home freezing home

There are two kinds of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to. If his peripheral vision gets diminished...his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye.

Adam Gopnik, Paris to the Moon

It will come as no surprise that I am the second traveler. It will likewise come as no surprise that my husband is the first. He is very gracious, however, in allowing me to attempt to match up what I "see" to the vision I have in my head, because he knows that, while I may become a neurotic, melancholy mess in the process, the outcome is usually worth it. Here are a few snapshots of our trip, which included seeing manatees in the wild, two swamp hikes (complete with alligators), three days at the beach (complete with shelling), dinner at The Bubble Room, and an incredibly expensive round of putt-putt. A good time was had by all, and I am only mildly melancholy upon our return, which is a vast improvement upon my norm.

Fort Myers Beach--our first, and best, day at the beach, in my opinion. This was the day I wrote the "sitting" post. It was also, more importantly, the day we had ice cream for dinner.

Standing with her Poppa against the waves of this world... (This is Barefoot Beach, our coolest and choppiest day at the beach.)

We visit Sanibel Island every trip we take to see Aunt Rhoda, and every time we take a pix of the kids on this log. I have a frame at home to put all five in, to mark the passage of time.

This is also at Sanibel, after I returned from one last shell sweep. Notice my children have no clothes on. I had on a sweatshirt. This is further evidence that I am getting OLD.


Now, I am off to bed, where I will crawl atop my heated mattress cover and not move again until morning, having worked 10 hours today and facing 12 hours tomorrow!

today's treasure

Had a good day on Sanibel Island...off to lay on the heating pad! All that bending over made my back hurt!

irony

Because home base is 45 minutes from the beach, we spend a fair amount of our time in Florida in the car. In the past, I have felt this was wasted time, because all we've done is sit and listen to the radio, all zoned out and in our own private worlds. SO, when I found Food For Talk on Amazon this fall, I decided the travel addition would be the perfect thing for our trips to Fort Myers. A box full of fun games and conversation starters to fill our time in the car and keep us engaged with one another. What could be better?

"Santa" brought the cards for Christmas, and we broke them out once we arrived. We've had a blast playing the games and answering the questions, and the first words I hear when we get in the car are, "Momma, can we read another card?" Which is great, right? Right. Unless, of course, one wants to listen to the radio...

Sigh...

first fruits

sitting

The beach chair beacons me to sit, and I heed its call. Bundled against the unseasonably chilly breeze, I turn my chair toward the sun and shift into park for the first time in months. The children dash headlong toward the surf, and for once I feel no guilt for not joining them. It is simply too cold—no further explanation needed, no further questions asked. I pull from my bag a book and my ever-present notepad, and begin to read.

From time to time shadows cross my paper, causing me to glance up to determine their source. I watch as the passersby pass, and the juxtapositions amuse me. Consider the retiree in her black Harley-style “Rock and Roll” t-shirt, tucked in to her brand new unbelted Levi’s which end at sparkling white Keds. Her impeccably teased short, brassy blonde hair nearly glows atop her oversized black, rhinestone-studded sunglasses. Beside her is a tan, balding man without a shirt sporting a large, gold cross around his neck. His stomach protrudes over his shorts and his feet are safely tucked into very manly aquasox.

Next comes a more athletic type. She is outfitted in a running tank and matching shorts, obviously more a function of perfecting her tan than keeping her body temperature regulated. Her highlighted hair looks unnaturally natural, given her age. Her tan face beams as she bounces along to the music playing through her coordinating ear buds, and she marches along in step to the beat. Her partner sports oversized shorts and a likewise oversized belly, tennis shoes with tube socks pulled halfway up to his knees, and a jacket tossed over his shoulder. He decidedly does NOT bounce.

I begin paying more attention to what is going on around me. Seagulls swarm an older couple harassing them over a couple of sandwiches. The couple sits in jeans and sweatshirts with their hoods pulled up, arms tucked in, and sandwiches held tight. Nearby, a trio of college girls assume “the position,” though with more layers than usual. They are one of many groups lined up in rows upon their towels, heads all turned toward the sun. A pasty looking family walks by with young kids in tow, followed by a leathery pair of retirees who look as if they’ve lived their whole life right here on this beach.

The parade continues. People in shorts and t-shirts and tennis shoes, walking for exercise, together or alone. People in jeans and jackets, walking as if to say, “I came here to walk on the beach and I’m going to walk on the beach if it kills me!” People clad only in bathing suits and deep tans, daring their bodies to goosepimple in the light of the sun. People are everywhere— looking up, looking down, looking at other people.

I wonder what I look like to those who happen to look my way. Parked here in my chair with my husband, my white skin glowing in the sun, causing people to cover their eyes against the glare. My knee length shorts and my gray hoodie serve to both hide the body about which I am still self-conscious and keep it warm against the nationwide cold spell that has chilled even the sunny Gulf. My curly hair blows wildly about my face as my eyes, used to the Midwestern mid-winter haze, squint against the sun despite the sunglasses.

The breeze lessens and the sun climbs higher and I pause from my furious reading and writing and people watching to shed a layer. My husband replaces his hand on my knee and we smile at one another, his soft green eyes all crinkly around the edges. How he is beginning to tan already is beyond me—a healthy glow that says “I’ve been to the beach” forming across his face. I decide to pretend not to notice. It is just better that way.

I glance up from time to time at the kids playing along the shore. The cooler temperatures spare us from having to be right on top of them as they play in the water, because it is too cool to even be in the water, and therefore allows me the luxury of indulging without guilt in my second favorite beach pastime—parking my fanny in a chair and reading/writing for hours. Tomorrow will be warmer. Tomorrow there will be long walks with downward glances and the filling of ziplock bags with Sanibel’s treasure. But today, for a long-needed and well-deserved moment, I will simply sit in the sun and do my own happy version of nothing.

For as long as I darn well please.

a little light beach reading

The soul's knock in the night can take many forms. You may experience it as a deep sense of longing. Not the kind of longing that leads to the mall or the refrigerator, but the kind that moves downward, to a soft ache in the heart. It's the kind of longing that leads you to ask, "Is this all there is to my life? Is this what I am supposed to be going, feeling, giving, getting?" This kind of longing can feel threatening. And so you silence its rumblings over and over until it demands to be heard--until it morphs into something else: a crisis or an illness or an addiction or some other Strange Angel.

Broken Open, Elizabeth Lesser

beach haiku

the beach in winter--
white sand, cool breeze, warm sunlight
--beats home any day


surf mixes with sand
giggles ride on waves to shore
carried on the breeze


we are drawn, as if
by the tide, to the place where
the land meets the sea

it's all in the bag

It is said that life imitates art. Or perhaps it is that art imitates life. No matter—I have observed, within the past 24 hours, that packing is what truly imitates life.

To say I am organized is an understatement. To say I am neurotic is only slight hyperbole. Because this is not a strength my husband and I share to any great degree (read: at all), it falls to me to do the vast majority of our packing when we travel. Which is generally fine (except for when it isn’t fine), because I am a very thorough and efficient (though not sparing) packer. Most of the time.

A compulsive list maker, I typically have every detail under control. Passing thoughts of I need to remember to take _____ get written down own sticky notes. Sticky notes multiply like wire hangers, accumulating into lists. I begin weeks before our departure thinking about what we will need, about what we might need, about what we might not need but might want and be disappointed if we don’t take. Every contingency is considered—weather, activity level, color coordination, mood, alignment of the planets—I will be ready. I have a list, and I know how to use it. This typically is a fair representation of what life looks like in my world. Lists, contingencies, a place for everything, everything in its place. And a cute pair of shoes to match.

So let’s start with the shoes, shall we? For this trip, I packed two pair, and wore a third, not counting the aquasocks. Three pair. Isn’t that appalling? Usually I have at LEAST five for a trip to Florida. At LEAST. But you see, after working 32 hours in the past three days (keep in mind I’m “part time”), I couldn’t bring myself, in my one hour window within which I had to pack both myself and my five-year-old, to care about which shoes looked absolutely best with each outfit (because I couldn’t even pull together outfits, but we’ll get to that in a moment.) (And don’t even get me started about my unadorned toenails…)

In the furor of trying to get ready to go on vacation, I somehow never had the time or the energy to plan for our vacation. Sticky notes were amassed, but failed to multiply. Lists were never generated. Outfits were never planned. I found myself on Wednesday, in the middle of a snow storm, grimily tossing whatever shorts I could fasten around my post-Christmas waist into my suitcase, followed by every layering t-shirt I could find and a pair of tennis shoes. I glanced in the mirror on my way back to the closet—I didn’t know the woman reflected back at me.

My son’s suitcase was no better. Three pair of jeans. Check. Three pair of shorts. Check. As many long and short-sleeve shirts of a similar color scheme as I could wad into half the bag. Check. Pajamas. Oh yeah… Toothbrush. Hmmm… Not sure.

And so here I am, in Florida, riffling through my suitcase looking for some relaxation and realizing I’d forgotten to pack it, along with my little bag of patience. Joy was lost a long time ago, but I thought for sure I’d put a little bit of happiness in the bag—perhaps it’s under the pile of relentless, heavy burdens that weighed the suitcase down as I drug it from the house to the car. Fortunately, the toothbrushes we can grab at one of the fifteen WalGreens within a five mile radius. The other items, however, I think are going to be harder to come by. Hopefully, by the end of our time here, I will find them all somewhere in the bottom of the bag—I just hope to find them in time to enjoy them.

i am happiest when...

...curled up on my couch by the fire (or, in our current house, the candles), under a blanket with a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a purring cat.
...snuggling in bed with my kiddos on a cold morning (as long as they both go back to sleep!).
...hiking at a new park.
...looking for shells (like I need MORE shells) on Sanibel. (Like I could stop picking them up if I tried.)
..."on stage" in my living room, singing along to Wicked, or Mamma Mia, or Grease, or whatever is on the stereo.
...singing. Period.
...creating.
...writing.
...exploring a new place with my husband.
...crawling in to my heated bed on a cold evening.
...Christmas music is on every station.
...surrounded by friends and family.
...everything around me is in its place.
...it is 75 degrees and sunny.
...laughing. A good, hearty, tears-in-your-eyes-could-pee-your-pants-or-shoot-milk-out-your-nose kind of laugh.
...playing cards.
...doing something new.
...spending time with the people I love.
...exercising regularly.
...enjoying God's creation.
...taking pictures.
...practicing gratitude.
...eating a really good meal, especially in a really nice atmosphere.
...eating. Period.
...alone.
...not alone.
...taking an afternoon nap.
...sleeping in without guilt.
...the snow day falls on my day off.
...school cancels the night before.
..."counseling" my daughter before bed. ("Am I like one of your clients, Momma? Because you listen to me and help me feel better...")
...singing the same lullaby to my son, again.
...my children are laughing.
...my husband is smiling.
...there is time to decompress.
...allowing myself to be happy...

interesting insight from my favorite parisophile

We surf the waves of capitalism, from crest to trough and back again, but the funny thing is that no matter how often we ride the wave, nobody notices that it's wet. When we are on the crest, we believe that we have climbed a mountain through our own virtuous efforts, and when we are in the trough, we believe that we have fallen into a pit through our own vice.

Adam Gopnik
Paris to the Moon

sad

The door opens with its familiar “click” and I strain my ears to discern whose footfalls proceed out into the hallway. They are the muffled “fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph” steps of my son’s footie-pajamaed feet crossing the hardwood floor. My internal eyebrow raises, and I turn from my glowing screen to greet him with a questioning gaze.

“Momma?” he begins, rubbing his eyes, his face turned downward. “I can’t sleep. I’m saaaaad.”

I cock my head to one side, knowing full well he’s only been in bed for, oh, about three minutes. And he was as cheery as a bird when I left. This sounds like a stall to me. “Hmmm…Why are you sad, Buddy?”

“I don’t know. I just feel sad.” He is trying his best to look sad. It is not working.

“Okay, Buddy—here’s what I want you to do. Get back in bed, and I want you to think about all the things that make you happy. Playing with Finn, playing with Sam, going to kindergarten…” I’m getting no response. “…playing at COSI, going to fishing camp…” His face finally lights up. “There you go! Hop in bed and I want you to think about fishing camp until you fall asleep, okay?”

He agrees and we exchange our fourth round of good night kisses as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back off to bed.

I breathe a small sigh of relief and return to the never-ending tasks at hand. Flying along more quickly than I expected, I eagerly anticipate having a few moments later in the evening to read, or, dare I hope?, to write. I point and click away, and then I hear it.

Click. Fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumph. “Momma?”

I turn to face my son, reminding myself to smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. Smile and be patient. “What’s up, Buddy?”

Sniffle. Sniffle. Turn down cheeks, cue the tears… “I’m still sad, Momma. I tried to think of stuff, but it didn’t work. I’m still really saaaaaaad.” His voice catches. My heart softens. He is sincere.

“Come here, Bud.” I pull him up on my lap. “There’s nothing to be sad about, Buddy. We’ve had a great weekend. I want you to think about everything we did this weekend, and about all the things you want to do in Florida. Got it?”

“Okay, Momma,” he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve for the umpteenth time. I silently hand him a tissue, and he half-heartedly blows his nose as he fhwumph-fhwumph-fhwumphs back to his room. Again.

I get back to work. Again. Time is passing, but writing may not be entirely out of the question. I continue to cruise through my various to-dos and delete each item off my list with glee. Finish item, delete item. Finish item, delete item. Finish item,

Click.

I sigh very not-patiently. He fhwumphs in a third time, and I turn around to find tears. “Momma, could you come open my window-things a little bit?” I question what he wants and why, not fully understanding what’s on his little mind. “I need you to open those things on my windows because I’m still sad (crying begins in earnest) and looking out the window (sob) helps me (sob) not be so sad.” Ah, now I understand. I understand all too well.

I walk my tender little boy back to bed, rubbing his warm, fleecy back. I am remembering my own melancholy five-year-old self, sitting at my own window, watching fireflies or snowflakes, counting semis on the distant turnpike, trying not to feel my own sad. I am remembering my thirty-eight-year-old self not wanting to be up late alone, making my husband fall asleep to the glow of my bedside light while I read or do Sudoku cozied up next to him in bed, still for the very same reasons. Indeed, I understand this sad all too well.

We take care of the blinds, lifting the bottom up high enough to allow him a slice of our street still aglow with Christmas lights. I tuck him in, kissing his curly, golden head, and, almost as an afterthought, do what I should have done in the first place. Kissing my writing time goodbye, I climb up into the top bunk with him, pulling his tiny body into the curve of my own. We pray, and we ask God to come and take away all that sad, and I hold him tight until his breathing becomes heavier and his heart becomes lighter, reminding him, as I so often need reminded, that he is not alone in the big, dark, lonely nighttime world. I leave after five minutes, exchanging kisses for the seventh time, and his door does not open again.

Sometimes, there is no reason to be sad. Sad just is. And whether we’re five or fifty-five, sad should never have to be faced alone. Tonight, my Buddy and I pushed back his sad together, if only for a moment. In an hour or two, I may still have my own to face, but I will not be alone, either.

Together, we will push back the sad. Together.

six words

i came upon a fun little book sometime this summer on the "six-word autobiography," and have been playing with it ever since. you can find more here. here are a few of my attempts:

one new year's resolution after another.

missed the truck. hit the wall.

always one word short of six.

midlife crisis looms around next corner.

the one that didn't get away.

ember smolders but still burns red.

care to give it a try?

a new year tradition

our annual winter hike, this year at clear creek metro park

testing the new binoculars from "Santa"...

a few artsy shots, just for fun

resolute

I'm not one for New Year' s resolutions, given that I don't tend to keep them longer than a week at best. But my writing angst keeps tugging on my sleeve, pleading with that whiny tone to be paid attention to, and so I am resolving, in my own vague and tentative way, to write and post with some sort of weekly regularity. Tonight equals one.

have i mentioned lately how i could eat him up?

the big night

hanging out with good buddies on new years eve

lights at the zoo

...on a record-high day in toledo!

Christmas Eve

After church on The Most Wonderful Night of the Year.

The Tooth Fairy AND Santa, all in one night!

sweet dreams

Sleeping under the Christmas tree on "Christmas Eve Eve..."

c'est fini!!!

Hallelujah!!!!!!!!!!!

Six months of planning, three months of labor. I have done little else, as you've probably noticed!

I'm going to BED!!!

geeks grown up

My old high school crew out for appetizers before our 20 year reunion this weekend. Among us at the table we have three of the top ten (and five of the top 15), five national honor society members, the valedictorian and salutatorian, three graduation speakers, and a whole host of other accolades. Among my closest buds we have three engineers, a Fullbright Scholar, a professional counselor (that would be ME), a police sargent, and several other highly educated and successful professionals. Not a bad group to be associated with!

The hubby and me, pre-party.

A collage of the highlights of my evening...

The die-hard "Rossfordians" went to Moe's Bar after the reunion. Our crew went to Denny's...

leave it to my kids...

Raking leaves at Grandma and Grandad's this weekend!

a poem by any other name...

I "made" the writer's group write sonnets the other night and talked about how form can unlock creativity, rather than stifle it. Bob would have hated it... oh, that he would have been there!

Here are the two I worked on:

forecasting

Her voice, like sunshine, flits among the clouds--
bright patches in his otherworldly day.
Dark weariness his spirit fully shrouds
until a word of kindness drives away.

For when she shines, she shines with brightness fair,
and all within his world is good and right.
He casts aside the shadows of despair
and basks within her glowing rays of light.

But when her spirit's fire loses flame
and coldness creeps across her face like ice,
he, too, retreats in silent fear and shame,
and anxiously begins to scan the skies.

She does not mean at all to cause him pain,
when, in her own, she sometimes sends the rain.


bon soir

Sandy heads of curls reflect the sunlight,
as golden, glowing halos frame each face.
Playing hard, 'til late into the twilight,
pretending at a frantic, break-neck pace.

Fireflies begin to tease the darkness;
the crickets softly play their lullabye.
Nighttime settles silent on the back fence;
There's nothing harder than to say goodbye.

With cries and tears they protest loud and long,
still clinging to the last remains of day.
But droopy eyes belie their protests strong,
and finally their drowsiness gives way.

As tired and spent they tumble into bed,
a blessing prayed upon each sweaty head.

20 years

Tomorrow night is my 20 year reunion. I never thought I'd be this old. Who knew?

Top left corner is my BFF from HS, Candy. Next to that is me and my director, Mr. Wilcox. The next picture is taken in the middle of the road in Times Square right after the Macy's parade went through, then a carriage ride in Central Park, then me as Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls. Sandy and Bethany and I in art class on Sr. Dress Up Day, then bottom row has my best buds James, Beth, Candy and Lance and I on the Sr. Steps, Candy and I, and Lance and I at Sr. Prom. Those were the days!

Have some stuff to post--hopefully over the weekend, or when I return!

in the beginning...

Another writing prompt that I decided to finish, this one from July’s Writer’s Group. “I am thinking of…”

I am thinking, in my blank-mindedness, of how hard it is to begin. How hard that first idea, those first few steps into the wilderness to forge the trail can be. Which direction? Toward the mountains? The valley? The meadow? Where do I let my feet take me? Where do I let my pen take me?

How something can be so simple yet so complex is beyond me. There are days when words tumble from my pen onto paper so fast my fingers can’t keep up with my brain. Then there are days when I sit down with a pen and seemingly forget how it works. Forget how to put it to paper. Forget how to create. How to begin…

I’m thinking of all the ideas that fill my files at home. Essays, articles, books. All ideas. Like eggs banked for another time, they wait for life to come to them. Some I return to, others continue to wait—reminding me, mocking me, calling me. Ideas that need to be begun…and then begotten.

And so how is it that one begins? How is it that Julie writes daily and I write monthly, at best? Where does the difference lie? Is it a lack of discipline? Of creativity? Of time? Or is it a lack of courage?

Beginning takes courage. Saying, “This is the path I am going to take. It starts here.” Putting pen to paper, letting the words come even then you don’t like the words. Letting the feelings come even when you don’t like the feelings. Letting your pen bring forth life whether you like the life it brings forth or not. This is risk. This is faith. This is writing.

the beat goes on

While I didn't do much posting this summer, I DID manage to do some writing. With the help of a book by Natalie Goldberg titled Old Friend From Far Away, I began doing writing practice a few days a week. I had hoped to post some of them, but never found the time. But now that the kids are back to bed at 8:00 (HALLELUIA!!!), I hope to share a few of them with you. The prompt for this one was "I remember..." I thought it fit well with the back to school theme, so I finished it along that vein...

I remember when I was at the center, not around the circumference. Eyes six inches from my own, searching, seeking, finding. I remember when only I could satisfy, only I could calm, only I could delight. I remember the days when Momma was everything—the mender of boo-boos, the singer of lullabies, the holder of hands, the keeper of secrets, the receiver of kisses. And I remember the fullness of my heart mixed with the sadness of knowing that which every mother knows. This will not last. This will not last. This will not last. With every heartbeat, I’ve tried to remember. Be here. Be here now. This will not last.

Some mothers accept this with ease—the natural rhythms of life flow through their days and they are always in step with its beat. I, on the other hand, seem continually lost in the music, swaying off-tempo, hoping the song won’t come to an end. Long known for overstaying my welcome, I still struggle with letting go and knowing when to make my exit.

My daughter is nine now, and I am moving to the periphery. I try to accept it with a smile, encouraging her independence with no small amount of fear brewing within. But my smile is strained—not the full, teethy grin of happiness but the forced pull of the cheeks upward to reassure her, and everyone else, that I am okay with this.

But I am not.

My son, my baby, is five, and I am no longer the center of his days. I share him with a delightful woman named “Mrs. Smith,” splitting my precious time with him between us. She is wonderful, but I share him, nonetheless. I do not like to share. Just ask my husband. Just ask my children. I try to share, but it is compulsory at best, insincere and begrudging at worst. And it makes me grumpy, to boot. I am not okay with this.

I remember my training. I remember the years of childhood development classes and experience working with children and families. I remember my own struggle toward independence. I know I must let go. I know I must let go well. But knowing and wanting to are two entirely different things, and the second comes much less easily than the first. (And the first doesn’t come easily in the first place.) I remember the advice to put our marriage first, because when the children are gone, we will only have each other. I remember thinking, “Well, DUH. Of course we’ll put our marriage first.” And I remember when I first recognized that my priorities had inadvertently shifted.

My children have become the center of my world, and I am slowly but surely moving out of the center of theirs. I must learn to be okay with this. I must. I will. It just isn’t going to happen tonight. Because tonight, as my children grow up before my eyes, you will find me thumbing through baby books, wondering where the years went, listening to the beat of my mother-heart…

Be here. Be here now. This will not last.

where has the summer gone?

It certainly wasn't spent writing, I can tell you THAT!

where have the last FIVE YEARS gone?!?!

Kindergarten?!?! How is that possible?

Fourth grade. Oy vey...

on vacation

at beach with the fam--

along with the pictures, please

enjoy some haiku!

ode to the beach

blue skies overhead

cool drink at my fingertips

sand between my toes

i think it's really a corola, but the syllable count was all off...

3 generations

in 1 toyota camry

headed 4 the beach

incoming storms (a daily occurance)

costal breezes mix

setting the night sky ablaze

with passionate fury

buddy boy

curled golden halo

framing his cherubic face--

do not be deceived

my growing girl

inwardly turning--

once the vivacious talker

now the calm thinker?

sanibel island

bubbles in the gulf

dinner at the Bubble Room

pink bubble gum sun

halleluia

It's like playing a country song backwards... I get my husband back, I get my life back, I get my time back, I get my nights back...

Congratulations, Babe!

Love you!!!

waterfire

the women's retreat: a haiku

fully clothed, we came
expectant yet uncertain--
longing for your touch

ten in a circle
hearts bared in the dark of night
unzipped and undone

freedom followed tears
joy came with the morning light...
we left, buck-naked

grace and muscle

Were you to emblazon my daughter’s approach to life across the front of one of those cute, trendy little t-shirts, it would read: “If a little is good, a LOT is BETTER!” She comes by this honestly—I didn’t learn moderation myself until, well, I’ve never learned moderation. So it shouldn’t surprise me that my daughter goes at gymnastics just as hard as she does everything else in her life.

When it comes to flipping and flopping, my daughter has the power and the raw talent, but she lacks the self-control. “My hip bones hurt, Momma,” she tells me one morning after practice. They have been doing their “strong arms” on the bar and practicing “popping” their hips off the bar. Popping for most girls looks like rising two to three inches off the bar five or six times. Not my daughter. My daughter takes popping to a new level. Literally.

My daughter pops so high and so fast that she is nearly flipping herself over the bar. This is a clear snapshot of her personality—unchecked energy run amok. Her little face red and sweaty, her muscles taut and twitching, her body in constant, exaggerated motion. This is my daughter, every day of her life.

The cheerleaders at our high school chant, before taking the floor, “Grace and Muscle, Hunh!” My daughter asks me, one day, what this means. We talk about the balance between strength and beauty, between power and control, between energy and discipline. She wrinkles her nose at me. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she says.

No, to her, I imagine it doesn’t. She comes by all-or-nothing honestly, and that will take some time to deprogram. Her teacher, fortunately, is graciously patient, guiding her along that narrow beam. Teaching her to listen to her body and to know how much is too much. Teaching her how to sustain her energy for the long haul. Teaching her how to moderate her impulses. Teaching her self-control. Oh, how I wish I’d learned these lessons at her age.

Over the course of the morning, she has already improved. Her teachable nature saves her from rampant impulsivity once again. I am relieved. She beams as she crosses the gym, leaping and bounding, all arms and legs and energy again. But there was a brief, fleeting moment there—back on the high bar—when grace and muscle came together, and I could see into her future. And it was a beautiful thing to behold.

spring break fling

Took a mini-trip to Indianapolis for the weekend. This is me and the kids at the Children's Museum. (My hubby and I used to go here on dates--other than the water clock and the ramps in the center, VERY little is the same!)

Did some writing--mostly working on a suite of poems I began when my grandmother was in hospice a year ago. I may post a few later. Hope to write more this week. In the meantime, my mother will enjoy the pictures, if no one else!

My cutie-patooties at the zoo. This is a rare photo, as my son has taken to not wanting his picture taken, lately...

We met up with my college roomie (and one of my BESTEST buddies) and her family at the zoo. From left to right are Holly, her husband Darrin, and their daughter Jessie. I'm trying to convince my son that I REALLY won't let him fall in the water if I hold him up so he can touch a shark in the touch tank...

At the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the heart of Downtown Indy. Our hotel was one block from the Circle.

A quick break with Poppa!

Me w/the kiddos by the Indiana WWI monument.

vanilla

They come to gymnastics in their designer jeans teetering on designer high-heeled shoes, their designer sunglasses perched atop their designer dye-and-straighten jobs. They are pushing designer strollers wearing designer coats and toting designer purses filled with designer snacks and water bottles. Twelve carat designer rings perch above meticulously-done designer nails, and their equally meticulous make-up matches their accessories which match their outfits which match their shoes which match their purses which match their diaper bags which match their strollers which match the interiors of their color-coordinated, designer SUVs. And they look fabulous. Because, of course, it is terribly important to look fabulous when you are sitting at the gym or running to McDonald’s and the grocery and the library. Of course.

I hear them as I read, sitting off to the side, still in my work-out clothes. They discuss make-up brands, Coach purses, Grey’s Anatomy, which local pool is the best, where you simply HAVE to stay at Walt Disney World. They wobble down the bleachers in their three-inch heels and make their way back to their cookie-cutter designer houses, where they will cook name-brand macaroni and cheese in their designer finery and watch TV all day and night in between picking up the kids from school and doing loads of their children’s designer laundry. They have no interests. They have no hobbies. They have no personalities. They are vanilla. Rich, expensive vanilla, but vanilla, nonetheless.

It’s not that I don’t like these women. Truly. I just don’t know how to relate to these women. I mean, I can talk about sofa upholstery for 45 minutes if I really have to, but if I don’t really HAVE to, why on earth would I WANT to? And truth be told, I’d really rather use my 45 minutes of uninterrupted time to read or write than to do anything, and I do mean ANYTHING else these days (except, perhaps, eat chocolate), so it isn’t such a big deal to sit here and try not to overhear their trivial conversations.

But then, despite my best efforts to focus my attention elsewhere, there is that strange tension between complete disdain and childish jealousy that develops, twisting itself around my thought life and breeding rampant sarcasm. There is truly nothing within me that wants to BE these women—but if I’m really honest, I sure wouldn’t mind some of the designer accoutrements. And I find that it is, unfortunately, easier and much more fun to be judgmental than to sit here feeling jealous.

Another woman comes and sits down near me—and I immediately notice she is similarly curly-headed, which is delightfully shocking in this day and age. She, too, is made up and well-heeled, but I am intrigued by her obviously hand-crafted jewelry, her bright, unusual clothing, her pile of books with her. She is studying Korean—to test for her black belt, I find out as I begin talking with her. I listen to her talk about her days as a champion collegiate hurdler, about how boring aerobics is so she needed a challenge, about running marathons and teaching yoga and entertaining local celebrities. I am smug with self-satisfaction at my new-found friend. She is not vanilla—she is Jeni’s Thai Chili, Salty Caramel, Queen City Cayenne. Finally, there is some flavor!

We talk for ten minutes and she never asks me a single thing about myself. I am perplexed and put out at first. And then it finally dawns on me—SHE thinks I’M vanilla.

Designer irony. And, wouldn't ya know, it doesn't match a single thing I'm wearing...

five and nine

My Girlie-Girl, after finding the horse barn Grandad made for her.

I tried last night to talk her into staying eight for another year, but she would have no part in it...

Buster Brown in a submarine at his fifth birthday party in February.

easter at my folks'

My Mom made the quilt above the mantle... pretty impressive, eh?

a poem on driving myself crazy

the diet

endlessly striving
always resisting
never attaining

more martha hiaku

still struggling to find/make time to write, but i will figure it out. managed to write these during my quiet time last night:

can't sit still

sitting at your feet
doesn't come naturally--
can't we walk instead?


kp duty

i putz around in
the kitchen while you are there,
patiently waiting

duties, desires--
all my own, warring within...
i've not chosen well

up to my elbows
in my own mess, i beg thee:
teach me the "one thing"

yielding

(subtitled: Did I Step In Something?)

"The first thing I must be willing to admit when I begin to examine what controls and dominates me is that I am the one responsible for having yielded myself to whatever it may be... There is no power within the human soul itself that is capable of breaking the bondage of the nature created by yielding... No release or escape from it will ever come from any human power, but only through the power of redemption. You must yield yourself in utter humiliation to the only One who can break the dominating power in your life... It is easy to sing 'He will break every fetter,' while at the same time living a life of obvious slavery to yourself. But yielding to Jesus will break every kind of slavery in any person's life."

Excerpted from My Utmost For His Highest, March 14

the final 28

76. I am surprised I might actually FINISH this list of 103 things you may not know about me.

77. I get chronic headaches--just about every day of my life. I have one right now. It hurts.

78. I am an Air Force Brat.

79. I have had to move because of Emminent Domain. There is now a turnpike exhange in the spot where I grew up.

80. While I don't enjoy working out, I DO enjoying walking and biking. WITH other people...

81. I don't like to be alone.

82. Correction. I DO like to be alone sometimes. Like when I'm trying to go to the bathroom. Or read a recipe. Or follow directions to something. Or need just one flippin' moment of peace and quiet FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD!!!

83. I regularly thank God for my heated mattress cover and flannel sheets.

84. I need them because I USED to be hot all the time, but now, even though I've weighed this weight before and never been cold, I am cold ALL THE TIME since I've lost weight.

85. I want to take art classes. All kinds. I want to learn how to throw a pot, and make batik, and enamel stuff, and paint, and...

86. I sang my first solo in church when I was in first grade. I was hooked.

87. When I was a kid and was somewhere boring, I would count how many circles I could find in the room.

88. When I was older, I graduated to very complicated doodling. I'll post a picture of one later. I was known in grad school for my doodling, of all things...

89. I DON'T doodle in session.

90. I'm running out of ideas.

91. Every time I watch my daughter do gymnastics, I'm convinced she's going to break her neck. Now she's going to be on a team. I'm going to need a nerve pill, I think...

92. My head still hurts.

93. I attended my first writing conference when I was in third grade. You can read about it here.

94. I furrow my eyebrows when I'm thinking. Everyone thinks I'm mad.

95. I'm not.

96. I constantly tense my shoulders. Since I sat down at the computer, I've had to relax my shoulders at least seven times. I just had to do it again.

97. I am part German, part English, and part Hillbilly.

98. When I get tired or am around my grandmother (or her family), I develop a drawl.

99. I also like to go barefoot, say "y'all," and call people "folks."

100. I love live music. Especially jazz.

101. If I lived in the city, I'd stay up all night with a telescope looking in people's windows. I'm terribly nosy!

102. When we went to NYC and I couldn't sleep, I did just that!

103. I'm going to go take some more aspirin and go to bed.

104. Oh, and I'm an overachiever, too...

105. I always have to do more than is asked, because more is always better.

106. But I also know when it's time to quit and go to bed. Good night!

snow daze

Got at least a foot in the last 24 hours--some of the drifts are as tall as my little guy!

Tell me again why we live here?!?!

After hearing our stories about the blizzard of '78, the kids were thrilled to get to build their OWN snow "fort!"

today's lesson is brought to you by the letter "D"

Today, my sensitive, spirited daughter learned the "D-word." Curled up in her booster seat, she sniffled noisily as I maneuvered my way through the slush-covered streets. We were supposed to be headed somewhere else, but because of the snow, we were headed home. My heart broke for her, but there was nothing I could do.

Disappointment. Today, he and my daughter became well-acquainted.

Selections for district speech meet representatives were made in January. One child for each category from each class. "I really hope I get picked this year, Momma," she confided one night. And so I helped her prepare. Every night we rehearsed, and, sure enough, she came home beeming one afternoon. It was the first year she'd been selected, and she was as pleased as punch with herself, as she should have been. I was thrilled for her and frightened for her at the same time. If all went well, it would be a great experience. If not, well...

And so it was that I was prepared for her to forget a line or fumble a sentence, but was not prepared for the weather. Speech meet was cancelled, in the midst of a midwestern snow storm, not to be rescheduled. I came into the classroom to pick her up, and her nose was red. She held it together until we got out to the hall. "They aren't going to re-do it, Momma," she cried into my coat. "I'm not going to get to go. I worked so hard, and now I don't get to do it."

I teared up for her then, just as I do again, now. This is a hard lesson for a third-grader to learn. It is a hard one for a tender-hearted mother to watch, as well. We curled up on her bed at home, the colorful outfit we'd negotiated the night before now splotched with her tears, and I let her cry herself out. "Mrs. Smith told me it was nothing to cry about," she sobbed. I sat her up and turned her toward me.

"You listen to me, Sweetpea," I said. "This time, Honey, your teacher is WRONG. This is the PERFECT thing to cry about, and you can cry all you need to, do you understand?" She nodded, burying her head in my shoulder again. "This is a very disappointing thing, and it is perfectily okay to be sad. Don't let anybody tell you differently, Baby."

I waited for a break in her emotion, and I went on. "But here's the thing, Sweetie. You be sad now while you're sad, and you get all that sad out. But then you've got to take all that sad, and you've got to put it all in your hands, and you've got to give it to Jesus. And you've got to tell him, 'Jesus, I'm so sad. Will you please help me not to be sad anymore?' And then you've got to choose to stop being sad, and focus on what's next. Be sad all you need to right now, Honey. But in a little bit, we need to give it to Jesus, so you won't need to be sad anymore."

She looked up at me and nodded, and in a few minutes looked up again and said, "I'm ready to be done being sad now, Momma." And so we took that sad, and we placed it at the foot of the cross, and we got up, and we went sledding.

Disappointment is painful, but it is not fatal. Perhaps she and I will learn that one together, as we both continue to grow up. Perhaps our hearts will toughen up, perhaps not. But at least she is learning where to go with that tender heart to receive peace. I pray that THIS lesson is the one that sticks in her mind the most.

Asleep now, after a night of movies and dancing and chocolate, she looks like a contended angel. I am cautiously relieved. We made it through the evening. And though I would have given anything to see her recite her poem, I have never been more proud of her than I am at this moment.

103.75

51. In addition, I carry five different shades of tinted lip balm in my purse.

52. I also carry bandaids, ointment, sanitizer, lotion, toiletries, cough drops, aspirin, a mirror, and a nail file.

53. I don't use any of them.

54. I would argue that James Taylor is quite possibly one of the greatest songwriters of all time.

55. My favorite classical composers are Vivaldi and Aaron Copland.

56. I have sung the Carmina Burana with the Indianapolis Symphony. It ROCKS.

57. I have sung the Mozart Requiem with the Toledo Symphony. It's pretty darn good, too.

58. I can sing the alto part of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus by memory. I've sung the Messiah approximately seven or eight times.

59. One can never get tired of singing the Messiah.

60. One can, however, probably get tired of hearing it.

61. I cannot be trusted alone in a book store.

62. I dream in color.

63. I consistently use up all the hot water when I take a shower. It is the best place in the world to sing...

64. I've remained married for fifteen years DESPITE the fact that I always use up all the hot water.

65. I am NOT A MORNING PERSON.

66. I have managed to remain married for fifteen years despite the fact that my husband IS.

67. I never could understand why my mother couldn't have me an OLDER brother.

68. I love photography. I tend to look at the world as if I am composing a shot. It can tend to get annoying--especially when you frame a GREAT shot and don't have your camera!

69. I have had the West Nile Virus.

70. I still don't understand who the heck thought Jesus and all his men were going to get fed if Martha weren't in the kitchen...

71. I relate more, unfortunately, with the older brother than with the prodigal son.

72. I love to read the Epistles.

73. My favorite book of all time is Hind's Feet on High Places. I prayed for years to be transformed into "Grace and Glory," only to find out many years later that Lorie means "Glorious Victory" and Anne means "Grace." I'd been Grace and Glory all along...

74. I do not often live, unfortunately, as if my name were Grace and Glory. Or Victorious, for that matter.

75. But I am working on it....

a martha haiku

I will be studying Martha for a while--I hope you'll enjoy reading about her!

Lord, where is the time
in the midst of the urgent
to sit at your feet?

How do I choose the
better over that which is
true necessity?

And how do I find
you in the bills and battles
and betime routines?

103.5

25. I could eat pizza for every meal. And sometimes I have.

26. I have also been known to eat an entire plate of chocolate chip cookies for dinner.

27. I have, despite a fear of heights and falling, climbed three mountains. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.

28. I have been "saved" at least 12 times. I lost track somewhere around Jr. High...

29. I work out an average of five times per week. I HATE IT.

30. After a decade of trying to make my naturally curly hair "feather," I made an inner vow to never blow dry my hair again. And I haven't.

31. If I ever won the lottery, I would get a tummy tuck. Suffice it to say that pregnancy was not kind.

32. I am a compulsive shell-picker-upper. You don't want to go to the beach with me, unless you like to do so, as well. (And if that's the case, stay out of my way!)

33. I read Calvin and Hobbes religiously while it was in print. It is my favorite cartoon of all time.

34. I've been in every state east of the Mississippi, and a handful west.

35. We have a goal to see all fifty states before our youngest graduates from college.

36. When I was pregnant with my youngest, I craved Chipotle incessantly. I went at least twice a week, and for the entire last month of my pregnancy they gave me my food for free because they were afraid I'd give birth in their dining room!

37. I love to hike. We do so several times a month. My oldest can do eight to ten miles, and my youngest just made it to two or three.

38. I love to camp. As long as there is a real bed, a real toilet, and a real shower.

39. I am still close friends with the first friend I made in kindergarten, despite the fact that he lived in Japan for ten years.

40. I collect rocks. And shells. And handblown glass ornaments. And "blue things." And artsy cat knick knacks.

41. Apparently, I collect collections.

42. I am running out of shelf space.

43. I don't have cable, and you can't make me get it.

44. My 20th high school reunion is this fall. I am actually looking forward to it. But now that I've typed that, I realize that I'm also scared to death about it...

45. I wish I'd started using Mary Kay about ten years sooner.

46. When I was fifteen, I told my boyfriend's mother I could see myself working at a church, talking to people about their problems, and praying for them. So I went to college and majored in music. Fifteen years later, God reminded me of this conversation, as I sat in my office at the church, counseling people and praying for them.

47. Music was just the first of five majors. I still graduated in four years, and still minored in vocal performance. (I was also one credit hour short of a minor in French.)

48. My husband had ONE major, decided upon it when he was in late elementary school, graduated, and worked in that field for over 15 years. I don't understand that for the life of me...

49. I have known my husband now for longer than I didn't know him.

50. I always carry in my purse chapstick, cinnamon gum, a pen and paper, and a snack. I will not carry anything for you, so don't ask me.

More (perhaps) to come at another time!

103

In the spirit of "Common, everyone ELSE is doing it..." I am commencing my list of 103 things you may not know about me.

1. I rarely finish anything. This may be a list of 54 things you may not know about me. Or 13.

2. I am afraid of the dark. Really.

3. My secret vices are fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies (okay, that's not a secret!) and The Simpsons.

4. I know the words to virtually every Barry Manilow song ever written. And I can sing them to you upon demand. This request is not something, oddly enough, that happens often...

5. I am a professional musician. Or rather, I WAS, in a former life. (Like, when I HAD a life!) You can read about that here.

6. I read about six-eight books at a time on average. I finish about 40% of them. There's a lot of poorly written CRAP out there...

7. If I could do anything, I would find a way to become independently wealthy so we could travel the world and see all there is to see. I have a longing to travel that is unfortunately not matched by our budget.

8. I bait my own hook. I have also gutted my own fish, caught a snake, and held multiple frogs. I cannot, however, stand to clean off someone else's plate to put it in the dishwasher. GROSS.

9. I am a Trekie. Hold your laughter.

10. My husband has recently gotten me hooked on the new Battlestar Galactica. NOW you may laugh.

11. I love to watch cooking shows and read recipe books. I said once to a friend that I "read recipes like romance novels." She didn't get it. But I know some of you do!

12. I talk in my sleep. According to my husband, I am completely nonsensical.

13. I am a neat-freak, but not a clean-freak. I pick up the house daily. I dust quarterly.

14. I wanted to be the next Sandi Patti. Really. (I can't believe I'm sharing THAT one...)

15. I also wanted to be the next Amy Grant.

16. I do a pretty good imitation of both. Again, not many requests for either these days...

17. The ideal year, to me, would be for there to be spring (sunny and 75) until the beginning of June, then fall (sunny and 75) until the middle of November, and then it could snow from Thanksgiving until New Year's Day and then start all over again.

18. I drink my tea with cream. Or, at least I did until I started this new diet.

19. I abhor meatloaf, peas, lima beans, and pot roast.

20. I have been known to eat cereal three meals a day.

21. I make "happy eating noises" when I am enjoying a particularly good meal.

22. I do not like to share my food. I am worse than a dog. I have actually GROWLED at my husband. And my children, well...

23. I love baby-butts. I think they are the cutest things in the world.

24. I have peed in the woods and lived to tell about it. (And not dribbled on my shoes!)

Gotta get to work... maybe more later, maybe not!