For Danielle. Sort of... But it's for everyone who has lost someone... And all the rest of us.
Why is it that it takes somebody dying before people come together - I mean, REALLY come together - to celebrate that person? I want to know. This has been circling the back of my mind like a flock of vultures and picking away at the edges of my thoughts for literally, weeks now.
It is so frustrating.
Anyway, I got to thinking about death. What death means, and how we respond to it. What life means, and how we respond to that.
It all started because a friend of mine died quite suddenly recently, and... She was such a fun, awesome person, and now she's gone. And I can almost guarantee that the hundred or so people in the room at her funeral had never ALL been together in a room before.
And that made me really angry.
I guess part of that is my grief showing up, because I'm still sad about her, but it's more than that. It makes me angry that when we die, all these people show up to talk about how great we were. Really?
I mean, seriously, it's retarded.
Ya'll (Sorry guys, my Southern "roots" show up a little more when I'm mad.) can't bother to show up for a holiday get-together or a birthday party or a fun weekend or whatever, but hey, I'm dead now, so let's all show up and talk about how awesome she was and how much we miss her...
No. If she was that awesome, you'd have made time for her while she was still freaking alive and wanted you around. (And don't get me wrong, I *know* that plenty of people DID make time for my sweet friend before she died. It just frustrated me to think that they were probably never all in the same room together to celebrate her while she was alive.)
That's what's at the core of this for me, I guess. That the "Hey everybody, let's get together and CELEBRATE each other!" thing doesn't happen nearly as often or as beautifully as it should. And that often we are made to feel as though we are imposing on others' schedules when we *do* ask for that time...
We get so caught up in the minutia of our microscopic lives that it takes the DEATH of young, vibrant, beautiful, giving and compassionate woman before everybody's willing to take a pause, take a breath and go, "Wait up. She was awesome. And we didn't bother to tell her enough before she was gone."
It was enough to make me stop, shake my head, and wonder. Who am I? What will people say about ME when I die?
Honestly, I could care less what people think of me when I die. Or what they say. You know why? Because I'LL BE DEAD. And here's a little secret for you: dead people don't care what the living have to say to, for, or about, them.
It's now, here, in the land of the LIVING that I actually care. Here, in this place, where I still breathe the same air as you do... Where I'm still able to laugh, and cry, and wash the same damned laundry day after day after day after day, and yell at my kids. Here is where I care.
So tell me now, or don't tell me at all. Because once I'm dead, it's over. There'll be no more telling then.
And I'll tell you. Let's make a deal of it, k?
I think of that almost every day now. I think of it every time I say goodbye, or goodnight, or whatever... "Did I tell them that I love them? Did I make them feel special enough... Just in case there is no tomorrow?" Not always in so many words, but the thought is still there, peering over my shoulder to make sure I haven't forgotten.
This is especially poignant for me, because in living with diabetes, you learn really quickly that most people who know about diabetes, including - and maybe especially - your doctor, don't really expect you to live all that long. Which kind of sucks. Like, hardcore sucks. You become aware of your mortality a lot more quickly than others may... Even more so when you've had a brush with death through DKA (Diabetic Ketoacidosis. It sucks, trust me in this.). *I* expect to live a long time, but that doesn't mean anything either. Even if I didn't have Type 1, there's no guarantee that I have another hour or another day. I just live a little closer to te reality of what death is than many people do because I have Type 1.
And being a parent with this... WHOA, Mama, it really brings it home.
So I want to start a new tradition. A new way of going about things. Because the land of regret is for the dead. And I don't ever want to go there... I'm not afraid of death, but I am afraid that I'll look back again sometime and say, "I wish I'd told her how much she meant to me."
The dead don't care about our wishes. Our love that we didn't express, our hopes that we never shared, or the laughs over that last margarita that we never had.
So why do we wait until someone dies to shower them with beautiful flowers and equally beautiful words?
Life gives to the living, and the dead care nothing for it. Our words of affirmation and love and beauty are best spent on the spirits of those around us who still draw breath and can be affirmed and loved and receive beauty.
When I was a young teen, I went to a summer camp where we had a project where we had to give "Flowers for the Living." What this meant was that we each were given a box, and every person at some point during the week of that camp had to write at least one thing about someone else that they appreciated and admired. This was almost 20 years ago, and I still have some of those little slips of paper. They were precious to me, and carried me through some very hard times. And I still remember that experience clearly. It rocked my world in an awesome and powerful way.
So starting here and now, where I have become lax and apathetic and unappreciative... Or where I have held my words to myself, thinking I am too effusive - I want to shake that off. I want to give my flowers to the living.
I want to follow the wisdom of Henry Ward Beecher: “Do not keep alabaster boxes of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness, speak approvingly, and cheer them with words and deeds while their ear can hear them and their hearts be thrilled by them.”
Oh, yes. I want to thrill the ears and hearts of everyone I know. Lord grant that I may do so.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Isn't It Always The Little Things?
Good Sunday evening, friends.In case you missed out, today was an INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL day. Knock-your-socks-off gorgeous. Full of all the things that are beautiful about living here: sunshine, warm air with a cool breeze, springtime singing in the air... Ahhh. Gloriousness.
It really is these little things that make me so grateful to be alive and able to enjoy what God has put in this world for us to enjoy.
So of course, we decided to go to a local nature preserve/park thing and take a good, long walk... Too perfect of a day not to, right? And it was... Just perfectly lovely.
First, just let me say that the "mountain," as KayKay called it, totally kicked my butt. But I'm glad for it, because I definitely needed the exercise. Certainly *not* a little thing, but a good one, nonetheless.
We explored the lake and the trees and the rocks and looked for deer tracks and fox dens and chipmunk... Nests? Lairs? I don't know what they're called, but chipmunks are evil, and therefore it seems logical that they would have lairs. Although, I suppose a nest could be equally as evil and menacing, amIright? (In case I haven't mentioned it before, I used to think chipmunks were all cute and furry and adorable and "Awwww, wouldn't it be awesome to have a pet chipmunk?!?!" ... Until we had Chirpy the Chipmunk move in and CHIRP RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW FOR HOURS - and I mean HOURS - EVERY FREAKING DAY FROM SPRING UNTIL WINTER. Chipmunk society as a whole is dead to me now. There could be a worldwide chipmunk extermination and I wouldn't bat an eye. Chirpy has ruined the whole species for me. The only enjoyment I get from them now is to imagine what one might taste like if properly stewed up.)
Anyway... Train derailed. MUST. GET. BACK. ON TRACK.
So. We had a fun, happy time.
We saw a turtle. (He chose to show us his butt. I guess turtles can be snooty sometimes.)
And we saw lots of trees. Dead trees. Live trees. LOTS of trees. Yay for trees! (I love them, really! Although I did *not* go about hugging them as the Ladybug did... I felt like it, though. Just... THAT HAPPY.) Anyway, I thought this log was pretty darn cool. I love moss, don't you?
So we walked and walked and walked, and talked about the rocks and the trees and what if Reddy Fox lived under that fallen log? And Paddy the Beaver? I'll bet his dam is in the lake somewhere! And was that Sammy Jay I saw flitting through the trees over there? (We are very much into the books by Thornton W. Burgess right now - they are wonderful stories with short chapters about a variety of animals. They have a definite Beatrix Potter-esque feeling to them, but also contain great - and often funny - moral stories that are perfect for young children. Both the girls have been enjoying them.)
Then we saw this cute little guy, who wasn't doing much pecking, but was spending a lot of time calling. He doesn't have a name, because I don't know if Thornton W. Burgess wrote a story about a woodpecker. But that's okay, it was still a joy to watch him and listen to his quiet calls. I did not know woodpeckers had such soft, sweet calls. Simply lovely. There were about ten thousand people at the preserve today, but fortunately, up where we spent most of our time, there were very few people, so it was easy to imagine that we were (very nearly) alone in the woods. The Ladybug and I have started reading Little House In The Big Woods together, and I'm sure she was thinking of the description of the little house all alone in the woods while we were walking... She's quite taken with the story, and is insisting on reading large(r) chunks of it aloud to me, which of course, I am thrilled with! We also saw a few bright and happy little cardinals flitting about in the trees, although, rather disappointingly, no bluebirds this time. The last time we headed out that way, we saw a half-dozen of them, brilliantly, beautifully blue and so close we could almost touch them. But the red of the cardinals seemed to better suit the mood of today anyway: warm and bright and tinged with the fire of dancing sunlight and joyful skipping little girls.
On an aside, the trip uphill was the most exertion I've put forth in some time, and other than a large amount of huffing and puffing and feeling rather like a whale being unwillingly rolled out of its natural habitat, I also had an extreme drop in blood sugar (hypoglycemia). I had specifically checked my blood glucose levels right before embarking on our little adventure, and had also made certain to throw a few extra carbs in my body beforehand without compensating for them with insulin... And still. A ninety-point drop in 45 minutes. That's pretty intense. Eeep!
Fortunately, we'd brought some snacks and had a little impromptu snack-stop at the top of the ridge. It was an amazingly beautiful few minutes... Just us - the Daddy, the girls and I - at the top of the ridge, overlooking the world (it seemed), surrounded by quiet winter trees and the calls of little birds, wrapped in the golden light of late afternoon, a cool breeze fluttering through the leaves as we shared grapes and bunny crackers and dried fruit. So many little things make those moments a shining memory in a corner of my mind.
At the end of our hike, we had a few minutes of fun for pictures while the Daddy was getting the car, so I snapped a couple of (as usual) silly shots... Because of course, no trip anywhere would be complete without my children showing THIS side of them... So I give you these:
On an aside, the trip uphill was the most exertion I've put forth in some time, and other than a large amount of huffing and puffing and feeling rather like a whale being unwillingly rolled out of its natural habitat, I also had an extreme drop in blood sugar (hypoglycemia). I had specifically checked my blood glucose levels right before embarking on our little adventure, and had also made certain to throw a few extra carbs in my body beforehand without compensating for them with insulin... And still. A ninety-point drop in 45 minutes. That's pretty intense. Eeep!
Fortunately, we'd brought some snacks and had a little impromptu snack-stop at the top of the ridge. It was an amazingly beautiful few minutes... Just us - the Daddy, the girls and I - at the top of the ridge, overlooking the world (it seemed), surrounded by quiet winter trees and the calls of little birds, wrapped in the golden light of late afternoon, a cool breeze fluttering through the leaves as we shared grapes and bunny crackers and dried fruit. So many little things make those moments a shining memory in a corner of my mind.
At the end of our hike, we had a few minutes of fun for pictures while the Daddy was getting the car, so I snapped a couple of (as usual) silly shots... Because of course, no trip anywhere would be complete without my children showing THIS side of them... So I give you these:
We're thinking about making these a part of our next holiday card(s). What do you think?
And really... Isn't it always the little things that make life so tangled and glorious and gripping and beautiful? Those little moments of perfectness that drop into our laps - just waiting to be exclaimed over and remembered and tasted and lived?
And really... Isn't it always the little things that make life so tangled and glorious and gripping and beautiful? Those little moments of perfectness that drop into our laps - just waiting to be exclaimed over and remembered and tasted and lived?
The One Where I Talk About The Little Things (Or, At Least, TODAY'S Little Things!)
Lemme tell you - you haven't truly lived unless you've seen a group of hairy, awkward men wearing ill-fitting red dresses saunter down the street. There may have been a few red-clad women in there, too, but it was the men in flowy skirts and the men in the mini-skirts that caught my attention. I mean, who doesn't love hairy legs and chest hanging out of a red Hawaiian-print dress, amiright?
You also haven't lived until you've had a pair of big, serious, six-year-old blue eyes announce to you that they need to drink more water because they're "not hibernated enough." We then had to have a conversation about the difference between hibernation and hydration. Just sharing that may be enough living for some of you.
Today has been a day of ordinary interestingness, like so many others... Well, except for the army of men in dresses. But yeah, otherwise... Relatively ordinary. Filled with hours of mostly meaningless tasks, punctuated by moments of brilliance and beauty and laughter, beginning and ending neither high nor low - just in the that place of routine normalcy.
I love it.
I hate it.
I love the rhythm. I love the pace of the days, and the patterns the weeks follow - in many ways constant - like the stars moving across the night sky, just as they have for thousands of years. I love the establishment of home and chores and routine (As best as a person like me can have one... I still struggle with remembering the day-to-day things that some people could do in their sleep. But that's another post entirely! And anyway, I love the routine such as there is.)... I love the movement of the hours, one into the next, the flow of time like water from one thing to another and yet another after that. I love the way our days make quiet moments, and happy moments, and sweet ones, and how I've learned that through routine, even hard days can become easier.
I hate the quickness of it all. I want to squeeze the life out of every moment lived, and I feel like half of the moments are gone before I realize that I haven't really even touched them. I want to hold every laugh, every breath, every giggle and innocent smile, and NEVER let them go. I don't want to lose them, and I do. Every. Single. Day. I hate the monotony, and how I let the days slip into weeks and SO MANY things are left undone and Facebook has just sucked the life out of an afternoon and where the HELL did all that time go?!?! I hate the promise of "Not now, honey, dinner/laundry/dishes/shopping have to be done before I can play with you." I hate the years that have rushed by and not even stopped to ask me what I thought of it all. I hate the decade that I've spent not achieving some stupidly easy goals that I set at the beginning of this century. I hate the time and it's passage. I just want to freeze NOW. To taste it and savor it and breathe it and feel it and record it.
I definitely have a love/hate relationship with time. Like a lot of other things. I have a love/hate relationship with quite a few things, actually. Like food. And exercise (Although that's really mostly a hate relationship at this point.).
Although I will say I definitely have a love/love relationship with indoor plumbing. The toilet is my friend. As are running water and long hot showers. I was *not* made for the days of chamber pots, thankyouverymuch. Nevermind the fact that I would probably have been born as a hideously poor servant and would be the person who had to EMPTY the chamber pots. *Shudder* No. No thank you.
But anyway. I digress. I guess this whole post got started when I was thinking over the day - and most of the last week - and realized that there wasn't really anything that I felt was extraordinary enough to write about. It was mostly just... Ordinary. As KayKay likes to say, she has an "extra-ordinary" life. More ordinary than most. Ha! Although I must disagree with that... With her, nothing is simply ordinary.
But much of today felt peripheral, tastelessly normal. Like so much of my life, it feels. I love it; my heart often longs for more quiet and rhythm (Which we've had some of lately.) than we seem to get... I hate it; I don't catch hold of the moments and DO the things that I really want to do with those moments.
It's a dichotomy of longing and fulfillment, of want and reality, of truth and desire. And I guess, herein lies the moment where I can find grace. And choose to do *more* with the minutes and hours I am given tomorrow.
In the meantime, I'm going to leave off with a little gem the Ladybug threw out at me today:
We were in the car, on the way to the store to pick up a few things, and out of nowhere, the Ladybug says, "Mommy, the whole world is like a big puzzle game to God."
I responded, "Oh, really? Like how?" And she said, "I don't know, it just is. All the things that happen are like a puzzle and God is playing with the pieces." (That last sentence is a paraphrase, I can't remember exactly how she said it, but it was something very close to this.)
To which I said, "Are you sure it's not a puzzle for us people because maybe we need to figure it out and God already knows it?"
And she answered, "No, it's not for us. The pieces are too big for us to figure out."
And I... Yeah. Mind = Blown. Wisdom from a six-year-old mind. Beautiful.
You also haven't lived until you've had a pair of big, serious, six-year-old blue eyes announce to you that they need to drink more water because they're "not hibernated enough." We then had to have a conversation about the difference between hibernation and hydration. Just sharing that may be enough living for some of you.
Today has been a day of ordinary interestingness, like so many others... Well, except for the army of men in dresses. But yeah, otherwise... Relatively ordinary. Filled with hours of mostly meaningless tasks, punctuated by moments of brilliance and beauty and laughter, beginning and ending neither high nor low - just in the that place of routine normalcy.
I love it.
I hate it.
I love the rhythm. I love the pace of the days, and the patterns the weeks follow - in many ways constant - like the stars moving across the night sky, just as they have for thousands of years. I love the establishment of home and chores and routine (As best as a person like me can have one... I still struggle with remembering the day-to-day things that some people could do in their sleep. But that's another post entirely! And anyway, I love the routine such as there is.)... I love the movement of the hours, one into the next, the flow of time like water from one thing to another and yet another after that. I love the way our days make quiet moments, and happy moments, and sweet ones, and how I've learned that through routine, even hard days can become easier.
I hate the quickness of it all. I want to squeeze the life out of every moment lived, and I feel like half of the moments are gone before I realize that I haven't really even touched them. I want to hold every laugh, every breath, every giggle and innocent smile, and NEVER let them go. I don't want to lose them, and I do. Every. Single. Day. I hate the monotony, and how I let the days slip into weeks and SO MANY things are left undone and Facebook has just sucked the life out of an afternoon and where the HELL did all that time go?!?! I hate the promise of "Not now, honey, dinner/laundry/dishes/shopping have to be done before I can play with you." I hate the years that have rushed by and not even stopped to ask me what I thought of it all. I hate the decade that I've spent not achieving some stupidly easy goals that I set at the beginning of this century. I hate the time and it's passage. I just want to freeze NOW. To taste it and savor it and breathe it and feel it and record it.
I definitely have a love/hate relationship with time. Like a lot of other things. I have a love/hate relationship with quite a few things, actually. Like food. And exercise (Although that's really mostly a hate relationship at this point.).
Although I will say I definitely have a love/love relationship with indoor plumbing. The toilet is my friend. As are running water and long hot showers. I was *not* made for the days of chamber pots, thankyouverymuch. Nevermind the fact that I would probably have been born as a hideously poor servant and would be the person who had to EMPTY the chamber pots. *Shudder* No. No thank you.
But anyway. I digress. I guess this whole post got started when I was thinking over the day - and most of the last week - and realized that there wasn't really anything that I felt was extraordinary enough to write about. It was mostly just... Ordinary. As KayKay likes to say, she has an "extra-ordinary" life. More ordinary than most. Ha! Although I must disagree with that... With her, nothing is simply ordinary.
But much of today felt peripheral, tastelessly normal. Like so much of my life, it feels. I love it; my heart often longs for more quiet and rhythm (Which we've had some of lately.) than we seem to get... I hate it; I don't catch hold of the moments and DO the things that I really want to do with those moments.
It's a dichotomy of longing and fulfillment, of want and reality, of truth and desire. And I guess, herein lies the moment where I can find grace. And choose to do *more* with the minutes and hours I am given tomorrow.
In the meantime, I'm going to leave off with a little gem the Ladybug threw out at me today:
We were in the car, on the way to the store to pick up a few things, and out of nowhere, the Ladybug says, "Mommy, the whole world is like a big puzzle game to God."
I responded, "Oh, really? Like how?" And she said, "I don't know, it just is. All the things that happen are like a puzzle and God is playing with the pieces." (That last sentence is a paraphrase, I can't remember exactly how she said it, but it was something very close to this.)
To which I said, "Are you sure it's not a puzzle for us people because maybe we need to figure it out and God already knows it?"
And she answered, "No, it's not for us. The pieces are too big for us to figure out."
And I... Yeah. Mind = Blown. Wisdom from a six-year-old mind. Beautiful.
My Understanding of Winter
So.
I've been thinking. (As usual.)
Been marinating in the idea of winter lately. For a good long while, actually.
Although it's been an exceptionally mild winter this year as compared to the last few, we are still in the midst of it - and the middle of an actual cold snap! - and I've been thinking about what winter truly means.
Winter is a season, of course. A space in which we live our lives differently than we do the rest of the year. A space for layering and bedding down and keeping the cold out and the warmth in. A space for times of great celebration and generosity and family gatherings... And all that those entail.
Winter is a time of death, waiting for its resurrection; of earth full of grief; of the laying down of life; of decay... As in the tale of Demeter and Persephone.
In my mind, winter has always been a time of waiting.
Waiting for the cold to end.
Waiting for the sun to come back.
Waiting for life to return to the rhythms we find through spring, summer and fall... Winter's rhythm has always found its place in waiting.
I know in some places - like my hometown of Miami - winter isn't much different than the rest of the year. Still sunny, still warm, the winter days are much like the summer ones, except it's slightly-less-than-hellishly-hot.
But here, things are different. There is a marked change of seasons that I love with every ounce of my soul. I love the marking of time through the seasons, and the movement of life. Such beautiful transitions.
But lately, I've discovered that my ideas are shifting of what winter really is.
We've spent some time outside recently, in the woods (Yes, there are woods in my urbanesque life!), and it was there that my thoughts really began to gel... Until then, I'd not really been able to put words to the feeling; it was just an odd sort of knowing that winter was MUCH MORE than I'd given it credit for.
I began noticing all the signs of life in the middle of these cold-barren trees, dead grass and sullen rains. In fact, the natural world was teeming with life. Not the vibrant, twittering, sunny glowing life of summer, no. No, this is a DIFFERENT sort of life. It holds the rich and earthy smell of moss and the color green.
Despite the snow (what little there has been) and leafless existence of the trees, now suddenly even the dirt looks alive to me... I hear the birds singing their winter songs and wonder, "Why has it always seemed so quiet before?" I watch the squirrels chase each other, flying through the trees, and think how happy they must be just to have another day. I uncover an earthworm quite by mistake and realize that its work is moving forward just as it had on those hot July days not so long ago.
So here I've thought all this time that winter was a time of dying before the act of truly living could begin... When instead, it's just been a different kind of living all along. One just as important, where we have to dig down deep into our roots to find the sustenance that we need to savor the moments before we burst into bloom.
I'm not in the space of the phoenix in death, waiting for its rebirth into the fiery glory of living, of spring, oh no. WINTER IS LIFE. Abundant, brilliant life.
A different kind of beautiful living, certainly. A different kind of life. But everywhere I look, I see it. I see life.
And that's the one I want to live. No matter what season I happen to be in.
So no more waiting. Time to jump in, eyes wide open.
I've been thinking. (As usual.)
Been marinating in the idea of winter lately. For a good long while, actually.
Although it's been an exceptionally mild winter this year as compared to the last few, we are still in the midst of it - and the middle of an actual cold snap! - and I've been thinking about what winter truly means.
Winter is a season, of course. A space in which we live our lives differently than we do the rest of the year. A space for layering and bedding down and keeping the cold out and the warmth in. A space for times of great celebration and generosity and family gatherings... And all that those entail.
Winter is a time of death, waiting for its resurrection; of earth full of grief; of the laying down of life; of decay... As in the tale of Demeter and Persephone.
In my mind, winter has always been a time of waiting.
Waiting for the cold to end.
Waiting for the sun to come back.
Waiting for life to return to the rhythms we find through spring, summer and fall... Winter's rhythm has always found its place in waiting.
I know in some places - like my hometown of Miami - winter isn't much different than the rest of the year. Still sunny, still warm, the winter days are much like the summer ones, except it's slightly-less-than-hellishly-hot.
But here, things are different. There is a marked change of seasons that I love with every ounce of my soul. I love the marking of time through the seasons, and the movement of life. Such beautiful transitions.
But lately, I've discovered that my ideas are shifting of what winter really is.
We've spent some time outside recently, in the woods (Yes, there are woods in my urbanesque life!), and it was there that my thoughts really began to gel... Until then, I'd not really been able to put words to the feeling; it was just an odd sort of knowing that winter was MUCH MORE than I'd given it credit for.
I began noticing all the signs of life in the middle of these cold-barren trees, dead grass and sullen rains. In fact, the natural world was teeming with life. Not the vibrant, twittering, sunny glowing life of summer, no. No, this is a DIFFERENT sort of life. It holds the rich and earthy smell of moss and the color green.
Despite the snow (what little there has been) and leafless existence of the trees, now suddenly even the dirt looks alive to me... I hear the birds singing their winter songs and wonder, "Why has it always seemed so quiet before?" I watch the squirrels chase each other, flying through the trees, and think how happy they must be just to have another day. I uncover an earthworm quite by mistake and realize that its work is moving forward just as it had on those hot July days not so long ago.
So here I've thought all this time that winter was a time of dying before the act of truly living could begin... When instead, it's just been a different kind of living all along. One just as important, where we have to dig down deep into our roots to find the sustenance that we need to savor the moments before we burst into bloom.
I'm not in the space of the phoenix in death, waiting for its rebirth into the fiery glory of living, of spring, oh no. WINTER IS LIFE. Abundant, brilliant life.
A different kind of beautiful living, certainly. A different kind of life. But everywhere I look, I see it. I see life.
And that's the one I want to live. No matter what season I happen to be in.
So no more waiting. Time to jump in, eyes wide open.
It All Started With The Chicken Pox...
...And then ended up with me not writing on here for like... EVER.
So much has happened since I last posted, I don't even know where to begin!
Okay, so rather than starting at the beginning like a normal person (Because, since when have I ever claimed to be normal anyway?), I'm going to bounce around and give the highlights. Yay for highlights!
Okay, so beginning at the beginning, and a little backstory:
First off, you should know that in 30-odd years of living on this planet, I have never had chicken pox. I've been exposed to it FOUR TIMES. Never had it. Until the end of last April. *Sigh*
I got a cold. Mangy cold. Felt mangy for a week. Ugh. I hate colds.
Then, like four days into it, I start feeling better. Yay! Feeling better rocks!
Then two days after that... Life sucks. Sick again. But now, with rash. So now I have this weird (BUT NOT ITCHY) rash all over - but mainly on my face and torso. Crap. What gives?
Google.
Holy $%$#!!!
Doctor.
Seriously, I have CHICKEN POX? Who gets chicken pox as an adult???? Apparently, it's SO FREAKING RARE that I have to have like 3 doctors look at me to confirm. Rawr. The pox sucks.
*Sigh* Okay, whatever. I'm resigned. But now the HAZMAT suits have come out at home... See, the Daddy has never had the pox, either. And neither have the girls.
So, of course, the Daddy goes on Mommy strike. He wouldn't come near me in any fashion and I was relegated to the couch for almost a week. The children were quarantined and not to be touched by either of us, too (the Daddy wouldn't touch THEM because they had touched ME before we knew it was the plague).
The children decided to formulate their own version of the strike, namely by making signs:
Note the fact that the exclamation points all have skulls and crossbones on them. I am now affectionately referred to as "Chicken Pock," among our family and friends, although fortunately the name seems to have started to fade. I'm sure righting about it will spark a revival, but whatever. I'm cool.
The pox, however, is NOT cool.
It was, though, overall, a very mild case of chicken pox, especially given the fact that I'd heard my whole life about how awful it is to have it as an adult. There was little fever or anything else, and mostly it was just the misery of being itchy and covered in blisters. Benedryl was my friend, let me tell you!
But in the midst of dealing with chicken pox, I was completely stressed out because the girls and I were leaving for Florida in just a couple of weeks and I wasn't sure if I'd be well enough to travel AND the fact that the girls had never had the pox, either and I was worried they'd get it... AND BESIDES all of that - I was going to a once-a-year conference that I had been committed to assisting with for months.
Whoa. Stress city.
But as it turned out, it was fine (well, mostly).
We left on a plane for Miami about two-and-a-half weeks after I first got sick, and I still had a few spots on my face (thank goodness for makeup!), but had been cleared by my doctor of being infectious. Yay!
So off we go, only allowed carry-on bags, for the first leg of what I like to call, Our Whirlwind Tour of the U.S. And it seriously was.
We were in Miami for a week before the conference, then the week of the conference - the girls were in a local summer camp program while I went to help out, and supposed to be there another week after the conference before heading off to the West Coast.
But then... Dum-dum-DUM... The last day of the conference, KayKay woke up with the pox. SERIOUSLY?!?!? According to everything I'd read and my doctor, there's only a 21-day incubation period, and that had been WELL over before the conference even started! But oh-no. She got it too, poor kid. So our last days in Miami were spent with a miserable kid and me apologizing a hundred times to everybody (Especially the summer camp with the 150-bajillion other kids that were exposed to her!!) because I honestly thought we were in the clear. Ugh.
But away we flew anyway, there was a wedding waiting and 30 hours in San Francisco wedged in there, too.
So, now back to highlights:
May, June and July were spent on the Whirlwind Tour with three-ish weeks in Miami, 30-ish hours in San Francisco, a week on the central Oregon coast, and five weeks along the California-Oregon coast. And two cases of chicken pox thrown in for good measure. Yes, the Ladybug got chicken pox, too. *Sigh*
Then back home for three weeks of August, just to head out again, this time to our lovely in-laws in central Florida and then back down to Miami again for the rest of September.
Whew! Are you exhausted yet?
Yeah. I was, too. It was great, but exhausting! We had a busy, busy, busy, BUSY year.
Fortunately, the chicken pox which started it all was pretty mild for all three of us, and the Daddy didn't get it at all (How unfair is that?!?!), and at least now we don't have to worry about getting it again.
But now I'm back! Let's get the party started back up! So much to tell... So little typing time.
So much has happened since I last posted, I don't even know where to begin!
Okay, so rather than starting at the beginning like a normal person (Because, since when have I ever claimed to be normal anyway?), I'm going to bounce around and give the highlights. Yay for highlights!
Okay, so beginning at the beginning, and a little backstory:
First off, you should know that in 30-odd years of living on this planet, I have never had chicken pox. I've been exposed to it FOUR TIMES. Never had it. Until the end of last April. *Sigh*
I got a cold. Mangy cold. Felt mangy for a week. Ugh. I hate colds.
Then, like four days into it, I start feeling better. Yay! Feeling better rocks!
Then two days after that... Life sucks. Sick again. But now, with rash. So now I have this weird (BUT NOT ITCHY) rash all over - but mainly on my face and torso. Crap. What gives?
Google.
Holy $%$#!!!
Doctor.
Seriously, I have CHICKEN POX? Who gets chicken pox as an adult???? Apparently, it's SO FREAKING RARE that I have to have like 3 doctors look at me to confirm. Rawr. The pox sucks.
*Sigh* Okay, whatever. I'm resigned. But now the HAZMAT suits have come out at home... See, the Daddy has never had the pox, either. And neither have the girls.
So, of course, the Daddy goes on Mommy strike. He wouldn't come near me in any fashion and I was relegated to the couch for almost a week. The children were quarantined and not to be touched by either of us, too (the Daddy wouldn't touch THEM because they had touched ME before we knew it was the plague).
The children decided to formulate their own version of the strike, namely by making signs:
 |
| Their sign reads: "Do No Touch!! (Chicken Pock layed on it.)" |
The pox, however, is NOT cool.
It was, though, overall, a very mild case of chicken pox, especially given the fact that I'd heard my whole life about how awful it is to have it as an adult. There was little fever or anything else, and mostly it was just the misery of being itchy and covered in blisters. Benedryl was my friend, let me tell you!
But in the midst of dealing with chicken pox, I was completely stressed out because the girls and I were leaving for Florida in just a couple of weeks and I wasn't sure if I'd be well enough to travel AND the fact that the girls had never had the pox, either and I was worried they'd get it... AND BESIDES all of that - I was going to a once-a-year conference that I had been committed to assisting with for months.
Whoa. Stress city.
But as it turned out, it was fine (well, mostly).
We left on a plane for Miami about two-and-a-half weeks after I first got sick, and I still had a few spots on my face (thank goodness for makeup!), but had been cleared by my doctor of being infectious. Yay!
So off we go, only allowed carry-on bags, for the first leg of what I like to call, Our Whirlwind Tour of the U.S. And it seriously was.
We were in Miami for a week before the conference, then the week of the conference - the girls were in a local summer camp program while I went to help out, and supposed to be there another week after the conference before heading off to the West Coast.
But then... Dum-dum-DUM... The last day of the conference, KayKay woke up with the pox. SERIOUSLY?!?!? According to everything I'd read and my doctor, there's only a 21-day incubation period, and that had been WELL over before the conference even started! But oh-no. She got it too, poor kid. So our last days in Miami were spent with a miserable kid and me apologizing a hundred times to everybody (Especially the summer camp with the 150-bajillion other kids that were exposed to her!!) because I honestly thought we were in the clear. Ugh.
But away we flew anyway, there was a wedding waiting and 30 hours in San Francisco wedged in there, too.
So, now back to highlights:
May, June and July were spent on the Whirlwind Tour with three-ish weeks in Miami, 30-ish hours in San Francisco, a week on the central Oregon coast, and five weeks along the California-Oregon coast. And two cases of chicken pox thrown in for good measure. Yes, the Ladybug got chicken pox, too. *Sigh*
Then back home for three weeks of August, just to head out again, this time to our lovely in-laws in central Florida and then back down to Miami again for the rest of September.
Whew! Are you exhausted yet?
Yeah. I was, too. It was great, but exhausting! We had a busy, busy, busy, BUSY year.
Fortunately, the chicken pox which started it all was pretty mild for all three of us, and the Daddy didn't get it at all (How unfair is that?!?!), and at least now we don't have to worry about getting it again.
But now I'm back! Let's get the party started back up! So much to tell... So little typing time.
The One Where I Write About Japan
So Monday happened... And there was no Reading. Well... There was reading, but I didn't share any of it. This week has been kind of odd. And I think maybe it had something to do with the fact that Passover started Monday night? Life this last week or so has just felt... In limbo. Like I was waiting for something big to happen. And it did. And now I can move forward, with remembrance.
Anyway. This post is not about yesterday or this week or Passover (as much as I would like it to be).
It's about Japan.
Finally.
I know.
I'll be honest: I've been avoiding the whole subject.
I haven't looked at many photos. I haven't read much about it. I haven't talked about it, even among my friends who I see a lot. In fact, I've wholly forgotten about it a couple of times.
And I haven't given anywhere... Yet.
Am I a callused, selfish, ignorant fool?
Maybe.
Sometimes, it's just easier to bury your head in the sand. Sometimes, I like being that cartoon ostrich. Sometimes, it hurts too much to look Death and Pain and Carnage and Sorrow full in the face and not flinch.
Sometimes, I just don't want my heart to break. Lately has been one of those sometimes. I feel fragile. Or overwhelmed. Or both, maybe? I don't know.
Even as I'm writing this, my heart aches. For what I haven't seen, but I know must surely be. For the pain, the loss, the chaos, the heartache.
I guess maybe that's because I have to marinate on things - on big, scary, awful, important THINGS - for a while. I have to think about them and let them sit quietly in my heart.
Or else I'll get overwhelmed. And I'm useless when I'm overwhelmed.
And because there is so much else crowding my mind, my thoughts, and my actions. The day-to-day of life and small children and breathing and my own small world.
I think sometimes, during a life crisis or a breakdown or whatever it is that SOMEONE ELSE is going through, I can appear aloof, untouched and untouchable. In fact, I've had several family members tell me "You just don't care!" when I am presented with their hurricanes of life stuff.
And that's patently untrue. I DO CARE.
I care too much.
I care so much that I have to turn off my emotions. Otherwise I am engulfed by them, overtaken and the waves of my heart become tsunamis that threaten to destroy me, to overwhelm me. And I'm useless when I'm overwhelmed.
So I turn my emotions off (as best I can), and I become cool, logical Kristen. The female counterpart to Mr. Spock.
And only in the private moments of quiet do I allow them to come back and let the tears come. And believe me, they come. A lot more than I'd like to admit.
Perhaps this is a wrong way of dealing with the really heavy, hard, ultra-sad stuff... Perhaps. I don't know. But this is how I am able to cope.
So here we are.
Awful things have happened.
Japan has happened.
And I've sat quietly with it.
And the tears have come.
And I've turned them off.
And NOW is the time to talk about it.
So why am I posting about this now? A full month, a full SIX WEEKS after the first quake?
Because NOW, it's *not* breaking news anymore. It's old. It's stale. We already know all about that. It's after-the-fact. It's almost time to forget. Japan is the setting sun on the horizon of our collective memories. So what! Japan had yet ANOTHER major earthquake... We don't care, we've already heard about it.
That's why NOW Japan is so incredibly important.
When the rest of America has moved on, this is when *I* am ready to think about it, talk about it, and ACT on what has happened.
I've talked about it with KayKay (and a little with the Ladybug), and we've talked about what it means to be homeless and WITHOUT. Her emotions come more easily than mine, and she is strongly moved.
So as a family, we are donating to Shelterbox. I offered the choice up to KayKay and she felt the most connected to their work. I invite you to donate to them or the Red Cross or Doctors Without Borders.
We are also contacting friends in Japan to discuss whether we can send them things directly that THEY PERSONALLY can distribute.
Please join us in continuing to pray for the people of Japan.
I know this is late... But it feels timely. It feels just right.
I would love to hear your thoughts. Do share, friends.
Monday Reading, The I Started Early Edition
I am AWESOME.
I'm actually starting this post a FULL twenty-four hours before I intend to post it.
It's like some kind of miracle!
Or maybe it's spring fever.
Or maybe I just have that little to do.
Nah. Definitely not that last one. I always have WAY too much to do (even when I try to scrape things off the calendar, they keep holding on like that one dried-on piece of food that just WON'T COME OFF the otherwise clean plate you're scrubbing... Or something...).
Speaking of busy, this weekend has been busy, man.
But the weather has been AH-MAZINGLY GORGEOUS, so we were going and doing and frolicking in the sun all weekend. *Happy sigh* Love.
I even have a little bit of a sunburn to prove it, too. Although that doesn't really mean much, because ten minutes in the sun and I'm crisped up like a lobster. My father used to call me a vampire (actually, he still does) because I hibernate when the sun comes out (i.e., it's HOT) and I'm pasty white. But the comparison is no longer apt, because - as awesome as it would be - I don't glitter in the sunlight (DARN IT. Why don't I glitter?!?!?!). Then again, Twilight isn't even a blip on his radar (stay true, untainted and totally awesome, Dad!), so you know...
And yes, there is definitely shame in admitting that I've actually *read* the Twilight series. *Sigh* But the fact that I love this helps. Seriously, read it. It's hysterical. THANK YOU, Olivia!
But anyway. We had a great weekend.
We went to the farmer's market, picnicked in the park (TWICE), played frisbee and Molkky (I actually won! It *IS* a miracle!), ate at the Cheesecake Factory (it's just a WEEKEND of miracles!), ran errands, and worked in the garden. Oh, and picked violets for jelly (more on that to come).
I'm actually starting this post a FULL twenty-four hours before I intend to post it.
It's like some kind of miracle!
Or maybe it's spring fever.
Or maybe I just have that little to do.
Nah. Definitely not that last one. I always have WAY too much to do (even when I try to scrape things off the calendar, they keep holding on like that one dried-on piece of food that just WON'T COME OFF the otherwise clean plate you're scrubbing... Or something...).
Speaking of busy, this weekend has been busy, man.
But the weather has been AH-MAZINGLY GORGEOUS, so we were going and doing and frolicking in the sun all weekend. *Happy sigh* Love.
I even have a little bit of a sunburn to prove it, too. Although that doesn't really mean much, because ten minutes in the sun and I'm crisped up like a lobster. My father used to call me a vampire (actually, he still does) because I hibernate when the sun comes out (i.e., it's HOT) and I'm pasty white. But the comparison is no longer apt, because - as awesome as it would be - I don't glitter in the sunlight (DARN IT. Why don't I glitter?!?!?!). Then again, Twilight isn't even a blip on his radar (stay true, untainted and totally awesome, Dad!), so you know...
And yes, there is definitely shame in admitting that I've actually *read* the Twilight series. *Sigh* But the fact that I love this helps. Seriously, read it. It's hysterical. THANK YOU, Olivia!
But anyway. We had a great weekend.
We went to the farmer's market, picnicked in the park (TWICE), played frisbee and Molkky (I actually won! It *IS* a miracle!), ate at the Cheesecake Factory (it's just a WEEKEND of miracles!), ran errands, and worked in the garden. Oh, and picked violets for jelly (more on that to come).
____________________________________________________________________________________
Okay. So. I ACTUALLY started this post LAST WEEK right before the power went out.
And fittingly, we've had another major storm here. (It is Monday after all, why not?) And have had flaky internet all day (ARGH!).
So, in keeping with this seemingly new tradition, I figured I'd post this now. That and the fact that we had yet another incredibly awesome and insane weekend, complete with more feats of Molkky (I won! AGAIN!!!) and a night so late I'm almost ashamed to write it (I was up until after 2:00 AM... But it was worth it!) and another beautiful couple of sunshiny days.
But... This Reading post is going to be a relatively short one, for three reasons:
A) I have internet, I need to type and save while I can.
B) I'm trapped in the middle of Eat, Pray, Love. Well, actually, I'm not, but that's another story. Suffice it to say, I haven't branched out as much as I would have liked this week.
C) It's late, and I'm tired.
Answer C is actually the most pressing at this point, but whatever.
So on to the reading you say? Okay! Let's go!
Books
So like I said earlier, this week has rather revolved around Eat, Pray, Love. I didn't really intend for that to happen - it just kind of did. After finishing The Book Thief a bit ago, I determined to finish Eat, Pray, Love before I moved on to anything else. So that I might take at least ONE item OFF of my nightstand and place it on a bookshelf where it belongs. I mean, seriously, my nightstand looks like a bookstore went out of business all over it.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I've managed to get down to the last fifty-or-so pages in the last five or six days... Just not in time for this post! Ack.
So I don't really have much to say on that front except that I can FINALLY do my breakdown of The Book Thief. Yay!
About The Book Thief... To give a quick overview, the book is about a young girl, Liesel Meminger who is taken to live with a foster family at the start of World War II. The story centers on Liesel, but there are many very strong characters throughout. It is narrated by Death, who meets Liesel for the first time when her brother dies on the way to the foster family's home. And then he becomes interested in her story. And it is Death's telling of Liesel, her family, her friends, Germany, Hitler, and the Jews.
Oh, my.
I'll start with the cons, like always.
Cons: First and foremost, it takes a little bit to get into the story. This book is not one that immediately envelopes you into its fictional life. It's more of a slow-moving stream than white water rapids. And like I said earlier, the sort-of news-bulletin things in it were very distracting for me at first. I didn't know how to place them and what significance to give them. Just know that they are, actually, important and have a place.
Also, there is some language in this book. There is some common name-calling (NOT nice name-calling - basically the German equivalent to calling someone an S-O-B) throughout the book, but what's interesting to me about it is that the name-calling almost always is in relation to someone the characters' have affection for. I'm not sure how I feel about that at all. As an adult, it didn't bother me in the least, but for a younger high-school student... I'm not sure.
Lastly, this is a dark book. It is not an easy story to read, the subject matter is quite obviously very heavy, and although it ends well, it is a dark and weighted read. Don't pick it up if you're feeling hormonal. There were several scenes (read: half the book) where I bawled like a baby.
Pros: It was incredibly thoughtful and thought-provoking. The writing was solid and poetic at the same time. I read several criticisms of this book that said the writing was pretentious and forced, but I didn't feel that at all. There was only once or twice where I felt that the author, Marcus Zusak, may have tried a little too hard, but overall, I feel that his writing in the book is excellent. It is very emotive and focuses a lot around color - it's use and portrayal is very important to the way the book plays out, and it is used in some really unusual ways.
The characters are VERY well-developed. I felt that I really got to know these people as PEOPLE, as a part of my life, and their emotions and experiences impacted me. I feel that a sign of a fantastically well-written book is one which finds me wondering about the characters' lives when I am *not* reading it. This book definitely has that quality. In fact, if Zusak had not pulled off the character development as well as he had, this book would have been a complete waste of paper, because it is ALL about the characters and how they interact.
It was also refreshing to see a book about Germans who weren't Nazis. Who actually hated the Nazis and Hitler just as much as the Jews did, and who defied them in small ways and suffered in small ways at the hands of the Nazis. I know that this is a truth for many Germans of that generation, but it is very underrepresented among Holocaust literature.
Conclusion: Oh my goodness. I SO loved this book. Like I said, it was a bit slow-going in the beginning, but I am so very glad that I pushed through those first couple of chapters because it is such a worthy read. This book is a must-read for any young person over the age of sixteen or adult, in my opinion. It is heart-breakingly good. Devastatingly good. Sweetly, beautifully GOOD.
Now. Go read it.
About The Book Thief... To give a quick overview, the book is about a young girl, Liesel Meminger who is taken to live with a foster family at the start of World War II. The story centers on Liesel, but there are many very strong characters throughout. It is narrated by Death, who meets Liesel for the first time when her brother dies on the way to the foster family's home. And then he becomes interested in her story. And it is Death's telling of Liesel, her family, her friends, Germany, Hitler, and the Jews.
Oh, my.
I'll start with the cons, like always.
Cons: First and foremost, it takes a little bit to get into the story. This book is not one that immediately envelopes you into its fictional life. It's more of a slow-moving stream than white water rapids. And like I said earlier, the sort-of news-bulletin things in it were very distracting for me at first. I didn't know how to place them and what significance to give them. Just know that they are, actually, important and have a place.
Also, there is some language in this book. There is some common name-calling (NOT nice name-calling - basically the German equivalent to calling someone an S-O-B) throughout the book, but what's interesting to me about it is that the name-calling almost always is in relation to someone the characters' have affection for. I'm not sure how I feel about that at all. As an adult, it didn't bother me in the least, but for a younger high-school student... I'm not sure.
Lastly, this is a dark book. It is not an easy story to read, the subject matter is quite obviously very heavy, and although it ends well, it is a dark and weighted read. Don't pick it up if you're feeling hormonal. There were several scenes (read: half the book) where I bawled like a baby.
Pros: It was incredibly thoughtful and thought-provoking. The writing was solid and poetic at the same time. I read several criticisms of this book that said the writing was pretentious and forced, but I didn't feel that at all. There was only once or twice where I felt that the author, Marcus Zusak, may have tried a little too hard, but overall, I feel that his writing in the book is excellent. It is very emotive and focuses a lot around color - it's use and portrayal is very important to the way the book plays out, and it is used in some really unusual ways.
The characters are VERY well-developed. I felt that I really got to know these people as PEOPLE, as a part of my life, and their emotions and experiences impacted me. I feel that a sign of a fantastically well-written book is one which finds me wondering about the characters' lives when I am *not* reading it. This book definitely has that quality. In fact, if Zusak had not pulled off the character development as well as he had, this book would have been a complete waste of paper, because it is ALL about the characters and how they interact.
It was also refreshing to see a book about Germans who weren't Nazis. Who actually hated the Nazis and Hitler just as much as the Jews did, and who defied them in small ways and suffered in small ways at the hands of the Nazis. I know that this is a truth for many Germans of that generation, but it is very underrepresented among Holocaust literature.
Conclusion: Oh my goodness. I SO loved this book. Like I said, it was a bit slow-going in the beginning, but I am so very glad that I pushed through those first couple of chapters because it is such a worthy read. This book is a must-read for any young person over the age of sixteen or adult, in my opinion. It is heart-breakingly good. Devastatingly good. Sweetly, beautifully GOOD.
Now. Go read it.
Links
Okay, so here we are at links!
Up first...
A Spring Apron: Storybook Woods. Isn't this delightful? I just love it! And I wouldn't mind looking that good in it, either.
Bent Leather, Part One: Sage Parnassus. As I am learning more about homeschooling and Charlotte Mason, I am drawn to this post in particular, because it looks like what I want for my girls. What are your thoughts on this?
Making Healthy Changes When Your Husband Isn't On Board: Keeper of the Home. Ho boy. This one is a good one. And something I have struggled to find the balance with for years!
Inspired: Mom-Nom.Com. Perfect. Lovely. Inspiring. I love how she describes how she's feeling, too, don't you? And so many awesome links!
How To Bring Peace To The Witching Hour: SimpleMom. I thought I'd already posted this, but apparently I didn't... Anyway, I nearly cried tears of relief when I read this and realized that I was NOT ALONE. We have struggled with this "witching hour" for years. So good!
Cutting Down On Sugar, 21 Ways To Eat Less Sugar: Keeper of the Home. Another one from Stephanie, and this is just a great article to read... We already follow many of the suggestions she has here, but there are some I hadn't thought of!
Alright, friends... I'm off. Happy Monday, and do stop in again! And let me know your thoughts!
Monday Reading: Postponed
So, Monday Reading kind of lost its power. Actually, there was no "kind of" about it. We really did lose power.
Well. I guess I should explain a little.
Early yesterday afternoon we got hit by a major storm and the electricity went out all over the city. It was restored by late afternoon to many people, but we were not among those lucky ones.
Instead, we got to stay up half the night listening to the two-hundred-and-fifty men from the electric company yell at each other over the ear-shattering roar of their God-awful-loud truck while they fixed the power RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. I honestly think they parked it next to the glass. But maybe I'm being hyper-sensitive.
I shouldn't complain - I mean, I know people who STILL don't have power. And I should be grateful... More than I am, certainly. But some part of me wishes I could have slept.
Anyway.
I actually started a Monday Reading post last week, but after all the power shenanigans yesterday, I'm just not feeling it.
So. Monday Reading is postponed until next week. I'm sure I'll have a lot more to tell about then anyway.
Instead, I'll share something pretty. It is Tuesday after all, and Monday's well in the past already.
Doesn't this just make your heart happy? It does mine. I love spring, despite the crazy weather.
And daffodils are like sunshine and happiness all wrapped up into one blazingly glorious moment. Daffodils are the bow on Winter's gift of Spring. To me, daffodils sing joy and renewal, calling in the next new thing.
Happy springtime, friends.
Well. I guess I should explain a little.
Early yesterday afternoon we got hit by a major storm and the electricity went out all over the city. It was restored by late afternoon to many people, but we were not among those lucky ones.
Instead, we got to stay up half the night listening to the two-hundred-and-fifty men from the electric company yell at each other over the ear-shattering roar of their God-awful-loud truck while they fixed the power RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. I honestly think they parked it next to the glass. But maybe I'm being hyper-sensitive.
I shouldn't complain - I mean, I know people who STILL don't have power. And I should be grateful... More than I am, certainly. But some part of me wishes I could have slept.
Anyway.
I actually started a Monday Reading post last week, but after all the power shenanigans yesterday, I'm just not feeling it.
So. Monday Reading is postponed until next week. I'm sure I'll have a lot more to tell about then anyway.
Instead, I'll share something pretty. It is Tuesday after all, and Monday's well in the past already.
Doesn't this just make your heart happy? It does mine. I love spring, despite the crazy weather.
And daffodils are like sunshine and happiness all wrapped up into one blazingly glorious moment. Daffodils are the bow on Winter's gift of Spring. To me, daffodils sing joy and renewal, calling in the next new thing.
Happy springtime, friends.
Nature Connection: Literally.
So.
My fabulous friend, Sherry, of Living And Learning fame and more fabulousness, always hosts this totally fantabulous link-up called Nature Connections at the end of every month.
(Click the button at the bottom to check it out!)
And I always forget to link up. Or I just don't feel like we've actually CONNECTED to nature in a post-worthy way.
Fast-forward to this afternoon.
Sherry sends out a reminder that the post will be closing soon. Which gets me to thinking.
"We're going to the park this afternoon. I should bring the camera."
And oh, boy, am I ever glad I did!
The Ladybug had a nature connection of the literal kind. Or perhaps, I should call it a nature epiphany.
It started with a squirrel. A somewhat blurry squirrel, but still. Damn squirrel, stop twitching!
Anyway.
I call it Squirrel Nutkin. Awww, isn't he cute?
I'm still feeling all Beatrix Potter-ish (Can you tell??). And since we just listened to an audiobook of her stories, I keep hearing it pronounced, "Squir-REL" in my mind.
But anyway.
So it started with a curious fat little Squirrel Nutkin.
And a curious little girl with some actual nuts.
They got closer...
To each other.
And then it happened...
The point of contact:
Ack! Squirrel Nutkin grabbed her finger by mistake!
Oh yes, there was a connection all right.
But apparently the Ladybug wasn't too upset because she started back up again almost immediately. And I think Squirrel Nutkin was sorry for his mistake because he immediately came back, too, and very gently took the nut from her hand (not that you can tell from these next photos, but it's true!).
My fabulous friend, Sherry, of Living And Learning fame and more fabulousness, always hosts this totally fantabulous link-up called Nature Connections at the end of every month.
(Click the button at the bottom to check it out!)
And I always forget to link up. Or I just don't feel like we've actually CONNECTED to nature in a post-worthy way.
Fast-forward to this afternoon.
Sherry sends out a reminder that the post will be closing soon. Which gets me to thinking.
"We're going to the park this afternoon. I should bring the camera."
And oh, boy, am I ever glad I did!
The Ladybug had a nature connection of the literal kind. Or perhaps, I should call it a nature epiphany.
 |
| My kids are both like Dug: "SQUIRREL! |
Anyway.
I call it Squirrel Nutkin. Awww, isn't he cute?
I'm still feeling all Beatrix Potter-ish (Can you tell??). And since we just listened to an audiobook of her stories, I keep hearing it pronounced, "Squir-REL" in my mind.
But anyway.
So it started with a curious fat little Squirrel Nutkin.
And a curious little girl with some actual nuts.
The squirrel and the girl were BOTH curious.
They got closer...
And CLOSER...
To each other.
And then it happened...
The point of contact:
Ack! Squirrel Nutkin grabbed her finger by mistake!
Oh yes, there was a connection all right.
But apparently the Ladybug wasn't too upset because she started back up again almost immediately. And I think Squirrel Nutkin was sorry for his mistake because he immediately came back, too, and very gently took the nut from her hand (not that you can tell from these next photos, but it's true!).
But she was MUCH more cautious after that (even though he didn't really hurt her).
I think this photo is nearly my favorite because of her expression. I'm just so sad that it's blurry!
 |
| Sheer terror! Ha! |
Of course, KayKay had to get in on the squirrel action... But with STYLE.
 | |
| Yes, she IS actually holding a nut up against the tree while striking a pose. |
And that was that. Squirrel Nutkin went on to bury a few of his nuts just to dig them up and eat them two minutes later.
All's well that ends well.
Oh, have I mentioned that up until now, it has been *both* my girls' greatest aspiration (among many, but this one ranks high) to catch and "tame" a squirrel?
Yes. I kid you not. They chase them. They call them. They talk to them. They stalk them. They've made (very elaborate and creative) traps for them all over our miniscule front yard. I have found drawings of plans made for squirrel catching and taming.
I know. It's kinda weird.
But I guess there are a lot worse things they could be planning, right?
And after today, perhaps the obsession will fade into the twilight of childhood memory... I HOPE.
Sacred Sustenance
So. This post has been rattling around in my head for ages now. A good long while. Months, I tell you!
My sweet friend, the ever-fabulous, ever-chic Miss Heather of Gathering Spriggs wrote a post with the same title (you didn't think I came up with that one on my own now, did you?) last year about cooking and eating that was a joy to read. It rocked my world. And I got to thinking.
My cooking philosophy is quite well reflected in what she said, actually. I TOTALLY IDENTIFY. I'm the creative, free-spirited type. I don't do well with rigid schedules and expectations.
Ritual and tradition are often hard for my free-spirited self. But more and more, I see the value in them the older I get, and am working hard to establish some rituals in our household revolving around the way we eat.
I love food. I love to be in the kitchen making and baking and experimenting. I love exploring blogs and magazines about cooking and trying new recipes. I love to break bread with those who mean the most to me. I love (a little too much, I'm sure) to eat.
So, in case you haven't noticed, I like to eat. (Maybe you haven't. If you know me, though, you KNOW.)
I talk about food a lot. I think about food more than I should. I definitely EAT more food than is *really* necessary. You might say I'm obsessed.
And you'd be (mostly) right. But I like to think about it as more of a love affair. There is something blessed and almost holy in the rite of preparing and partaking in a meal.
Our lives center around the act of eating. Everything else is ancillary. Except for breathing, nothing else (physical) is absolutely necessary. Food is life-giving. Life-sustaining. But the meal should not be consumed simply for survival. Life is about MORE than survival, right? It's about the act of living, of thriving, of being and becoming.
Food is meant to be enjoyed. I mean, what's the point of eating if it's not enjoyable? I honestly believe that life here on earth is too short to not enjoy the things that we have been given. To not savor them. It is NOURISHMENT. Think of the word: to nourish. It means,
And where one's food comes from, how it is processed (or not) is, I think, almost as important as the act of eating itself.
To be clear, I am *not* talking about situations where people are starving and there's literally not enough to go around. I am talking about this subject in relation to what I know.
And as a diabetic, even more of my life revolves around food, in very powerful and mostly negative ways, sadly.
Remember when I talked about guilt in this post? Yeah.
Food and guilt go hand-in-hand when you're diabetic. More so when you're overweight and diabetic.
More about that later (because seriously, who wants to talk about the fact that they are fat?).
And so the act of eating becomes even more complicated (aside from the guilt) when you add-in something like diabetes. Because there's carb-counting, and insulin-to-carb ratios and deciding if you need ALL the insulin now, or if it should be spread out over the next hour-and-a-half. And this usually all has to happen before you can take the first bite of whatever it is you want to eat.
Diabetes involves a lot of complicated maths. Yay. I loves me some complicated maths. Fortunately, my pump does a lot of it for me, but still, there's a lot it doesn't do. And I've been doing it so long now, that it comes almost automatically. Although whenever I sit down to actually THINK it out, it takes me forty-forevers, and I'm half-wrong most of the time.
But I am so sick of the guilt, the shouldnts, the cants. Life is too damn short to not eat a doughnut once every six months, I'm sorry. People, ALL people, but especially people like me, should be able to ENJOY our food. We are constantly told how most things are bad for us - and YES, so much of what is out there, prepackaged, precooked, preheated, preprocessed using God-only-knows what - is SO VERY bad for us, but NO... NOT ALL FOOD IS BAD. And indulging (using common sense and with moderation) is good for the soul.
Anyway.
But as much as I love to cook and eat, I realized when I read Heather's post that I was not nearly as intentional about the meals I make and partake in as I had THOUGHT I was. Despite the love affair, I haven't made mealtime a sacred space. And that, I think, is an area in which *I* personally need to grow. And that's continued to swirl around the back of my mind for these last months.
There is a saying in the Talmud, When the Holy Temple was in existence, the Altar atoned for Israel; today, a person's table atones for him.
So what are YOUR thoughts on this subject, friends? I would love to hear them and invite a discussion. Do share!
My sweet friend, the ever-fabulous, ever-chic Miss Heather of Gathering Spriggs wrote a post with the same title (you didn't think I came up with that one on my own now, did you?) last year about cooking and eating that was a joy to read. It rocked my world. And I got to thinking.
My cooking philosophy is quite well reflected in what she said, actually. I TOTALLY IDENTIFY. I'm the creative, free-spirited type. I don't do well with rigid schedules and expectations.
Ritual and tradition are often hard for my free-spirited self. But more and more, I see the value in them the older I get, and am working hard to establish some rituals in our household revolving around the way we eat.
I love food. I love to be in the kitchen making and baking and experimenting. I love exploring blogs and magazines about cooking and trying new recipes. I love to break bread with those who mean the most to me. I love (a little too much, I'm sure) to eat.
So, in case you haven't noticed, I like to eat. (Maybe you haven't. If you know me, though, you KNOW.)
I talk about food a lot. I think about food more than I should. I definitely EAT more food than is *really* necessary. You might say I'm obsessed.
And you'd be (mostly) right. But I like to think about it as more of a love affair. There is something blessed and almost holy in the rite of preparing and partaking in a meal.
Our lives center around the act of eating. Everything else is ancillary. Except for breathing, nothing else (physical) is absolutely necessary. Food is life-giving. Life-sustaining. But the meal should not be consumed simply for survival. Life is about MORE than survival, right? It's about the act of living, of thriving, of being and becoming.
Food is meant to be enjoyed. I mean, what's the point of eating if it's not enjoyable? I honestly believe that life here on earth is too short to not enjoy the things that we have been given. To not savor them. It is NOURISHMENT. Think of the word: to nourish. It means,
1. To sustain with food or nutriment; supply with what is necessary for life, health, and growth.
2. To cherish, foster, keep alive, etc.: He had long nourished the dream of living abroad.
3. To strengthen, build up, or promote: to nourish the arts in one's community.
Notice how that one word is so much MORE than simply the act of consuming?And where one's food comes from, how it is processed (or not) is, I think, almost as important as the act of eating itself.
To be clear, I am *not* talking about situations where people are starving and there's literally not enough to go around. I am talking about this subject in relation to what I know.
And as a diabetic, even more of my life revolves around food, in very powerful and mostly negative ways, sadly.
Remember when I talked about guilt in this post? Yeah.
Food and guilt go hand-in-hand when you're diabetic. More so when you're overweight and diabetic.
More about that later (because seriously, who wants to talk about the fact that they are fat?).
And so the act of eating becomes even more complicated (aside from the guilt) when you add-in something like diabetes. Because there's carb-counting, and insulin-to-carb ratios and deciding if you need ALL the insulin now, or if it should be spread out over the next hour-and-a-half. And this usually all has to happen before you can take the first bite of whatever it is you want to eat.
Diabetes involves a lot of complicated maths. Yay. I loves me some complicated maths. Fortunately, my pump does a lot of it for me, but still, there's a lot it doesn't do. And I've been doing it so long now, that it comes almost automatically. Although whenever I sit down to actually THINK it out, it takes me forty-forevers, and I'm half-wrong most of the time.
But I am so sick of the guilt, the shouldnts, the cants. Life is too damn short to not eat a doughnut once every six months, I'm sorry. People, ALL people, but especially people like me, should be able to ENJOY our food. We are constantly told how most things are bad for us - and YES, so much of what is out there, prepackaged, precooked, preheated, preprocessed using God-only-knows what - is SO VERY bad for us, but NO... NOT ALL FOOD IS BAD. And indulging (using common sense and with moderation) is good for the soul.
Anyway.
But as much as I love to cook and eat, I realized when I read Heather's post that I was not nearly as intentional about the meals I make and partake in as I had THOUGHT I was. Despite the love affair, I haven't made mealtime a sacred space. And that, I think, is an area in which *I* personally need to grow. And that's continued to swirl around the back of my mind for these last months.
There is a saying in the Talmud, When the Holy Temple was in existence, the Altar atoned for Israel; today, a person's table atones for him.
-Talmud, Berachot 55a
Whoa.While I don't totally adhere to this belief, I think there is SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT to be taken here.
If we are seeking to be holy, seeking for that kedushah (holiness) of spirit, then what does our table say of that? What does the way that we prepare our meals and then take in nourishment speak of our journey toward holiness, toward becoming our best selves?
I am caught and condemned, because up until recently - today perhaps - though I had read Heather's post and have been ruminating on it, I had not thought of our food - our sustenance - as a part of becoming holy.
It has not been sacred. It has very often been rushed and pushed and inhaled and wolfed and digested and annihilated. But it has not been contemplated, delighted in, relished, rejoiced in, enjoyed, and appreciated at all OFTEN ENOUGH.
And a lot of all this, just like everything else in life (more so with diabetes), comes down to discipline. It is a discipline to breathe the aromas and quiet the soul before partaking. To savor every bite. To practice self-control and not snarf down a whole box of Nutty Bars because the Daddy brought them home and now they're just sitting there, mocking you, begging to be eaten. To prayerfully consider snarfing down the whole box and ask God to somehow make them healthy, even if it's only for the afternoon.
I am sadly lacking in discipline in many areas of my life. But I am working hard toward learning more of it. In ALL things moderation. Something our society has lost sight of. Something I am still learning.
I am caught and condemned, because up until recently - today perhaps - though I had read Heather's post and have been ruminating on it, I had not thought of our food - our sustenance - as a part of becoming holy.
It has not been sacred. It has very often been rushed and pushed and inhaled and wolfed and digested and annihilated. But it has not been contemplated, delighted in, relished, rejoiced in, enjoyed, and appreciated at all OFTEN ENOUGH.
And a lot of all this, just like everything else in life (more so with diabetes), comes down to discipline. It is a discipline to breathe the aromas and quiet the soul before partaking. To savor every bite. To practice self-control and not snarf down a whole box of Nutty Bars because the Daddy brought them home and now they're just sitting there, mocking you, begging to be eaten. To prayerfully consider snarfing down the whole box and ask God to somehow make them healthy, even if it's only for the afternoon.
I am sadly lacking in discipline in many areas of my life. But I am working hard toward learning more of it. In ALL things moderation. Something our society has lost sight of. Something I am still learning.
So what are YOUR thoughts on this subject, friends? I would love to hear them and invite a discussion. Do share!
On History
So here it is, a rainy Saturday night, after a grey Saturday day, and I'm thinking. (Surprise!)
Thinking about lots of things, but this last week, something has kind of been floating around my head and won't let go.
You see, I made a connection the other day, and for me, it was kind of an epiphany.
It's this idea of history.
So. What is history?
You know that, right? It's the long and distant past. That place that lives in the back, forgotten corners of our mind, filled with useless facts about Napoleon and Tolstoy and Cleopatra and the Civil War. It's the collective memory our nation, our people, the world.
But is it more personal than that? Of course. It's the dusty boxes filled with the things we did before moving that last time, marriage, kids, the dog. It's the closed up spaces of our personal lives, where our mistakes (and often guilt) reside.
But then I am thinking... What is history, if it is not in relation to this idea of the collective past, but it is also not the history that is our own personal story?
And I hear you thinking, "Well, Kristen, that doesn't leave you with much. You've covered THE WORLD and you've covered YOUR SELF. What else is there? And where the heck are you going with this?!?!?!"
Bear with me here.
And let me tell you the back story.
I've been batting around some thoughts pertaining to my parents' marriage (and later, lack thereof), and my grandparents' marriages and relational issues. I've been thinking about what I have learned about marriage, the roles of husband and wife in marriage, the roles of men and women in general, from my parents and grandparents and even from what I know of my great-grandparents.
Then the Daddy and I had a conversation about our parents' and our parents' marriages, and I asked him, "What do you think you learned about marriage from your parents?"
Well, he didn't much know what to do with that question, but after some deliberation, he decided that there were no major lessons which came to mind, so "Nothing."
In my mind, I ask, how is that possible? How is it possible to live with two other people for the entirety of your formative years and not come away with ANYTHING?
It's not. As a child, even if you're not paying attention, those relational dynamics are speaking to you in ways you cannot understand or imagine. And for better or worse, they will influence much of how you view the opposite sex and significant relationships in later life.
I simply think that I threw the Daddy for a loop with my question, and at some point he'll come back to me with, hopefully, some thoughts.
But anyway.
That conversation got me to thinking more. Let's bring out the psychologist wig here for a minute, because Kristen wants to wear her Freudian hair.
To what degree does our view of marriage come from the marriages we are most intimately connected to? What effect does the relationships of our parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents have on OUR relationship today, if any?
What connections can be made between our past and the course that our present is taking?
And this is where the "Aha!" moment came - the oft-quoted saying by George Santayana:
Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
It flitted through my mind, and the lightbulb came on.
Wait... What?
This is not the far distant collective past we are talking about here. This is OUR history. The history of the generations who walked before us and bore our grandparents and our parents, who brought them up and lived out their lives before us. It is THEIR mistakes that are often repeated in our own lives.
It's not that I didn't already know this.
I did.
But I didn't UNDERSTAND it in the way that I understand it now.
Those: Me.
Who DO NOT LEARN: Take in knowledge of what's needed and put it into action to make positive change.
From History: The history just outside my own that directly impacts me - my parents', grandparents' and great-grandparents' lives.
Are DOOMED: There is no hope for any other outcome.
To Repeat It: Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, to the third and fourth generations.
Whoa.
To say it another way: If I do not take what I know from my family's lives and then choose to use understanding and knowledge to make practical changes in my *own* life, then I am set up to fail in every area of my life that THEY struggled with in theirs. In marriage. In parenting. In friendships. In working relationships. In character. In faith.
And this is outside of my own issues and areas that I would struggle with anyways. And it applies to *everything*.
Double whoa.
And yikes.
This is on the one hand, a very, very scary prospect.
And on the other... A beautiful opportunity.
Because I don't adhere to the whole, "Can't teach an old dog new tricks." philosophy. That's a bunch of bulls&%t, if you ask me. It might be HARDER to teach an old dog new tricks, but they can learn them! And this dog ain't old enough that she can't learn and learn and learn and keep on learning.
Because I am determined that unless God reaches down from heaven to stop me, my life WILL be different. For the better, hopefully.
I am determined to not live out unhealthy relational dynamics, but instead live in healthy ones. Ones where truth and life and hope flourish. Ones where excellence is the standard. Ones where love - good, hard, aching, growing, giving love - reigns. Ones where we work out the kinks and move on instead of stewing. Ones where our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are not STUCK, the way we were. Because we learned.
And so, here I am. Looking to start (Or continue, push forward, keep going... Whatever. You know what I mean.) this journey into learning and change even more than I have ever been. And move out of the cycles of anger, and impatience, and divorce, and fickleness, and fear, and hopelessness, and impossible expectations that have driven so many of the relationships in my life and my marriage.
Yes. It is time.
Have you ever thought about it this way? Am I just covering stuff that's old hat here or what? What do you hope to learn so you can move into change? I'd love to hear!
Thinking about lots of things, but this last week, something has kind of been floating around my head and won't let go.
You see, I made a connection the other day, and for me, it was kind of an epiphany.
It's this idea of history.
So. What is history?
You know that, right? It's the long and distant past. That place that lives in the back, forgotten corners of our mind, filled with useless facts about Napoleon and Tolstoy and Cleopatra and the Civil War. It's the collective memory our nation, our people, the world.
But is it more personal than that? Of course. It's the dusty boxes filled with the things we did before moving that last time, marriage, kids, the dog. It's the closed up spaces of our personal lives, where our mistakes (and often guilt) reside.
But then I am thinking... What is history, if it is not in relation to this idea of the collective past, but it is also not the history that is our own personal story?
And I hear you thinking, "Well, Kristen, that doesn't leave you with much. You've covered THE WORLD and you've covered YOUR SELF. What else is there? And where the heck are you going with this?!?!?!"
Bear with me here.
And let me tell you the back story.
I've been batting around some thoughts pertaining to my parents' marriage (and later, lack thereof), and my grandparents' marriages and relational issues. I've been thinking about what I have learned about marriage, the roles of husband and wife in marriage, the roles of men and women in general, from my parents and grandparents and even from what I know of my great-grandparents.
Then the Daddy and I had a conversation about our parents' and our parents' marriages, and I asked him, "What do you think you learned about marriage from your parents?"
Well, he didn't much know what to do with that question, but after some deliberation, he decided that there were no major lessons which came to mind, so "Nothing."
In my mind, I ask, how is that possible? How is it possible to live with two other people for the entirety of your formative years and not come away with ANYTHING?
It's not. As a child, even if you're not paying attention, those relational dynamics are speaking to you in ways you cannot understand or imagine. And for better or worse, they will influence much of how you view the opposite sex and significant relationships in later life.
I simply think that I threw the Daddy for a loop with my question, and at some point he'll come back to me with, hopefully, some thoughts.
But anyway.
That conversation got me to thinking more. Let's bring out the psychologist wig here for a minute, because Kristen wants to wear her Freudian hair.
To what degree does our view of marriage come from the marriages we are most intimately connected to? What effect does the relationships of our parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents have on OUR relationship today, if any?
What connections can be made between our past and the course that our present is taking?
And this is where the "Aha!" moment came - the oft-quoted saying by George Santayana:
Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
It flitted through my mind, and the lightbulb came on.
Wait... What?
This is not the far distant collective past we are talking about here. This is OUR history. The history of the generations who walked before us and bore our grandparents and our parents, who brought them up and lived out their lives before us. It is THEIR mistakes that are often repeated in our own lives.
It's not that I didn't already know this.
I did.
But I didn't UNDERSTAND it in the way that I understand it now.
Those: Me.
Who DO NOT LEARN: Take in knowledge of what's needed and put it into action to make positive change.
From History: The history just outside my own that directly impacts me - my parents', grandparents' and great-grandparents' lives.
Are DOOMED: There is no hope for any other outcome.
To Repeat It: Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, to the third and fourth generations.
Whoa.
To say it another way: If I do not take what I know from my family's lives and then choose to use understanding and knowledge to make practical changes in my *own* life, then I am set up to fail in every area of my life that THEY struggled with in theirs. In marriage. In parenting. In friendships. In working relationships. In character. In faith.
And this is outside of my own issues and areas that I would struggle with anyways. And it applies to *everything*.
Double whoa.
And yikes.
This is on the one hand, a very, very scary prospect.
And on the other... A beautiful opportunity.
Because I don't adhere to the whole, "Can't teach an old dog new tricks." philosophy. That's a bunch of bulls&%t, if you ask me. It might be HARDER to teach an old dog new tricks, but they can learn them! And this dog ain't old enough that she can't learn and learn and learn and keep on learning.
Because I am determined that unless God reaches down from heaven to stop me, my life WILL be different. For the better, hopefully.
I am determined to not live out unhealthy relational dynamics, but instead live in healthy ones. Ones where truth and life and hope flourish. Ones where excellence is the standard. Ones where love - good, hard, aching, growing, giving love - reigns. Ones where we work out the kinks and move on instead of stewing. Ones where our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are not STUCK, the way we were. Because we learned.
And so, here I am. Looking to start (Or continue, push forward, keep going... Whatever. You know what I mean.) this journey into learning and change even more than I have ever been. And move out of the cycles of anger, and impatience, and divorce, and fickleness, and fear, and hopelessness, and impossible expectations that have driven so many of the relationships in my life and my marriage.
Yes. It is time.
Have you ever thought about it this way? Am I just covering stuff that's old hat here or what? What do you hope to learn so you can move into change? I'd love to hear!
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