elevator. I got to see her. The end." And there was a little stick figure me, with my terribly unruly curly hair, standing beside a stick figure Mom in her hospital bed, the elevator standing open in the background.
I wrote through the discovery of her death after our seven-year estrangement. I literally cried on my keyboard as I processed what was happening to me.
Oh. My. Gosh. My mother is dead. My name is there. She had a funeral. FOUR MONTHS AGO she had a funeral. My heart was sick. I just held my head in my hands. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I don’t know how to process this.
But I did know how to process it. I word-processed it, writing down every detail, ever feeling, at the exact moment I was having it. The words saved me, comforted me.
When I started this blog, it was a way to keep track of what my children did, a way to journal our lives for the sake of home learning assessments. But it got away from that, and became essays about life, and that's what my readers enjoyed most, the life essays, and I felt safe writing them, especially the humorous ones. And why not? After all, that's what I enjoy the most when I read. Why shouldn't others enjoy my humorous essays?
The trouble, of course, is that real life isn't always fun, and it isn't always interest and it isn't always fit to print. The argument I had with someone I thought had cared about me, or the victimization I felt about a certain treatment I received, or the nit-picky frustration I experienced when people would let me down. Those things aren't fun to read. And the fact that the other party just may recognize themselves in my words...well, I found that I could be less and less genuine in my writing. And who wants that?
These past two weeks, I've thought a lot about blogging. Is it worth doing, worth fighting for the time to do? Does it serve a purpose? Not just for others, but for me? Is it just a whiny, self-absorbed trend that will embarrass me someday, like legwarmers and feathered hair? Or is this a place where I can be safe to express myself, Devil may care?
"I could be more imaginative if there were no gravity."
grav·i·ty ( P ) Pronunciation Key (grv-t)
n.
Physics.
The natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body, such as Earth, upon objects at or near its surface, tending to draw them toward the center of the body.
The natural force of attraction between any two massive bodies, which is directly proportional to the product of their masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.
Gravitation.
Grave consequence; seriousness or importance: They are still quite unaware of the gravity of their problems.
Solemnity or dignity of manner.
If my writing carried with it less grave consequences, less seriousness or importance, I could be free to be more imaginative, more . But is that what I want? Would my writing have any meaning if I eliminated the gravity? Or would it simply float away with no real weight to keep it grounded?
But gravity is a natural force of attraction exerted by a celestial body upon objects, tending to draw them toward the center of the body.
Therein lies my dilemma. I want to be attracted by natural force to center of that celestial body, I want to have weight, to accept that weight, to document my circumstances and let gravity--whether pull or seriousness--have its way. I want to follow that natural law. I want to be honest, real, and dignified.
Yet I also want to be interesting, attractive, appealing, imaginative.
I'm still thinking about all this, you see, trying to find a balance. Balance. That, too, is all about gravity.
So I break my fast with these introspective thoughts, and I ask those of you who still continue to read to bear with me. I'm working on myself, here.
I'm feeling my own weight.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Taking a Break
I'll be taking a two-week hiatus from blogging. I will still be reading blogs when I have time, but I'm finding that I have less time right now to devote to creating posts worthy of publishing. After my two-weeks, I'll reassess my position to see if I really want to continue blogging.
In the meantime, blessings to you all. May your February be filled with peace, love and Truth.
In the meantime, blessings to you all. May your February be filled with peace, love and Truth.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Bono's Remarks at the National Prayer Breakfast
From SojoNet: If you're wondering what I'm doing here, at a prayer breakfast, well, so am I. I'm certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather. It's certainly not because I'm a rock star. Which leaves one possible explanation: I'm here because I've got a messianic complex.Yes, it's true. And for anyone who knows me, it's hardly a revelation.
Well, I'm the first to admit that there's something unnatural...something unseemly...about rock stars mounting the pulpit and preaching at presidents, and then disappearing to their villas in the south of France. Talk about a fish out of water. It was weird enough when Jesse Helms showed up at a U2 concert...but this is really weird, isn't it?
You know, one of the things I love about this country is its separation of church and state. Although I have to say: in inviting me here, both church and state have been separated from something else completely: their mind.
Mr. President, are you sure about this?
It's very humbling and I will try to keep my homily brief. But be warned - I'm Irish.
I'd like to talk about the laws of man, here in this city where those laws are written. And I'd like to talk about higher laws. It would be great to assume that the one serves the other; that the laws of man serve these higher laws...but of course, they don't always. And I presume that, in a sense, is why you're here.
I presume the reason for this gathering is that all of us here - Muslims, Jews, Christians - all are searching our souls for how to better serve our family, our community, our nation, our God.
I know I am. Searching, I mean. And that, I suppose, is what led me here, too.
Yes, it's odd, having a rock star here - but maybe it's odder for me than for you. You see, I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was...well, a little blurry, and hard to see.
I remember how my mother would bring us to chapel on Sundays... and my father used to wait outside. One of the things that I picked up from my father and my mother was the sense that religion often gets in the way of God.
For me, at least, it got in the way. Seeing what religious people, in the name of God, did to my native land...and in this country, seeing God's second-hand car salesmen on the cable TV channels, offering indulgences for cash...in fact, all over the world, seeing the self-righteousness roll down like a mighty stream from certain corners of the religious establishment...
I must confess, I changed the channel. I wanted my MTV.
Even though I was a believer.
Perhaps because I was a believer.
I was cynical...not about God, but about God's politics.
Then, in 1997, a couple of eccentric, septuagenarian British Christians went and ruined my shtick - my reproachfulness. They did it by describing the millennium, the year 2000, as a Jubilee year, as an opportunity to cancel the chronic debts of the world's poorest people. They had the audacity to renew the Lord's call - and were joined by Pope John Paul II, who, from an Irish half-Catholic's point of view, may have had a more direct line to the Almighty.
'Jubilee' - why 'Jubilee'?
What was this year of Jubilee, this year of our Lord's favor?
I'd always read the scriptures, even the obscure stuff. There it was in Leviticus (25:35)...
'If your brother becomes poor,' the scriptures say, 'and cannot maintain himself...you shall maintain him.... You shall not lend him your money at interest, not give him your food for profit.'
It is such an important idea, Jubilee, that Jesus begins his ministry with this. Jesus is a young man, he's met with the rabbis, impressed everyone, people are talking. The elders say, he's a clever guy, this Jesus, but he hasn't done much...yet. He hasn't spoken in public before...
When he does, is first words are from Isaiah: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,' he says, 'because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.' And Jesus proclaims the year of the Lord's favour, the year of Jubilee (Luke 4:18).
What he was really talking about was an era of grace - and we're still in it.
So fast-forward 2,000 years. That same thought, grace, was made incarnate - in a movement of all kinds of people. It wasn't a bless-me club... it wasn't a holy huddle. These religious guys were willing to get out in the streets, get their boots dirty, wave the placards, follow their convictions with actions...making it really hard for people like me to keep their distance. It was amazing. I almost started to like these church people.
But then my cynicism got another helping hand.
It was what Colin Powell, a five-star general, called the greatest W.M.D. of them all: a tiny little virus called AIDS. And the religious community, in large part, missed it. The ones that didn't miss it could only see it as divine retribution for bad behaviour. Even on children...even [though the] fastest growing group of HIV infections were married, faithful women.
Aha, there they go again! I thought to myself judgmentalism is back!
But in truth, I was wrong again. The church was slow but the church got busy on this the leprosy of our age.
Love was on the move.
Mercy was on the move.
God was on the move.
Moving people of all kinds to work with others they had never met, never would have cared to meet...conservative church groups hanging out with spokesmen for the gay community, all singing off the same hymn sheet on AIDS...soccer moms and quarterbacks...hip-hop stars and country stars. This is what happens when God gets on the move: crazy stuff happens!
Popes were seen wearing sunglasses!
Jesse Helms was seen with a ghetto blaster!
Crazy stuff. Evidence of the spirit.
It was breathtaking. Literally. It stopped the world in its tracks.
When churches started demonstrating on debt, governments listened - and acted. When churches starting organising, petitioning, and even - that most unholy of acts today, God forbid, lobbying...on AIDS and global health, governments listened - and acted.
I'm here today in all humility to say: you changed minds; you changed policy; you changed the world.
Look, whatever thoughts you have about God, who He is or if He exists, most will agree that if there is a God, He has a special place for the poor. In fact, the poor are where God lives.
Check Judaism. Check Islam. Check pretty much anyone.
I mean, God may well be with us in our mansions on the hill. I hope so. He may well be with us as in all manner of controversial stuff. Maybe, maybe not. But the one thing we can all agree, all faiths and ideologies, is that God is with the vulnerable and poor.
God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them. "If you remove the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger and speaking wickedness, and if you give yourself to the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then your light will rise in darkness and your gloom with become like midday and the Lord will continually guide you and satisfy your desire in scorched places."
It's not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times. It's not an accident. That's a lot of air time, 2,100 mentions. 'As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me' (Matthew 25:40). As I say, good news to the poor.
Here's some good news for the president. After 9/11 we were told America would have no time for the world's poor. America would be taken up with its own problems of safety. And it's true these are dangerous times, but America has not drawn the blinds and double-locked the doors.
In fact, you have doubled aid to Africa. You have tripled funding for global health. Mr. President, your emergency plan for AIDS relief and support for the Global Fund - you and Congress - have put 700,000 people onto life-saving anti-retroviral drugs and provided 8 million bed nets to protect children from malaria.
Outstanding human achievements. Counterintuitive. Historic. Be very, very proud.
But here's the bad news. From charity to justice, the good news is yet to come. There is much more to do. There's a gigantic chasm between the scale of the emergency and the scale of the response.
And finally, it's not about charity after all, is it? It's about justice.
Let me repeat that: It's not about charity, it's about justice.
And that's too bad.
Because you're good at charity. Americans, like the Irish, are good at it. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can't afford it.
But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties, it doubts our concern, it questions our commitment.
Sixty-five hundred Africans are still dying every day of a preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity, this is about justice and equality.
Because there's no way we can look at what's happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we really accept that Africans are equal to us. Anywhere else in the world, we wouldn't accept it. Look at what happened in South East Asia with the tsunami. 150,000 lives lost to that misnomer of all misnomers, "mother nature." In Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month. A tsunami every month. And it's a completely avoidable catastrophe.
It's annoying but justice and equality are mates. Aren't they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain.
You know, think of those Jewish sheep-herders going to meet the Pharaoh, mud on their shoes, and the Pharaoh says, "Equal?" A preposterous idea: rich and poor are equal? And they say, "Yeah, 'equal,' that's what it says here in this book. We're all made in the image of God."
And eventually the Pharaoh says, "OK, I can accept that. I can accept the Jews - but not the blacks."
"Not the women. Not the gays. Not the Irish. No way, man."
So on we go with our journey of equality.
On we go in the pursuit of justice.
We hear that call in the ONE Campaign, a growing movement of more than 2 million Americans...Left and Right together... united in the belief that where you live should no longer determine whether you live.
We hear that call even more powerfully today, as we mourn the loss of Coretta Scott King - mother of a movement for equality, one that changed the world but is only just getting started. These issues are as alive as they ever were; they just change shape and cross the seas.
Preventing the poorest of the poor from selling their products while we sing the virtues of the free market...that's a justice issue. Holding children to ransom for the debts of their grandparents...that's a justice issue. Withholding life-saving medicines out of deference to the Office of Patents...that's a justice issue.
And while the law is what we say it is, God is not silent on the subject.
That's why I say there's the law of the land¿. And then there is a higher standard. There's the law of the land, and we can hire experts to write them so they benefit us, so the laws say it's OK to protect our agriculture but it's not OK for African farmers to do the same, to earn a living?
As the laws of man are written, that's what they say.
God will not accept that.
Mine won't, at least. Will yours?
[ pause]
I close this morning on...very...thin...ice.
This is a dangerous idea I've put on the table: my God vs. your God, their God vs. our God...vs. no God. It is very easy, in these times, to see religion as a force for division rather than unity.
And this is a town - Washington - that knows something of division.
But the reason I am here, and the reason I keep coming back to Washington, is because this is a town that is proving it can come together on behalf of what the scriptures call the least of these.
This is not a Republican idea. It is not a Democratic idea. It is not even, with all due respect, an American idea. Nor it is unique to any one faith.
'Do to others as you would have them do to you' (Luke 6:30). Jesus says that.
'Righteousness is this: that one should...give away wealth out of love for him to the near of kin and the orphans and the needy and the wayfarer and the beggars and for the emancipation of the captives.' The Koran says that (2.177).
Thus sayeth the Lord: 'Bring the homeless poor into the house, when you see the naked, cover him, then your light will break out like the dawn and your recovery will speedily spring fourth, then your Lord will be your rear guard.' The Jewish scripture says that. Isaiah 58 again.
That is a powerful incentive: 'The Lord will watch your back.' Sounds like a good deal to me, right now.
A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life. In countless ways, large and small, I was always seeking the Lord's blessing. I was saying, you know, I have a new song, look after it¿. I have a family, please look after them¿. I have this crazy idea...
And this wise man said: stop.
He said, stop asking God to bless what you're doing.
Get involved in what God is doing - because it's already blessed.
Well, God, as I said, is with the poor. That, I believe, is what God is doing.
And that is what he's calling us to do.
I was amazed when I first got to this country and I learned how much some churchgoers tithe. Up to 10% of the family budget. Well, how does that compare with the federal budget, the budget for the entire American family? How much of that goes to the poorest people in the world? Less than 1%.
Mr. President, Congress, people of faith, people of America:
I want to suggest to you today that you see the flow of effective foreign assistance as tithing.... Which, to be truly meaningful, will mean an additional 1% of the federal budget tithed to the poor.
What is 1%?
1% is not merely a number on a balance sheet.
1% is the girl in Africa who gets to go to school, thanks to you. 1% is the AIDS patient who gets her medicine, thanks to you. 1% is the African entrepreneur who can start a small family business thanks to you. 1% is not redecorating presidential palaces or money flowing down a rat hole. This 1% is digging waterholes to provide clean water.
1% is a new partnership with Africa, not paternalism toward Africa, where increased assistance flows toward improved governance and initiatives with proven track records and away from boondoggles and white elephants of every description.
America gives less than 1% now. We're asking for an extra 1% to change the world. to transform millions of lives - but not just that and I say this to the military men now - to transform the way that they see us.
1% is national security, enlightened economic self-interest, and a better, safer world rolled into one. Sounds to me that in this town of deals and compromises, 1% is the best bargain around.
These goals - clean water for all; school for every child; medicine for the afflicted, an end to extreme and senseless poverty - these are not just any goals; they are the Millennium Development goals, which this country supports. And they are more than that. They are the Beatitudes for a globalised world.
Now, I'm very lucky. I don't have to sit on any budget committees. And I certainly don't have to sit where you do, Mr. President. I don't have to make the tough choices.
But I can tell you this:
To give 1% more is right. It's smart. And it's blessed.
There is a continent - Africa - being consumed by flames.
I truly believe that when the history books are written, our age will be remembered for three things: the war on terror, the digital revolution, and what we did - or did not to - to put the fire out in Africa.
History, like God, is watching what we do.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Some Questions about Friendship
I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately, and I was just wondering what the rest of the world thinks about friendship. So, I give you these questions:
How would you describe the perfect friend?
Is there anything about you that you're afraid your friend(s) will discover and will no longer be friends with you?
What would cause you to discontinue a friendship with someone?
Do you have any friends to whom you have committed your loyalty and will not turn your back on them, regardless of what they do?
Do you have any friends who have committed their loyalty to you, and you know they will not forsake you, regardless of what you do?
Do you have any friends who have stopped talking to you, but you don't know why? What have you done about it?
Do you have any friends who you've stopped talking to and they don't know why? What can you do about it?
Do you ever feel like your friendships are tenuous and easily dissolvable? If so, why do you think that is?
Looking forward to hearing your answers.
How would you describe the perfect friend?
Is there anything about you that you're afraid your friend(s) will discover and will no longer be friends with you?
What would cause you to discontinue a friendship with someone?
Do you have any friends to whom you have committed your loyalty and will not turn your back on them, regardless of what they do?
Do you have any friends who have committed their loyalty to you, and you know they will not forsake you, regardless of what you do?
Do you have any friends who have stopped talking to you, but you don't know why? What have you done about it?
Do you have any friends who you've stopped talking to and they don't know why? What can you do about it?
Do you ever feel like your friendships are tenuous and easily dissolvable? If so, why do you think that is?
Looking forward to hearing your answers.
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