::: winter cats :::

::: alas! how changed from the fair scene :::

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay,

And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

Has grown familiar with your song;

I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

::: and the winner is... :::

Congratulations to the winner of the Coal Train Railroad CD! Debbie was chosen at random from those who responded to the review of Coal Train Railroad's jazz for kids album. I hope you and your little ones enjoy it, Debbie! Let me know whether you'd prefer a digital or a hard copy of the CD. If you'd like a hard copy, send me your mailing address.

Thanks to all who entered. Now, go pick up a copy of Coal Train Railroad for yourself!

::: paul called it :::

Last week, while I was a nap widow, I found myself avoiding life by plowing through StumbleUpon sites. Sometimes the things I find while I'm stumbling amuse me. Occasionally they inspire me. But last week, while I was avoiding life, the things I stumbled upon depressed me.

I guess my first mistake was pausing on a page that boasted 99 things that you absolutely must see on the internet. Well, I thought, if I have the internet, and these are things I should have seen unless I'm a loser or old or something, I suppose I'd better use my time wisely and investigate every single one of them.

The very first link I clicked on was a video of a news person very unexpectedly falling and injuring herself badly. The sounds she made involuntarily upon impact with the ground made me gasp aloud. "My goodness!" I thought. "She must have hurt herself terribly!" My immediate reaction was to wonder what injuries she sustained.

But when I did a search for this woman to find out what had happened, all I found was the image of this video repeated over and over and over again, and each time I clicked to see if I could find further information, the comments I saw instead were heartless and atrocious. Insulting comments about her physical appearance, derogatory comments regarding her gender, mocking laughter about her audible reaction, profanity, vulgarity. Rarely, if ever, was there a comment about the woman's pain or wellbeing.

I found myself empathizing. Truly empathizing. I could see myself easily being that woman, and then, in a flash, I was her. I was hated for my mock cleverness, my excessively wobbly bits, and for being stupid enough to gasp when hurt, cry out when panicked. I actually felt hated by all of those people who left such terribly insenstive comments.

In an effort to cauterize myself from the discomfort I was feeling, I foolishly turned back to the top 99 things one absolutely must see on the internet. With a very few exceptions, one link after another led me to a moment of another human being's downfall, often literal, and the subsequent derogatory comments made by those who gleefully ridiculed the victim.

Only a handful of the 99 internet must-sees were uplifting. The majority of the 99 centered around some type of profanity or vulgarity. Only a couple of the 99 featured any kind of actual talent. This bothered me.

But I think what bothered me more was the ubiquitousness of nasty, prejudice, heartless comments. Are there really that many mean and insensitive people in the world?

I don't know why I'm surprised. After all, someone wiser than I once said:

"Don't be naive. There are difficult times ahead. As the end approaches, people are going to be self-absorbed, money-hungry, self-promoting, stuck-up, profane, contemptuous of parents, crude, coarse, dog-eat-dog, unbending, slanderers, impulsively wild, savage, cynical, treacherous, ruthless, bloated windbags, addicted to lust, and allergic to God."

Still, to see it in action breaks my heart.

Today, I will try to counteract the profane, the contemptuous, the crude and coarse with as much warmth and kindness and goodness as God will trust me with and as my human heart will put forth.

Will you?

::: coal train railroad: a giveaway :::

(See the end of the review for your chance to win a copy of Coal Train Railroad!) 

I didn't really mean to do it. It was just that I'd been listening to this interview with Wynton Marsalis and I was pretty much smitten with him. During the interview, he offered some suggestions for jazz to play for kids to get them all, well, all jazzed about jazz. A little bit of Louis. A tad of Thelonius. A dab of Duke. A dollop of Dizzy. It sounded so easy, so hip, so sophisticated. I could do it. I could easily introduce my children to jazz.

So I picked up a couple of albums and slapped 'em onto my girls' iTunes playlist. The next time we were sailing down the highway, I shuffled the list and couldn't wait to hear their reactions to what was sure to be their new love. Jazz.

I was especially excited about how Baby, then five years old, would receive the music. She's the most discriminating and has very sophisticated taste in music. She loves to play with her voice and can keep up with the likes of Karin Bergquist, Abigail Washburn and Leigh Nash. So when Satchmo's  Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah burst onto the speakers, I thought she would just love it.

"Skip it!" she called from her perch on the back bench seat.

"'Skip it?'" I cried. "What do you mean 'skip it?' This is the great Satchmo! This is fine American music! My darling daughter, this is JAZZ!"

"Skip it," she repeated, unaffected.

But I persisted. I told her we had to listen to it, we had to get to know it a bit. We couldn't be quick to judge, now, could we?

And so she begrudgingly endured Louis, Thelonious, Duke and Dizzy, calling out an irate and impatient "SKIP IT!" if the jamming went on even a bar too long.

One afternoon, while we were motoring along, "I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good)" hammered the final nail in the coffin. As soon as the first notes swelled from the speakers and filled the minivan, Baby hollered out disdainfully, "What is this? JAZZ?!?"

So I gave up. No more jazz.

When my friend Katy Bowser announced that she had just finished a kids' album, a kids' JAZZ album, I read the press release, shaking my head sadly. I love Katie's stuff, but my kids would simply not stomach the jazz. It looked like Coal Train Railroad would not grace our iTunes playlist.

But Katy persisted. Her tweets and her status updates and the glowing reviews changed my mind. I decided I had to listen to it, I had to get to know it a bit. I couldn't be quick to judge, now, could I?

I listened to the album all alone first, making sure that I wouldn't be more deeply embedding my children's disdain. And I fell in love. Katy's fun and easy style, her sweet and playful lines, the endearing way she addresses such important subjects as mouth noises, belly buttons and fruit juice had me really hoping Baby would like what she heard.

So I loaded up the iPod and one day, as I was taking the kiddoes, both young and older, out to lunch, I played Coal Train Railroad. And I held my breath.

And...

She liked it!

Not only did Baby like it, but 19-year-old Bard liked it, and ten-year-old Sweetheart liked it and 14-year-old Monet liked it. They giggled over "My Mouth and Me," nodded empathetically to "It's Hard to Listen" and car-danced to "Just the Juice, Jack." Katy had done it. She'd redeemed the reputation of jazz in our family.

And it's no surprise! In addition to Katy's sweet voice, the record is kissed by the talent of producer Chris Donohue, who has recorded and performed internationally with a broad variety of artists including Emmylou Harris, Ben Folds, Lyle Lovett, Gillian Welch, Sam Bush, Phil Keaggy, Over the Rhine, Vigilantes of Love and Sixpence. Baby didn't have a choice! She had to love it, and love it she did.

Now the songs are in our regular rotation, and the lyrics have entered our family's lexicon.

And Baby has added Katy Bowser's to the lineup of voices she loves to emulate. Just last night, while playing on the My Little Pony website, Baby vocalized in a bluesy little vibrato:

"Snuggling suits me just fine!

A cozy blanket and a friend of mine.
Can I borrow your toes?
Mine are nearly froze!
Snuggling suits me just fine!"


Thanks, Katy and Coal Train Railroad for sharing the love. Thanks to you, our family's finally all jazzed up.

For your chance to win a copy of Coal Train Railroad for your family, leave a comment. For a second chance to win, tweet a link to this review and leave a comment letting me know. For a third chance to win, blog a link to it and leave another comment. The winner will be chosen at random on Friday at midnight.

Good luck!

::: a craft that even *i* can do :::

Let's get one thing straight. I am not crafty or handy. The idea of making anything using popsicle sticks and Elmer's glu makes me feel a bit queasy. Building something out of wood? Nope. Not gonna happen. I get nervous about hanging pictures on the wall.

But every once in a while, I see a do-it-yourself project that makes me go "Ooooooh!" This little beauty from Heather Bullard's website is one of them. I can certainly take this on, and I have a TON of mason jars that I would just love to use! I can see a whole host of jars containing everything from soap to shampoo to lotion to...well, what do YOU see?

::: reason, season or lifetime friend :::

When someone is in your life for a reason, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed outwardly or inwardly. S/he has come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally, or spiritually.
S/he is there to meet a need. Then without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, s/he will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes s/he dies. Sometimes s/he walks away. Sometimes s/he acts up or out and forces you to take a stand. What we must realize is that the need has been met.
When a person comes into your life for a season, it is because your turn has come to share, grow, or learn. S/he may bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. S/he may teach you something you have never done. S/he usually gives you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Lifetime relationships teach you lifetime lessons. Those things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. You must accept the lesson, love the person/people anyway, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life.
Source: Anonymous

::: stream of consciousness whilst I wait for the day to end :::

Here's what's on this fickle mind of mine:

My son in Africa: He's dealing with an illness that required hospitalization. We can't really communicate, so I'm quite worried about him. Could be over and done with in no time, could be a long haul. Could be very mild. Could be quite serious. I can't help thinking he wouldn't be there if I hadn't planted the idea.

My faith: I'm turning so much over in my head about groupthink and jingoism and the heartlessness of some people who claim to follow Christ.

My passions: I used to think of myself as a writer. Now, the more I think of writing, the more I think I must have some audacity to believe that I fit into that scene. Or any scene, for that matter. At this point in my life, I feel that anything I write is either adding to the noise. Am I just a clanging cymbal? Do I have anything to contribute in this information age, in this sea of words?

Sexiness: It's sexy to adopt a child from an exotic foreign country. It's not so sexy to adopt a child from 50 miles away who has a learning disability. Do I want to make a difference, or do I want to be sexy?

Education: I'd always chosen to homeschool because I wanted my children to be exposed to a broad variety of subjects and I wanted them to have the freedom to learn at their own pace and according to their interests. Home education, I have always felt, is a superior education. I'd never felt that I wanted to educate for religious reasons, or for social reasons, but now that my children are growing and changing and I'm growing and changing, I see that my reasons always have been mainly social. My daughters are both starting to show interest in attending a local private school, and I'm not so sure how I feel about that. After this year of dealing with the ups and downs of our 14-year-old, Monet, attending this school, I can see how the girls would thrive academically. But socially? It's not that they aren't social girls. They are very, very social girls. But I've been around some of the kids from this school and heard the things my son and other kids have dealt with to have some serious reservations about sending my daughters to school. They're both very smart, outgoing and sweet. I'm worried that even a year in the environment where what you look like and what sports you play are more important qualities than how you treat people and what your passions are will break them into tiny little quivering pieces of self-doubt. I don't, don't, don't want to go there. And yet I fear that my economic abilities limit them from pursuing the kind of education they really desire.

Relationships: There are a couple of people who have really blown my mind this past year with their hubris and selfishness. On one hand, I feel like I am so over these people. On the other hand, it burns me to no end that they don't see how terribly self-centered and hurtful they are. And, if I had another hand, what would be on it is that I want so badly to be at peace with everyone I know that the fact that rifts remain drives me wild. Is it worth it to try to invest time in these relationships, or should I take joy in the peace that is my life with these people removed from it?

My own selfishness. That's all I'll say about that.

And that's all I'll say.

::: in the bleak midwinter :::

Usually, this time of the year, trying to get any schoolwork done at all is such a drag. I'm so affected by the weather, the brown dreariness of it, that I feel nothing like learning, accomplishing, teaching, and I feel only like burrowing, hibernating, lounging and lazing.

I'm not saying that I don't feel that way now, during this bleak midwinter, but I am saying that I'm learning to force myself into a discipline of sorts. Where I would normally awake and say, "Well, I slept in too long today. The whole day's shot. So much for that," I'm instead saying, "Okay. So I awoke late. We'll forgo the normal schedule and get some breakfast, and I'll read to the girls while they're eating."

Usually, forcing myself to start something creates a type of perpetual motion, and I find myself gaining some steam from each thing I make myself do. If I'm completely unmotivated, folding and putting away a load of laundry gets me somewhat motivated, and it continues on from there.

I'm not sure why things seem so overwhelming right now. Life is going very well, I'd say, for the most part. Sure, there are things that could be better, relationships that could use repairing, and money is always a strain, but, for the most part, life is good. But even one small thing, one extra stop for an errand, one more meeting or phone call or page of a schoolbook, and the thought makes me want to crumble. And yet, if I eliminate all of those things, if I find myself without commitments and activities, I sink into a boredom that serves pretty well as depression, and then I simply don't know what to do with myself.

A friend has recently offered to loan me a therapy light, and I'm looking forward to seeing how that works. I plan to use it during lesson times when I'm reading to the girls aloud. That should make for plenty of exposure to the light, given that the bulk of our day involves reading aloud.

I also really feel that I should get out and take walks, but just the thought of it almost sends me to tears. Isn't that pitiful?

So, for now, I'll keep forcing myself to do what needs doing and looking for light whereever I can find it. I'm so thankful for those around me who are patient and loving and kind and pitch in whereever they're able. Without you, I'd be completely lost.

::: the addiction returns :::

I thought I had recovered. I didn't think I'd ever go back. I'd hidden my needles away and figured that I'd overcome my addiction. No more spending money on my habit. No more withdrawal when I couldn't get to my needles. I was cured. Done. Finished.

That's what I thought.

But, somehow, the addiction snuck back into my life. I pulled my box of needles from the top shelf where I'd stashed them away years ago and laid them all out before me, only to find that I needed more. The needles I had were not the ones I needed.

So off I went, into the heart of the big city. I unabashedly walked in and spent $43 on my addiction, right there, in broad daylight. I immediately felt guilty. But before I knew it, I was alone in my room, knitting away.

Socks. The socks made me do it.

I've been wanting to try socks for a long time. I've made a few simple projects, and I even posted them on a blog a few years ago here, but I'd stopped knitting for strange reasons that I'd rather not divulge here. The reasons were strange enough, however, for me to dispose of my large box of yarn and my gallon-sized bag of knitting needles. And after watching friend after friend knit adorable socks, I finally decided that I had to give it a shot.

It took me a little while to find my way around a ball of yarn and a set of DPNs again, but  finally got the hang of it, and I invited my friend Jill for a knit-in. We holed ourselves up in my little bedroom retreat, lit some candles, turned on the lights on the Christmas tree (Yes. It is. I know.), and knit and gabbed. Jill even solved the mystery of the long-abandoned knitting project I couldn't finish because I'd begun them at a fiber arts club to which I'd never returned and couldn't remember what the process was called.

"Look up twined knitting," she suggested, and I took a gander at the Google results on my trusty iMac. And, ohmygoodness, there it was. I'd been taught it as Tvåändsstickning and it had been the most fun I'd had with two needles in my hand.

Of course, that led me to lust after other patterns, which I will now lead you to lust over. You can turn back now, if you like. Don't say I didn't warn you.

All of these patterns can be found at the Sandra Singh website, plus many, many more. The website advertises free knitting patterns, but I didn't find any. Still, the patterns they have are quite adorable.

So now I'm chomping at the bit to finish my very first pair of socks so that I can give myself permission to move on to another fun pattern.

The addiction has indeed returned. Bring on the needles.

::: for jill :::

Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

::: stream of consciousness whilst awaiting my twentieth anniversary :::

I love celebrations.
I love planning them,
preparing for them,
sneaking around about them
(paying for them, not so much),
and springing them on people.
I love surprises,
both creating them
and receiving them.
My dear husband?
Not really.
He doesn't create surprises,
and most birthdays/anniversaries/holidays,
he's attacked by some virus or bacteria
and sleep overtakes him,
and I am left alone to celebrate.
It's not his fault, but yet I blame him.
It's not his fault, but yet,
every holiday,
every birthday,
every anniversary,
I awake, hoping to find
breakfast in bed,
or a piece of pottery,
or a surprise getaway,
or a love song written,
or even just a letter,
a paragraph,
a sentence.
The emptiness leaves me feeling
selfish.
It's one of my biggest fears about Heaven,
that I'm looking forward to this grand mansion,
this eternal life free from pain and tears
and sickness and anxiety
and worry and fear
and loneliness and hope deferred,
but that I will find, instead, only death
and darkness,
and nothing.
Dear God, I want to lean on you
and find my joy in you,
but this too too solid flesh,
which will not melt,
longs for tactile proof
that I have worth,
that I am known.
In the meantime,
I will create the surprises,
and try not to hope for
too much.

::: your assignment :::

Here's what you need to do today:

Finish one thing you don't want to do.
Make yourself do a little bit more of something you do want to do.
Put away something that's been left out for too long.
Fix something that's been broken for too long.
Give away something you don't need.
Tell someone you're sorry. Probably the person you're waiting for an apology from.
Confess something.
Hug someone you've never hugged before. Or maybe just someone you haven't hugged in a long time.
Read what Jesus said and decide if you agree with it, whether you're an atheist or a fundamentalist or somewhere in between.

Go on. It'll be good for you.

::: new year's eve :::

Just a glimpse
of a cardinal red scarf
and cap.
Another guest leaves the party.
Catch that moment.
Ball it up and tuck it into
the pocket of your acrylic sweater,
the grey one with the hood,
the one you wore while you sat
in the corner
in the rocking chair,
so that when you next
thrust your hands into the
too-long sleeves
and the just-right pouches,
you'll find it
and hear the banjo
and the cajon
and the sexy bass solo
and the improvised oboe voices
because the oboe remained unseen.
Taste the peanut soup
and the peppernuts
and the green chili dip,
warm, but not spicy,
spread thickly on crisp Ritz crackers.
Drink the sparkling citrus punch
spiked with Vernor's,
and pick the raspberry seeds
from between your teeth.
From the deep softness of that pocket,
bring it out,
and then you'll sing the harmonies
loudly in your head
and feel the warm, worn wooden floor
bounce beneath your feet.
Yes, for now,
ball it up,
that moment.
Tuck it in,
that memory.
But don't leave it there.
Shake it out
and play it again,
and this time,
you can sing out loud.
You can
take the stage, too.

::: teach your children well :::

"Mama? You know, when I see a little girl my age who has soft, beautiful skin, I pray that she is thankful to God that she has nice skin."

The Baby is six years old. She loves High School Musical, The Beatles, The Monkees, kittens, ballet, working in the garden with mom, reading books, singing opera, wrapping Christmas presents and cuddling. She has beautiful curly golden-brown hair, a graceful, active body, a fabulous laugh, and gorgeous brown eyes.

She also has ichthyosis.

Icthyosis is an inherited skin condition that causes a build-up of dry skin all over the body. The build-up is worse on the hands, feet, elbows and knees, but the dryness is everywhere. Legs. Back. Scalp. Face. And sometimes it can be itchy. In the winter, if lotions isn't applied liberally after every hand-washing, painful, bleeding cracks appear. Because the skin doesn't slough off like it should, it can cause large scales on the legs, very thick elephant-like skin around the wrists and legs, and large flakes of dandruff. When the skin does slough off, it comes off in huge flakes or large quantities (some ichthyosis causes a rapid increase in skin growth) so that linens are always covered in a dust of flaky skin, clothes are coated, shoulders have to be constantly brushed off, and flakes get stuck in the hair, even when you use the best dandruff shampoos.

Because the hands and feet are most affected, people notice the dry skin right away. Think of how many times a day you use your hands around other people. Shaking hands, holding hands, writing, clapping, waving, touching, drawing, raising. Think of how good it feels to wear sandals on a warm day, or to go barefoot. Think of what it's like to wear shorts in the summer, or for a boy to run around shirtless. When a person has ichthyosis, none of these things are easy to do. Even when they don't draw comments and criticisms from others, children and adults alike, sometimes you just want to keep your hands in your pockets, or wear your shoes, or stay in long pants all summer.

The Baby isn't the only one in our family with ichthyosis. Out of our family of seven, six of us have some form of it. My husband Bo and four of the children, Houdin, Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby, all have noticeable ichthyosis. Bard, the oldest, has very mild symptoms, like dandruff, dry fingers in the wintertime, and Keratosis pilaris, which are tiny bumps on the backs of her arms.

But for The Baby and Sweetheart, the only girls in the family with serious presentations of ichthyosis, there are more issues than just the physical discomfort of the defect. They long for smooth, soft skin. They often tell me that they wish they could have skin like mine. The build-up of skin on their feet and hands looks rough, yes, but also dirty. The skin gives the appearance of a child whose hygiene is being neglected. Children on the playground will say, "EW! I'm not touching you!" or "You're gross!" or "What's wrong with your skin?" Many times, in front of the the children, people of all ages, including adults, will make comments about their skin, saying things like, "You need to wash your hands!" or "Your fingers are filthy!" or "Shouldn't you put some lotion on?" The assumption that the child doesn't know how to wash their hands or doesn't know how to apply lotion is demeaning and chips away even more at their self-esteem, negating all of their talents and abilities, and it certainly doesn't help me feel so good about myself as a mom. After all, one of the most important goals in my life is to be a good mother, and when comments are directed toward me about my children's care, as if I'd never thought to buy a bottle of lotion, it chips away at my self-esteem, too.

A few months ago, The Baby showed me a place on her toes where some warts had cropped up. Warts are viruses, and these viruses had probably cropped up because of a crack in her toes sometime during the winter. Shortly after, Sweetheart showed me some warts on her toes, too. As if the Ichthyosis isn't enough, these terrible things had to enter the scene, too. After one very expensive trip to the dermatologist, who said that my children's was one of the worst cases of Ichthyosis she had seen, we were laden with an array of lotions, some over-the-counter and some prescription. It would take a serious effort, but they could have somewhat "normal" skin, she said, if they faithfully followed a certain skincare routine.

For two weeks, we did follow the routine faithfully. A bath, then an application of this kind of cream to the face, and this kind to the elbows and knees, and then this kind over that, and then the discomfort of sleeping in plastic gloves covered in cotton ones.

But little by little, the warts disappeared and the children saw some major improvement in their skin. Little by little, patches of clean, soft skin showed through. And lot by lot, we ran out of the array of very expensive creams. When it was time to order more, I found that the one cream that helped the most had been discontinued. None of the creams can be purchased in any local store--they all must be ordered. And so, because of unavailability, money and inconvenience, the routine was broken, and the hope for "normal" skin slipped away again.

The discomfort of the skin itself is frustrating enough, but now, with Monet in a private school setting for the first time after years of being home educated, the social discomfort of having Ichthyosis is almost overwhelming. Even in a small Christian school, ridicule runs rampant and alienates and breaks young, fragile, insecure hearts. And this, in turn, infuriates the protective mother-bear mama who has to suppress her rage and advise wisely and gently.  She isn't always successful. Sometimes, she just wants to go scratch someone's eyes out.

We take things for granted, don't we? Not just big things, like seeing eyes and hearing ears and working limbs and beating hearts, but little things, too, like soft, beautiful skin.

Please take the time today to talk to your children about people they know who might have something about them that seems strange and different--their eyes or their hair or their clothes or their skin--and how hard it is to live with those differences every day. Teach them good manners in dealing with people with differences. Help them to understand that those people have interests and loves and hopes and talents, just like they do, and that they can be a bright light in someone's day if they notice those interests and loves and hopes and talents, take that person by the hand, and be their friend.

::: doing it all: how to enjoy a perfect christmas :::

Last night, my mother-in-law called. In the course of our conversation, she told me about some traveling she'd like to do that just isn't going to pan out this Christmas. She was disappointed, but she'd come to terms with it. My father-in-law had given his oft-repeated advice:

"You can't do it all."

"That's a lie," I told her. "You most certainly can do it all."

Of course, I was joking.

Kind of.

I don't like being told that I can't, and I usually choose not to believe it when people say it. As a matter of fact, it kinda spurs me on. I mean, what if Mother Teresa had believed those words? What if Stephen Hawking and Beethoven and Stevie Wonder had believed those words? Of COURSE you can do it all!

You can do it all and be it all and have it all!

Especially at Christmas time! Not only CAN you do it all, but you're EXPECTED to do it all! So take advantage of it! Put all that expectation to work for you and do EVERYTHING! Find the most complicated gingerbread pattern and invite all of the kindergartners in your neighborhood to make them from scratch! Promise to decorate the Christmas tree in the center of town all by yourself using only ornaments made by people from your community! Open a homeless shelter and soup kitchen instead of buying gifts for your loved ones! Or, better yet, spend July through December finding the perfect gift for everyone on your list, including all of your children's teachers, the neighbors, the mailman, the librarian, the Sunday School teachers and the dog! The gifts must be perfect--only very expensive or cleverly handmade will do--so yank out that credit card and spend, spend, SPEND (because even handmade costs lots of money if you want to do it right)! Attend multiple Christmas celebrations with all of the branches of your family, your co-workers, your neighbors and your church! Better yet, invite your entire family and a few lonely people to dinner in your home, research all of the most complicated recipes by your favorite food bloggers, create a killer tablescape complete with handmade place cards featuring your favorite photograph of each guest, and look like a knockout in the little black dress you avoided all of the Christmas fudge and ran five miles on the treadmill every day to get into! Cozy up your home with adorable Christmas vignettes in every corner featuring authentic old-world goose feather trees, crisply ironed linen stockings with hand-embroidered names, and vintage mercury ornaments piled in hand-blown vases! Better yet, create a theme for each room! The bedroom can be all muted blues and whites, the kids' room can have a "Candyland" theme, and your bathroom can be dripping with silvers and golds! And don't forget pictures! You must take lots and lots of pictures to capture all of this Christmas magic! Arrange for formal pictures with color-coordinated outfits in which everyone is happy as well as candid pictures of family members wide-eyed over their perfect gifts. This is the time of the year when expectations are high! People are counting on you! Christmas comes but once a year, so you only have a few chances in your lifetime to do it right!

WE CAN DO IT ALL!

Except...

I didn't make hard tack candy this year.

Years ago, during a Christmas when money was especially, um, missing and Bard, my eldest, was a child, she wanted to give her grandmother a very special gift. She knew that Grandma loved stained glass, and she had the idea of making her a jar of hard tack candy. I'd made a few batches along with hand-pulled molasses taffy, hand-wrapped caramels and the usual array of cut-out cookies. It sounded like the perfect gift, so we found a jar and went to work filling it. Oh, how it sparkled with color! She was excited to give that gift and it has turned into a Christmas tradition in the Thicket Dweller house.

Every December for many, many years, I have spent days--verily, weeks--mixing water, sugar and corn syrup, boiling it for what seems like hours, carefully testing the molten mixture with a candy thermometer, a glass of cold water, the sheet test--whatever I had available to me at the time--to get that perfect temperature before adding the little dram of oil and a few drops of food coloring. Over the years, I've learned some valuable lessons about this pass-fail project:

Lesson #1: Don't drip any of the molten liquid on your skin or it will leave a hole in your flesh that burns down to the bone;
Lesson # 2: Don't put cinnamon, clove, wintergreen, spearmint or peppermint oil in the molten lava until it has completely stopped bubbling, or the oil will immediately turn to a gas, coat all of your exposed skin, and hurt for days like the worst sunburn you've ever had as well as giving you an extra edge by turning your face a not-so-festive bright red;
Lesson #3: If you have four burners on your stove, use 'em. There's no rule that you have to make one batch at a time. Just space them out a few minutes apart and pay attention to the rate that each pot and burner cook (they're all different!) so you're not adding oils and coloring to all four pots at one time;
Lesson #4: Grape oil is from the devil. No matter what my multitude of tests said, once I added grape oil, the resulting candy would NOT be hard and will stick to all dental work. I gave up on grape oil;
Lesson #5: This stuff is SHARP! It can and will cut you to ribbons. Blood does not mix well with hard tack candy.

I've always loved the way the process filled the house with so many delicious aromas, the line of tiny oil bottles marching along the countertop waiting to be added to the molten lava, the satisfying "CRACK" of the cooled candy being shattered by the heavy end of a butter knife, the shake-shake-shake of the candy in a baggie of powdered sugar, the big jar filled to the brim with stained-glass candy. It's a beautiful thing. Yes, it's a lot of work, but it's a very, very beautiful thing.

And I've never really felt that it was Christmas unless I've made hard tack candy.

I mean, we can do Christmas caroling, or go sledding, or pile gifts under the tree, or tick off each day with the opening of yet another door on the Advent calendar. We can bring in the greens and haul in a live tree, hang the stockings with care and wear ugly Christmas sweaters, but it doesn't feel like Christmas unless I've shopped for all those flavors, burned my hand a time or two, covered the counter with foiled-lined cookie sheets, scented the whole house with root beer, watermelon, bubblegum, clove, anise and wintergreen (but NOT grape), and filled that gallon jar with cracked sparkling goodness.

Tell me, how crazy is that?

No, you don't have to tell me. I already know.

As much as I want to do it all, have it all and be it all, I also need to know my own limits.

Because Christmas will come even if I don't do any of those things. It will come if I live in a slum neighborhood in Philly or if I have Pancreatic Cancer or if my child dies or if I feel depressed or if my house burns down or if I lose my income or if my family comes down with ringworm or if my husband has pneumonia.

Christmas will come if I make gingerbread houses, or if I don't, if I find that perfect tree skirt I bought on sale last year after watching it all Christmas season, or if I remember that it got peed on by the dog, hung on the porch railing and forgotten until Spring.

Christmas will come if all of my children are home for the holidays, or if one is in a remote village in Western Africa avoiding poisonous snakes and making food out of trees.

Christmas will come if I find that one perfect present for each of my family members, and it will come if I have to buy everyone gift cards to Stuff-Mart, and it will come if I don't give anyone anything at all but a kiss and a heart-felt "I love you."

Christmas will come if I don't make hard tack candy. And it will come if I do.

Heck, yeah, it's fun to do some of that stuff. It's also a big pain to do some of that stuff. So I take my B-12, my Vitamins A and D and my Glucosamine and I do what I can, what I want to. And that might look different every year.

It has been looking a lot like Christmas every year for over 2000 years.

And the One who makes it look that way is not a God of guilt, but a God of hope and healing, love and forgiveness.

Maybe we can't do it all. Maybe we can. But maybe we can work on taking joy in what we can do, leaving the guilt out in the cold.

May you be blessed this Christmas season with pure peace and true joy.

(Photo of kids from Christmas 2005)

::: stream of consciousness whilst listening to beatles rock band :::

Nine batches of white trash down, who knows how many more to go.
Almost all of my Christmas shopping is done.
I'm broke.
We put the tree up today.
It was the first year my family cut it down without me.
I was having a pouting party.
People were being mean to each other, and then they turned on me.
They chose and cut the tree.
I cried in the car alone.
Sometimes Christmas traditions suck
and leave everyone grumpy and depressed.
Houdin called from Africa today.
I miss him.
I woke up the other night worried about him
and the gigantic poisonous snakes in the village
and the inadequate shoes he packed.
I want to send him steel hip waders.
He wouldn't wear them.
I hope he's taking his malaria pills.
He only had four minutes to talk
and we got cut off.
His girlfriend was here. She got to talk to him.
I feel badly that I didn't let everyone say a word or two.
We tried speakerphone, but it was to echoey and no one could hear anything.
He was telling me about how he's learning all about African cuisine,
and how you can make just about anything there into food.
Made this mother-heart kinda worried,
made me think of Christopher McCandless.
I hate to sound selfish, God, but would You mind keeping an eye
on that boy of mine?
And, while you're at it, God, can you work on the heart
of that other boy of mine?
You know the one. Full of hormones and anger and independence,
but still goofy and hyper,
with his mother's talent for losing track of time.
This, his first year of school after having homeschooled all of his life,
has been a rough one.
He gets picked on.
Mostly by girls.
So, naturally, when he comes home, it's time to reverse the roles.
He picks on his little sisters.
Their patience is wearing thin.
Bard is home from college for a few weeks.
She had her nose pierced.
It looks cute, yes, but I can't help remembering
her tiny, perfect, unblemished nose,
that little baby I held to my breast.
Now she walks around the world without me,
making decisions about her life, her future, her body.
I'm peripheral.
That's a little hard to take.
But there are still young ones in the house,
and they still think I'm the center of the universe.
That can be such an ego trip.
It can also be exhausting.
So I need some patience
and some kindness
and an extra helping of forgiveness,
both to hand out
and to cash in on.
The Christmas trees are up.
It's feeling quite festive around here.
I'll post pictures soon.
For now, I think my consciousness has been streamed out.
May God bless this Christmas
and may you be reminded of how very much
you are loved.

::: walking away :::

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

© Mary Oliver
HT to Tonia

::: true story tuesday: stuffed brainwashers :::

Did you know that stuffed animals are aliens who were sent to earth to transform children's brains into nostalgic gobs of senseless, sentimental goo?

I know this because a kid can have a whole swimming pool full of these things, see another one in the store, and immediately become brainwashed. I remember standing in the aisle of K-Mart when I was about ten, crying uncontrollably over the thought of leaving behind the sad-eyed brown furry bear that had brainwashed me. I was sure it would be sad, alone, frightened and pine for me for the rest of its sad, lonely, frightened life.

And, yes, I do remember being fond of the book Corduroy.

I had enough stuffed animals to completely cover my bed. Each one was very special. And I just don't mean that they each had names. They had personality traits, relationships, feelings. The stuffed animal that had the most power over my little child brain was a red and yellow bear named with the same originality as my cat, Kitty. My bear's name was Teddy.

Teddy was given to me by my parents when I was very, very young. Before I could even talk, actually. Teddy was a gift to me when I was only a tiny baby. In fact, I believe Teddy was a gift to me for when I came to live with my parents.

I don't know the whole story, because my parents were so incredibly protective of me, but I do know, and always knew, that I was adopted. That was never a secret. But information about my biological parents (not my "real" parents, I was constantly told, but my "biological" parents. My "real" parents were the ones who raised me) was very guarded. I think my "real" parents were too freaked out to tell me about my "biological" parents because they thought I'd pack my bags and go back to them or something. As if. My "real" parents were very much real to me. My biological parents were strangers. Only my real parents would tuck me into bed every single night and pretend that they couldn't tell which one was me amidst my mountain of brainwashing stuffed animals.

When I was a very young child, my mom was an excellent mother. She would sit by my bed and sing to me, running her fingers very gently over my closed eyelids and my soft eyebrows. This was such a magical feeling. I loved how it felt so much that I would keep my eyes closed long after she'd stopped, because I didn't want to lose that magical feeling or break its spell. I can almost still feel her fingertips on my eyelids. I try, now, to use this technique on my own children. They're not so easily enchanted.

At some point in my little life, my mom decided to bring out a good friend of hers to introduce to me. Barney was a very big, very old teddy bear that was given to my mom when she was a child. I thought it was strange but also kind of cool that a grown-up would keep a teddy bear, and that they would call it by an actual name. My mom trusted me enough to borrow Barney for a while, but it was always very clear to me that Barney was her bear, not mine. While I thought this was a rather selfish thing, for an old person to keep a teddy bear from a little kid, I didn't argue about it. If she wanted to be a grown woman and get all freaky about a stupid old bear, that was fine with me.

Still, I dressed Barney in some nice clothes, a sweater and a pair of jeans, and introduced him to the rest of my stuffed family. From that point on, Barney spent a lot of time on my beds. When I had a camera, I would get Barney, Teddy and all the other stuffed brainwashers in line and photograph them. My dad would give me such a hard time about this. "Film is so expensive! Why do you waste it by taking pictures of your stuffed animals?" Mostly, though, he would just make fun of me. You'd think I was the world's biggest idiot for going to Washington DC on a fifth grade trip and taking pictures of the pigeons instead of the Washington Monument. Big deal. The monument would be there forever. These pigeons were gonna take off. Seriously.

I never regretted taking pictures of my stuffed animals. Sure, I felt silly about it sometimes, but regret? No. After all, these animals were just as much a part of my family as my "real" parents were. As a matter of fact, one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to my little brainwashed self was when we came home from a long drive, returning from West Virginia to visit my mom's relatives. When we arrived home, one of my thoughtless, inconsiderate parents opened the hatchback and Teddy FELL OUT of the car onto the hard, rough gravel driveway. I knew immediately that he was dead and went directly into the process of grieving.

Yes, I was a drama queen.

But it wasn't all my fault! I mean, my mom took my bear very seriously, almost as seriously as she took her own. Once every few months, she would cut a little slit in the seam on the back of Teddy's neck, take out all of his stuffing, and wash his body in the washing machine. After he had been fluffed dry, she would carefully re-stuff him, adding more fluff if necessary, restitch any places that were in need of restitching, and fix any facial features that were in danger of falling off. And then, she would carefully re-stitch that seam in the back of his neck and it would take me days to get his stuffing back the way I liked it.

It was understandable that Teddy needed an occasional bath. I took him absolutely everywhere. And I'm sure I threw up, peed and drooled on him and I most definitely know that I cried on him. He understood so much more than anyone ever did. He understood my heartaches, tears, and all of the unfairness of a child's life. Teddy stood by me. Or rather, sat by me. Or kinda hung limp beside me.

As I grew older, Teddy and I remained close, but Barney and I grew apart. After all, he was my mom's teddy bear. He just shouldn't be around, I thought, when I cried to Teddy about the bad words my mom would say to me, the bad words she would say to my dad, the bad names she would call us both, the embarrassing stories she would tell her friends about me, the fists that struck me, the hands that slapped me. Barney could never have understood the feelings I had. But Teddy did.

Teddy remains with me still. He went with me when I moved out of the house at age 18, no longer able to stand the mental and physical abuse my mom continually dosed out. He stayed with me through a failed engagement, many jobs, several apartments, and a handful of boyfriends. He continued to offer a shoulder (or head, or tummy, or back) to cry on.

 
Shortly after I moved out, Barney left with my mom when she divorced my dad and moved out of the home in which we'd lived for almost my whole life. My dad lived there alone for a while, but since my grown, adult parents couldn't come to an agreement on how their stuff should be divided, and since the divorce continued to get uglier and uglier, they sold the house. My childhood home was no longer mine, and all of my stuff, everything in my yellow room, including Miss Kitty, disappeared from my life forever.

But I still have Teddy, and every once in a while, I'll turn him over and run my fingers along the seam in his back

::: a giveaway :::

Hannah makes cookies.
Hannah makes cakes.
Hannah makes beautiful pictures.
Hannah made my blog header photo.
Hannah made a giveaway on her blog.
Go see Hannah!