Would ya take a look at that!

When that March wind blows strong, and the temperature climbs out of the winter depths, and the buds of the silver maples appear, I pull on my mud boots and venture out into the gardens for a peek on their progress. I don't dare even breath the word "Spring" until I see this:

That, my friends, is the reality of Spring. That is the promise of baked potatoes, fresh summer salads, creamy soups and sour-cream scrambled eggs. There is a truth in chives that's unarguable, unmistakable, and when I see them thrusting their green lives into the first sign of warmth, I know that what they're saying is a fact; winter is almost over, my love. Asparagus, arugula, romaine and sweet peas are not far behind. And then comes nasturtiums, hollyhocks, marigolds and leeks. And THEN, you KNOW it's not long before eggplants and summer squash and tomatoes and watermelons!

And this year? Because I chose very deliberately not to be a lazy bum last Fall, I happily discovered a beautiful, neat row of this in my veggie garden today:

Do you know what that is? Do ya? Do ya? It's GARLIC! My very first crop of garlic ever, after several unsuccessful and half-hearted attempts at planting the fabulously delicious and absolutely necessary bulbs, I've finally got garlic!

How could life possibly get any better than that?

Dear March

Dear March -- Come in --
How glad I am --
I hoped for you before --

Put down your Hat --
You must have walked --
How out of Breath you are --
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me --
I have so much to tell --

I got your Letter, and the Birds --
The Maples never knew that you were coming -- till I called
I declare -- how Red their Faces grew --
But March, forgive me -- and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue --
There was no Purple suitable --
You took it all with you --

Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door --
I will not be pursued --
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied --
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame

Emily Dickinson

Name Meanings

This evening as we were sitting around the dinner table, Rejoice mentioned that he'd heard that The Baby had an interesting story behind her name. Sweetheart volunteered to share the story; The Baby was named after a relative, and her name is actually that relative's name spelled backwards. She also has two middle names, one for her great grandmother. The other is Joy. The reason is because I had waited so long for her to be born and was very frustrated by the waiting. She was coming later than we had planned, it had been a long and difficult pregnancy to begin with, and now the labor itself was drawn-out and painful. Soon after she was born, I spoke to my mother-in-law who said, "Weeping endures for the night, but joy comes in the morning," Psalm 30:5, and so, since The Baby was born at 6:00 a.m., Joy came in the morning.

Monet was named after an artist friend of ours who passed just days before Monet's birth. He also has two middle names which both have meanings. Each of our children were named very carefully and deliberately. Some appreciate their names. Others do not. But they can never say that we didn't care when we named them.

Rejoice went on to tell us about his name. When he was born, his mom was only into her seventh month of pregnancy. His father was working in the southern part of Swaziland and had to travel a long distance to get to the hospital and was quite worried about this fragile little premature baby of his. When he arrived at the hospital, he found that his son had been born and, while he was very tiny, he was healthy and without defect. He called his family and announced that everyone should be happy that the baby was born healthy! Rejoice! And that's where he got his name.

What does your name mean? How did you go about naming your own children? Did you settle on a name before your child was born or did you wait until you met the new little person? How do you feel about your own name?

Five in a Row Meme

From Ms Booshay at Quiet Life:

Five in a Row

1. Name one thing you do everyday.

Prepare some kind of food.

2. Name two things you wish you could learn.

French and guitar.

3. Name three things that remind you of your childhood.

Flooded front yards that you can actually swim in and that smell like Sea World; homemade french fries and meat loaf with ketchup that has been baked onto the top; A Noun is a Person, Place or Thing.

4. Name four things you love to eat but rarely do.

Fresh strawberries; homemade pasta with alfredo sauce; good steak; a very well-made salad with all the fixins;

5. Name five things that make you feel good.

When someone compliments me for work I enjoyed doing; when the little bell on my inbox dings; when I've finished reading aloud to my kiddoes; when my daughter's home from college on Spring break; when I discover that I can still roller skate without falling down.

@ 6:13 march morning

Early each morning, I rise with the sun, prepare breakfast for Rejoice and I, and then we brace ourselves for the late winter cold before heading to the van. I blast the heat (Rejoice isn't used to this weather. The coldest it gets in his part of Swaziland is fifty degrees), set the van to barrel up the rutted, bumpy lane and down the other side, emptying out onto our country road as the sun pinks the sky and the frost clings desperately to the hills and valleys. We have some of our best talks then, as I'm driving Rejoice to his daily job at the local thrift store, sometimes getting so involved in our conversations that I forget to respect the potholes. Lately, we've been watching in amazement the progress of an Amish neighbor's building, a shop for crafting end tables and coffee tables. In just a matter of days, the project has gone from moving some earth to a building under roof. Rejoice is intrigued with the building process. In his homeland, houses are made from cement blocks, often hand-made, and either steel, tile or thatched roofs. Seeing stick frame construction is new for him.

Along our drive, we see animals that dart hither and yon--a squirrel who isn't sure whether he's crossing the road or not, a herd of deer staring curiously at our passing vehicle, a groundhog waddling quickly into a hole in the bank. Sometimes we see large turkey vultures or crows on the road devouring a squirrel or groundhog that wasn't so lucky. Often, we'll begin our conversation, about Swazi government, or strange American customs, or rodeos or county fairs or polygamy or genetically modified foods, and find it difficult to stop talking when we reach our destination.

This poem, which I read for the first time today, reminded me of our morning drives.

@ 6:13 march morning
by Denis Dunn

driving toward the
morning sky

I must be attentive; the spring potholes
punish the wandering mind

crow gently rises
from carrion breakfast
to allow me to pass

the pine bough
of crow’s chosen perch
barely bends;
tho the bird looms large

the greens, the orange
the gleaming black death eater

what have these to do
with this shattered passageway

today this dark ice will melt
as orange brightens to yellow
& tonight it will freeze again

An Obsessive Interest in Swaziland

It's amazing how quickly one's interest is engaged in a thing when there's some personal element involved. For instance, if you would have asked me a year ago to tell you everything I knew about Swaziland, I'd have said, "Um...I've heard the name before." Other than that, I could not have told you anything. I'm being embarrassingly honest here when I say that I would not have been able to tell you what continent it's on. And I'm also being embarrassingly honest when I tell you that I wouldn't really have cared all that much.

After having been introduced to our Swazi guest, who I am calling Rejoice here on this blog, I became interested in Swaziland. Almost obsessively interested, you might say.

Rejoice is here as part of a voluntary exchange program where he is both learning about our culture and teaching us about his culture. He spends his days working at the local thrift store which is run by the organization that organizes the cross-cultural program. There, he is learning skills that he can take back to Swaziland so that he can better use his existing university education to secure a job, start a business and serve his country.

When I began grabbing snippets of time talking to Rejoice here and there before he came to stay with us, I became more fascinated with his culture, the struggles and challenges of his country, the uniqueness of the Swazi government and tradition, and the desperation they are dealing with as a result of the highest prevalence of HIV and AIDS in the world.

There are many things about Swaziland and its people that make it unique and captivating. Swaziland, a landlocked country that is surrounded by Mozambique and South Africa, is the only absolute monarchy left in sub-Saharan Africa. It's about the size of New Jersey and is home to 1.1 million people, 80,000 of whom are children orphaned by AIDS. It's estimated that over 100 children per month are stolen from Swaziland and Mozambique. There are reports, like this one from BBC News, of young girls being stolen and stockpiled for prostituion during South Africa's World Cup in 2010. The average life expectancy in Swaziland is 32, the lowest life expectancy in the world which is not surprising, since 42% of pregnant Swazi women are HIV positive, in addition to the prevalence of malaria, polio, yellow fever, cholera and more. The average Swazi lives on .63 cents a day and many of the people survive thanks to the World Food Programme. Because of these hunger and disease issues, there's much controversy about the fact that the ruler of Swaziland, soft-spoken King Mswati III, lives with his fourteen wives in relative luxury, his eldest daughter, Princess Sikhanyiso, attending a Christian university in California. While the people of his nation were starving and dying of AIDS, his attempt to use government money to purchase a private jet for more than double the annual health budget for all of Swaziland was thwarted.

And yet, there is so much about the Swazi culture that's appealing and admirable. Beauty, tradition and culture struggle against the push for democracy and technology. They're one of the only African nations to avoid civil war over the last thirty years. Rejoice, who had to endure many disappointments in life, specifically in his effort to secure a University education (Swaziland has only one university, and it's extremely difficult to get into), is so intelligent, well-spoken, Godly and respectful. His English is amazing, his grammar and handwriting impressive, to the extent that his mastery of the English language is superior to most of the American teens I know. He is grateful and conscientious, kind and thoughtful, has a wonderful sense of humor and a strong desire to improve himself through reading, listening, studying and gaining wisdom. He is mature yet childlike, knowledgable yet not opinionated. He has a firm grasp on the realities of his country, yet he's able to remain analytical about what he sees here in the U.S.

So here I am, an American woman approaching forty, who is learning about this amazing, controversial, heartbreaking culture for the first time in my life, and, in the process, learning much about myself, seeing American culture through the eyes of my new friend and short-term son. The questions he asks, like "Why are rabbits associated with Easter in the U.S.?" and "Why do children say 'yeah,' or 'what' when a parent calls them?" (which would be considered rude in Swaziland) or "Why do churches speak against gluttony as a sin yet have their outings at large buffets where so much food is present, eaten, and wasted?" are questions that lead me into a new or sharper perspective of who we are, what we have, what we take for granted.

On one hand, I feel that I should be ashamed of taking so long to care so much about Africa, especially, as a child of the 80's and a big-time teenage fan of U2, I heard so much about the plight of the African nations, but I also feel that this is the right time for me to learn. God is doing some incredible things in my mind right now, and I certainly welcome Rejoice as an instrument of that process.

Learning About Myself through Others

Have you ever noticed that when you think you're in a position to teach someone, or comfort someone, or change someone's life, you end up being taught, comforted or changed in ways you didn't expect? I've had this happen several times in my life, so I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to me that it has happened again.

The first time that I can recall this happened was when a very dear friend and mentor of ours was diagnosed with Leukemia at the age of 60. When we found out that this amazing, robust, artistic man had received such grim news and had immediately been admitted the hospital for aggressive treatment, my first thought was, "What can I possibly offer him?" I hadn't experienced such illness in my life. As a matter of fact, I'd only really had to go through the death of one family member, my grandmother, and I'd been too young to fully understand what was happening.

But here was a man who had been like a father to my husband, had welcomed him into his home during a particularly rocky time in his life, and had offered himself as a spiritual guide. He had seen us through no small difficulties and witnessed some of the ugliest moments of our lives. He had given us so very much. What could we possibly offer? So for quite some time--a week? a month? I can't quite recall--I resisted visiting him in the hospital. I felt so guilty, and yet I couldn't bring myself to do any differently.

It was just before Easter, and my two young children had been busily decorating egg-shaped cupcakes. They turned out so beautifully that I had an idea. The children and I would brighten our friend's day with a plate of these festive Easter cupcakes. So, on a warm Spring day, I loaded the children into the car, my belly swollen with the second trimester of pregnancy, and we made the trek to the hospital to see our friend for the first time since his diagnosis.

Reed was so vibrant, even in the final stages of his cancer, but one thing he absolutely could not do was eat. He had lost quite a bit of weight, and just the idea of food made him queasy. As a result, our cupcakes were useless and I, likewise, felt useless, too.

But as I sat in my awkwardness, desperately searching for something to offer my friend, reminding a four- and five-year-old not to touch that, and not to climb there, Reed did something amazing. He comforted me. He shared his thoughts, and his peace, and his joy with me, and he let me know that he was content with what the Lord was doing in his life, and that I should be, too.

I walked away from the hospital room that day in such awe that this man, who I had sought to comfort, had ended up comforting me.

Three months later, on the due date of my third child, I stood with Reed's wife and other loved ones as Reed took his last breath on this earth and stepped into eternity with God. As I stood there on that Thursday afternoon, my stomach tensed and hardened with early contractions. A week later, Monet would be born, and would be given Reed's name as a middle name. He, too, would become a gifted artist.

Once again, I find myself in a place where I have been unsure about how well I would be able to serve and teach.

Once again, I'm being served. I'm being taught.

Two weeks ago, we welcomed a young man into our home from Swaziland for a six-month stay as part of a international voluntary exchange program. Our guest, who I will call Rejoice because that's what his name means, has been such a blessing to me and has already begun to teach me so much about who I am, what I believe, and how my life affects the world and those around me. His politeness, eagerness to learn and amazing dedication to Christ have been sources of much introspection for me.

Over the next six months, I'll be writing about Rejoice, about welcoming him into our family, and about the amazing lessons I'm learning along the way.

Please help me to welcome Rejoice into the Today's Lessons family!

Lurkers, delurk!

Bo has been dealing with some issues at work lately that leave him pretty frustrated when he gets home at the end of the day. I'm trying to get some input on how to handle these frustrations and wondering how much of the day other people lose by sounding off about their work day after they've come home.

So, I'd really like to hear from you. How much time do you spend grumbling about your work day? If you're a stay-at-home spouse, how much time does your spouse spend talking about work frustrations? How do you handle these frustrations?

If you're reading and lurking, I'd really love to hear your input.

Question...

Indulge me: how much time do you/does your spouse spend per day decompressing or blowing off steam about work once you're off the clock and at home?

Things I Am Thankful For Today

I do an awful lot of grumbling and complaining, so for these next five minutes, I'm going to list every thing I can think of that I'm thankful for.

Thank you, God, for:

My five beautiful children;
their good health;
my good health;
my husband's good health;
a beautiful home;
a great community;
a wonderful church full of people who are loving;
being able to stay home and orchestrate my own day;
great food;
this incredible computer that lets me do so much;
my iPod, with which I am learning so much;
the ability to communicate with friends and family;
my daughter's ability to go to college and not pay a thing;
cats who are fun to watch;
neighbors who let us live our lives;
my dad, who vacuums the house and loads the dishwasher every day;
a very comfortable bed and bedroom;
friends;
the ability to clean and declutter;
the views from my windows;
living in a place where we get to experience all four seasons in their fullest;
a vehicle that runs;
getting snowed in every once in a while;
great food stores nearby;
chocolate cake;
the freedom to home educate my children;
the freedom to learn every day;
Monet's artwork;
Sweetheart's great, helpful attitude;
clean, running water;
the organization that's part of our church that helps others have clean, running water;
extended family;
photography;
vitamins;
pizza;
blogging;
affirmation.

That's as far as I could get in five minutes, though there's much, much more to be thankful for.

What are *you* thankful for?

The World Around Me

70

This is one reason I love the internet. Fun, educational games like this always remind me of how much I still need to learn as an adult. ;-) I've been messing around with this little challenge for about a week now. I didn't do so well the first time. I think I got 37 on my maiden attempt. Bo, the amazing thing he is, got 78. My goal is 100, because I don't think I could type faster than that. You have to spell the countries correctly, but you needn't capitalize. I'd love to hear how you do!

::: i love this face :::

I absolutely love this face. Love it. Love it. Love it. I never would have thought in a million years that I'd have a daughter so fun, beautiful and intelligent, yet there she is, in all of her red-headed, brown-eyed glory.

And yesterday? She was a baby. Just toddling after me, thinking I was the greatest thing that ever lived. To see her all grown up, on the cusp of turning nineteen, living away from home and running her own life, making new friends and amazing new people is so surreal to me.

If you have a little girl, you'd better stop what you're doing right this minute and go wrap your arms around her. Give her the biggest hug and the sloppiest kiss you can muster. Tell her how beautiful and amazing and smart she is (no matter what the child psychologists and friends and grandparents and experts say you should do/say). Bake some cookies with her, or watch her favorite movie with her (even if it's High School Musical), and let her know how awesome it is that she's alive and that she's spending her time with you.

Before you know it, she'll be nineteen, and she'll be away at college, and you'll be looking at pictures of her and wondering how it all went by so fast.

I know it's so banal to say these things, but I think that's because they're really, really true.

And now, I need to go spend some time with the two daughters who are at home getting their jammies on and asking for a story. I love their faces, too.

::: oh, to be a cat :::

What's it like to be a cat for a living? To spend one's days figuring out how to squeeze one's self into places that one would not normally care to squeeze into? To be enamored by every moving thing, whether it's the ladybug on the window, or the cursor on the computer screen, or the laser beam controlled by a teenage boy, or one's own tail?

What must life be like when one's only worries are when the people will rise and fill the food bowl, or banish one from the counter, or spill some cream as they're filling their coffee mugs? What must it be like to fill one's days with searching for the warmest beam of sunshine or the freshest basket of clean laundry or the last sleeping child? No worries about exercise, or relationships, or beauty. One simply knows that one looks good, even in one's graceful act of bathing.

And when one has an issue with a fellow cat, one simply lets out a horrifying hiss or a terrific growl, maybe even bats a clawed paw, and the message is clear. Soon enough, one will be playing with one's enemy, or one's tail, and all will be right with the world again.

When one needs a change of scenery or a safe hiding place, one has only to climb a tree, or curl up on a warm refrigerator, or perch atop an open door, and then one can have a view of everything, can bat at the people as they pass by, just for fun, or can completely ignore them, also just for fun. One can turn one's gorgeous green eyes upon the people, or turn and lift one's tail with dignity; one can choose to pay attention, or to not, but one can not be ignored, whether one is lying on the keyboard or the newspaper or pawing at the yarn in the evening or at a person's face in the wee morning hours, hoping for a little nibble of something, or eager to leave a dead-mouse gift, or hoping to get the person's attention just long enough to ignore them.

If I were a cat for a living, I would rule the world, I'm sure. Mice would fear me, children adore me, trees cradle me. And no matter what I was doing, whether sleeping or bathing or eating or playing, I would always be gorgeous.

Midwinter

Ms. Booshay over at Quiet Life issued a photo challenge. Post the sixth photo in your sixth folder. Donna's is stunning. Mine is eh. Though shalt not covet they blog neighbor's camera and photographic eye. ;-)

It's now day five of some illness that has me feeling less-than-healthy. I've been spending this week in bed with a pounding head, fever and chills, throbbing eyeballs and wracking cough. Yesterday, I finally went to the doc because I was fairly sure I had the beginnings of sinusitis and bronchitis. The doc agreed. While we were in there, Bo had his nostrils swabbed for a flu test, which was very unpleasant (so he says. I closed my eyes and could only hear the procedure) and came back negative. Negative! Today, he's feeling the effects of a bad cold, he says, but not the flu. Could I just have a very bad cold that carries with it the classic symptoms of influenza?

But, as I often say, things like this are God's way of slowing us down, and I have been slowed w-a-y down, what with this unfriendly visitor and this amazing Midwestern weather. We're actually having a winter this year, and it has everyone in a tizzy! School called off day after day (ours continues on, of course), meetings canceled, practices postponed. People are bustin' out the sleds and skis. My neighbor has been so kind as to plow my long, country drive, sometimes multiple times a day. But now that I'm a mini-van mom, I'm still stuck here until the man with the snow tires gets home. So I've settled in, have just about worn out my iPod and wireless keyboard, and have drunk more licorice tea in the past week than most people drink in a lifetime.

Believe it or not, I've actually enjoyed this winter, even with the illness. I've awoken to so many beautiful sunrises, and, as I type, I'm blessed with the view of a gorgeous white dusting of snow on the huge silver maples. I love the clean whiteness. If I could have my way, it would stay like this until April, when the crocuses start popping up from the earth. I know that we won't have Spring in January or February, so it's just fine with me if the land lies dormant under the blanket of white. It's when it all melts and we have two or three months of ugly, brown, litter-strewn mud to contend with that my sadness kicks in, that I feel the effects of that terrible bleak midwinter.

I do have compassion for those who have to navigate the roads and sidewalks in this weather. I wish there were some way we could all do the sensible thing and just hibernate for these months, but I know that it's not realistic (though I've never been accused of being a realist!). But even in my compassion, I can't hide my excitement when I see these incredibly big, fluffy snowflakes that are even now dancing outside my window.

While I certainly look forward to spring, I know that it's quite a ways away. So, for now, I embrace winter!

Atta Girl!

The amazing Bard was named to her university's Dean's List for the Fall 2008 semester!

She's enjoying school, taking voice and guitar lessons, is one of the producers for a weekly live soap-opera type performance, landed a role in God's Favorite--this term's theater production, sings with the Women's Choir, is enrolled in several Honors classes, tutors part time, and is double majoring in English and Communications.

Not too shabby, eh?

Happy Birthday, Baby!

While it's technically not The Baby's birthday yet, we celebrated on Saturday while her older sister was home from college (and continue to celebrate this week).

It's strange for me celebrating this birthday with my littlest little. After all, this is the first time in my life that my youngest child is older than four. With all other children, by that time, there was another baby here. So now, I have a six year old, and no babies. And this will likely be the last six-year-old birthday I'll celebrate with one of my own children. It's strange and sad and sweet and surreal. I'll miss having littles of my own around, especially since this age, five and six, are my very favorite ages.

A friend updated her twitter with a status about reading picture books to her youngest little, and how she'll miss reading them when her kids get older. It sent my heart racing, sent me into a minor panic. I hadn't thought of that! My youngest little is wandering right out of that picture book stage, and I'm not ready for that!

So today, we'll read a few picture books for The Baby (who will be given a new blogger name when she actually turns six), and Swallowdale for the middles, and I'll be assigning The Last Lecture of Houdin, my eldest boy.

Today's mantra: Embrace the Littles!

The Great Cupcake Adventure: Day Three!

Well, we're half-way done! Today, we made Pistachio Raspberry Cupcakes, and while they were really more like sweet muffins. they were certainly delicious (but the Ginger Molasses ones are still my favorite so far!). These cupcakes were unique from the others in that they were mixed entirely in the food processor. I used salted pistachios, since I couldn't find unsalted ones, and I omitted the added salt. Also, I used frozen raspberries because the fresh ones are out of season and quite expensive.

I can't remember what tomorrow's cupcakes are! I'll have to check with Sweetheart. Of course, I'll know soon enough, since tomorrow will come quickly!

The Great Cupcake Adventure: Day Two!

Today was a busy day, filled with doctor appointments, haircuts, fiddle lessons, a lunch outing and various errands. But we wanted to make sure we got our cupcakes in today, so we made them first thing this morning. What a wonderfully decadent breakfast!

Today's recipe was Ginger Molasses Cupcakes with Whipped Cream Topping. They were definitely a hit! I added four tablespoons of powdered sugar to the whipped topping. Just the right amount of sweetness. When we made the cupcakes, they really puffed up over the top, so I'd recommend only filling the tins half full. They also flopped when they were taken from the oven, which didn't affect the flavor one bit, but made them difficult to remove from the pan. I wonder if the "melted" butter was a typo? Not sure.

Anyway, they were very delicious!I venture to say they might end up being my favorite of all of them. Four more days and four more cupcake recipes to go! Tomorrow, Pistachio Cupcakes with Raspberries.

The Great Cupcake Adventure: Day One!

The Baby is going to be six years old soon. To celebrate, we decided to dive into the latest Martha Stewart Living Magazine and make a different batch of cupcakes every day for six days. Today was Chocolate Chip with Chocolate Chip Buttercream Frosting. The verdict? Very, very sweet! If you make these, add a dash of salt to the icing to cut down on the sweetness!

Tomorrow, it's Ginger Molasses with Whipped Cream frosting.

::: the best prayer ever :::

"Dear God, I hope you had a good Christmas and I hope you went to Jesus' house for His birthday."
~The Baby, Age 5

::: come on, baby, light my tree :::

It's not really something I want to do, but I've begun anyway. If it were up to me, I'd probably have twinkling lights dotting my home all-year-round. But I'm not sure I like the connotations that come to mind when I think about Christmas lights on my house in July, so I've begun the process of de-holidazing my home.

After a trip to the local Stuff*Mart for a heap of plastic boxes (how much money do they make selling these things, doyathink?), it was time to start disassembling the decorations I'd assembled just a couple of weeks ago. Well, okay, maybe it was a couple of months ago. But it sure doesn't seem like it's been long since Monet was bugging me about going out to cut down our tree, which was finally put up and decorated on Christmas eve. I actually think we got the last tree they sold, as we were on the lot as the place was shutting down the day before Christmas eve.

And today, while Monet was disposing of said tree, now brittle and prickly with lack of life, he stuffed it into the burn barrel, lit it aflame, and then watched in panic as it tumbled out of the barrel and rolled, constantly combusting, toward the big red barn just west, and downhill, from the burn barrel. Flames, he says, were as high as the first floor of the treehouse, which is twenty feet off the ground, and he panicked as he envisioned the barn erupting into flames. He made haste toward the house, not quite knowing what to say, and stammered, "Can someone help me with this?" gesturing toward the flaming tree in the barnyard. Bo, not knowing what Monet could possibly need help with, looked at him with mild confusion/frustration/condescension, and then noticed the twenty-foot flaming mass of snapping, popping holiday spirit through the kitchen window. General panic ensued.

It's a very good thing that Christmas trees are quickly consumed by fire. It was all over in a matter of minutes and the barn was largely unharmed, thanks partly to Houdin, who grabbed flaming, smoldering pine branches with his bare hands. He says he has blisters to prove it. I wasn't here when the whole thing took place; I was out buying large plastic boxes to stash away our Christmas joy, so I have to take his word for it.

After all of the fun and fire had died down, Monet came up with this little piece of wisdom. "You know, when these things happen, no one thinks to stop and take a picture of it, because if they're taking a picture, they're not putting out the fire."

Yeah.

Kinda makes a girl appreciate her vintage-seventies fake, white tree with its retro-rotating base. Less chance of it catching the barn on fire.

Hope your post-holiday happenings are flame-free.

New Look, New Problems

I've wanted to overhaul my blog for a while, so I decided to do it today. I've saved my old template html, just in case I totally hate this, but in the meantime, I'm going to try this out. The problem is that it's been so long since I did this thing, I can't remember my haloscan username, and blogrolling is defunct, so if you were on my blogroll before and you're still active, drop me a line and I'll add you to my new one. If you've made comments within the last few days, I've read them but now they're lost in haloscan land. I've enabled comments for blogger but they don't seem to be showing up in old posts, so I'm still trying to figure that out. Anyway, here's to a new year and a new look.

Sunrise

If I had a spell of magic
I would make this enchantment for you
A burgundy heart-shaped medallion
With a window that you could look through
So that when all the mirrors are angry
With your faults and all you must do
You could peek through that heart-shaped medallion
And see you from my point of view
~David Wilcox

::: wintery thoughts on a wintery day :::

It's a child's dream, a snow like this. We didn't get it for Christmas, but we're welcoming it all the same. It's the time of year when we discover that we don't have enough matching gloves and mittens, or someone is missing their snowboots, or that a pair of pants doesn't fit under the snowsuit anymore. The snow bikes, snowboards and sleds are dug out from the barn, ramps are made, shovels are re-purposed from digging holes to making ramps, and I, the mother, venture out long enough to make an appearance, take a few trips on the sled, and get laughed at for my lack of snow savvy.
And then I head back inside to make a batch of homemade hot chocolate with real whipped cream, a dash of grated dark chocolate and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Everyone claims their favorite mug while I revel in a job well done, listening to the "oooohhhh!"s and "yum!"s as they drink it up.

It's great fun to look out onto the hillside from the warmth of my house and feel like I'm lazing around inside a giant snow globe.

I wish I were independently wealthy. I'd love to take my children downhill skiing. It was the only "sport" that I loved as a teen, aside from fishing. Every Monday after school, all season long, a group of us would climb aboard the bus with our ski club advisers and make the long drive to the closest slopes (Ohio isn't exactly known for its skiing spots) where we would suit up, pull on those giant ski boots, and do that awkward, clomping ski-boot-walk out to the lift. For hours, we'd ride up, ski down, ride up, ski down, the time passing so quickly that it was always a surprise when it was time to leave. I could ski anything on the slopes, from cruising the bunny hops to carving the moguls, and never sustained any injury, aside from maybe my pride every time I backed onto the lift chair, which I never really could get the hang of, or the few times I fell getting off the chair, which were probably the two hardest parts of skiing for me.

Still, I don't remember being intensely fearful of the process, except for the time that one of my club mates broke her leg. I don't think it had occurred to me up until then that one could actually get hurt having this much fun. I may have had a bit more respect for the slopes after that, but never fear.

When I was a young mother with two toddlers at home, Bo and I took an evening to hit the slopes. I was so excited about getting out there, after having been off of skis for about five years. I suited up, pulled on those big ski boots, wiggled my fingers into my gloves, donned a warm winter hat, wrapped a warm scarf around my neck, and clomped awkwardly to the lift, preparing to race my way down the hills for the first time with my hubby in true ski bunny fashion.

But when I got to the top of the first slope, something happened to me. Something inside of me clicked, snapped, and locked up, and I found myself perched at the peak of a very modest hill, eyes wide, experiencing an unfamiliar feeling.

I was afraid of the slope.

Suddenly, the stupidity of this sport zoomed into view for me. A mortal being attaches long, narrow boards to her feet, perhaps even waxes them, puts her fists around two sticks that end in sharp points, rides high in the sky to the top of an snow-covered hill and, along with hundreds of other people she doesn't know and can't fully trust, races down an icy path. I began to realize how brittle bones are, and how vulnerable the back and neck can be, and how irresponsible it would be for a grown woman to leave her two babies motherless just because she wanted to get a little thrill by speeding down a snowy slope.

Nope.

I don't recall how I made it down that hill, though I'm sure I skied it. Did I enjoy myself, or did I pray for my safety the entire way?

Somehow, I got to the bottom, snapped off my skis, and nestled myself into a comfy chair next to the fireplace in the lodge with a cup of hot chocolate.

Every once in a while, the ski bug bites me, especially when I see Houdin and Monet out there trying to make jumps on our little hillside, and I want to give it another try, but now it's the cost of the thing that prohibits me. I should just put the trip on the credit card and go for it. After all, I can't take it with me. Of course, if I follow that plan, I might be leaving it behind a bit earlier than I had planned.

What did you leave behind when you crossed the threshold of parenthood? What did you pick up? What would you love to see your children do that you did as a child, but you just haven't done it yet? What do they do that you never would have dreamed of doing at their age?

Snow day!

All is quiet here, save the sound of the freezing rain tip, tap, tipping on my skylight. We're snowed in. Remember that feeling? Glorious imprisonment. We can't go anywhere, and no one can really venture down our long, hilly, frozen lane. Everyone is home, safe, and there's nothing on the calendar today, which is more the trend than not lately, thank goodness. I know that Bo would have appreciated another day off and would have welcomed this weather on a Friday or a Monday, but here it is, and we'll enjoy it. There's a chicken stewing on the stove for some homemade potpie and homemade pizza for breakfast, left over from last night's family night, which kept everyone up so late that they're still sleeping at ten in the morning. I sense some homemade hot chocolate in the plans, too.

What do you do with your snow days, if you have any? If you live in a warm climate, what is your equivalent of a snow day?

Stream of Consciousness Whilst Avoiding Cleaning My Room

I have a stack of papers on my floor that need to be gone through.
Most of them are probably trash, but I can't just throw them away.
I have to filter through them.
And then I have to burn the ones I don't want.
Identity theft is so stupid.
"Jesus in New Orleans" is playing on iTunes.
Some days, I want to clean.
Some days, I want to stay in bed.
Some days, I want to go away.
Some days, I want to stay inside.
What kind of day is this?
Bard is home for three more days.
Today, she's getting her hair cut and colored.
I have a grocery list the size of someone's arm.
Remember Ed Grimley?
That was funny stuff.
But I think it jumped the shark with the cartoon, don't you?
I mean, watching Martin Short himself was 98% of the fun.
Why animate that?
Who's your favorite comedy actor right now?
I think mine's either Jack Black or Steve Carell.
The Office is my current obsession.
HTML is amazing.
I need to dust.
"Stella's Tarantella" is playing now.
The Baby loves this song.
She's not much of a baby anymore.
Actually, she's a pretty amazing little girl who is almost six years old.
I love birthdays.
What will we do for this birthday?
When she turned four, my friend Kim painted her a picture.
It was a pink and purple birthday.
There were balloons, and windows, and buildings and guitars and a cake with four candles.
It's one of my favorite things.
It's hanging downstairs.
Are we still friends?
I miss our walks.
My running has stopped.
I want to run again.
Monet and I are hoping to train for a 5K, but we've not been doing very well.
I bought him a pair of running shoes.
I think we'll do it.
But when?
"Spark" by Over the Rhine is playing now.
It's one of my favorite songs.
Especially this line:
"Obsessions with self-preservation
faded when I threw my fear away.
It's not a thing you can imagine.
You either lose your fear or spend your life
with one foot in the grave."
That line was an epiphany for me.
Lose my fear.
What's the worst thing that could happen to me?
No one can steal my soul.
The next life is so glorious.
Eternal bliss.
Oneness with Christ.
Knowledge. Happiness. Freedom from pain.
Wake up dreaming.
Only love can turn this around.
Jesus was an incredible man.
I wish more people could see him and not what his followers do to him.
It's time to wrap this up.
It's time to love life.
Blessings on this amazing day.

What is this feeling?

While many people close to me have headed back to work, school and regular routines, I'm resisting. After moving at a break-neck pace for so long, I almost feel as if I'm suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Often when my day begins, I don't really want to do anything, just bask in the stillness and quietness of the day. I don't have any interest in interacting with people, really, and I don't feel like cooking, cleaning or going out. Some might say it's depression, and I have to admit that some days I think that, too, but then I wonder if it's not something else. Something less vile and destructive. What if it's a feeling that I've gone without for so long that I can barely recognize it for what it is. What if it's just contentment. Satisfaction. Wanting for nothing.

Peace.

I'm happy to laze in bed and watch an independent film while the kids do their lessons, and then read to them for a while, or watch a nature show on the Mac in my room, or just cuddle quietly. I'm happy for them to finish their lessons and then spend the afternoon playing with their new Christmas gift, the family Wii. The contentment and quietness pervades. Is that okay? Is it okay that right now, in the stillness of my bedroom, all I can hear is a yelling blue jay, the icy snow falling on skylight and the ticking of my clock? Is that acceptable?

It's so peaceful. It's what I want.

And yet, I find myself feeling guilty for having it. I should be...I should be...I should be.... The expectations, requirements and necessities pour in, and I struggle to keep them at bay. I'm content, and yet I find myself looking for ways to alleviate the guilt I feel for being content.

Is anyone starving? No, of course not. Crying, unhappy, bored? No. Are my children well-cared-for? Intelligent? Rested? Loved? Very much so. The grumbling recedes. The bickering ebbs away. We're in a sanctuary. A safe place. A respite.

The other day, Bo and I took Bard and her friend out for the evening so that Bard could do some clothing shopping before going back to college. While I was meandering around Target with my empty shopping cart, finding nothing I felt I needed, a familiar face came toward me, a family friend who I've lost touch with a bit since we've moved to the country. A hug. A talk. Catching up. His wife is one of my best friends, though, even in this age of communication, we rarely take time to talk. Still, I know that she's my friend. I value her friendship dearly, admire her greatly, miss her tremendously. And while I spoke to her husband, he listened to me tell of how we've cut back, pared down, retreated a bit. Things are slower now, I said. We're taking it easy. He told me that when his wife, my friend, would read my blog, read about all of the things we were doing and going to and being, she would question herself. "Are we doing this right?" she would ask her husband. "Are we homeschooling our children okay? Should we be doing more?" And he told her that, no, they should not be doing more. They were doing what was right. For them.

I often fall into the trap of questioning myself, second-guessing my choices. Shouldn't I be doing more? Accomplishing more? Reading more? Teaching more? Working more? Cleaning more? Usually those questions come from my inner struggles with comparing myself to others. What a dangerous thing to do, no? I need to do what is right for me, for my family, for now, for this moment in time. My child is not your child. Your house is not my house. We are not the same person, in the same struggles, with the same desires, goals, dreams, hurts, families, angers, choices, possessions, means, debts, beliefs. We are unique. I am. You are. My choices today are based on my knowledge, and yours have to be, too. We love our families. We are doing what is right for them.

When I was a child, I would close my eyes and press the heels of my palms into my closed eyelids. The pressure would send psychedelic colors pulsing into sight, busy and vibrant and symmetrical and changing. I would pretend that I was in another world, that I was falling through some type of carnival ride, fast and furious--everything was moving and morphing. And when it began to hurt a bit, I would take my hands away and open my eyes. Slowly, the real world would come back into focus, but there would still be flashes of light and blind spots for a few moments. I would still feel the affect of that pressure; it would take a few minutes to blink it away.

In this stillness and contentment, I still find myself blinking away the busy, vibrant, changing, fast and furious carnival ride I was on. I can't always see things clearly, but it's slowly coming back into focus.

Photos: View from My Bed, 1-7-2009

A good thought for this season...

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. If you bite and ravage each other, watch out—in no time at all you will be annihilating each other, and where will your precious freedom be then?

My counsel is this: Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit, just as the free spirit is incompatible with selfishness. These two ways of life are antithetical, so that you cannot live at times one way and at times another way according to how you feel on any given day. Why don't you choose to be led by the Spirit and so escape the erratic compulsions of a law-dominated existence?

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.

But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity.

Galations 5, The Message

The day is new and fresh. Now what will I do with it? I have my plans, of course, as I normally do when I wake to the sun peaking over the hill. I have a lovely view of it from my bedroom window; on most days, I'm happy to greet it, especially lately as I've made the decision to minimize my stress by staying home more, making a commitment to say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not able to do that." I don't say no to everything, but I have cut way, way back on the things that I do as an individual and the things we do as a family outside of our home. Gone are the days of rushing around looking for choir uniforms, or making hour-long drives to this or that organization, or spending days at a time preparing classes for other homeschooled children who choose not to do their assignments anyway. My focus needs to be on my family, on my health, and on the things that I know I can dedicate my time to fully without stressing everyone out.

So, my days are less stressful now. I know that who I am is not wrapped up in my performances. I can have meaningful relationships with people without "proving myself" through committees and organizations and meetings and clubs and societies. And now, if you ask me to do something and I say, "yes," you can know that I mean it fully.

Which leaves many of my days open and flexible. I like that.

Today, for example, is Saturday. Last year, I would have woken on any given December Saturday with a feeling of dread. What long car ride or unpleasant commitment do I have to greet today? Moreover, regardless of how well I do my task today, someone will not be pleased and I will feel that I've failed. What a depressing way to greet the day! How many things I put on the back burner, like teaching my children basic household tasks, or writing an essay, or making meals at home so that I could "be there" for this or that organization, job or club.

But today, I sit at home inhaling the aroma of my son's breakfast-making--pancakes and bacon-- and listening to the sounds of the dryer running, a blessing that has come about because I stopped saying "not now" to the nine-year-old daughter who kept begging me to teach her to do laundry. She has become a maniac, a laundry-doing machine; she sorts, washes, dries, folds, hangs, matches and puts away clothes better than I every have.

Last night, Bo and I were marveling over Sweetheart's gift as a laundress. When she came into the room, we decided to let her choose what the family would do for dinner that night. She didn't know, wasn't comfortable choosing. Couldn't we ask someone else? Couldn't we take a vote? We explained to her that we were giving her this choice because she had done such a fabulous job taking over the laundry chores. She didn't need a reward, she insisted. She likes doing laundry.

She likes doing laundry.

She likes it.

She. LIKES. it.

And so, doing laundry is its own reward. No other reward is needed.

She likes sorting the whites from the darks.

She likes starting the machine.

She likes putting in the laundry detergent and the fabric softener.

She likes the routine of putting the wash into the dryer.

She likes taking the warm clothes from the dryer, smelling their freshness, folding them and ushering them off to their proper locations.

She finds the reward in the enjoyment of the task.

This is the lesson I'm trying to learn. I will say yes to those things I've been gifted to do, those things that bring others joy, certainly, but that bring me joy because the doing of them is my reward. Of course I have to do some unpleasant tasks, but I'm learning to even enjoy those, and to reap my reward from the task itself, not from what others think of it.

This morning, I have a Saturday, and I have a to-do list that is dotted with reasonable expectations, planning ahead, and relishing the process.

And tomorrow will be new, and fresh, and I will not dread it.

Of snow and scarves and hats and men

Man, check out that snow. It's like a shake-em-up after all of the big flakes have fallen and the after-effects of the giant hand have stopped. The air is almost perfectly still, and just the little bits and wisps of tiny, delicate flurries remain. The birds are totally into the feeders right now, especially the suet, and while I sit here, a little downy woodpecker is hanging off the suet grate, sending out gentle chips and chirps, not eating, really, but just hanging there, basking in the comfort that energy and sustenance is right beneath his feet.

It's a still and peaceful morning. Bo has trudged off to his new job (as of about five months ago) as the production manager of a local chocolate company, the children are nestled all snug in their beds (even the eldest, I'm sure, who is making the most of that bohemian bent she gets from her father now that she's a freshman in college), and even the dogs are silent, all six of them, dotted here and there throughout the house, some under covers with children, some snuggled together in a pile of cast-off clothing that's not good enough for the thrift store, and one curled up on the soft blanket behind me. Even my live-in father, who rises early to indulge himself in one of his favorite obsessive activities, vacuuming, is still off in dreamland.

It won't last long, this silence. In less than an hour, Sweetheart and I will be scrambling to get to piano lessons, stuffing ourselves into our winter layers and wrapping scarves around our necks. I might even wear my hat, which is something I love to do but am still not convinced that I can actually pull it off. Some people's heads are made for hats. Some people have just the right distance between their eyebrows and their hairlines. I, however, have eyebrows that get lost under ever hat I wear, and it makes me look like a very serious swimmer who has shaved off all of his body hair to gain speed. This hat, however, looks halfway decent on me. At least I think it does when I first put it on. After a while, I think it just looks silly, which irks me because I really want to be the kind of person who can pull off wearing a hat.

Scarves, however, I can do, because anyone with a neck can do a scarf, and so I proudly don the masterpiece I created in honor of Bo's 36th birthday. It's made of this beautiful natural, earthy brown wool from Australia, which has no meaning whatsoever, other than it's natural and it's earthy and it's brown. But everything else about the scarf has meaning, symbolism. It's 36 stitches wide, to represent the number of years Bo had been on the planet at that time. It's 6'2" long, which is how tall he was when he'd been on the planet for 36 years. It has 13 ribs, which represents how many years we'd been married at that time. And it took me for. eh. ver. to make the thing. Ribbing and I are not good friends. I've tried several ribbed projects and always seem to mess them up somehow. But I was determined with this one, so I kept at it. And now it's done, and it's still beautiful six years later. Problem: Bo doesn't really wear it. Solution: I do. And I love how I can toss one end ever-so-carelessly over my shoulder and the other end still hangs past my belly button. It matches my style, my general color choices (earth tones and blacks) and I am unabashedly proud that I made it. I used to resist wearing it because it belonged to Bo, but now I think it belongs to me. He's just not a scarf-wearer, even though he has a neck and everything. Even though I always knew I'd have a Great Gatsby dresser in my stash of immediate male relatives, I just don't. They don't like khaki pants, or crisp white shirts, or those very cool haircuts that men had in the 20's. For me, a pocket watch chain draped from a pair of tan pleated pants is such a turn-on, just about as much as a simple pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. Classic. Quite sexy. And while I've recently talked Bo into wearing white t-shirts (love it, love it, love it), I don't think the crisp dress shirt, pocket watch and khakis are coming along anytime soon, and it seems I'm out of men, with my sons prefering much more casual attire.

And now I hear the click of the microwave door as my father starts his daily rituals of coffee, the telling of terrible news stories, and reminders of what I must do today. And then the vacumming will begin.

The silence is broken. It's time for me to get going with my day.

one word

Where is your mobile phone? kitchen
Where is your significant other? gigging
Your hair colour? brown
Your mother? gone
Your father? childish
Your favourite thing? peace
Your dream last night? non-existent
Your dream goal? perfection
The room you're in? neglectd
Your hobby? postponed
Your fear? abandonment
Where do you want to be in 6 years? successful
Where were you last night? here
What you're not? attractive
One of your wish-list items? sectional
Where you grew up? ohio
The last thing you did? monkees
What are you wearing? earthtones
Your TV? off
Your pets? abundant
Your computer? mac
Your mood? defeated
Missing someone? no
Your car? gift
Something you're not wearing? spurs
Favourite shop? indulgent
Your summer? bountiful
Love someone? excessively
Your favourite colour? all
When is the last time you laughed? unclear
When is the last time you cried? today

Of pigs and bacon

It's fall, and winter's nosing up behind. I can tell it's fall without even opening my eyes, because I feel like baking cookies, and the aroma of granola is wafting through the house. A dish of roasted seckle pears and an acorn squash dotted with butter and sprinkled with salt are the most decadent dishes I've devoured this week. The nasturtiums are thriving in the neglect that occurs in the garden this time of year--no weeding or trampling, and no watering. My bag of garlic cloves and hyacinth bulbs are waiting to be planted, a task that must happen this weekend if it's to happen at all, provided my tiller can be repaired. The down comforter lies folded at the foot of the bed, and the extra quilts are dotting the house, sometimes seen draped around the body of a teenager hunched over a cup of soup or bowl of oatmeal. The pig, our very first, is ready for butchering. I made the call today, leaving a message for "Butcher Dan," a man who will come to our home with a butchering truck to do the deed right here.

It's a bittersweet idea, this hog butchering time. After all, the big black beast has been part of the scene of my kitchen window landscape for a year now. She has rendered the garbage disposal completely useless, which is great, since it decided to relieve itself of it's intermittent duty this past week. Why put through a mechanical chopper what I can feed to a live one, and eat later? I've always been very conscious of food waste, but now I feel justified when I toss out a cup of lukewarm milk or a pile of apple peels or a hunk of bread specked with mold. That beast will eat it up, and I'll eat it up when I enjoy that bacon on an icy day.

And yet, I still recognize the twinge of sadness that was my companion during the days of my vegetarianism. How can I not, when I can recall the last summer days, and how we all, as a family, gathered under the apple tree during Bard's last visit home from college, and filled buckets, baskets and barrels under the watchful eye of a beautiful sunset, keeping the good falls and dumping the bad into the pasture, musing over the swine's devouring of the fallen treats. Oh, to eat with abandon! And, of course, comes the joke of the apple in the cavernous mouth of the roasted pig; could it have been the end of the pig, the choking on the last of the fall fruits in its greedy hunger?

Today, as I mixed the granola in the large stainless steel bowl, pouring in sheets of local honey, smoky maple syrup and thick, creamy raw milk, I glanced out the window, taking in the glowing golden maples, and there was my pig, dancing in the barnyard, her squiggly tail flapping along behind her as she ran and spun and leaped in the coolness of the day. Who can help but think of Wilbur and his joyous romp as Charlotte proclaimed him to be Some Pig? And yet I wonder who would voluntarily feed a meat hog to its natural death.

I am no longer a vegetarian. Meat is not something I love, but it's something I sometimes crave and often appreciate, especially if it's very good. Pork, in all forms, is my favorite meat. A crisp bacon. A breakfast sausage. A cottage ham. A pork roast with warm sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and browned butter. And the bacon grease which provides a base for fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, spinach salad, green beans. I think of Laura Ingalls, and the day they butchered their pig, the girls clamoring over the crispy tail, batting about the inflated bladder, savoring the cracklings. I think of the pig pickins I've been to in my life, and the barbecue sauce that waits in a gallon jar in my fridge, leftover from my overzealous preparation for Bard's graduation.

Yes, I'm sorry that this pig is losing her life, but I'm glad that she's losing it to our family. There are few who will appreciate it like we will.