booandbunny

Since I've been gone

2008-01-08T22:04:00.000-06:00

I've opened up and discovered the friendship that comes back to you when you give it away.
It's warm sunshine.

I've pulled down huge gulps of the wonder in your eyes. It's the nectar of the gods.

I've submerged myself in details and found the larger picture. It's still unclear.

Since I've been gone I've been doing all the things I used to write about doing and been sad that I haven't found the time to write or to share. It's a New Year ... I'm starting fresh.

have you seen this e-mail?

2007-05-03T12:27:00.000-05:00

NO GAS...On May 15th 2007
Body: Don't pump gas on may 15th
Body: ..in April 1997, there was a "gas out" conducted nationwide in protest of gas prices. Gasoline prices dropped 30 cents a gallon overnight.

On May 15th 2007, all internet users are to not go to a gas station in protest of high gas prices. Gas is now over $3.00 a gallon in most places.

There are 73,000,000+ American members currently on the internet network, and the average car takes about 30 to 50 dollars to fill up.

If all users did not go to the pump on the 15th, it would take
$2,292,000,000.00 (that's almost 3 BILLION) out of the oil companys pockets for just one day, so please do not go to the gas station on May 15th and lets try to put a dent in the Middle Eastern oil industry for at least one day.

If you agree (which I cant see why you wouldnt) resend this to all your contact list.

With it saying, ''Don't pump gas on May 15th"

MARK YOUR CALENDAR: buy the day before or the day after but not on the 15th!

I want to believe. I really do. I want to believe American consumers understand "what's in your wallet."

Power. That's right. POWER. Consider every dollar you spend (or charge) to be a vote for each of the many, many people who divvy it up at the end of the day ... the local station owner, the refiner, the trucker, the big oil company. So, when I saw this I wanted to believe people might go for it, though I knew in my heart one day wouldn't dent the big companies' profits. So I decided to Google it. I found this:

snopes.com

And yet I wasn't disheartened. Why? Because of this paragraph right here:

"Not buying gas on a designated day might make people feel better about things by providing them a chance to vent their anger at higher gasoline prices, but the action won't have any real impact on retail prices. An effective protest would involve something like organizing people to forswear the use of their cars on specified days, an act that could effectively demonstrate the reality of the threat that if gasoline prices stayed high, American consumers were prepared to move to carpooling and public transportation for the long term. Simply changing the day one buys gas, however, imparts no such threat, because nothing is being done without."

Doing without. If you're about my age then your grandparents were likely a part of Tom Brokaw's "Greatest Generation." Doing without meant lots of things to them, but none of it seemed to be whining, if I remember the speeches correctly. More people lived together in smaller homes closer to work and stores and banks and schools and churches and everywhere you need to go. I saw a thing the other night on one of my geek TV channels (Discovery/National Geographic/History ... love 'em all!) that in the 1800s the average speed of traffic in Midtown Manhattan was 9 m.p.h. Today it is 6 m.p.h.! I promise you those horses' behinds were spewing something, but not the equivalent to what we spew in traffic now!

Lately, my reading has been telling me this ... many of the stressers in our lives we have cre ated for ourselves. Now we must try to undo them ... . (sorry Time doesn't still have the story online, but it was very inspiring.) I've been trying to live simpler for awhile now. We have a van and a motorcycle. Each uses about 1 tank a week, so not buying gas on May 15 is no sacrifice for us. We only go once a week anyway. But what about the rest of it? What about the culture of consumption? And why can't anyone say what we are all asking inside ... are you worried people will think you just can't afford it? And why do we care if people think we can't afford it? Hey! We can all start covering this fear with the trendy new greenness.

Less is more. People get stressed out by their debt and by all their stuff. I'm going to continue to try reducing ... even if it drives my husband mad. I'm sick of all this crap all over the place! Don't worry, Handsome, I'm not gonna' go Compact on you ... just yet. Paring down is where it's at. Green is the new red, white and blue (Thanks, Tom Friedman) ... we've just got to get people to stop thinking choices are black and white.

That's my rant for now. Thanks for reading. Next week I will have loads of time to post pictures of all that has been keeping me from the keys. I miss checking in on my bloggitty buddies, especially Sunday Scribblings. Hope you enjoy the links ... and your weekend. ;)

Frill and Force

2007-04-18T10:14:00.000-05:00

Tucking her in last night, searching for the right word, all I could tell her was: “You are so strong. So strong. It’s one thing to learn to go out and punch and kick. It’s another thing to go out, knowing you’re going to get punched and kicked, and take it and keep fighting. You are so strong. Here,” I kissed her forehead. “Here,” I squeezed her bicep. “Here,” I squeezed her leg. “And here,” I tapped a tickle zone. She flashed a weary but ever-sparkling smile and burrowed deeper into the covers.

Every day I marvel at her perfect blend of girly frills and tomboy force. Last night was a great example. To advance to orange belt at karate she had to fight for 30 minutes, prove she could defend herself even when worn out. Six four-minute bouts with a one minute break in between, all carefully monitored by parents and instructors. She stayed on her feet, blocked, punched, kicked her way to the next level. Took a few good blows (mind you, she wears loads of protective gear, limiting damage but she still feels the pain).

“Mommy, I couldn’t hold back the tears,” she said all red in the face, snot streaming from her nose after the crying, hair sticky with sweat. She was smashed between two 11-year-old boys, the friends who just fought her as she took the next step in her journey. She was embarrassed about the crying, but more about the boogers I think. Free from the congratulatory grasp of the final 11-year-old boy (No, her dad and I aren’t sure how we feel about this ;p) she took a hug from her hero, a 15-year-old girl balancing the same frills and force at a different stage in life, then pulled off gear and went to clean up her face.

The evening at the dojo wore on and her dad and I finished our tests. As I was cooling down I looked over to see my daughter with her back to her hero, who was carefully braiding the long shiny locks I’m not allowed to braid.

At 9 my daughter’s getting too old for some of the kinds of time we used to spend together. Maybe I just don’t want to admit how close she is to leaving her childhood, to entering adolescence, to discovering the kind of woman she is and the kind of woman she wants to be.

She was sitting across the table from me working on a scrapbook about her cats while I worked on my scrapbook about her. Suddenly I had a vivid memory. Seeing this amazing person before me, it was hard to realize it was the same body I had held in this full-color recollection.

She was about four days old … smaller than a bread box … wearing a green and white striped onesy with a little Noah’s Ark embroidered on it. Surrounded by pillows, none of which was in the right place to help us. My early ’90s jewel-tone paisley bedding was quite the clashy background to that gender-neutral onesy. Her hair was much darker then, what she had of it. But that’s not what I remember most in this moment. Its her beet-red body, tensed in a perfectly rigid protest … her shiny, toothless gums … her trembling tongue as she silently screamed holy, bloody murder. The only sounds she made came when she gasped for breath. All this I remember through the blurred vision of a sobbing mother.

“This is not what I expected,” I blurted to my husband when he came in. “She won’t eat! I can’t get her to eat!” What a man, calming us both down the way he did. Nothing’s more irrational than an engorged first-time mom with a baby who won’t eat. Looking at her scream all I could think was “We can’t go to the zoo together. I can’t read you stories or do projects with you. I can’t even FEED you right now! How am I going to this?”

But then an amazing thing happened. She figured it out. I figured it out. She grew. I grew. I’ve found so many new corners of myself in my daughter’s eyes. And we go to the zoo and we do lots of projects and she loves stories … all kinds … a good book … a good movie … an inspiring piece of art.

Of course sometimes she doesn’t mind the kinds of time we used to spend together. Over the weekend she wiggled her way next to me on the sofa and covered us both with a blanket. She watched Harry Potter, I drifted off to sleep, just like those late nights in the rocking chair after she finally figured out how to eat. That’s my girl … my young woman.

Frill and Force.

I can’t wait to see what else we figure out together.

You've got to go here

2007-04-09T08:34:00.000-05:00

Making one of my regular blog stops I found this and just don't know enough about how to post it here. I found this video so moving. I can see where some might find it amusing, or share it as a joke, but Alexandra's words popped into my head.

I hope I find time to write more today ... This collision has brought light to the darkened creative corner of my brain. Happy Monday.

In the News, a Sunday Scribble

2007-04-07T08:27:00.000-05:00

This was fun for a former reporter. I gave myself 30 minutes, 600 words and a topic I'm passionate about. Consider it an editorial in news-feature form. Made the time limit, came in well under the space limit, which would be good in the ol' newsroom 'cause this story cries out for pictures. If you think the new blog would be a good idea, give me a shout ... I just might be up to the task! Until then, spend your power wisely and enjoy your weekend.

Retailers, designers in shock
Girls clothing, shoes sit on racks another week

As the spring season gives way to summer retailers and designers across the region have been thrown for a major loop by the lack of demand for girls clothing and shoes. One manager of a local Target reported no movement in his girls shoe department in the past three weeks.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “Moms and young girls have been walking out of here with tennis shoes and nothing else.”

At the local mall things were almost as bad. “I’ve never seen an entire season’s fashions sit on the racks,” a Macy’s rep said. “We have no idea what to expect with the back-to-school season. The winter orders are on my desk. I just don’t know what to send in.”

Mid-range retailers such as Marshall’s and Kohls reported some sales, having restocked certain brands twice in the past two weeks.

“One thing I’ve noticed is that the styles that are selling are all similar to each other,” a Kohls rep said. “They’re what I would call ‘girls’ clothes’ … you know … smocked sun dresses for Easter, sandals with ankle straps. The camouflage bubble minis and sparkly flip flops are going to be 60-80 percent off soon. I can’t believe we still haven’t sold any of that stuff.”

One mom was spotted with her 9-year-old daughter at Marshall’s on Friday in the shoe department. The little girl didn’t even turn her head to look at the wedge-heeled flip flops.

“She’s never been allowed to have that stuff,” the mother said. “And she knows better than to ask for it now. She’s 9 … not 19. And there’s no reason my 9-year-old should be forced to dress that way. If I search hard enough, there are options.”

Apparently more and more moms are feeling this way, some dad’s too.

“I wouldn’t let her wear that when she’s 15,” a dad said in Target on Saturday. “Why would I let her wear it when she’s 7?”

Meanwhile, in the blogosphere reporters are combing through a recent find encouraging consumers to exercise their full power. “Why buy it if you don’t really like it?” said Friday’s entry at She’s9NotBrittany.blogspot.com. “You work hard for that money! Spend it on something you find appropriate for your young daughter, not what retailers are sticking out there and saying they should wear.

“If enough of us put our money where our mouths are, designers and retailers will be forced to change to meet demands.”

Until then, the Marshall’s mom and her 9-year-old daughter will continue the pattern they’ve followed for years.

“First we try Target, then Kohl’s, then Old Navy and Marshall’s. I don’t know why I stick to that order because I have different luck every season,” the mom said. “But I can’t afford the places that really make clothing for young girls, such as Talbot’s or Children’s Place. So, we just find a day when we’ve got the energy to shop and get what we can. She knows our rules, and I think she just might be beginning to understand them. Just because everyone else does it doesn’t make it right for you. And I’m only spending our money on what I think is right for her.”

A scribble from the kitchen

2007-03-25T15:55:00.000-05:00

Watching her cook with her grandmother, I couldn’t help but smile. At 4 she was ready to prepare a four-course meal, or so she thought. Whenever she can, my daughter loves to help in the kitchen: setting the table, pulling ingredients from the shelves, stirring, counting, clearing the dishes after dinner.
But when she’s with Grandma, that’s a special thing. Firstly, Grandma lets her do much more than I do. Secondly, that time in the kitchen is a gift that will last her entire life.

I still can see the curtains fluttering in the rural Illinois breeze. It’s 5:30 in the morning, and Grandpa is having his obligatory bowl of cereal. He sits at the two-ton table, which stands center in Grandma’s kitchen.
When I think of her, that’s where I see her. Standing over the stove, standing over the sink, on the phone with the cord stretched across the room. Usually it was unbearably hot in there, no air conditioning and we always visited in the heart of the Midwestern summers. Sometimes she chuckles, sometimes she talks back, but mostly she just listens to the Polish radio station out of Chicago.
Chicago.
My grandparents got out of the city, leaving the South Side during the White Flight of the 1960s. But getting the city out of my grandparents was impossible. First generation Americans, children of Polish immigrants, they were as Chicago as you can get.

“OK, Peanut, I’m ready for you,” my mother-in-law says one July afternoon. The two had gone with the rest of the family to pick peaches earlier that day in the oppressive heat and humidity that is St. Louis in the summer. Now that the peaches were peeled and sliced, the cooking was pre-schooler friendly.
“I need your big footstool, Grandma,” Peanut says, having done this before.
Once in place, she’s giddy with anticipation. Grandma explains what they’re going to do and Peanut listens intently. She follows instructions to the letter.
Grandma started baking with them when they were about 2 years old. She kept it simple, ready made dough she sliced and they helped her place on cookie sheets. Grandma doesn’t limit the cooking to the girls, either. Her grandsons are more than welcome when willing.

It’s Thanksgiving, and the tiny house in farm country is filled with South Suburban Chicagoans, each with that trademark accent, all of them Bears fans. Ditka’s in charge and hopes are high, but not as high as the expectations for dinner. It would just be a few hours before Grandma’s stuffing hit the table.
The kitchen is the heart of the home and it’s rare to find Grandma anywhere else. She sits at that formica table to do just about everything: read the paper, write letters or lists, clip coupons, play cards with family or friends, have a cup of coffee.
Like most homes built in the 1940s or 1960s, the kitchen is a self-contained room, not open to other areas like so many kitchens built today. And Grandma’s is big. With the right number of tables and chairs, she easily seated about 15 for Thanksgiving dinner.
The stuffing pan is all but picked clean. All that remains is a mountain of dishes … and no dishwasher. Grandma, my mom and my aunt start cleaning up. I grab a towel.

Peanut’s at the opposite end of the house when she hears the timer beep. She starts off at full speed, until she’s reminded to walk in the house. She watches as Grandma removes seven individual peach cobblers from the oven, and checks on them periodically as they cool.
“We’ll scoop out a hole and fill it with ice cream,” Grandma says. “How does that sound?”
A beaming smile is her only response.
Unfortunately for Peanut, Grandpa grilled steak and there was fresh corn and tomatoes for dinner. She’s too full to eat much cobbler.
Ah, late July in the Midwest.

Grandma usually found something for me to do, even if it was just to sit and watch. I remember helping her with a Polish pastry cookie. I had to keep my distance during the frying, but when it came time to sift the powdered sugar, the job was all mine.
I loved those cookies.
The kitchen was the heart of her home. From there all good things came: food, family, traditions, memories.

Family treasures come in all shapes and sizes. Many are those memories… sifting powdered sugar, my daughter’s cobbler.

When I was in Chicago for Grandma’s memorial service I took time to flip through her recipe boxes. I could see her hands … the wear and tear of a life in the kitchen, the solitary sparkle of her wedding diamond.

The hours those hands spent perusing the boxes were evident. Tabs are missing or nearly broken off the dividers. Some cards are stained, a few sport her fingerprints. By far the majority of the recipes are methodically typed onto the cards, but many are clippings glued with trusty Rubber Cement. Inside each lid is glued a series of tips and shortcuts.

She had two recipes for those Polish pastries and four for poppy seed roll, but there’s no trace of a recipe for her stuffing.

“Please don’t tell me you cook dinner for three kids every night,” a co-worker of my husband’s said to me shortly before Grandma died. Her statement made me a bit uncomfortable, but I answered truthfully.
“I do.”
I’m a stay-at-home mom on a budget. Less nutritious fast foods are more expensive than what I cook.

It’s rare when I let the kids do too much. Usually they get to put away ingredients or set the table. But they see me cooking … and they learn.

Cooking with your kids doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to be planned. Let them pull stuff off the shelves. Let them set or clear the table. Let them get messy. Let them cleanup. Let them decide the menu. Let them watch … and they will remember.

"Wanna Have you near me ... Wanna have you hear me say it ... No one needs you more than I need you"

2007-03-18T16:43:00.000-05:00

Who do you think you are pulling me from my bed in the middle of the night? My eyes squint, my body coils up, resisting the beams that pour forth from the computer screen. Would that my hands could keep up with you! I’d answer your call with pen on paper by candle flicker.

But once uncaged you’re a bit vengeful … perhaps angry with me for ignoring you so long. So you spit forth your retaliation, sometimes in a venomous rage that leaves me sleepless for days. I suppose I deserve it.

I mean, who else in my life would I dare to shut out in such a fashion? If my child wakes me in the night I rise and give full attention. If my lover rolls over to me in the darkness I awaken and respond. If my employer rings my phone I immediately take action. If a friend in need knocks at my door I open my home. You are all of these things and yet I feel no guilt in turning my back on you. I would never think of putting any living thing in a box so stagnant, so soundproof, so tight that I could only hear it’s distant cries through the strange silence that is a suburban weeknight.

So I can forgive you for tormenting me these past days in your newfound freedom. All these weeks of my bemoaning your departure must have been extraordinarily exasperating for you, considering I had packed you up and put you away. Imagine my surprise when I found you there in such deplorable conditions!

a steel box

sealed shut

wrapped in numerous blankets

so as to stifle your cries

tucked in a dark corner.

My inspiration stuffed in storage because I was too busy living to make time for myself. But life was gray and robotic with such a colorful creature caged.

Starting out with this I thought of so many comparisons: a pesky mosquito; a seduction; an unrelenting master. But my inspiration is more of a dog on a leash. Sometimes it’s pulling me somewhere I’ve never been. Sometimes I’m pulling it back on course. Sometimes it runs off or I ignore it. And sometimes we just stroll while I sip a latte.

P.S.--click on the photo for the link. Click here for more on inspiration.

I'm no philospher

2007-03-16T16:34:00.000-05:00

And I'm certainly not the type who can hang out and do that kind of reading. But I know a good card when I see one. And I know that it's the most Nietzsche I'm ever likely to read, so as the muse is again tickling my brain and the bright blue spring sky calls me from under a cozy blanket I'm finally (finally!) feeling creative (and productive) again. And so for the weekend I share this tidbit, off an otherwise blank greeting card.

It speaks to me of my creations.

It speaks to me of motherhood.

I can't wait to hear what it speaks to you!

"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star."

playing with my new photo software

2007-03-14T09:22:00.000-05:00

I am far from being a brilliant photographer. I do, however, see things other people might not see. And with my new camera and software I'm seeing even more and having loads of fun. For instance I took this

and with a few pulls and clicks made this

In another program I was able to turn that into these for scrapbooking pages

This click relieved me of the sadness that the lighting was so poor I couldn't pull out the picture without it becoming astoundingly grainy.

Then this happened.

The words are part of the karate creed. "I come to you with karate. My empty hands. I bear no weapons. But, should be forced to defend myself, my principles or my honor; should it be a matter of life or death, right or wrong; then here are my weapons. Karate, my empty hands."

Then I took my camera somewhere I knew the light would dance and I took this.

Which looks cavernous and intimidating enough. For some I'm sure it's even down right scary. Then I made it this:

This gives me a warm, fuzzy, kid feeling. And who doesn't need more of that?

baby no more

2007-03-06T10:20:00.000-06:00

With you spilling out of my lap this morning I realized how truly numbered these days are. Gone already are the times of listening to you coo in the baby monitor. Gone already are the days of your regular 3 a.m. crawl into my bed. Gone already are the morning snuggles. You turned 6 Saturday, en route to the autonomy that will be yours this fall when you go to school all day long.

With you spilling out of my lap this morning I put my nose in your hair and drew in a long breath. Yes, you still have that clean smell of a little little boy, not that sweaty, outside combination of a young boy and his dog.

With you spilling out of my lap, I wrapped my arms around you tighter and you turned so your cheek was on mine. Those big brown eyes soon stared up at me as though I were the most amazing woman on Earth and I said: “I love you.” And you kissed my nose and slid from my lap and were gone.

How truly numbered these days are.

“Mommy, can you help me?”

Yes. Let’s build some Legos.

ramblings from the word file where my posts are born

2007-02-24T09:55:00.000-06:00

If you’ve never had someone believe in you it can be hard to accept. If you’ve never fully realized how MuCh someone believes in you, it can make you feel like a real heel when you finally see clearly.

I’m forever amazed at how he believes in me. I’m forever feeling like a real heel for not fully appreciating his love for me. Sometimes I wonder if I could ever love him enough. His heart seems boundless … his capacity to love so great that words escape me. And all this love is there for me. How could I possibly love him enough?

Just days ago I watched him cry. I’ve seen this before and it crushes my soul every time. It’s not just that he is aching that crushes me. It’s in the recognition of that depth of heart … recognition I fail to make daily. He stood there, stroking our cat as she slowly made her way from our world to the next and the tears ran down. He let our children see his pain because, unlike when they lost their dog a few years ago, they are able to wrap their heads around the permanence of death. They are better able to approach that wave of grief and say: “It will wash over me. It will not consume me.” These are the first sojourns in an incredibly difficult portion of the human journey. We want them to feel it so they can learn how to deal with it. He sits there, with his heart open, letting them see a part of it they have never known. Finding out that Dad cries is a big deal to any kid. And of this my husband is not afraid.

But today he showed me even more. He has always believed in me … more than I have ever ever EvEr believed in myself. And he believes in these ideas I’ve been working to make concrete, touchable, marketable somethings. If only I could be the strong one for him … just once … maybe I’d feel I’m somehow pulling my weight.

How unappealing an unconfident spouse must be. The negativity. The neediness. The constant, relentless task of re-assuring me must make him weary through to the marrow. Then there’s the way a lack of confidence affects body image, sex drive. The depression moves in and out. The mood swings shake the house. The turbulence of peri-menapause and dark clouds of PMS do little to even out an already wild flight. And yet he holds me. Reassures me. Loves me more than I can imagine. He wants me, which is something I can’t understand. I’ll put something “special” on and make the mistake of looking in the mirror. “How on Earth is tHiS what he wants to see tonight?” And he takes the controls, and he steadies the course, and together we reach new heights.

What have I done to deserve this? And how can I repay him? Maybe I could try even harder to quiet the voices of self-hatred and self-doubt. He’d be the first to tell you his is one of the loudest voices you’ll ever hear! Perhaps, if I keep trying, I can allow his voice to drown the others. And maybe let his image of me wash away what I see in the mirror. Would that be enough to show him how much I love him? I mean, really, how do you ever say thank you to someone for being your partner this half a lifetime? And how do I thank him for sticking around for Act II?

He believes in me. How lucky am I?

And I’ve always always AlWaYs believed in US.

Ideas. Fantasies. The reality of my kids’ world. My head gets to jumbling and I never get to typing. The excuses are becoming lame, and I need to start wringing it out of myself again. Then I make another excuse not to type and another day goes by.

I’ve had lots of ideas these past years since I quit working fulltime. Ideas about making money. Ideas about creating things for people. Ideas about what makes a good parent and whether I am one. Ideas about faith, religion, war, struggle, hunger, death. They are ideas, intangible uncapturable misty dementors that torment my spirit whether it’s guilt for not acting on them or guilt for letting the kids watch TV so I can try to mold the mist into a more manifest creation.

Mist.

I’ll ramble tonight because there is just too much mist. I’ve been busy these first weeks trying to stick to my resolutions … keep working out … keep creating … take ideas X, Y and Z and make them real. “They are good ideas, you just lack discipline!” I keep telling myself as mist of new ideas closes in, trying to distract me from completing a task. “Keep going.” And so one idea has found new life as something I can touch, review, show others. But this is not enough.

Mists of life roll in, pull me away from my endeavors. There are friends who have needed a shoulder and more these past months. It is too much.

It is too much to accept that there truly are bad people in the world.

It is too much to accept that selfishness can guide a life and that, quite often in our country, people are never made to understand that the way they treat others is unacceptable.

It is too much to watch my daughter’s heart break as I try to help her understand her beloved kitty is dying, right there before her eyes. How do you explain kidney failure to a sobbing 8-year-old?

It’s been too much. And so I’ve typed but haven’t clicked publish. And so I’ve read but been silent. And so I’ve avoided my real questions. Through the years I’ve learned I excel at stuffing things down, shoving them to the side, stepping over them … AVOIDING what I am truly struggling with. And then I find something like what I wrote about my husband one day and I realize I’m not so good at avoiding at all. I take it out on those I love the most. And this realization is just too much.

My family is safe and strong and I am well, but the muse has been silenced these past months. Too much real life, too much I've wanted to provide for family and friends, too much that I didn’t feel like dealing with, really, or explaining. But the longer days and Spring-like rains are tickling my spirit. And kind words left here are summoning the muse. Thank you.

Scribble me this ...

2007-01-06T13:11:00.000-06:00

My days are filled with kissing. These kisses are a blessing I not only fail to count, but one I fail to think of counting. They come in so many shapes and flavors and sizes how can they all possibly be classified with the same word? And it’s such a small word.

Kiss

The smallest of words seem to carry the most in our lives. Sometimes I think brevity bolsters their power.

Love ... ... Lust ... ... Time ... ... Kiss

And so I wander through my days, kissing. As the kids get older there are fewer kisses to collect, but I collect them nonetheless. "Mama needs at least a thousand kisses a day or she will grow weak and start to shrivel." That is what I used to tell them when they were smaller. They would pile on me and pour out giggles and kisses and I would drink it in as so much nectar from the gods.

Now, like Santa Claus, I have to fight to keep their faith in me. The power of reason is a little thief, I think, pocketing our innate openness and replacing it with, well, guarded expression. But I still collect their kisses. Three in the morning, three before they leave for school and many many more each night when I tuck them in. "I love you, Mommy," they say each night. And so I drink some more.

But it’s this time of day when kissing changes. When their rooms are dark; their dreams are in high gear; their doors are closed to the rest of the world ... that is when the Baskin Robbins’ world of this tiny little word opens up for me. Sometimes we’re both in the mood. Sometimes only one. Sometimes an open bottle changes the flavor of the encounter. Sometimes there’s a little coaxing, the kind of lingering that closes us off from the outside world, pushes the power of reason from our pockets and fills us with fairy dust. Sometimes one needs taken care of, reassured. Sometimes there’s only enough energy for the obligatory peck, no anger or malice or negativity, only fatigue. So many shapes this kissing takes. But this kissing, His kisses, they have filled my days for half a lifetime. They are a sweet shop of expression whose language is mine alone.

I’ve kept my Scribblings to myself for far too long. It feels so good to be kissing the world with words again! For more on this and other prompts, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Chi

2007-01-05T09:51:00.000-06:00

Megg asked about a theme for the New Year. She’s put one word to her efforts and got me to thinking. I am working on the same old list ... exercise more ... eat better ... take chances ... create something ... but I come at these things with a new outlook, bolstered by doing these things last year. So when I put it in one word for Megg I chose the word

ENERGY

But really what I want to do this year has more to do with chi ... a Japanese word for "flow of energy." Karate class is a great place to not think, and in the not thinking I found what I really want to do with 2007.

"I bet you thought I quit," I told the cardio instructor Wednesday night. "You said if people are going to quit most do it around the third class. I came to two than stopped.

"You can't count that stuff during the holidays," he said with a grin.

I told him how I couldn't manage to empty my brain and just move those two weeks. He understood. "New Year, New Attitude," he said turning on the music. "Alllriiight ... from heeeEEERE!" And so began a muscle-busting sweat inducing hour. The second for me that night. I never could have done this last year.

With my head empty and my body moving I felt things flow. "I can do this," I thought on the ideas that revealed themselves last year. "I can make them real. I can. I CAN."

And so the energy flows, and I am trying to rein it in ... harnessing my chi ... A flow of ideas has rarely been cut off for me. It's the flow of positivity that I have often choked at the source, despite the amazing support of my husband and others. Let it flow.

The flow of creativity has resulted in a frenetic sampling of all kinds of outlets ... crafting, writing, cooking and now exercise ... but the focus for the flow has been lacking.

I lack DISCIPLINE.

Not sound too Zen, but a river outside its banks is chaos. The flow must be harnessed. I should know. I live here between two of the biggest rivers in the world and I lived here 14 years ago when each jumped its banks. What a sight. What chaos.

Harnessing Energy. That seems like a good theme. And something new, too boot! Happy Weekend Everyone.

blyack blyuck Blyoggered

2007-01-02T12:35:00.000-06:00

I don't know what in the heck was going on with today's post when I tried to post it, but the words are out there in the world (fInAllY) and I must move on to that resume updating I promised myself. Hope you can see this goofy, tiny gray type and that you don't get Blyoggered.

HapPy nEw YeaR!

2007-01-02T12:30:00.000-06:00

Oh smell the promise of something new! We as Americans love new things. Why should a new year be any
different? The smoothing of the crease in that freshly unwrapped calendar … the way it needs time to hang out
and flatten a bit on the wall … the blank slate of the unknown, the unexpected and the unwanted converging with
the anticipated, the announced and the annoying routine. I love this time of year … until it comes time to take the
decorations down. That always brings a bump of blue to an otherwise bright orange season.

But this year my resolutions are new and fresh, too. This year I have tangible goals and a desire to reach them.
This year I know going in that yes, I can get off my butt and exercise regularly and, yes, it does make a difference
in my size. But, more than that, it makes a huge difference in how I FeeL! I love SpongeBob,
so I quote him here: “I’m ready!”

This year I have something else, too. Something I haven’t had in a very long time. It was the big change in my life
in 2006 and feeling it’s warmth around me I know there’s no reason not to chase some of the goals that might seem
unrealistic and unattainable.

It’s a group of girlfriends. It started here when I found other women with similar interests, frustrations and desires
as my own. It started as I wandered these pages and realized, as so many of us have typed WE ARE NOT ALONE.
Learning this here made me look at the women I see regularly in a new way, helped me open up, maybe, in a way
I had been unwilling to attempt in all these years. Only two other times in my life have I had a group of women I
enjoyed spending time with. Senior year of high school there was a gang of seven of us who ran together …
one of them, my very best friend, my maid of honor, is still with me today. Senior year of college there were four of
us who lived together at journalism school. Those three women stood up to my wedding, too, and we still are connected.
That is a rare gift.

But since the early ’90s, when life scattered us from coast to coast (and beyond at times), I’ve not known that fun
that comes with a bunch of girlfriends getting together. I’ve savored moments with a special friend, the comfort of
knowing her well enough to invite her for dinner with my family and open the door in bare feet. But that slumber-
party mentality hasn’t crept into my life until now. Sometimes you don’t realize what you’re missing until you’ve
found it. And starting a new year with this new sense of support and understanding has given me an energy I don’t
totally understand. But I’m going to do my best to harness it and believe in myself as much as my husband believes
in me. And that would really be something new!

Here’s to the unexpected … the anticipated … the promise of the blank squares of a new calendar … the blocks
with which we’ll build our New Year.

Ready ahead of time!

2006-12-24T08:05:00.000-06:00

I finished them Friday ... the kids had a lot of fun as these guys had cardboard colored faces and no embellishments when they left for school, and looked like this when they got home. I shouldn't have saved the hardest for last (the insides of these made my hands cramp!) but they are the last to leave the house, so they just had to wait.

The grandmas will love the color-coded scarves. Ms. 8 loves purple, Mr. 7 blue and Capt. Kindergarten green. And all four grandparents enjoy the muffins and cookies they find inside. This year there'll be gift cards, too, yipee!

Sharing these creations has had me thinking about Sunday Scribblings again ... about change and how much life has changed in the past year. About how much of it we work for in our lives and about how much change is foisted upon us and about how we cope with that. I'm hoping for a quiet coffee Tuesday morning so I can let these thoughts open further in my head, maybe spill onto a journal page.

But for us one thing has yet to change ... Santa is expected by all this evening and I must prepare for his arrival. As I always tell the kids, he might be magical, but if he trips on the mess and hurts himself he'll still be hurt. Let's clean up a bit. Tomorrow we'll want space to play!

Joy to all ... and peace.

Sweet Siamese

2006-12-20T20:00:00.000-06:00

She found this project in a book and did it as a gift for her teacher. Too cute! The base was traced from a saucer, so the whole thing was relatively small, but she had such a good time making it! She plans to do another one for herself while on Christmas break. Back to my snowmen!

transformed

2006-12-19T13:04:00.000-06:00

I keep hearing Mrs. Weasley in my head ... those lines she yells at Ron, Fred and George at the beginning of Chamber of Secrets. The boys are sneaking into the house after their overnight rescue of HarryPotter when she catches them: "Where HAVE you BEEN!"

I wish I could say I've been transformed, but ... as we all know ... that's an ongoing process that can't really be photographed. I can, however, say, I've been transforming. Just look at my dining room! It's not so tidy today as it is serving as the command center for all of the gifts that go out of the house to teachers, preachers and others who serve us every day of the year.

The snowmen boxes are the last to be done. I'll post another picture when they are ready.

I was saying to Hubby this morning as I put the finishing touches on the angel ornament how I would love to be one of those crafters who can work on these things all year long, thus not sprinting across December in a streak of Alene's craft glue on a Mod Podge High, but I just can't. I find some purpose in this business I create for myself, and a certain joy in people's surprise ... you made this?

I've also found great pride in the fact that my daughter, 8, has decided to make her own gift for her teacher this year. It's almost complete, and again, I will post a pic asap. It's funny how your kids tell you that they learn from your example. It's always nice when you see them following your example in a way that doesn't put one of your own bad habits on display ... for me this means cursing in temper or leaving stacks of junk around to be dealt with later!

So the boxes have been lining up and this was the weekend to fill them. They've been trickling out the door this week, as I said, to the bus driver or the karate instructors and then, with all that baking, I always have to send some goodies to my brothers, who are great cooks, but do not bake. I think I counted 15 boxes in all, plus the ornament and the treats. Hubby always teases me about the treats: "Putting Holiday M&Ms into those cookies doesn't make them Christmas cookies." To that I say he is wrong. To that I say it doesn't stop people from eating them and so it goes ... Christmas sprinkles on the greatest peanut butter cookies ever ... on the yummiest butter cookies ever ... homemade caramel corn in Christmas cans ... muffins and some nice teas for the teachers.

Then it was time to round up the artwork for the relatives. You'd think it's impossible to share a year's worth of three kids creativity all at once, but this is the second year I've made a calendar featuring their adventures in many media, as well as a new recipe for each month (mmmm foood my favorite medium for expressing myself!). So this was born during my time away. Stationary has yet to be created for the grandmas ... but it will meet the goodie-stuffed snowmen beneath a tree soon!

And so the time passes and my Sunday Scribbles continue to land on the margins of other things. I took this picture when I was thinking it would be the last hour of my life with this hair. Instead the shop had no power and I had to reschedule. Then I thought about punishment and reward as I listened to a friend recount recent court proceedings involving her victimized family and the man who did it to them. Seeing them healing puts special joy in this particular Christmas. And I went back to this picture when it came time for Anticipation, but alas we've had three different winter illnesses take down three different people in the house ... none of them me yet! I canceled my hair appointment and went to the pediatrician instead. I was unable to reschedule the hair. So, in the last hour, I've created this post and thought a lot about why I create and what I create and I have to say I'm just thankful I can create it. So many people stuff that part of themselves to one side, thinking there's no time, no money it, no point. But the point is in the doing. And, while outwardly I am still not transformed (would you look at this HAIR!) inwardly, another change is made.

Now, how about those peanut butter cookies? You measure out one pound of sugar, one pound of creamy peanut butter and dump in one egg. You mix it up and form the dough into one inch balls. Mash them with a sugar-coated fork and bake them about 10 minutes at 375. Then you watch as people marvel when they eat them ... and you never EVER tell anybody how truly simple they are. I'll be back when the snowmen boxes let go!

Sing it!

2006-12-05T14:52:00.000-06:00

Do you ever have one of those days? Song days. Sing sing a song days. Sing out loud, sing out strong days. They just come to me … and since Capt. Kindergarten has been leaving me daily to go to school I think I’ve been singing more … no one around to say “Can You please stop now, Mommy?” ’Cause some days I just need to sing. I mean, let’s face it, chores are more bearable when you sing a bit, dance a bit. They just go faster.

And this time of year I do my best to crank as much of my favorite holiday music as I can because I simply won’t listen to it again for another 11 months. So I’m singing. Floating around doing chores on a Mod-Podge High singing singing singing. Peaking at the sparkle of the ice that remains under clear blue skies.

I know it's a Carpenter's song. My mom used to spin it on the LP regularly. Much to her chagrin I see a host of celebrities and some sweet little monsters when I hear it, warming my heart more. Or I hear Ellen DeGeneres' Dory ... just keep singing singing singing gotta keep singing singing singing singing!

Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud
Sing out strong
Sing of good things not bad
Sing of happy not sad.

Sing, sing a song
Make it simple to last
Your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not
Good enough for anyone
Else to hear
Just sing, sing a song.

Sing, sing a song
Let the world sing along
Sing of love there could be
Sing for you and for me.

Sing, sing a song
Make it simple to last
Your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not
Good enough for anyone
Else to hearJust sing, sing a song.

ensconced

2006-12-02T08:27:00.000-06:00

There's a strange warmth to being ensconced in snow-topped ice. Our summer adventure zone was transformed into the kind of Winter Wonderland my 5-year-old has never really had the chance to enjoy. He went through five pairs of gloves yesterday! Waterproof gloves for him were the one thing I forgot to put on Hubby's list as I sent him to Target on his lunch hour Thursday for three pairs of boots and two pairs of snowpants. It had been so long since we've had a big bite of winter that the only snow boots in the house were two sizes two small for the smallest of all. (Yes, we watched the Grinch the other night!) It was a kind of TV-family day. While neighbors struggled to conquer the cul-de-sac (which wasn't cleared until late last night) we hunkered down and suited up. Sledding, snow forts (to the extent we could scrape snow off the sheet of ice that coated our little plot), crafting, hot chocolate, movies, some decorating and calzone for dinner.
You can see the layer of ice that coated the swingset and other summer fun ... and the kids were real good about taking turns with the saucer, making snow angels on the hill while they waited. The dog was about worn to a frazzle by lunch and kitty didn't seem so pretty licking condensation off the windows!

Build something to last

2006-11-30T10:58:00.000-06:00

He worked in a wood carving booth at the Chicago World’s Fair, creating portraits with inlaid wood. There was a self portrait that hung in his house; a tiger on the hunt; some ships I think. He spun candlesticks on a lathe and created hundreds of pieces I’ve never seen, each one loved by the family member who received it.

He was a musician early on, playing drums in a band during his college days and maybe a bit after that. A college fella in the 1920s, he had privileges that many around him did not.

He was an engineer who designed machinery for the food industry. I remember the smell of his home office and the amazing tools he used to create machines on paper until he was almost 80 years old. What would he think of the 21^st century?

He was a man who did what he had to do, quiet but for a sharp, dry wit. I don’t know anybody who ever really heard him complain. How many men could spend the first 30 years of married life under the same roof as their mother-in-law? A nightly cigarette on the porch, my dad says. After dinner Grandpa would step out for a smoke.

And he had his workshop. A place to retreat and use the science that paid his bills to create the art that fed his soul. It wasn’t just a place where new things were made. It was also a place where old items found new life, like this table. It was the base drum to his set when he played as a college kid. When I remember this table, exactly as it sat between two stereotypical La-Z-Boy chairs, I am reminded of the reasons I appreciate it so much and the reasons I never knew its true beauty before I brought it home last year.

It weighs nothing now, but the gingerjar lamp and the sliding piles of National Geographic, Woman’s Day, Redbook and newspaper TV listings kept it firmly planted in that dreadful 1960s carpeting for almost half a century. It never wobbled or warped. It stood firmly at the center, quietly doing what it had to do … just like Grandpa. And when Grandma told me the year before she died that she wanted the table to be mine someday, it was my honor and privilege to guard this treasure.

Readying the house for the holidays, a time that always transports me back to that little ranch home of theirs in rural Illinois, I pulled back the protective coverings and gave the wood a little drink … a little Liquid Gold love.

“Grandpa, I’d really like to learn something about woodworking. I know you can’t really teach me now, but where should I start?”

“Get yourself a piece of wood.”

Gee, I wonder if my smart-assedness is genetically embedded somewhere. A smirk and a shake of the shoulder as I think this. Then I remember him at the dining room table. I’m not sure I ever heard him belly laugh, but a quiver of the lip and a shoulder shake often followed his own remarks. The lemony smell sets into my brain and I again fall in love with the care put into this table top, the time put into the matching of the grain, only to have it hidden all those years by countless periodicals.

My mind wanders in the circular motion of polishing. I wonder why so few of us actually make things anymore. I wonder about families and how very far apart so many seem to be these days, including our own since he and Grandma died. I wonder about waste, consumption, the value of something we know we can just replace if it wears out or gets ruined. I wonder what, if anything else in my house, is built to last the way this table has lasted. The Christmas tree lights click on. His smirk crosses my face again as I answer my own question:Memories.

Happy Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T08:15:00.000-06:00

A Sunday Scribble ... on Wednesday :)

“Some SuperHero,” my 7-year-old said in one of his ornery moods. “All she had was a stupid pen.”

“Well, the pen is mightier than the sword,” I said, uncertain of why, as it came out.

“What’s that mean?” he asked. “Oh, ’cause she could jab people in the guts with that pointy thing?”

How typical of the young American male. Exactly when did good-deed doing (which is what superheroes do, right?) become enveloped with explosions and weaponry?

“No, because she believed in something and she never stopped working to make it happen.”

“Whatever.”

Definitely too ornery to talk about a book we’ve enjoyed for several years now, Thank You Sarah, the woman who saved Thanksgiving (Laurie Halse Anderson).

The SuperHero in question is Sarah Hale: author, publisher, the first female magazine editor in our country, proponent of schools for girls, opponent of spanking, corsets, bloomers and bustles and, more importantly slavery.

“When Sarah saw something she didn’t like, she picked up her pen and wrote about it. She wrote letters. She wrote articles. She wrote and wrote and wrote until she persuaded people to make the world a better place. Nothing stopped Sarah.”

So when she saw our great feast relegated to a regional celebration she set to the work of creating a national day of thanksgiving. Slowly, slowly states beyond New England began to declare an annual holiday, but this wasn’t enough for her. “Sarah Hale wanted the whole country to celebrate together, like a family.”

Here the illustrator depicts a group of women headed for an official looking building. They bear an enormous quill as if it were a battering ram. The men on the steps are unmoved. Sarah, of course didn’t give up. Thirty-eight years and finally the fifth president she lobbied agreed with her. It was in the midst of the Civil War. “America needed Thanksgiving, now more than ever. A holiday wouldn’t stop the war, but it could help bring the country together.” And in 1863 Abraham Lincoln said yes.

And so, as I do every year, I take heart in Sarah’s tale. One person can make a nation stand up and take notice. So this week, as we sit down together, I’ll be thankful for Sarah Hale, without whom children across America wouldn’t have taken those few moments in class this week to pick up a pen, pause in search of the words, and then write: “I am thankful for … ”

Centennial

2006-11-17T13:25:00.000-06:00

In the spirit of the season, I thought I’d use my 100^th post to say thanks to all who come here and to those I visit elsewhere. You inspire me and remind me that never, ever am I as alone as I might feel for whatever reason it might be. There are so many who have touched me as we’ve been swept up in this net. What once was a fish out of water is now braving the Seven Seas. Thank you. Thank you. And Happy Thanksgiving!

Reading this last week this came to my head from nowhere … it shows how much of a smart-ass I am in real life. I hope my admiration for those who dare to be themselves in a homogenized hurry hurry world comes through. For Jessie, thanks for always daring to be you:

She appeared a few months ago. I’d never noticed her before. Between changing my radio station and aiming the coffee mug at the cup holder I looked up at the road just long enough to see her there, walking and reading. That doesn’t seem too safe to me.

I confess to being absolutely no good in the morning. I don’t read a newspaper and leave my home computer off. By the time I’ve parked at work (about a mile and a half from my house) I’ve had enough coffee and radio to feel that I have a clue what’s going on in the world. (At last Brittany and Kev split!) Then I cruise the E, Star and People websites before diving into the work on my desk.

But she is always there … walking and reading and reading and walking and it is always a book … a thick looking book. I don’t know anyone who reads books. Do you think she watches TV? And where is she walking anyway? Does she just not have a car?

Yesterday we managed to meet up at a stoplight and she read the whole time. She only raised her eyes long enough to look both ways before crossing the street. Good thing, too. I cursed into my cell phone as my coffee spilled when I almost hit her. Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Don’t see her today, probably because I stopped at the drive-thru. (They took forever!) How does anyone have time to walk anywhere, especially in the morning? I wonder. I flip through the radio dial as I open my Cra-Sandwich. I slam on the brakes just in time. There she is, in the crosswalk.

Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Melba always reminds me to celebrate my good fortune … that I should feel pride in the work of my mothering and take this special time to feed my creative beast. For Melba:

Double Baked Potato Soup
1 large russet potato
1 large sweet potato
2 Tbsps. butter
¼ cup flour
2 cups half-and-half
1 14-oz. can chicken broth
½ cup sour cream
¼ cup sliced green onion (I use the whole thing, not just the greens)
Salt and white pepper to taste
6 slices bacon, diced and cooked crisp
2 oz. finely shredded sharp cheddar cheese
Scrub potatoes and pierce with fork. Bake in 400-degree F oven for 1 hour, or microwave (high) for 5 to 8 minutes, until cooked through. Let stand until cool enough to handle. Peel potatoes, coarsely mash and set aside. In heavy 3-quart saucepan, melt butter over medium-high heat. Whisk in flour to make thick paste. Slowly whisk in half-and-half and broth. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened and bubbly, about 2 minutes. Add mashed potatoes, sour cream and green onion; cook until heated through. Season with salt and pepper. Top each serving with bacon and cheese.

Hubby and I started our blogs about the same time. Where I got frustrated and lacked commitment, he kept going. So, when the new year rolled around I renewed my commitment and, as always, he was very encouraging. The hard part for me was making the connections. And just on the day I was about to give up again, I found Alexandra. Not only was she interesting, she was inspiring. And through her blog a new world opened. I can’t find the permalink anymore, but one of the first of her posts I read encouraged writers to leave anonymous notes in places, little stories to surprise those who find them. Here is one of my little stories I left somewhere last winter, For Alexandra:

She was trying to listen, but the distraction, the attraction, was just too strong. She’d seen him more than once when meeting her sister here for coffee. Always he was at the same table. Always with the cliché coffee house laptop. She wondered what was on the screen.

Couldn’t be too interesting, she thought, for she knew that he had noticed her, too. He didn’t smile often, but had once thrown her a crooked grin. Tingles.

She hadn’t tingled in quite some time, but certainly wasn’t about to give up hope. His hair was a bit longer than the first time she’d seen him and he brushed it out of his face now. No rings.

He closed the laptop and pushed back on his chair, making to leave. She sat up a bit. She was between him and the door, you see. And just as her eyes rose, expecting him to, his body made a smooth motion away from the table and her insides twisted with a strange reaction.

For whatever reason, she found his wheelchair quite alarming. Well, unexpected. It didn’t make her afraid, it was just that, well, things now weren’t as they had seemed. As he drew nearer she found herself boring her eyes into her sister’s.

“What’s wrong with you?” her sister said with a twist in her face.

“Maybe she wasn’t expecting me.” He offered a crooked grin as he came to a stop at their table. Her sister looked at his sharp jaw and brown eyes and grinned. “I have to go to work,” she said. “Call me.”

Another squeeze of uneasiness hit her as he made himself quite comfortable at the small table. His hand was right next to hers.

Tingles.

Another crooked grin.

She spent that Saturday morning learning, laughing, tingling. She spent that Saturday afternoon sharing things about herself she hadn’t shared in some time. She spent Saturday night in his arms.

Sometimes, things are exactly as they seem.

Her blog is In the Middle. Her comments come up as Martie, but for some reason in my bookmarks she’s The Mad Hatter. She constantly reminds me we are so many things, the sum of parts our own, parts we created and parts we nurture. For Martie:

The bag is ever more swollen as the years go by: daughter, sister, friend. Far down at the bottom of it now is a smashed black pillbox with a teasing little veil. The guys liked those back in the day … that was her single girl hat. It might be a bit moth eaten, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away. What if, God forbid, she needed it again someday … or maybe just for dress up, you know, when he feels better. Wife, mother, sister, friend. Auntie, now grandmother … confidante. All her hats were in there … stuffed in the bag no one could see but this woman. This woman, like so many others, moving across the earth and touching lives every minute, not knowing the sweet breeze her perfume left behind or the calming effect of her approach. The leading lady in her own production, the Mad Hatter knew how to fill every part.

It’s a gift I’ve never considered myself having received. But in exploring the blogosphere and following connections I sometimes find myself moving writing implements across paper, but no words come out. Instead I get something like this, which is for Jim:

I’m still learning to photograph the wild creatures that move any faster than my sleepy cat, but this was one of those moments where conditions and camera collided. I didn’t even realize there were three birds until I cropped and enlarged on the computer! For Endment:

In the past few months I’ve noticed myself stopping and taking pictures in my mind. This one came on a day out with the family, right after we got the new camera. We were walking in a historic area when the two of us paused at this knotted tale and he said “Now that’s something you should take a picture of.” So I did. And, despite this wider visual exploration, I still find the desperate need to put words to things. For Hubby, I offer an evening of silence sometime in the very near future! But elsewhere I must add words to this photo, which brings a rhythmic roll to my ears. For Liz:

empty socket worn by time

fatal flaw knot in pine

piece of wood creature unnamed

men and steel landscape tamed

From the ground you speak to me.

Your future is our history.

All aboard, departure’s nigh.

Move us Westward railroad tie.

There is a world that moves me but I’m never quite sure how to share it. I never know just what style will hit me at any given moment. The best way to illustrate it is a short story … Hubby and I took a weekend away to see one of his (and now one of my) favorite bands. These 60-somethings, who several decades earlier had knocked the world on its ear with what can only be called blistering sound, probably never intended for one of their songs to re-assure a mom out in the cheap seats on her first overnight away from her three babies. But that’s what they did. You just never know how music will hit you. For Anne-Marie:

Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I don't, I'll go out of my mind
Better leave her behind with the kids, they're alright
The kids are alright

Claudia always brings me something new to enjoy. If only I could complete some of my projects I would share them here … alas, I’m still trying to clean up the disorganized jumble of supplies. But she’s been talking so much about paring down and changing her lifestyle I find myself cringing every time I bring the many American plastic containers into my kitchen. Thank you not only for the warm creations you share, but for the reminder that less really is more. I haven’t gotten far, but I’m having more fun checking off this list than I ever have had checking off any other cleaning list! For Claudia:

So many words have been pulled from me. Words I didn’t know I had, but for the prompts at Sunday Scribblings. I’ve been stingy lately, not posting many Scribbles, so a shot of pages filled, for Laini and Megg:

click click click

2006-11-10T07:32:00.000-06:00

I'm still clicking. Are you? I put this bookmark right under my blogs folder and so I see it every day. Click here and then click on the fund free mammograms box every day. THANKS!

happy days are here again

2006-11-08T14:36:00.000-06:00

It’s one of those days where all the things I should be doing are make me say: “Ah. Hmmm. Na.” And all the things I want to be doing are making me say: “K. Oh. Well … I can’t really give it the kind of time it deserves. Na.” And so time slips away into whispy thoughts on the first sunny day I can remember in awhile … maybe two weeks?

The blue birds are back. They make me feel so strong. The trees and farmland that once surrounded my sub-urban landscape have been plowed down, making way for more driveways and vinyl siding. Yet these little troupers persist, today seeking refuge in the neighbor’s 25-foot tall ornamental grasses before swooping down for a bite to eat. I couldn’t get any good shots of their color but will keep trying. They are native to Missouri and so pop up at the strangest of times in my backyard.

The cat has migrated from the dining room to her winter nest … at the foot of my husband’s side of the bed. She gets good sun there for a good portion of the day and generally doesn’t budge unless I or the dog comes near her. Her migration is usually triggered by the absence of bugs and birds to watch from the windows as it gets colder. It always cracks me up, though, the way she can snap from her slumber and pounce to the next thing. It’s nice enough I opened some windows just now and she can’t decide which one will make the best perch.

My post-election thoughts resemble antelope scattered by a big cat’s pounce! Show me? Show me! We’ll show you! Just when I’m bracing myself for the backlash—the kind of bumpkin comments we endured after “voting for a dead guy”—my fellow Missourians remind the nation what it means to be a bellwether state. You just can’t tell what in the hell we might vote through! Dear Chris Matthews, Tim Russert, and Co.: First, let’s set an old record strait. We voted for the dead guy to get rid of John Ashcroft. Fat lot of good it did us. Oh well, water under the bridge. Now, please stop saying turn-out for Claire McCaskill helped get stem cell passed. I’d like to think turn-out for stem cell got Claire McCaskill elected. People I know turned-out to vote on the issues, despite being turned off by candidates of every shade. Thank heavens. I think we look so much better in purple than in either red or blue.

Finally, the clean machine, part two. The other day I was wildly motivated, taking Capt. Kindergarten to his room on a mission to find some carpet. I put him on the school bus after lunch and went back in. Every drawer emptied and re-filled with only what belongs there. Now that he has his stuff put away he has places to spread out and play and he is all the happier for it. Poor hubby, though. The job of purging the toys the kids have outgrown falls to him. (He’ll give away so much more than I will!) Next is my daughter’s room, which I like to call an organized mess. Like me, she sees no need to tackle it if the stack still stands up!

OK, one thing I really can’t skip doing … time to cook dinner.

company's coming ... and who could create in this mess?

2006-11-04T14:07:00.000-06:00

Such a week! Company was coming and going, so I emptied out my dining room, bringing it to a serenity it hasn’t seen in months. It started out as a creative zone. I had been taking time here and there over the summer to work on some scrapbook pages. The school year started and things fell away. A bunch of bags and boxes were mounded there for classroom parties. Another bag came in with holiday crafting supplies. Eventually it just became a dumping ground. Who could create in this mess? I was finding it UN-inspiring.

So, initially my intention was to just get it organized.

The submissions to that art show in September. The theme was black, white and red all over. (I’m going to edit the playoffs into the Cardinals piece and find it a home.)

Everything I need for a scrapbook I haven’t started.

Holiday promises … blank canvases that will be turned into gifts with a few hours of work and a lot of love.

There were several other beginnings of projects … all of which I would love to curl up with. But today I concentrate on the clean. It stayed like this until yesterday, when I had more company. I put it all up, covered the mats with a nice tablecloth and lit some warm, welcoming candles.

And now I’ll go into my usual November plunge. For some reason I love to get things sparkling clean before the holiday decorations go up after Thanksgiving. So Kitty, you can have your room back, for awhile. Here she is in the window last weekend. I'm just loving my new camera!

aaaaaah-tumn

2006-10-30T09:57:00.000-06:00

Took the new camera out this weekend ... fiddled ... tweeked ... fun! The first two were on the banks of the Missouri. The last one is the bluffs along the Mississippi.

One Voice

Joins A Chorus

Inspiring A Symphony.

Bedtime, a Sunday Scribble

2006-10-29T17:48:00.000-06:00

It’s one of those weeks where Laini and Meg’s prompts seem to have some special telescope into my life. So, without further ado, Bedtime.

Once upon a Thursday in a room just up the stairs lived a little boy who wasn’t much for maternal expressions of affection. His idea of showing her his love was a high five, or maybe a roundhouse kick to the rear end. Curling up next to her as his sister and brother did … well that was for girls and kindergarteners.

When he was six months old he developed an arching in his back that he used to tell his mother to put him down. He used it often. By 18 months he had a little show he’d put on … plucking the kiss off his hair with a tiny fist and saying “Bam it to the wall!” as he made a throwing motion. By the time he was 5 his mother had started getting the message. He would permit a hug and a kiss before leaving for school or at bedtime, but not much more … unless he was sick or had had a bad dream.

But even then he wasn’t like his siblings. This independent creature would sleep on the floor next to his mother’s bed, never crawling into her arms in the middle of the night. And so his mother learned and the boy grew, all the while guarding his protective bubble.

It’s a safe zone, a place of delicate construction reinforced with strong will. His arms and legs swing freely inside his bubble, set to full strength, ready to punch, pivot and hook kick should anyone make it through. All this, his mother finally determined, is an unconscious but well orchestrated effort to defend the gold inside his chest. After years of worrying he didn’t know just how much she loved him, he grew old enough to send her signs.

More than once he would push her sleeve up when she tucked him in at night, rubbing his favorite blanket on the pulse point she marked with perfume each day. The scent would move to the blanket, which he tucked under his head with a purr.

Sometimes during a favorite after-dinner TV show he would sidle in next to her on the sofa, sometimes sharing that same blanket. As soon as she was aware of his closeness she had to fight the urge to pull him closer still and kiss his hair.

At 7 he was showing tiny signs of manhood. His shoulders were broader than she ever remembered and months of concentrated karate had cultured new strength in his compact form. He had his own opinions and his own ways of doing things and finally, finally, they had negotiated the terms under which she might show him her affection.

But yesterday was something else. A cold, rainy fall afternoon found him on her lap, worming his way into the denim button-down she often uses as a cardigan this time of year. She’d been pulling it over her turtleneck all day … and a few times the day before that. Angling off to see her eyes he smiled and said, “You smell good.” Then, to her surprise, he shoved his arms inside her sleeves and rested his head on her shoulder. “Can I wear your shirt?” he asked.

“Well, I’m kind of wearing it now,” his mother said and they laughed. “But you can use it for an extra blanket at bedtime.”

This made him happy and so they moved through the rhythm of the rest of the day. And when at bedtime she leaned in for her negotiated kiss he said, “You forgot to give me your shirt,” she laid it over that favorite blanket and turned off the lights.

When he came down for breakfast today he was wrapped in that denim shirt, hanging down past his knees. And he didn’t take it off until he dressed for school.

“I got to snuggle him all night,” his mother thought, sipping coffee and watching him butter a bagel. “And he wasn’t even sick.”

Go Crazy Folks, Go Crazy!

2006-10-28T10:01:00.001-05:00

They are the words of the late Jack Buck, who taught me most of what I know about baseball. I used to listen to him call the games with Mike Shannon on the radio while I watched the game on TV with the sound off. (Yes, I am a woman.) But these 20-something-year-old words are all over Cardinals Nation this weekend after Jack's son Joe announced on Fox that the Cardinals had won the 2006 World Series.

I'm so happy for this scrappy team of walking wounded, a group of athletes I actually don't mind my kids admiring. They play hard (MVP David Eckstein). They play hurt (Scott Rolen, Jim Edmonds, most of them really). They respect their opponents (Albert Pujols) and they play as a team (Hello, starting rotation!).

But mostly Hubby and I were laughing because, whenever we see the World Series Trophy all we can think of is this character dragging it behind his car around a fictitious parking lot. Of course we would be saying this into his megaphone: "Attention American Leaugue! Your long run of dominance is over! Go Crazy Folks! Go Crazy!"

P.S.--Click on the top photo for coverage from the Cardinals' hometown newspaper, which has done a bang-up job covering this team. Click on the Trophy photo for the team website.

After many, many tries

2006-10-25T15:16:00.000-05:00

It was in me. I knew it was in me. But I needed the silence and space to set it free. Aack. So, better Wednesday than never for a Sunday Scribblings post. Click for more Good Stuff.

Group was such a loathsome place. James wasn’t sure what kept him going back.

“Nowhere else to go,” he thought to himself, pouring a measure of bad coffee and eyeing the veggies and dip alongside a platter of hastily arranged Chips Ahoy. The paradox pulled a grin across his face. It recoiled as he turned to face the rest of the room.

The chairs were in their circle, but there were more this time. “Boy, you miss one meeting,” he thought. James figured somewhere a handful of new sentences had been handed down. This, too, pulled a short-lived grin. “Sentences,” he muttered to no one in particular, tucking the almost smile away for safekeeping. Didn’t want to make any friends here.

“Let’s get started,” Dr. Love said, creaking a chair across the floor.

James knew most everybody there, so he stared at Eve L.’s shoes as the introductions came around. Rising from her stiletto heels were her obligatory fishnet hose which took their time getting to the hemline of her tight red dress. “She needs to get with the times,” James thought. Where he once had been tempted by Eve’s tawdriness he now found her tired and overdone. But, that was why she was here, wasn’t it?

A stretch of chairs remained unused and James wondered when the new folks would arrive. “Always late to the first meeting,” he said, remembering the power of his own denial. Then he she crossed his mind and he found himself wondering where she was as the twins introduced themselves … again.

Tragedy and Tragic had started coming to this meeting about 20 years ago, not too long after the first cable news network rendered them useless. A few months later they were joined by Amazing, Unbelievable and Shocker, all emasculated by the rising number of sports journalists in the 1980s. Scandal arrived in the mid-’90s, done in by the Clinton administration.

James himself was one of the founders of this little band and so had seated himself in the middle of the empty chairs. He was saving her a seat and knew full well that Love would leave his introduction for last, banking on some juicy morsel of self-indulgence after James’ absence last week. No such luck. James just hadn’t felt like coming. He’d heard all these stories a thousand times.

“Why are you here?” Love would ask.

“I’m not sure,” the newcomer would answer. “I guess to find new meaning. I mean, there once was a time when I had more power than I knew what to do with, I crystallized an undeniable human emotion (or condition or experience … this was a fill-in-the-blank spot for James). Now I’m reduced to rhetoric, sports headlines, fashion or food critiques. I’d love to reclaim that meaning in my life. I guess I’m here to figure out how.”

James was snapped from his flashbacks as tonight’s newcomers came in. They didn’t make a sound as they moved toward their seats.

Love motioned for him to move to one end of the available chairs, allowing these 12 to sit together. He did as he was asked, leaving a seat between himself and Love. She’d come, he knew she’d come. The 12 all came with that inconsolable grief on their faces, the same one he had worn in those early years of recovery. The fact that you’ve been used up is a tough pill to swallow. One by one the 12 introduced themselves and James stared in disbelief. There was Truth, Honesty and Charity. Twins Conservative and Liberal clung to their cousins, another set of twins, Left and Right. Morality came in, said he goes by Moral for short, and promptly bit into a Chips Ahoy. Finally Integrity held the door as War was carried in by Crisis and Conflict.

James couldn’t take it. He just stared at the now cold coffee in the trite foam cup. He heard Love’s voice but didn’t respond.

“James … James introduce yourself. James … GOOD!”

James finally looked up, snapping out of the depression he shared with all these tired, overused words who felt impotent and meaningless.

“Election season,” he sputtered as tears came to his eyes. “Wonder if any Good can come out of this.”

“Of course it can,” she said, shoring him up with a strong hand on his shoulder. He knew she would come. She laced her fingers into his as she took a seat.

And James Good was so thankful that he could always count on Hope.

click! taking that swing

2006-10-23T14:33:00.000-05:00

Exciting and frightening all in the same moment. There are no excuses now. I must seize the moment. It is here. Right here on my desk, arm’s length. Its tomes of manuals are just daring me to pick it up and create something. I simply must load the software tonight so I can get out and snap some of autumn before it is whisped away. A new digital camera. I’m very excited. So, hopefully, when I post next, it will have pictures!

A sports metaphor ... and p.s. GO CARDS!

2006-10-20T12:58:00.000-05:00

Almost a whole Sunday later and the Scribblers still have me thinking about time. For whatever reason, playoff games always make me think about time. For instance, when Adam Vinatieri kicked that last-second field goal to win Super Bowl 35. I remember staring at the TV … “Surely there’s more time? That can’t be how it ends!” But time had run out and the moment was gone. More than the other situations in the average day of an average American, I think playoff games offer us a true appreciation for “That one moment in time.”

My husband used to be a volunteer firefighter. He’s seen people die. He’s touched the dead. People with such jobs have a taste of time us regular folk don’t get. In an immeasurably small moment the life energy stops flowing and, after that, nothing is the same.

I’m not trying to compare life and death to a playoff game. I just have no other reference. It’s a means to explore my appreciation of the infinitely small measure of time that can change circumstance completely.

The actual contact point of bat on ball is a fraction of a fraction of the entirety of either surface. The time that the two spend in contact with each other is infinitely small in the scope of a two-and-a-half hour game. The consequences are irreversible. There’s an absolutism about those tiny playoff moments that offers new understanding to life in a larger scope.

Moments aren’t always what we make them. Sometimes they are made for us, as when the opposing player puts that fraction of bat onto that fraction of ball and launches it 400-plus feet in the ninth inning of Game 7. Then we are left wishing we could stop time and change a few things … put more spin on that pitch … boost that outfielder another half inch into the air … take back those hurtful words blurted in anger … stop that bullet … fasten that seatbelt … say “I love you,” or “I’m sorry,” or “Stop!”

Life turns on immeasurably small moments. But is it possible we might stretch them out a bit? Put down the phone? Turn off the computer? Close the entertainment center and block the TV from view? (Not during a playoff game, of course!) Is it possible to make the technology stop flowing and rejuvenate the life energy flowing through us and around us?

Of course it is.

We don’t have to sit in the stands with our hands over our mouths, tears in our eyes, wishing we could have made that slugger swing rather strikeout looking in the bottom of the ninth. We can pick up a bat; take a swing and leg out a double. We can dive for the foul ball, pull it from our glove and hear the cheers. We can stand in the cold autumn rain and smile as it splashes our faces, dance like little children and bottle that moment so we can drink it in again on a less glorious day.

A fraction of bat on a fraction of ball for a fraction of a second can change everything. Where did I leave that metaphorical bat and ball, anyway? It’s time for some B.P.

time ... timeless ...

2006-10-17T11:04:00.000-05:00

I can’t feel it running through my fingers, but I know it’s there. Sometimes a twinge, sometimes a tickle, but otherwise I don’t notice its motion.

The touch hasn’t changed, though there are more hands on me now. Your hands, our children’s hands … They reach out to show love, to receive love, to grow love, to believe love. And between these touches it has been running through my fingers and I haven’t noticed.

Those eyes haven’t changed, though there are more of them now. Our children are such a blend of the two of us. While two have eyes that favor mine in color, all four of you have eyes that disappear when you laugh, swallowed by the apples of your cheeks as they somehow kiss your eyebrows. And under the laughter there has been a rustle of movement that I haven’t noticed.

I still feel like that 18-year-old you met, like that 22-year-old you married. There has never been a time when you haven’t made me feel beautiful and, to be honest, I’m generally surprised when I look in the mirror each morning. Who is that middle-aged mother?

I see them growing up, and so I know it moves. I hear them growing wiser, and so I know it passes. It tickles my fingers as it passes over, but otherwise I don’t notice its motion.

It’s been moving all around me, over the outside of me … furrowing my skin and graying my hair … but it hasn’t touched me inside.

Inside of me time has stopped and we are still and will always be those college kids in love. Hair or no hair. Wrinkles or no wrinkles. Parents of young children or empty nesters. Extra pounds or frail with illness. The stages of life can’t touch us because inside us time has stopped. Burdened with the weight of this amazing love time is too feeble to trudge forward. In its pause we’ll grow old together without realizing. Even as we tally each October 17th as it passes, it will feel as though time hasn’t passed. 14 … 15 … 50 … forever … Happy Anniversary.

Jellyfishing

2006-10-17T10:57:00.000-05:00

I have always truly, truly loved Liz’s senses posts, and now her new spin on them, which keep me feeling close to what’s going on with her. I’ve found myself in a whispy mode … the kind where my posts sweep through my brain like those paint-brush clouds stroked across the October sky. Any of these things could have been a post, but they flitted from my head too quickly. And so I dare to snatch them. Some days I’m SpongeBob, happily trapping an idea and milking it for all the jelly I can get. Other days I’m Squidward with a Monty Python voice over: “Run away! Run away!” Too many ideas and not enough time to explore them. So, Liz, I apologize for stealing your style, but I’m

Admiring
all you do and the way you do it.

Planning
Too much, really. Classroom parties ate my week last week, but being there really gives me a good taste of what my kids are in each day. There will be more parties in December and February. Let the competitive momming continue!
Costumes for Halloween, which finally came together the other day with the final test of a black king-sized sheet as a Hogwarts robe.
The holidays, which will be here before I know it. Somehow, in my desire to see my brothers I’ve invited 5 people to my house for an indefinite stay. Without knowledge aforethought I found my pen scribbling menu ideas whilst eating my lunchtime salad the other day. Ugh. I’m not certain we can afford it financially, but I know we can’t afford to skip it emotionally. Kids don’t believe in Santa forever … Grandparents don’t live forever. Sunday Scribblings has me pondering time and so I know this Griswald Family Christmas is something I must do.

Savoring
The sigh of the Earth that is the relief of autumn. It was 90-something here earlier this month … summer’s last gasp. Today the ground is mushy after the rains of last night and the leaves are sticking to the pavement after finally being blown loose from the trees. I could never live anywhere with fewer than four seasons.

Reading
I’ve been working with the kids a lot. Book reports for second and third grade. Check out the Molly books by Valerie Tripp before the next American Girl movie comes out in November. Take a stab at Cowardly Clyde by Bill Peet, a fun story for boys. And remember the Sound Box series by Jane Belk Moncure as your pre-reader moves into reading. The Kindergartener also has been enjoying The Sneetches and Other Stories by the one and only Seuss. As for me, Jerusalem an Archaeological Biography by Hershel Shanks.

Learning
Karate. I’ve been taking classes now for just over two months. I can’t believe I haven’t quit yet! There is no measure of the new strength I have found just by spending these few hours a week alone in my head, in my body, forcing them to actually work together. And, bonus, my jeans are loose!

Loving
The power of this family we have built. I have watched my children stick together, support each other, (beat on each other), laugh together, (torment one another), open their arms to new friends and grow. Together the five of us can take on just about anything.

Fearing
The news. I can’t take it anymore, which is no way to deal with things. Am I to wander my days in blissful ignorance of the current state of things? I have no energy left for my anger with our “leadership.” My realization that no one is listening has robbed me of my voice. The desperation I feel when I take in current events stoops my shoulders and buckles my knees. And yet I must press on, lest they win … whoever they are … since NO ONE on any side is listening.

Wishing
I could get back on the blog horse. I’m just not doing very well at it lately, but I’ll keep trying.

Creating
A mess in my dining room! There are scrapbook supplies and half-finished pages. I finally got rid of the party supplies for the classrooms, but replaced them with craft supplies for our annual handmade gifts. It will be so much fun to dip into all of these projects and watch people as they receive them. Right now, however, it’s just a mess. The Halloween candy is on top of a cabinet where the kids can’t reach it. (Wish I couldn’t … there’s a whole bag of Twix up there!) Oh, and let’s not forget the chair at the end of the table, the only flat surface left bare. I haven’t vacuumed it in some time. It has a lovely layer of snow white kitty fur across my burgundy slip cover! Her favorite place to nap.

Watching
Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip … love it. Shark … James Woods rocks. The Amazing Race … always worth the time, if only for the scenery.

Tasting
Double-baked potato soup … yum-a-licious on a rainy fall day.

Thanking
The higher power for my many, many blessings ... which is something I often forget to do.

Skin

2006-09-29T09:22:00.000-05:00

At 14 she couldn’t deny the urges that swept over her. She was much more woman than child, but in her plaid Catholic school skirt and knee socks it was hard to feel that way. Well, it was hard to feel that way until Robert came down the hall.

He was one of the first people to be nice to her when she joined the ranks of this pious tribe. They were 12 then and Robert knew what it was like to feel alone in these halls, for lots of reasons.

Kelly’d grown up in a sheltered place, closed in now by the Catholic-ness of it all. Her mother’s family was a hearty bunch of Irish Catholics (need we say more), her father’s family a generic Waspy clan. No specific ethnicity there. No specific religion. They made the assumption that everyone they met was Christian and said a quiet prayer for any they met who didn’t “fit in.” Kelly’s world was a white, Roman Catholic one until she met Robert.

He came from a place she had never seen or touched. He went to school for free because, well, because Catholics take people in. He read the book in religion class and sometimes asked questions that made no sense to a cradle Catholic like Kelly. Questions like, “But when were you saved?”

“Saved? Saved from what?” she asked him later, fiddling with her notebook.

“You know, saved,” he said. “When did you accept Jesus into your heart?”

“I don’t know, but I did,” she said. With her papers tucked away, she still couldn’t look at him. He was one of the few boys who was taller than her. She liked that. He had broad shoulders. She liked that, too. And his voice had already changed. But mostly she liked his eyes. He had the biggest, brownest eyes she’d ever experienced in all her 14 years. Later in life, she’d learn to call them expressive, soulful. They told her things about him that he didn’t know about himself and that she couldn’t put to words.

They started back down the hall.

“It’s just different at my church.” He finally broke the silence as they turned down the stairs. “My whole family is Southern Baptist. We would never be allowed to go to services in jeans the way you guys do. It’s just different.”

It was the end of the day and the stairs were deserted. He took her hand and, for whatever reason she was surprised. What made her tummy twist wasn’t the excitement of his touch. It wasn’t the realization that he liked her, too. It was the knowing. Knowing for the very first time.

Because she’d never touched a black person before and she couldn’t understand what was happening in her brain. “Why did you think it would feel different somehow?” she asked herself. She didn’t even realize until that moment that she had somehow wondered if his skin would feel different than hers.

His hand was soft and warm and she squeezed it as she felt her face flush. Even though she’d never really thought about their differences, they had been in the back of her brain. She was ashamed.

“Are you going to the dance tonight?” His voice cut through her thoughts and she dared to meet his gentle eyes, but they were fixed on her shoes.

He kissed her at that dance. Her tummy jumped at his scent, that jump you get when you’re 14 and experiencing arousal for the very first time. Suddenly she was acutely aware of her inner thighs. With his kiss, that awkward teenage kiss, she left her childhood behind. They were cheek to cheek now, and she learned that he had started shaving. The little difference in them she had never noticed before that day was gone again. He was Robert and they were the same, standing alone together.

A whispy thought caught with keys

2006-09-27T10:56:00.000-05:00

Sometimes my brain makes connections and by the time I try to set them down with any kind of permanence they are gone. Not this time. Fortunately, the connection happened while standing six steps from my keyboard.

I had a minor internal hissy fit last night while scouring the junk drawer/art cabinet for Scotch tape. The kids had used up everything I had making a construction paper Quidditch Field a few weeks back and, in hiding the new Scotch tape from them I had inadvertently hidden it from myself. (I do this a lot.) And I really needed the tape right then! In my head I was wondering why I keep some of this stuff and I was calculating just how I could chuck a lot of it one afternoon while they are all at school: stickers they have no interest in any more, mostly used up coloring books, about three pounds of snapped crayons with the labels peeled off. Grrr. “Why do we keep some of ThIs STUFF?” This thought escaped my head, hurdled my teeth and crossed my lips with a volume and cadence that told the kids: Step away from the mom … now! Eventually I found the tape and the homework was completed.

Then, just now, I was cleaning off my desk (another grumbly task!). I picked up the copy of “The Poetry of Robert Frost: All eleven of his books—complete” (edited by Edward Connery Lathem) that had been pulled from its shelf Friday. As I returned it to its rightful spot, where it’s been collecting dust for many, mAnY, MANY years, I realized how many times I have packed this book, moved this book, dusted this book, paged through this book. "Why do I we have some of this stuff?" The thought whisped through my head and I had an answer this time.

I’m not certain my brother knew the powerful poetic origin of the cliche he had just used while talking about some of the choices he’s facing. It felt so good when I went right to this book, right to the page, and was able to e-mail it to him, hoping it would offer him the same warmth it’s brought so many before him.

I'm still going to toss a huge amount of the kids' old art supplies. But not all the stuff that sits on my shelves, in my cabinets, in the backs of drawers, has lost its usefulness.

in tune

2006-09-25T10:16:00.000-05:00

Amazing. I was on the phone just now, staring out the back window as I usually do when I'm on the phone, when I noticed them. Nothing like the picture below, but it was as though they were coming just for me. I think it's all because I'm especially in tune with them this year. For whatever reason, their speckled wings are speaking to me, especially against that clear September sky.
One by one, as evenly spaced as Christmas lights on a string they rose over the back fence, sunk into the yard, caught a wave and disappeared over the house. Probably 30, maybe more, in the course of a half-hour conversation.
"You called us!"
"Here we are!"
"Just stop a second! Look!"
"See?"
Monarch movement just for me.

Monarch Migration

2006-09-18T13:31:00.000-05:00

The pull of the Earth seems to tug the sky closer. What once seemed out of reach as it crossed the wide blue now seems just a flick ahead of my outstretched hand. A chorus distracts me from my silent friend and my eyes are drawn higher to that telltale V as it moves with intense purpose, perhaps headed to a destination not far from my friend here.

Its parents’ parents came north last spring, bringing with them that surge in me that cries: “Plant a flower garden so they’ll stay!” And now the same surge comes forth in me as my mums popcorn burst into bloom. But our friend can’t stay. It must find others of its kind.

My Kindergartener, himself a victim of seasonal migration, waits for the school bus. His eye is trained now on the flitting, floating, flamboyant flounce as it crosses our yard and rises on a breeze. He tells me all the science he’s learned these first weeks of school and how, when it’s a baby, it’s called a caterpillar.

Just once I’d like to witness the skies alive with these delicate wings en route to the birthplace of their grandparents … those east of the Rockies to the Mexican mountains and those west of the Rockies to Northern California. No one knows for sure how they get where they need to go, but they were born for this purpose. When they hatch they eat and eat and store up fat in their abdomens to power this unparalleled journey … they are the only butterflies in the world to make such a trip … 3,000 miles in all. In the spring they will begin to come back north, but the baton will be passed through generations of butterflies who eventually will reach the Northern U.S. and Canada.

Just once I’d like to eyeball a feathery cluster of wintering monarchs, wings overlapping wings, sheltering each other from the elements and weighing each other down to keep from being blown away. But ours is a point in their journey at which they are still alone, finding the road to a home they’ve never seen.

The Kindergartener boards the bus … off for another day on his own. Walking up the driveway a single honk pulls my eyes to another group of geese just taking shape. The sky is alive. The sky is beautiful. Nice things to think on a crystal blue September day. Maybe for these monarchs, for these geese, for these students it isn’t about the destination. Maybe it’s just the amazing journey.

motivation

2006-09-14T10:05:00.000-05:00

Making that list was one of the better things I’ve done in the past few months. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve re-read it! “OK, that’s actually done as much as it can be. NEXT!” (I just watched Elaine Benes yell NEXT at the Soup Nazi last night. I don’t know why, but I love love love Julia Louis Dreyfus’ face when they freeze her in that determined, satisfied growl at the end of that Seinfeld episode.)

So I’ve trimmed back and mulched my gardens, cleaned out the basement and disposed of the recyclables, charitable donations and trash. I do still need to make a stop at the kids re-sale shop. I finished Christ the Lord Out of Egypt by Anne Rice, which was on my list of “hope to read it this year” books. And I put together three pieces for that local art show … a collage and two photographs. The theme of the show was “Black and White and Re(a)d All Over.” All my years in newspapers, it spoke to me.

So, in an effort to get back to blogging I went back to my first-ever favorite blog and found this, which really hit me after my stop at the local cultural arts center. Firstly, I felt quite intimidated and a bit silly with my entries once I saw some of the real art already on the walls. Then I got the treatment, the one Alexandra so adequately describes as the “snooty artists and writers who act is if the creative process is an exclusive club of sorts.” I nearly didn’t enter until I heard Hubby’s mantra in my head: “Fuck it! Just do it.”

Yes, the unedited Nike campaign got me going the way it usually does. I had fun in the creating and you know what … they aren’t so bad. And when you look at the many ways the theme was interpreted it’s really a fascinating exploration of the mind. We all read the same rules and came up with such different interpretations. Fascinating.

So I’ve taken care of a few big-ticket items, which feels really good. I created a little motivation of my own, and in so doing have discovered (and rediscovered) motivation elsewhere.

In Rice’s author’s note she talks about the genesis of her idea, the research and how her quest to create this book sustained her through her husband’s illness and death. “From that time on, December 2002 when he died, until 2005, I have studied the New Testament period, and I continue to study. I read constantly, night and day. … what would I write about my Jesus? I had no idea. But the prospects were interesting. … But I must do my research before I wrote one word.”

I felt like this note from her was written expressly for me. Leave out all of the religion. It was the idea of letting the voices haunt her … letting them transform and change as she learned more about their time in history … listening to them instead of hastily casting them to a page without looking back or letting them grow. It was exactly what I needed to hear. And so I added an item to the list of things that keep me from the keys, only this one is intentional … Research the history surrounding your idea. READ! And listen to your character instead of tuning her out.

Then last week at karate class I found motivation for my kids, frustrated by certain elements of the schoolwork load, as well as for myself.

“If you’re not workin’ hard I can’t teach you. I can teach someone who’s tryin’. But if you’re not tryin’ … I can’t help you. Got it?”

Yes, Sensei.

And then came the embrace of Alexandra’s post. So I think I’ll wear a colorful scarf today, just to help me remember there’s something surprising inside me if I just keep pulling for it.

NEXT!

"May we never forget"

2006-09-11T10:08:00.000-05:00

I still cry. And the tears came today as I decided to add yesterday's and today's editions of the local paper to my box downstars. It's the box of papers from the 2000 election. My box of papers from September 2001. It's the box I will one day bring up for my kids, writing a modern history report, asking me: "What was it like then?" Then they were 3, 2 and 6 months. Today I send them off to school (8, 7 and 5) and telling them: "You're going to hear a lot about the Twin Towers today. If you have questions we can all talk together at dinner." And so I add the "Five Years Later ..." stories and a long journal entry to the box in the hopes that I will better understand where we were, where we are and where we hope to be. In looking back to the entries I wrote in those first days after the world changed I found this, which I share here as we all stop to remember it's a different world.

September 18, 2001 -- There is a ripple each of us creates, whether we know it or not. It is born in the simple acts of kindness as we reach out in times of trouble, in times of joy, in common decency. Oh how the ripples have turned to mighty waves as we think of more than 5,000 people missing and almost 500 confirmed dead in these attacks.

How many lives are touched in their loss? Each life touches the water of the earth, the basic element of our existence. And from that center, we reach out to our children, our siblings, our fellow students, our co-workers, our neighbors. We reach and we reach. And as we reach the outermost circles, the center disappears … spread so far that we forget where it began, we just know we’ve all been touched. And that’s what’s happening here.

How far reaching those individual lives. The waves have washed over the world.

TouchStones

2006-09-07T13:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been working on my list and am about to head out to drop off recyclables and a pile of bedding/clothing at the Goodwill Store, but had to share this grin that crossed my face, because I’ve written about it before. Yesterday, between applications for freelance gigs and designing a few things on the computer I shot off a few short, but heartfelt e-mails to some very, very old friends ... and I've heard back from them all!

I’m talking about the kinds of friends who had hair when we met, but don’t now. (It’s OK, he’s a guy and he’s almost 50!) I’m talking about the kinds of friends who remember the really dumb things I did in high school (like drunk barf in their car) and the really dumb things I did in college (like stumble across campus in aforementioned state alone at 2 a.m.) and yet, they love me anyway. (Please remember Hubby is in this group … he has seen me do many many many many many stupid things and still loves me anyway. S*I*G*H) They are the friends who held my hand when I was terrified I might be pregnant; when I was downtrodden because I was not; when I was moody because I was and when I was exhausted once I became a mom. These are the kinds of friends who love telling stories of my stupidity (and their own!) as long as none of our kids is around to hear our outlandish, brainless antics colorized by the prism of time. They are the friends who are always there … even when they’re in Nevada, Virginia, Texas, Chicago and I am not.

They also are the kinds of friends who are right here in my backyard, but life has us communicating electronically most of the time. And then, when we can, we sit down for a meal, lots of laughs and that feeling that you never …. EVER .... are too old to make new friends.

When all else swirls around me … when all else washes away … when the waters of time pass over me … I can sit down and rest … on the rocks, warm from the sun … the friendships that can’t be undone.

Fun little quiz

2006-09-05T09:41:00.000-05:00

Hubby gave this a test drive the other day and so I decided I would, too, just for fun. It's always amazing to me how these things can peg a person. He is a Phoenix. I am a Chimera. Wonder if we're supposed to be compatible? Let me know who you are ... and enjoy today! Now, back to cleaning my basement.

You Are a Chimera

You are very outgoing and well connected to many people.
Incredibly devoted to your family and friends, you find purpose in nurturing others.
You are rarely alone, and you do best in the company of others.
You are incredibly expressive, and people are sometimes overwhelmed by your strong emotions.

What Mythological Creature Are You?

Saddling Up

2006-08-31T11:01:00.000-05:00

I miss him when he goes to school, more than I thought I would. I enjoy my freedom when they are all at school, more than I thought I would. I’ve been trying to do a few things I have been putting off and it has felt good, but it keeps me from the keys, even from my journal, and I am going to have to devote some time to writing the whispers out of my head soon: The Monsters for Sunday Scribblings … The time I’ve spent with my own face … The realization that time alone is integral to a centered life … What I’ve discovered in my first month taking karate classes … But there are things between me and the keys, pulling me away from my pen and I’m looking to balance my four hours alone so that I can finish what needs to be done and still do some things I want to do. A blog stop this morning got me thinking about lists, so I decided making one might help.

Ten things keeping me from the keys

1. Cruising online freelance markets is painstakingly tedious and seemingly non-productive, but I shall press on. I think a big problem I have is that some postings are so vague as to seem shady and I need to stuff my suspicions in a sack and take a chance.

2. Suddenly, I am the person all the neighbors call when they have a complaint or need something done. After years with the homeowners association it’s time to find somebody else for this job, so I have to get all the papers in order—ready to hand to my replacement.

3. July and August were busier than they seemed. There was the silly daily fun, as well as the traveling, which is what really surprised me. We did more than I expected! Then, when that was done, we organized the neighborhood block party and went to a baseball game with people from school and managed a few dinners with friends then had to get the clothes and supplies and visit school and we started karate. WHAM! The last six weeks of summer … DONE! … and nary a word did I write about it.

4. The new school year brings a tidal wave of papers home that I dutifully sift through, sign and return: health inventories, transportation information, emergency contacts and volunteer forms. Whew. But Second and Third grade are on a regular homework schedule in this, the first full week of classes. Kindergarten will likely start homework before the end of September. It’s a balancing act. And with someone going to karate four nights a week we have to stick to a timetable. Forming new, good habits can be stressful, but we’re getting it done. The first few weeks of a new schedule are always tough.

5. A month ago I stared karate in the evenings, but I find myself on the sofa dozing as soon as the kids are in bed. This is costing me valuable creative time! Have to get up and keep moving after they are in bed.

6. The beginning of the school year has also forced me to get in gear for the class we teach at church. Last year I did my last-minute thing at least 10 times. I don’t want to do that again! So I’ve been getting all of that organized and ready to start in two weeks.

7. I have too many ideas write now. (YIPES! Re-reading I find this fascinating typo!) Boo and Bunny need to grow older … I have a notebook of crooked scribble on this somewhere. Short stories on travelers whisp through my brain and I fear they will be lost, so I suffer from an internal nagging that forces me to eventually just shutdown when really, I should start a new notebook. I’ve got some things I want to try to put together as samples of potentially marketable products. And a plethora of crafty creations pushing at the insides of my fingertips, trying to burst out if only I would allow them. Instead I press on with my scrapbooking and will continue to do so until it feels like a job.

8. I’m thinking of entering a local art show/competition. If I do I’ll try to post a picture of the work here. It was a theme that just jumped out at me when I read about it and so I’m trying to put something together … we’ll see how it turns out. I’ve never attempted anything like this before, but am having fun.

9. The house is ready for some change-of-season love. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve scheduled a bulky trash pick up for next Wednesday. These deadlines always spur us to action! (garage, yard, basement) If we work really hard Saturday, maybe we can take in the air show Sunday and go see the baby elephant at the zoo Monday. Of course, none of these things is writing!

10. I found myself with no desire to read. I was bookless for about a month and haven’t been as good as I should be about visiting other people’s blogs. It seems, looking back, that I was so bummed out about losing that job that I didn’t even have the energy to engage in a fantasy world or the desire to leave comments out here. (Everything kept coming out with this odd tone that I didn’t feel comfortable posting.) But shutting myself out of other people’s writing might be a part of my own shut down. I am forcing myself to try to read a few pages a day. And, while I’m still not leaving many comments, I am checking in and catching up. Back on the horse. Giddyup!

One of those days

2006-08-23T00:57:00.000-05:00

There are a few days in your life when you wake up and can’t deny a certain fact.

Today my life will change forever.

The day you graduate high school there is that sudden finality. An era of life has ended and you’re expected to be a bit more grown up now.

The day you graduate college and you look across that sea of hopeful job hunters and realize they’re no longer your comrades. They are your competition.

The day you don that dress and step onto that white runner and see his glimmering eyes at the end of the aisle.

The day … this day … when your last one takes his first solo trip away from the nest and you realize that nest building, nest tending, nesting is what you do. And you say a prayer that bus doesn’t leave school without him because he can’t read yet and he’s only 5 and he gets confused even when the people he trusts ask him too many questions … what would he do if the principal were trying to help him and he forgot all the right answers?

Fluffy feathers fall across the yard as he heads toward the bus. You know the kind. The flitty little down that you don’t understand the first time you see a real nest. The kind that warms the eggs and cushions the chicks and covers there bodies once they’ve dried off after hatching. The kind they shed when they don’t need it anymore.

And my eyes move from Kindergarten across Second Grade to that face that’s lost all traces of the baby I once held and holds hints of the man I’ll know someday. As the most independent of my three bold souls he has never outwardly expressed his need for me as much as the others, but after many years we are finally coming to an understanding: He might not need a kiss goodbye or goodnight, but I do. Thank God I work to gather those each day because when he really needs me he doesn’t hesitate to reach out. I wonder if he isn’t a bit anxious about today, about new classmates. Second Grade … let the cruelty of childhood ratchet itself up another notch.

A blue feather sails down from somewhere, the long kind that a jay might lose in a snit over territory. No permanent harm to the bird, just a temporary sting. It’s the kind of sting you remember for a very long time.

I turn back to the nest and see a dance. It is the movement, the music, the energy that is my not-so-little girl. It seems like just yesterday these back-to-school tears I shed were for her first day of Kindergarten. I went into the house clinging to the hands of my little boys and I cuddled them on the sofa, trying not to cry. Now she moves through my days in ways that make me realize how short the time is until she embarks on her journey to womanhood. Third Grade … boys are more interesting, clothes more intriguing, dancing more curvy.

An immature bald eagle comes to mind. She’s always loved bald eagles and, since she was very young, has called those yet to grow into the characteristic white plumage “teenagers.” While I’m thankful we’re still a way off from that, one might argue 9-12 is a more difficult time than 15-18.

Yes, there are days when you wake up and you can’t deny a certain fact.

Today my life will change forever.

And perhaps losing that big contract couldn’t have come at a better time because I’m not where I thought I would be on this day. Hell, I have even applied for a fulltime gig, an interesting sounding job with a great starting salary, but now that I think about it I just don’t have it in me.

If you had told me seven years ago when I left that newsroom for the last time that I would never want to work like that again I would have cawed and said something about missing the rush … the satisfaction of doing something I’m really good at.

If you had told me four years ago that one day I would be standing here, the last of them off to Kindergarten with more excitement in his eyes than fear, I would have cooed and whispered something like, shhhh … they’re all asleep.

IF anyone, anywhere in all the articles I’ve ever read had told me that trying to make the leap from the nest back into the world I once knew was going to be such an utterly offensive thought I certainly wouldn’t have believed them. I have been at home since 1999. I have been fortunate enough to keep my hands on the keyboard since 2000. I didn’t just walk away from my career. But the idea of going fulltime now … Now when he’s got so much new to express … Now when he’s got that tendency to internalize … Now when she’s surrounded by cliques at their genesis … Now it makes my stomach turn.

Putting them in aftercare … putting them in camp next summer … putting Captain Kindergarten in daycare because school is only half a day … it would undo everything we’ve worked for these past seven years. And the moment I realized this was the moment I really realized it’s been sEvEN YEARS!

When you’re standing in the middle of potty training and finger foods and people too small to reason with, you spend the day chasing them, teaching them what is safe and maybe what is right. And you spend the day chasing your tail and hoping you don’t bite down on it too hard should you catch it. Every day is a marathon and, when you fall through that tape at the end you realize you have the same to-do list for tomorrow that you had for today.

And you spin and you spin and you line the nest and you fluff the nest and you lay eggs and they hatch and you gather the worms and you fluff the nest and you weather the storms and you keep cool in the heat and you fluff and you gather and one day you turn around and they are all standing there … right there at the edge and they’re shouting: "You always say No! Please let us try!"

And you wake up and you can’t deny a certain fact.

Today your life will change forever.

“Go ahead, babies. Fly.”

And they do.

With great apologies to Will and Jeff

2006-08-18T16:36:00.000-05:00

Here's a little scribble inspired by actual events, canine stereotypes and that great old song, Parents Just Don't Understand. Oh! Will and I have grown up so much since then, and so it was with great affection I totally ripped off his beat (to the best of my abilties) and the heart of his lyrics for this light-hearted effort. For more on what we think our pets think check out the clever bunch over at Sunday Scribblings. Happy Weekend!

You know humans are the same
No matter time nor place
They don't understand that us dogs
Are going to make some mistakes
So to you, all the dogs all across the land
There's no need to argue
Humans just don't understand

Like, one day, they took off for work
Forgot to fill my water I could die of thirst
When they got back later made a bunch of noise
’Cause I drank from the toilet like the neighbor’s boys
But the noise didn’t matter I was glad to see ’em
Dehydration couldn’t stop my happy peein’

And when she tripped over me in the dark
You didn’t hear me yelp didn’t hear me bark
I was just so happy I wasn’t alone
See dogs can’t fill the silence usin’ cell phones

Or, OK, how about this situation
My owners went away on a week’s vacation
Took me to a glass house with a toddler bed
Sure there was TV and ya I got fed
But when they got me home they started to holler
I was runnin’ all around they took me by the collar
Put me out back and closed the door
What’d they bother with bringin’ me home for
Didn’t mean no harm just so glad to see ’em
Could not stop my happy peein’

So to you all the dogs all across the land
There's no need to argue
Humans just don't understand

Then there was the time I ate the remote
He was at Target for a new one that night, couldn’t cope
And two days later sealin’ up the Ziploc
He saw I pooped the number buttons, imagine his shock

Then another time that they got in the car
Said it wouldn’t be long said they wouldn’t go far
As I looked out the window and watched ’em pull away
I got tangled up in the Christmas holiday
Imagine the language imagine the sound
When they came in saw that tree pulled down
And Styrofoam and ribbon up on the couch
Plastic and glass all over the house
At 2 a.m. I didn’t feel so good,
Barfin’ up glass and some hunks of wood

But they got me to the vet made sure I was fine
Scratched between my ears stayed there the whole time
Next day we went out and played some ball
While she took her sweet time shoppin’ at the mall
And when she got home she brought me new chew toys
Ya, they love me despite all the noise

I can't believe it, despite my mistakes
Well humans are the same no matter time nor place
So to you all the dogs all across the land
Take it from me
Sometimes they understand

Eva (left) is into decorations. She is now 2. Schultz, her predecessor, was such a guy, just had to have that remote. Neither liked the kennel very much (I don't think any dog does.) and I'm quite certain both sampled the toity water, which is why I believe in living in a lid-down house! Either way, I don't think an animal could love this family more than either of them has.

Wide Open Spaces

2006-08-01T14:21:00.000-05:00

There’s something that happens to me about this time each year, when we go to Oklahoma to visit family.

Oklahoma is the place where I came of age. It’s the place where I first experienced what it’s like to be in the minority, whether as a woman in a group of men, as a Caucasian in a group of other ethnic people or as a Catholic in a city of fundamentalists. It was the place where I learned some of the true differences between the North and the South. It was the place I couldn’t wait to leave. I am a Yankee, though even Missouri seems Southern to me after my time in Chicago, but I digress.

As it is with most things as we get older, I see it differently now. When we cross the state line and take those slow curves and easy undulations of the Will Rogers Turnpike into Tulsa I just can’t get over the beauty of it all. Cross the Arkansas River on the West side of Tulsa and the vegetation changes just a bit. Where the Earth is opened, whether by nature or machine, the most amazing shades of red burst forth in the sunlight. I love this drive along the spirit of Route 66, the stone walls that rise up on either side of the road in Southwest Missouri; the boats that make little sense to folks unfamiliar with the abundance of lakes in these two states; the license plates from Vermont to California reminding me of how far apart Americans are while all still traveling the same road.

So we took time off from our “library travels” as we logged some actual miles this past month. Here are some of the books we read to celebrate an All-American month, from the Fourth of July to our annual trek Southwest.

Hello U.S.A.: Oklahoma by Rita C. LaDoux (facts, history, famous natives, etc.)

A True Book: The Seminole by Stefanie Takacs

A True Book: The Cherokee by Andrew Santella

A True Book: The Choctaw by Christin Ditchfield

The Creek Nation by Allison Lassieur

The Chikasaw Nation by Karen Bush Gibson

(Originally, Indian Territory was divided up for these five tribes. Eventually, their holdings dwindled as more and more tribes were relocated before the land run. These non-fiction books for young readers offer history, culture and insight on modern tribal life.)

I Have Heard of a Land by Joyce Carol Thomas, illustrated by Floyd Cooper (This story illustrates the role of former slaves in the land run.)

O, Say Can you See? America’s Symbols, Landmarks and Inspiring Words by Sheila Keenan, illustrated by Ann Boyajian (Lively watercolor illustrations with history of places to visit and evolution of symbols such as the flag and national holidays.)

If the Walls Could Talk: Family Life at the White House by Jane O’Connor illustrated by Gary Hovland (Tracks construction of White House as well as the important events and the lifestyle changes over the course of presidency, all the way to today.)

Don’t Know Much About the Presidents by Kenneth C. Davis (2002)

Don’t Know Much About the 50 States by Kenneth C. Davis (Davis has a great way of boiling things down for the youngest readers to start getting a taste of facts. Neither book devotes more than a page to any one subject, but offers enough for kids to pack some trivia into their very absorbent brains!)

Another odd scribble

2006-07-25T08:58:00.000-05:00

It's hard for me when the ending comes to my head first and I have to get there from blank paper. But as the prompts kept coming I found my way to what first sprang to mind. If you haven't, you can meet Mariposa here. Thanks, Megg and Laini!

Due for a vacation we were more than happy to jet off for his co-worker’s Gulf Coast wedding. The in-laws graciously moved in to run the homework/school bus/sports schedule, giving us a few extra days for the Mexican beach. Lovely.

We finished lolling and were headed back to our room to clean up for the ceremony, but found something unexpected inside. The bed was made in that artful, exact fashion I always find so intoxicating when I slip in. The curtains were pulled, framing a postcard behind the sheers. But something didn’t fit. Something was … off. It was dusty! All over! Dust cloaked the otherwise Web-worthy photograph.

He ran his finger across the table and looked stunned. “It’s fairy dust,” he said. And then I saw here. At the base of the potted plant she had tucked herself in. Her skin was that awful grey I remembered her having when I found here in the Costco dairy fridge.

“Mariposa?” I fell to the floor but feared touching her. “Mariposa, are you cold?”

“Hello, dear. I just knew it was you. Who else would he have been with? And I knew it was him. So handsome, so gentle. So I knew it was you, too. And I crept into your bag … you nearly squashed me with your journal you know. How do you tell all those black sketch books apart? Anyway, that was yesterday. Today I hid from the cleaning lady. It’s you I need, dear. Will you help me once more?

There was no other answer: “Of course. Of course! After all you’ve done for us ….”

She interrupted me … usually it was the other way around. “You did that, remember? You believe. How are the babies? Do they still believe?”

“Oh, of course!” we answered together. She had secretly spent hours with our three kids while waiting for a ride home a few years back. Her magic had changed our lives. And now, here, her skin was dull and her wings didn’t look right and her fairy dust didn’t shimmer as before.

“Mariposa. Oh, Mariposa. Are you dying?” I couldn’t keep the crack from my voice.

“That’s hard to say,” she said. “Fairies don’t die as humans do, but we do change. I mean, my time as you’ve known me is ending. That’s why I need your help.”

She nodded to him to hit the showers. “I know why you’re here, Handsome. Let me see you all spruced up.” I saw my husband wipe a tear from his eye and nod his agreement. He left and she detailed everything.

When he returned, all dressed for the wedding, she shooed me off to make myself ready and spent some time with him.

“ … I crept into your bag … you nearly squashed me with your journal …”

He always complained that my “takin-the-kids-to-the-pool” bag was outlandishly huge, but I can’t bare to carry all those loose items. One bag makes it so much easier!

“How do you tell all those black sketch books apart?”

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned against the shower wall and sobbed.

When at last I returned I heard her say: “It will just be tonight.” She sounded so far away. “Tomorrow Brontay will be waiting on the beach. You must take them to her.”

He wiped another tear and nodded further agreement.

“Don’t you two look splendid together?” she said more than she asked. He was red-eyed and I was puffy faced. “Well, we’ve said our good-byes then.” Her wings flapped slowly as she carefully stood up. Her legs looked strange. Her thoughts came slowly. “Don’t be sad. There’ll be nothing of me to miss. … They will be all of me … as well as themselves. … They will be the next step.”

I tried not to think of her as the barefoot couple exchanged vows on the sand. But as the newlyweds danced in the moonlight I noticed the familiar glisten of fairy dust. We left earlier than we expected, but followed her instructions. We were not to return to our room for another few hours, and so sat alone on the patio of the hotel bar. Neither of us said much. Neither of us cried again.

In the morning it was just as she said it would be, her wings curled into a pod hanging from the potted palm in our room. He cut the branch carefully as I dumped the contents of my beach bag into a drawer. We rigged it so the pod would hang, rather than lying it on its side, then left to find Brontay.

As the hotel doors slid open I was struck by the intensity of the sound. How had I missed it these past days? The distant rumble of construction equipment echoing across the inlet stopped me for a moment.

“Please, please let Brontay find them a safe new home,” I whispered as I thought of Mariposa’s woods gone condo.

The goose stood still as a statue as we approached. The beach was otherwise barren. I held open the bag and, as my husband lifted the branch into the sunlight, the wings sparkled once more. Unfurling they revealed Mariposa’s daughters, two peas in a pod for a final instant. They took immediately to the air and we drank in their fairy dust as they spiraled around us. At last we were able to smile.

They landed on Brontay’s back and the noble bird gave us a nod. We stepped away. She took flight with the fairies on her back. And just like that, life went on.

An odd scribble

2006-07-22T15:47:00.000-05:00

It’s funny what summer does to us. I never used to think of it as a busy time, but really, truly it is. It is full of stealing every moment of nothing and squeezing it right out of the season and into your soul.

I mean, no one schedules a squirt gun fight or a day at the public pool or a picnic in the park after a trip to the library. No one blocks out the calendar for early morning cartoons or the wild imagination rides the kids take on a day where the house is sealed to block the heat.

When you’re a kid summer goes too fast. When you’re an adult, at least for me, it seems to go even faster! Who is swiping this season, anyway? Some of their friends, who we had hoped to see this summer, we have missed. Vacations have us in town on opposite schedules. Out-of-town guests keep families hopping. Camp demands keep many of the neighbors busy as the parents are at work. There have been some weeks when it has felt as though we are the only people home. And with our kids gone these past days, our front porch has been an unusually sleepy place. No comings. No goings. Just a container garden wilting in the heat and whipping in the wind.

So Hubby and I made it our goal to pirate every bit of this precious silence, turn it into a secret treasure. We took a night with friends. We snuck some time together. We cooked up a couple of culinary schemes just for the two of us. Then, we plundered our bedroom.

Sounds like a tasty tidbit, I know. But not really.

See, when you’re stealing time back from the clock, it’s about getting something done that you didn’t realize would make you feel just … so good! Again, it sounds like a tasty tidbit but I swear it’s not. The plundering was actually cleaning.

No, not that “cleaning” I do each week, where I change the linen, dust and vacuum. This was C-L-E-A-N-I-N-G. It was the hardcore kind where you pull everything down from the closet and go through it … chuck the toys you said you’d try to fix though you knew they weren’t fixable … make a stack of shirts to give to Goodwill … toss the garments that, really, just are not fit to be worn. It was the kind of cleaning where you pull anything and everything out from under the bed and ask, “What the hell do I have THIS for?” The kind where the paper shredder overheats because you’re cleaning out your files. So, at one point, there was stuff everywhere! It truly looked as though the place had been ransacked.

Until this house we never lived anywhere more than two years, maybe not even that long. So, approaching the sixth anniversary of our arrival here, things have piled up in places and we don’t really think about it. And after today, we feel lighter.

“As long as we don’t reload …” I said to him as we sipped a beer in our nice, clean room … which outwardly doesn’t look a bit different than it did yesterday.

It was just one of those things we knew we had to do, but it never made it onto the calendar. It’s nothing to write about, really, but just another drop of goodness squeezed out of summer. And sometimes those moments … romantic or otherwise … have to be stolen from the humdrum of every day. I can’t slip time in my pocket, but I sure can do my best to keep it from slipping through my fingers. And speaking of pirates, I’m off for a few hours with Johnny and Orlando, oh yeah, and Hubby, too!

WHAM! They grow up fast

2006-07-20T10:34:00.000-05:00

Having her wish granted, she was overwhelmed by possibility.
Should she run out and wander weightless and free?
Should she scrub and vacuum and make life less dusty?
Should she offer her services with storm recovery?
Should she lounge and luxuriate, savoring long sips of coffee?
Alas, without transportation, she can’t manage one or three.
So, house straightened, she’ll explore creativity.
Craft a little something, maybe write a story.
A day at home in silence, surprisingly lonely.
Sometimes a wish granted can make you see clearly
That little ones outgrow their noises all too quickly.

Once a year Grandma and Grandpa take the kids, each in turn, for several days at their place, about an hour away. I and the two left at home enjoy the change in dynamic while the one on vacation always comes back happy to see us. This year, Grandma and Grandpa took a different approach. Now that none travels with equipment beyond a favorite stuffed animal all three are on vacation together. (I packed clothing/toiletries. They packed important stuff, ie. aforementioned bedtime friends and toys.) And I am here alone with the dog and the cat, one of whom seems lost without the kids and one of whom is blissfully curled up on her favorite dining room chair. (This cat has little use for most people, especially those of the short, noisy variety.)

Initially I thought this would be a great time to get a lot of work done. Now the schedule is wide open. For years I’ve thought, “Gosh, if I could just get a few hours alone in this house! I could … blah blah blah …” So, here I am, two days alone and realizing, sadly, I could never make it 24 hours without speaking. The poor dog keeps getting up and coming in to me whenever I talk to myself!

Sure I could use these two days to tackle a bunch of chores beyond the basics. Or I could continue to pursue new freelance clients.

B-O-R-I-N-G!

Those things will be there at the end of August when Captain Kindergarten starts leaving me every afternoon. I’m realizing these next 12 months will be a big transition for me. I’ll be best served to work harder at writing my way through it here and in my journals, as well as exploring the other things I know how to do. So in this odd silence, which I know is a sampler platter of my next life stage, I’m feeling blue again ... a far cry from how it would have made me feel if it had happened at other points in my life.

Realizing my personal growth is an impowering thing. I think I’ll load the CD player with Broadway soundtracks and scatter scrapbooking supplies all over the dining room table. Hope I don’t wake the cat!

feelin' hot hot hot

2006-07-18T20:20:00.000-05:00

This blog is like a box of chocolates ...

2006-07-17T14:00:00.000-05:00

You never know what you're gonna get. Sometimes I re-read my blog and think "What a nut case!" But such is the life of a moody person who types!

"Some Days are Yellow. Some are Blue. On different days I'm different too. You'd be surprised how many ways I change on different colored days."

I’m working my way back to blue, thank you Dr. Seuss. The copyright notes on My Many Colored Days (published in 1996) say by Dr. Seuss Enterprises. The paintings are by Steve Johnson and Lou Fanch. I don’t feel so all-over-the-place any more, but am still worried about money. I had just visited Melba and her post helped me decide it would be OK to share the jumble inside, if for no other reason than to get it out. It certainly was a jumble! And it did help to get it out.

And Melba’s comment was dead on … “You were working and then a company can't afford you (although they can) and now maybe you might be a sham, but are worried about the money” … Yup.

The worst part is the feeling like a sham. I have no aspirations to be a millionaire. No aspirations to write for some big-time magazine. (However, I would love to see my children’s stories in a bookstore!) My philosophy on journalism is that too many of us want to make it to the big-time when the stories that have the most impact on us are the ones in our own towns, schools, houses of worship, that get a blurb by an intern at a local level. I like writing for small publications, but the place I lost was the best paying small publication I worked. A couple grand is a lot of money to this Stay-At-Home-Mom!

I decided it was time to stay at home in 1999, about six months after my second child was born. I jumped off the career ladder of a major metro daily and can’t help but wonder, some days … still after all these years … where we could be financially if I hadn’t kissed my paycheck goodbye. I mean, when a family cuts its income in half it kind of doesn’t matter that you’ve moved to a cheaper city. Half is half.

But then I look at these three amazing people I spend each day with.

I think about who they would be if they’d been in daycare all these years. Or if my mom had continued to baby sit them. (This thought leads to a separate grey, wandering jumble of thoughts better left un-blogged!) I think of all the things I would have missed and I realize that I wouldn’t change any of this for the world.

Not even the feeling like a sham. I feel especially sham-full when I get depressed because of money when I earn none. I CHOSE to earn NONE. So why does it still make me feel so crumby sometimes? But then I look at these three amazing people.

I think about the stuff they ask for and how to teach them that the stuff doesn’t matter. And I think about the debt and the fact that, someday, it will go away. They won’t need a fulltime SAHM forever, especially not if I’ve done that job well, so someday I’ll be fulltime again. I think about our retirement dreams and realize as long as it’s with Hubby I don’t care what we’re doing.

OK, so I’m still sort of all over the place, but at least I’m not plopping.

But while I was plopping I did my annual “Where else can we cut corners?” exercise. Then I think about the stuff in the basement and about a garage sale. But you never earn enough for the time you put in. And Hubby is dead set against them.

“We’re going to be fine,” says the person who brings home every penny I spend. “Stop thinking about only yourself. [That really stung, but shook me out of my plopping.] A garage sale’s a pain in the ass. Besides, how many people could really USE that stuff? Just give the shit away.”

Then came the Scribbling prompt of baggage. Few words are flowing. I just keep thinking about all I have and trying to express gratitude rather than self pity.

So I couldn’t help but chuckle when I sat down at church yesterday and opened the weekly bulletin to a scripture reflection entitled “The Burden of Baggage.”

“It’s not merely the things we stuff in our luggage or carry along with our entourage. It may be all the excess trappings of our power, privilege and money. It may be crusty ideology and pet theories. As an old woman used to say: ‘I’d rather see a sermon lived than talked.’”

So no more plopping. No more piling up baggage. I’ve got it pretty damn good. I’m hungry because I’m trying to lose weight. I’m chilly because the A.C. is on. I’m thirsty because I can’t seem to trade my cup of coffee for a glass of water. I’m loved and I’m valued and I need to feel more of those things for myself instead of stuffing good feelings about myself into a sack labeled “Indulgences.”

And maybe the time I devoted to that client can be spent in better ways. And as I work toward working more there’ll be no more thinking only about myself. I want to find at least one way to use what I write to help someone else, so I’m going to start here.

There is someone to whom I am grateful and for whom I would like to do more. She has been working hard and his halfway to her fund-raising goal as she trains for a three-day, 60-mile walk to benefit the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and the National Philanthropic Trust Breast Cancer Fund. I’ve done the Komen Race For The Cure in the past, but never anything as ambitious as 60 miles in three days! To learn more about my friend and her amazing mom click here.

Thanks for taking in the ups and downs of this blog, which might not be so up-and-downy if I wrote every day. But as my Scarlet works toward blue, "I’ll think about that tomorrow."

Through the mists

2006-07-11T17:22:00.000-05:00

Where have I been? Where have I been? I keep asking myself why a post won’t come … why I don’t even feel like visiting blogobuddies or leaving comments or anything and it came to me today: I don’t want to blog whilst I’m grey.

Yup. Grey. Not blue … blue is too beautiful too me. But I wander and meander when I’m grey, so my apologies to Theodore (and Johnson and Fanch) as I borrow this work because I want to be yellow

or orange

or pink

but I’m grey and it’s all the same old reason why.

I sat and listened intently to the weary voice on the other end of my phone as he told me how the two companies (each of which has millions and millions) went back and forth over a couple of thousand bucks until they found a middle ground, which I was six feet under. No more need for that service. Oh the work was great. It was a numbers game. Call this guy and see what work he can get for you.

I went through the colors, which is something I have to do it seems. Though as I’ve explored myself more, catalogued my strengths and corralled my weaknesses, I’ve learned to move through these mists a bit more quickly.

Shock

Denial (I excel at sleeping to cope.)

Anger

Isolation

But I fear quick progression through the colors leaves those around me seeing only

When really what I’m getting to is

I look at their faces and know quitting fulltime work was absolutely the most best thing (as they might say) I could have done. I talk with a friend, a fellow SAHM, who points out that even if she got a fulltime job all it would pay for is daycare, not even. And let’s all be honest here, those daycare workers DO NOT get paid enough. But who can afford to pay them more? I think of single moms and what they must feel and wonder: “What, exactly, am I whining about?”

He was gone for eight days. Gone to the wilderness and I couldn’t even talk to him on the phone and I really thought about all that he is to me and all that we are together and all that we could be if I could stop thinking

and wondering “What can I do to get out of this debt?” And, after rewatching a classic for the first time in a long time I thought about another color,

but not in the way you would think. I thought about lying there,

all brown and purple and grey, waiting for tomorrow and then putting it all off again. What is it about some of us that we just lay there and wait? What is it that makes the hoppers hop up and go at it when the ploppers just plop? Can you go from being a plopper to being a hopper? Has it been done?

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” I’ve been a plopper and now I want to hop up. I’ve hopped up and felt how it feels and I know I’m stronger when I take control than when I wallow. And for the first time I smiled at the end of this old, old movie.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.” http://fan.geekish.net/gwtw

And maybe tomorrow I’ll be blue again.

It's Independence Day

2006-07-04T07:14:00.000-05:00

One of the books I found for the kids is Don’t Know Much About the Presidents by Kenneth C. Davis. I’m always interested in how historians approach Bill Clinton and Davis chose this as Clinton’s most memorable quote:

“There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured by what is right with America.”

There’s so much I thought about trying to say today … politics … promise … the many gifts of living in this country … the despair I can feel when I take in the news … global citizenship … my curiosity about how we are perceived by the rest of the world. But my head kept coming back to a song.

I’ve read a lot about putting a soundtrack to my life and I found it this weekend, making the trek to Chicago I pulled out some CDs I hadn’t listened to in forever. Two of them were Garth Brooks’ concert in Central Park and I swear to you that this is true: As this song ended my 5-year-old shouted “Look at the rainbow!” And cruising across the farmland of Southern Illinois we saw the arc of promise in all it’s glory from whence it sprung to where it again met Earth and all I could do was smile, feel renewed and sing “Have a little faith, Hold out, We Shall Be Free."

This ain't comin' from no prophet
Just an ordinary man
When I close my eyes I see
The way this world shall be
When we all walk hand in hand

When the last child cries for a crust of bread
When the last man dies for just words that he said
When there's shelter over the poorest head
We shall be free

When the last thing we notice is the color of skin
And the first thing we look for is the beauty within
When the skies and the oceans are clean again
Then we shall be free

We shall be free
We shall be free
Stand straight, walk proud
'Cause we shall be free

When we're free to love anyone we choose
When this world's big enough for all different views
When we all can worship from our own kind of pew
Then we shall be free
We shall be free

We shall be free
Have a little faith
Hold out
'Cause we shall be free

And when money talks for the very last time
And nobody walks a step behind
When there's only one race and that's mankind
Then we shall be free

We shall be free
We shall be free
Stand straight, walk proud, have a little faith, hold out
We shall be free

We shall be free
We shall be free
Stand straight, have a little faith

We shall be free

Gone Greek

2006-06-29T12:29:00.000-05:00

We just finished exploring another country. Daddy picked Greece, mostly for the food! The feast was fun and I found a lot of great recipes that we’ll probably use again, just not all at the same time! My favorite cookbook this time was Sofi’s Aegean Kitchen: A light approach to traditional Greek home cooking. No pictures, but I was familiar enough with Greek food (MMMM, Parthenon in Chicago!) that I could figure out what we would like. Again I tried to stick with ingredients the kids would recognize and seasonings that would be new. The red-wine vinegar was not such a hit, but the kabobs, fish fillets and pita pockets vanished fast!

For the craft we made Greek urns. It was a fun project and cheap! Each of the kids painted a picture of a typical day: Ms. 8 went way Greek and painted herself at gymnastics. Mr. 5 painted himself playing with the dog and Mr. 7 painted the whole pot black, then scratched out a similar design. They enjoyed it on an afternoon that was too hot and humid for them to play outside.

The books they liked best: Ancient Greece!: 40 hands-on activities to experience this wondrous age (Hart and Mantell); Look what came from Greece (Davis); A True Book: Greece (Petersen and Petersen) the Usborne Book Greek Myths for Young Children (Amery) and Disney’s Hercules.

Now we're exploring our home country … it is almost July after all. I’ve already found some fun books about the different states, presidents, Mount Vernon, Monticello and the White House. My daughter of course has enjoyed doing the little journal more than the boys, but that’s OK. They’ve all done some of it, which provided me with 15 minutes of peace while it rained!

Trying something new

2006-06-26T08:10:00.000-05:00

A Sunday Scribble

The daily routine
Soundtrack of suburban life
Music surrounds me

Giggles, laughter, joy
Secret chats, children's pacts, friends
Music makes me smile

Middle night silence
With door locked we say nothing
Music fuels my soul

Rampant consumption
click swipe "Thank you come again"
Music brings me down

Mowers hum, bikes tick
A.C. drones, sprinkler swooshes
Music dulls my edge

Bloop! Zoop! Kapow! Zap!
"Mama come see my score now!"
Music livens games

Washer shimmies, shoops
Dryer tumbles, rumbles, boom
Music launders moods

"I had a bad dream"
Tiny body snores next mine
Music calms my fears

Japanese rhythm
flexes my writing muscle
Music frames haiku

Thanks, Tara Dawn

2006-06-21T14:37:00.000-05:00

She was a one-in-a-million kid I met the first year I helped a buddy do a high school journalism workshop for minority students. I seem to remember it was her mother who raised her alone, doing what she could to keep her daughter on the right track in a culture that tells you everything in life is available 24/7. All the elements were there to set her on a collision course with destruction, but she chose her own course. Bright, talented, confident, I wonder how her story turned out. She was a leader wherever she went. Other kids looked up to her. I looked up to her and she was 10 years my junior. Some might have called her an old soul. We just called her by name: Echo.

Bedtime

2006-06-19T07:14:00.000-05:00

A Sunday Scribble

I kept coming back to one of my favorite Sesame Street songs:
Here in the middle of imagination, right in the middle of my head,
I close my eyes and my room's not my room and my bed isn't really my bed.
I close my eyes and discvoer things that are sometimes strange and new.
And the most impossible thoughts I think have a way of being true. ...

For me it's usually getting up and leaving my bed to write. In that drifty drousy dreamy not-awake-not-asleep state stories come, so I leave my bed. But it isn't that way for kids.

From downstairs we can hear them, but usually don’t go up and say anything unless somebody gets too loud. But that doesn’t happen too often now that they’re getting older. So from downstairs you might here an explosion or a song or a giggle. Every once in awhile you might hear footsteps, but these were highlights in an imagination reel uncoiling.

Ms. 8 always uses here lights-on time to read a few pages, then she might grab her toy microphone and do a little show. Mr. 7 typically pulls out his art set or a construction toy, a half-contraption or partial metropolis typically graces his floor as he drifts off. Mr. 5 will wade through the rubble of his room until he finds the one Power Ranger or Hot Wheel or book he needs to plop on his bed and vanish into his netherworld until we come to tuck them in. It’s good to spend some time with yourself each day, so the kids do this before they go to sleep each night.

But turning off the lights and tucking them in is only intermission. That’s when the fun begins. When they know they can’t … shouldn’t … don’t really want to at the ends of these summer days … get out of bed and wander their rooms for toys. They drift off slowly, maybe having a conversation with Hermione in the girls restroom, hoping Moaning Myrtle won’t hear. In the Bionicle cluttered bed across the hall he might be talking himself through his Seisan Kata, adding a few Marvel Comic sound effects as he gets a good one in on a sparring opponent. Or, in that oasis from Rubbleville, he might be bashing his guitar at the end of Baba O’Reilly … or Rangering up and saving the world.

When you’re little your bed is yours. You don’t imagine that, someday, you’ll want to welcome some one else in. But what you do imagine keeps the creepy things away until tomorrow. What you do imagine makes this little corner of the world all your own … and one of the safest you’ll ever know.

Hmmmm, Summer

2006-06-16T14:40:00.000-05:00

Supersoakers for three kids: $15
Ice cream sandwiches for the neighborhood: $5
'70s-style summer afternoon: PRICELESS

Here's to the dads who have made my world, and my kids' world, such a wonderful place. May the grilling be glorious and the ties stylish. Happy weekend!

Slideshow, Final act

2006-06-14T09:33:00.000-05:00

Slideshow, middle act

2006-06-13T07:23:00.000-05:00

Loose ends …

2006-06-12T12:55:00.000-05:00

First, my scribble. I started out wanting to solve the mystery of Alzheimer’s disease. I thought I’d write about the last time I saw my grandfather. Then I got to thinking about other family members … his wife with the unnamed dementia, haunted by her own mistreatment of him and failure to feel loved by her mother … my dad’s father, withered by Parkinson’s, completely aware of the fact that he could no longer make his body do what he was telling it to … my 20-something cousin, who died a year ago this month, the victim of a brain tumor that spread to her spine … the countless people I know who battle depression, anxiety, ADD, ADHD, obsessive compulsion, anal retention, post traumatic stress, addiction the list goes on and on. I’m beginning to think none of us has an unscarred brain. Think of the lonely people, the people afraid to commit, the people with low self esteem. I stopped wanting to solve the Alzheimer’s mystery and started thinking on an uncontrollably large scale, as I’m often wont to do. Anyway, that’s where that bit of fiction came from ... what if we could get a reliable map that connects the ethereal emotional stuff to the physical bits of nervous system … something concrete that could help us all be healthy and, above all, more understanding of each other?

Next, summer fun, Week 2. I decided before school ended to have a bit of a plan for the summer. Thanks to the library we will visit a new country each week. After Sensei’s birthday party (at which we had a good time getting to know better some of the other families from karate school) I thought Japan would be a good place to start. So we checked out the following books, made our own mini Japanese gardens and carp streamers and tried three new recipes on Japanese Night. (The kids tried chopsticks for the first time!) I’m getting ready to make some pages for the older kids to color/write on to create a “My Library Travels” journal for the summer. It has the potential to be a good boredom fighter. The cookbook I checked out was Japanese Cuisine by Chen Shiu-Lee (1988 Wei-Chuan Publishing) … all the newer ones were checked out, but I liked this one because it is printed in both languages and had pictures. Also, I already had all the ingredients for the dishes I chose to make. Here are the books (with dates and publishers) all from the juvenile non-fiction section of our local library:

On the Map: Japan (1993 Steck-Vaughn Company)
Culture in Japan (2004 Raintree)
Colors of Japan (1997 Carolrhoda Books, Inc.)
Japan: Things to Make; Activities; Facts (1994 Franklin Watts)

So in the past few days we’ve been swimming with friends; done the Japan Night thing; caught some fireflies; built about 50 forts all using the linen from our beds; watched a fair dose of early-morning TV; continued our journey to the Earth’s core; read more books and learned to play Monopoly. BTW … the 5-year-old nearly won … proof it is luck and not skill … and yes, it has rained a bit!

Finally, I want to introduce something that took me much longer than I thought it would. The idea started here and then became a list in my journal. Then I thought about this blog then this blogger and oh, this one and this entry here and thought: “I should try to stretch, maybe make a collage. I used to do that all the time. I should try.”

So I did, but instead of a collage I ended up with more of a slideshow. I started each sentence the same. Some of it’s serious, some of it’s silly, some of it might offend even though I of course don’t mean for it to, some of it was just a way of getting things out that I forgot were there or didn’t want to look at. I hope blogger just lets it be. I think you can click on images to make them larger if you can’t read them. Most all the art is MicroSoft clipart. Some I found on Google images. I provided a link to any specific artist from whom I took work. So, I’ll just start now.

If I could solve one mystery …

2006-06-11T15:59:00.000-05:00

a Sunday Scribble

Wendy knew that Abbey didn’t get it. She couldn’t get it. She couldn’t see what Wendy and their grandmother knew to be true: There is a visible map of human connectivity … a visible map of human brain function. Wendy could see it, so could her grandmother Joan. For these past years as Wendy, 19, had come of age she and Joan had discussed these maps over countless hours together.

So when Joan passed away and left Abbey her wedding jewelry Abbey felt vindicated. All her baby sister got were cardboard boxes. A big nasty stack of cardboard boxes. Maybe Wendy wasn’t Joan’s favorite after all, Abbey thought.

Wendy knew that Abbey didn’t get it. Inside those boxes were generations of journals, not just Joan’s, but those of Joan’s mother and grandmother. They were all women who could see the map, but none had the opportunity that lie before Wendy.

All of them had gone to college. Wendy’s grandmother had been a researcher her whole life. Wendy’s great-grandmother had dared to teach science in a one-room schoolhouse at the turn of the last century. Before that Wendy’s great-great grandmother had been a nurse … a scientific woman in an age of hoop skirts and parasols. Each kept careful record of the energy they witnessed, trying to make sense of it all. What Wendy had that they didn’t was the promise of technology. At last, at last, her grandmother had once said, there will be a way to prove what we see! The ability to bring these energy fields into view for less gifted eyes. The ability to bring these fields into view in a way that proves they exist.

Wendy wiped her eyes and looked at her mother and sister as they packed Joan’s things. Each of them surrounded with the thick, fibrous aura of someone who has minimal connections. She remembered that long talk with Joan a few years back. She loved her son, Wendy’s father, dearly, of course, but had so longed for a daughter to whom she might pass her gift. As Abbey grew it was apparent she couldn’t see the energy people pass from one to the other, the very nature of our relationships, the reasons we bond with some and move on from others. By the time Wendy was about 12 and had, for the first time, experienced the sensation of touching one of these energy fields she saw, her grandmother had already talked with her about the gift. That muddy, streaked color is the only color any of them had ever touched. Normally the energy passed through you, but that brown-black smear was cold and slick. It’s because their barriers are so well fortified, Joan had told Wendy. They don’t let anyone in and they don’t let much out. It’s actually the absence of energy that we feel, Joan had said. There’s never been a desire to really connect, so no spark has energized the aura, its left resembling, perhaps, the primordial ooze from which all life came. No spark, no life.

Loading her boxes into her Honda Wendy rededicated herself to her studies. Couple more years of pre-med and then she could really begin to focus in on her field. She knew she had to keep up her journals and keep up her research and redouble her efforts to find the technology to harness these energies.

And it took Wendy the rest of her 93 years, but she proved it all … the previously inexplicable connections between body and soul were laid out like a roadmap for her eyes only ... until she met a handsome bio engineer. Together they set in motion the work that unlocked the mysteries and cured the diseases of the human mind.

fun fun fun

2006-06-05T13:22:00.000-05:00

Aaaaah. Summer Break. Thursday was the very first day off from school. Since then we have: Ridden 50 miles on bikes; gotten hair cuts; gone to the library; read 15 books; made s’mores; barbecued twice; gone to a surprise birthday party; hosted six other short guests; watched a few solid hours of cartoons; Slipped and Slid; sucked down two pitchers of homemade lemonade; painted by numbers and dug in the backyard halfway to the Earth’s core. AND I’m making my deadlines! Amazing. Summer Break is going just as I’d hoped.

Here's our winning Parent's Magazine Lemonade.
Juice of 4 lemons (I strain out the pulp.)
2/3 cup sugar
4 cups cold, cold water
2 to 3 Tbsps. maraschino cherry juice
Mix it up and serve over lots of ice. A few cherries into every glass never hurt anyone either!

Weeding things out

2006-06-02T09:15:00.000-05:00

Note: This is a Google image ... daylily Chicago Apache. Mine should be blooming soon!

Such awesome power. I don’t know why I think that every time I pull a weed, but I do.

I have two small flower beds, one devoted to day lilies, the other holds three dwarf Spruce and some mums. Both, of course, get weeds.

I’ve learned two important lessons: Weeds go from an inch high to a foot high over night. Whatever you see above ground is about the length of the tap root you’ll find beneath. Grrrrr. Letting those weeds get away from me my first spring as a homeowner made me diligent. I snip, pick, twist, pluck every morning this time of year so that the unpleasant job takes less than five minutes rather than several hours of wrestling Mother Nature. She’s slick. She’s quick. She’s experienced and I am an unworthy opponent. Except when I have to really dig for one of those roots and the beetles and occasional earth worm are sent scurrying. One flash in time and their whole world is topsy turvy. Sometimes I can’t help but stop and stare, like when a kid really looks at her first ant hill.

Their world uprooted they get to work, each creature knowing what to do to get life back to normal. “I couldn’t help but wonder,” did humans work together that well before money and politics? I always move some mulch over the open sores in my garden floor, but today I congratulated the beetles and worms on their “failure to evolve.”

Nothing like a good book

2006-05-30T13:47:00.000-05:00

“You’ve been in that book every free minute this weekend,” he said this morning.

I immediately got defensive, mostly because the whole weekend had been one long free minute, a precious gift in between errands, lawn cuttings, kids’ sports and the rigors of keeping them focused these last days of school. “I barely read this weekend! I was with you guys the whole time!”

He gave an inch, admitting that there weren’t many “free minutes” but still, was it really that good that I had to keep walking around sneaking in a page when I could?

Yup, especially because I haven’t read it before.

And I’ll probably read it again. Now that I’m back to reading regular-like (more than magazines/Websites and all those many books I did before the kids could read for themselves) I’m amazed at how much I’ve consumed since the spring of last year. A quick rundown:

Six Harry Potters
Seven Chronicles of Narnia
Why New Orleans Matters by Tom Piazza
Flora and Tiger, short stories by Eric Carle
Numerous works by several of the other authors my children love
The Van Gogh Café by Cynthia Rylant
Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Old Town in the Green Groves by Cynthia Rylant (BTW, Rylant did a great job recapturing Wilder’s cadence, tone and even the emotions of my very favorite pioneer.)
The Da Vinci Code

I still read with the kids … beside the kids … near the kids. I don’t know how to say it. If I’m unfamiliar with what they have cracked open I try to share it with them, but it’s getting hard to keep up! My daughter and I have run through most of the American Girl library and I’m trying to click a switch in my brain that will carry me through the world of the Bionicles with my son. He very much enjoys the comic books that come in the mail from Lego and, thankfully, Hubby is happy to dive in here. That makes room on my plate, so to speak, to read Mr. 5 books such as A Big Cheese for the White House: The True Tale of a Tremendous Cheddar by Candace Fleming and illustrated by S.D. Schindler.

It’s the story of a community effort to ensure no cheese but Cheshire Cheddar was served at the White House and how the 1,200-pound colossus made its way via New York City to Jefferson’s White House. It took a slice of history (no pun intended) and seasoned it so it would appeal to kids, as did Thank You, Sarah, the Woman Who Saved Thanksgiving, by Laurie Halse Anderson and illustrated by Matt Faulkner. (Click on the covers for more.)

Which brings me back to THE CODE. It came out before any of my kids could read independently and so was relegated to a back burner. Author Dan Brown is the first to say it's fiction. A slice of fiction, I’ll add here, well seasoned with juicy historical morsels.

I don’t know why summer is so often associated with reading, but it is. I have two more books I’d like to tackle soon. I want to re-read the Once and Future King by T.H. White and read for the first time The Book of Merlyn: An Unpublished Conclusion to The Once Future King, which was discovered in White’s papers and became a best-seller in 1977. What’s on your summer list?

Sunday Scribblings: First Love

2006-05-27T11:02:00.000-05:00

I was so young when I found Hubby, so fortunate that ours has been a connection unbroken for so long. Sometimes I trivialize the losses I felt before him, though those magnified emotions of adolescence certainly shaped the girl he met half our lifetime ago.

I had thought of writing a letter to my daughter for this prompt, what I might say to her someday when love is lost. For, it seems to me, first love and true love are two separate beasts. But first love and first loss are intrinsically linked.

When I was 12 Mike E. kissed me there at the skating rink … me with my skates off and him with his skates on so we’d be the same height. Well, when I was 12 that felt like love. And when he kissed someone else I felt lost … loss … both, really.

When I was 16 and Mike P. gave me his class ring it felt like a promise. It felt like love. When I realized what I felt was far more than what he felt I had to give the ring back. I felt lost … loss … both really.

When I was 17 and spent my summer pining for Jason—one on a long list of guys who saw me only as a friend—it felt like love, the worst kind really, unrequited love. Again the loss. Then when I was 18 I left for college and there he was, my husband, her dad.

So what could I tell my daughter about first love? What could I say to ease her pain when her love kisses someone else, or doesn’t feel what she does, or confides in her about another, never once thinking to lean over and kiss her?

Perhaps I should say: “These are lessons in love. First love is still out there, waiting for you.”

First love is when your beloved is your best friend. It’s when your beloved confides in you ... then leans over for that kiss. First love is your beloved's never kissing someone else. First love is reciprocated. And yes, even this can be lost. Lucky for me, first love stuck.

Freedom … you can smell it!

2006-05-26T08:47:00.000-05:00

Today is Field Day, which can only mean one thing, Summer Break is almost here! Indeed, the family room stinks of newly applied sunscreen; the hats are on; the water bottles are filled and it feels like summer. It’s going to be 88 degrees today and all that’s planned for the long weekend is to be outside. This time next week will be the second day of summer break. Nothing quite like the freedom of the last day of school through the eyes of a 7- or 8-year-old!

Meeting Mariposa

2006-05-23T09:35:00.000-05:00

Mariposa flew through my brain all weekend, then spilled from my pen all day yesterday. For some reason, I decided to actually scribble this week rather than type. So much inspiration and support I've found lately. Of course there are bits and pieces of my life here, but I feel the cellophane unwrapped, the plastic egg cracked and the Silly Putty of my imagination stretched into something I've never experienced before. For an abundance of imagination and amazing writing, check out Sunday Scribblings.

Any other shopping day I would have missed her. I would have reached into the refrigerated shelf, grabbed the butter and left. But sick kids put me behind this week and he generously shoved me out of bed before they got up.

“Go to Panera, relax, THEN get your errands done. We’ll be here when you get back.”

I didn’t even take a shower, just grabbed my keys and left. Soon I was on the battlefield that is Costco on Saturday morning. Thursdays it’s just me, very few other shoppers. But on this battlefield I got pinned behind the door by the crowd. There I was, leaning on the butter and into the refrigerated case while they sampled caffeinated water. That’s when I saw her.

Balled up behind a four-pack of well priced butter I found a fairy in the fetal position. Carefully I scooped her into my jacket pocket, where she felt about the size and temperature of an ice cream sandwich.

For a long time she didn’t move. But as the coolness began to fade I’d feel a twitch or a tickle. By the time I was on my way to the car there was a voice.

“Just one more second,” I said loud enough for the people around me to think I was talking to someone bigger than an ice cream sandwich. I loaded the car and got in. Carefully I unzipped my pocket and she stuck her head out.

“I’m still cold.”
I helped her to the dash board. Soon her skin had gone from a scaly grey, which shimmered like fish scales, to a glittery lavender, smooth like a baby but still with that rainbow reflection of a fish out of water.

“How did YOU get in THERE?”

“Well, it’s a long story.” She stretched and wiggled her naked feet. “Have you time?”

“All the time you can give, but you’ll have to get used to being interrupted.”

“I’ve nowhere to go … I can’t fly yet.” She looked at her wings with worry in her eyes. “There was this goose, you see, friendly as most geese are, and we would fly together and sing and oh! It was grand for a goose can hit low notes no fairy can! So we’d fly and sing and one day my wings became so very tired and I looked down and saw nothing familiar and I said ‘Oh! Brantay I’m going to fall!’ and I started to and she scooped me up and I fell asleep on her back. I woke as we landed some place called Oklahoma, far far from home and I knew being in this country wasn’t safe. There’re no other fairies in this land of non-believers. But Brantay assured me she would keep me safe and get me home in the fall. We went on like this until we got here, her hatching ground. It was then she found a mate and turned on me, as women are wont to do to their friends once they find love. Once the eggs came and her flying feathers fell out the nest was too dangerous a place and a sparrow found me crying under a lily plant. She, too, befriended me and we flew and sang and had a grand time until we got confused and landed in that horrible place. I became so very hungry and felt so terribly alone after she died …”

“The bird died in Costco?” There was alarm in my voice as I turned the car West. We’d been driving a few minutes already. “How I wish people could build into their environment instead of on top of it.”

She kept talking.

“Yes, the poor dear broke her wing. Well, after that I was afraid to try to fly in there and crept around in the night like some kind of wicked scavenger. The butter was the best I could do, despite its horrible taste and that dreadful cold …”

We pulled into the garage and she cringed. “Not another of these caves!” Her tiny scream pierced my brain.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You have a new friend and I know the way out. Besides, I have a lily bed.”

She uncovered her eyes and made a twitch like a smile.

“C’mon, into my pocket.”

“Why?” Her wings moved. I guessed she was finally warm enough, but she made no attempt to fly.

“Because I have to hide you from the kids. They could never be expected to keep our secret. And once it got around school, well, they might never live down that they believed in fairies. Then the kids would be crushed that no one believed them. How I wish people could just let people BE instead of judging each other all the time.”

She agreed to hide from the children after I agreed to find actual butterfly milk, which I wasn’t quite sure how to do. Warm, but still weak, she now reminded me of a ballpark hot dog more than an ice cream sandwich in my pocket.

The groceries were unloaded and the kids were still in front of the TV. This was Day 2 being fever free, puke free and diarrhea free. They were alert and eating real food. The refuse of a week of sick kids littered the house: puzzles half worked … books spilled across the Comfy Chair … DVD boxes sliding open from the shelf … blankets, pillows and stuffed animals abandoned now that they felt better.

“Come here,” I said to him.

“When are you going to take your jacket off?”

“Just come here!”

I’m sure he thought I locked the bedroom door for other reasons. He smiled and put his hands on my waist. Then my jacket pocket spoke.

“Ow!”

He jumped then stared in wonder as I cradled her in my hand. Her wings gave a slow flap as she batted her lashes at my handsome husband.

“Men don’t usually believe,” she muttered.

“He’s a very special man,” I said. “I wish all women could be as lucky as I.”

She crinkled her nose at me and only turned back to him after unfurrowing her brow. A deeper purple had entered her cheeks.

“What? When … ? How … ?” He groped for words.

We told him the whole story, tripping over each other and describing too much along the way. “She needs to eat. Are the kids well enough to go to the Butterfly House?” I asked.

She stood up at this, her face full of hope. I swear I saw her lick her lips.

By the time we’d rousted the kids, driven to the place, paid and found a quiet corner from which to release her she’d grown quite impatient. She scrambled up a branch and I feared I’d never see her again.

It’s not a large place, but full of wonder, especially for young eyes shaking off the weight of viral sleep. The kids seemed re-energized. We were watching a Red Lacewing drink from an orange slice when she zipped past my ear.

“I feel like me again!”

From the corner of my eye I saw here. Her wings no longer the dull sheen of a silver maple leaf on a sunny breeze. Transparent yellow-gold and black, I only caught sight of them when she paused on a branch to kiss a Common Blue Morpho. “Do be careful no one sees you!” I prayed. “And please come back to me!”

She’d had her fill … and stashed a store in an empty film canister. “Thank goodness I haven’t gone digital,” I thought.

She splattered my jacket with rainbow dust as she scrambled inside, much hotter than any ballpark dog I’d ever spent $6 on. She must have fallen asleep because I didn’t hear from her for hours. The kids were getting to bed when she finally woke.

“Mommy, are you going to sleep in your jacket?”

“You dream sweet dreams,” I said. “Don’t worry about how I sleep.”

Lights off I tripped in the hallway … one foot on a Barbie jeep, the other pierced by a Power Ranger.

“I wish we could keep this house CLEAN! I growled through gritted teeth.

“Finally!” A squeaky shout from my pocket.

“Shhhh!” We went into my room and locked the door. “Honestly … look at this!” Far from a romantic refuge from the parental storm, my bedroom resembled a college town Laundromat on Sunday night. Overflowing baskets as far as the eye could see. Mariposa was kicking at the zipper now, so I let her out. She zipped up to the fan blade, about 8 feet above me, perched and smiled down on me.

“Finally! Finally! Finally a wish we can do something about. I mean, what do you think I am, a genie or something? Fix the environment … make people innately generous … turn more men into the perfect combination of physical fitness and artistic sensitivity. I hope you find a genie one day. But for now you get fairy magic, which is fantastic enough, but not alter-the-world-in-a-flash. We fairies work one-on-one. Three wishes for THAT PERSON, for that believer. But, seeing as your husband believes, too, only the sensitive artistic men do, he’ll get his when he asks, so you might want to talk things over before spending your other two wishes …”

“Two?” I interrupted. How she could go on, now even faster than before.

“Well, yes, you wished to keep the house clean, so we’ll start there. Watch how you speak, you wish for a lot … big wishes, like I said. I see I’ll have to reel you in to get this done in a timely fashion. So, about the house, shall we start now or when you’ve rested?”

“When I’ve rested,” I said, moving Kaya off her bedroll and into a new spot on the bookcase. “You can sleep here.”

She floated down from the fan blade, sprinkling rainbow dust behind her. She got comfy and looked at me. “Fairy dust isn’t as messy as it seems,” she said, throwing some at my face. “It soaks into all who believe. Goodnight.”

“Don’t let the kids see you,” I muttered falling into bed.

The next day I woke with new energy. I moved past the morning’s obstacles as if I had wings. The laundry progressed from the bedroom floor through the machines past my hands and back where it belonged. It seemed effortless, rather than the bleary, endless task I usually faced. With the house emptied onto the school bus I danced all the lovees and toys back to the proper cubbies, scrubbed the bathrooms, dusted, vacuumed, paused for my noontime salad and somehow avoided my power nap.

It was then that I went out to the lily bed to find her. She’d befriended the cardinal family nesting in the neighbor’s tree, but flew over when she saw me.

“So, how comes the cleaning?” she asked, balancing on the tip of the season’s first bud shoot.

“I’ve been working like crazy!” I whispered. “When are you going to come do your thing?”

“What do you mean?” She circled my shoulders and hands, a wave of dust coating my skin. She descended as though a spiral staircase encircled my legs. Before I could tisk at the mess the dust was gulped into my skin. “Why aren’t you taking your nap?”

“I’m not tired today.”

“Interesting,” she said with a smirk. Her yellow-gold wings glimmered. “I’ll come in at dusk. I like the bed you gave me.”

That night we whispered to each other. She told me about the butterfly milk the cardinals helped her find and how she’d swooped over Brantay’s nest and saw hatchlings. She still missed her old friend. The cardinals guided her back to me. I was thankful.

“I don’t understand, though,” I said. “I thought you were going to grant my wishes. I still did all the work.”

“I told you, I’m no genie,” She was doing a zig-zag over our bed … enough dust for both of us. I’d heard them talking when he brought her in. He was still playing his guitar downstairs.

“Open the children’s bedrooms,” she said. A lap over each bed sprinkled my beauties with rainbow light. It hovered then was pulled into each as though they were vacuum cleaners. “Now they’ll always believe in magic.” Mariposa fluttered to her own little bed and we both fell asleep.

A few days went by like this. With the school bus loaded I’d pick up, wipe up, tackle a dresser, closet or corner of the basement. Soon nearly the whole house was clean and organized and the kids and my husband weren’t shedding items everywhere. Neither was I.

Each night Mariposa sprinkled each sleeping child. Each night she zig-zagged over our bed. She went out with the dog before the kids woke and returned at dusk, which in summer was after they were in bed with a book. It took a while, but I began to watch my use of the word “wish,” until one payday came along. The thought went through my head before it crossed my lips. So I added some adjectives when I asked.

“I wish I could be financially and physically safe and healthy.”

Her nose crinkled. “I’m no genie.” She frowned, but I just grinned.

This morning the spiral staircase was tightly wound from my head to my toes. I inhaled deeply as she went past my face. The dust was sweet as it passed my nose and lips. How wasn’t she dizzy when she came to rest?

Coffee in hand I sat down with the bills and saw things a new way. If I do this here and that there … If we pay cash here and skip that there we won’t have to charge this. Hmmm. The kids played in the backyard as a plan unfolded. Then I got restless. Normally I would have napped to turn of my brain. Today we followed Mariposa and the

cardinals down a trail through the woods behind the house. Funny how she stayed out of sight of the kids. Funny how good it felt to perspire.

So summer went on. The kids enjoyed the low-cost adventures afforded by a fenced backyard and a library card. We splurged on a Saturday trip to Mastedon State Historic Site. They were archaeologists for the last two weeks of the summer.

All the while Mariposa sprinkled. When his guitar wasn’t humming I heard pencil scratches or water running over dirty paint brushes. Uncertain of his exact words I knew he’d wished for color in his windowless beige suburban cubicle … for music beyond the rhythm of keyboard tapping. And I thought of all the voices and faces in my own head. I had one wish left.

The bus drove off and I straightened up. I paid the bills that came in the day before … a new habit that was really saving money. No more late fees!

Mariposa was out with the cardinals. She’d been back in touch with Brantay, whose maternal instinct had downsized substantially since the goslings took flight. The music stopped downstairs and soon he emerged from the basement. He always took the first day of school off work.

With our romantic retreat freed from the slush of laundry and unfiled financial papers we were able to adjourn there with new purpose. Well, not NEW, perhaps REDISCOVERED. In our mid-30s we might never reclaim the stamina or abandon of the 18-year-olds who met at college. But the love had never left us, so having the quiet time alone together was all we needed to make an effort to reclaim our youth.

“Do you have any idea how relieved he is?” Mariposa said that night after sprinkling the last child. “He thought you weren’t attracted to him anymore.”

“That was never true!” My voice was louder than it should have been, but no one woke.

“What was never true?” he asked as I undressed behind the locked bedroom door and cozied up to his warm body.

“I’ve never wanted anyone but you.” I kissed him then. As the dust fell my last wish flitted through my head. “Have you made your last wish?”

He ran his hand down my body. “What do you think?”

Mariposa grinned as she made her way to her bed. “Fairies must be asexual,” I thought, wondering for the first time how old she was, if she were mortal and how fairies were made.

“You haven’t,” she said, crinkling and furrowing. “I must commend you, though. You’ve downsized your wishes. Genies are exceptionally rare, especially in this country. You’re unlikely to find one. Besides, no one ever LEARNS anything when a genie grants a wish. Genies just hand you what you think you want. Fairies help you hold on to it.”

“I know,” I whispered, squeezing my husband’s hand.

“Brantay says she’ll take me home,” she mumbled, drifting off.

“I thought she might,” I said. A tear hit my pillow and we were all asleep.

Before she and Brantay left I had written three Boo and Bunny stories and a list of ideas. A journal had been doodled up and coated with poetry. The house was still clean and the debt was still shrinking. The autumn rains were cutting into my walking and swimming, so I bought a fold-up work-out machine and started using that. As she sprinkled us one last time I asked her: “How long before the magic wears off?”

“What do you mean? It doesn’t wear off. Didn’t you hear me the other night? Fairy magic isn’t like genie magic! We don’t work big and run off. We take what you give us, then give it back to you.”

Our final visit to the Butterfly House seemed to have given her extra juice. She was on her third trip down the all too familiar zig-zag pattern. She could see me crinkled and furrowed and so, with a roll of her big green eyes she went on to explain.

“You both gave me the same things … you believed in me. You took time for me. So I believed in you and helped you believe in yourself. By the way, this was no small task where you were concerned. Handsome over there, he is so handsome dear, I really can’t believe he isn’t more, well, you know, it doesn’t matter the species, usually such handsome males parade about more. But he IS the sensitive, artistic type. For him it was more a matter of he didn’t think he had time for it all, but you both still took time for me.

“So I showed you the way.” She was running on like the day we met. I just drank it all in. “And the more you believed in yourself and the more time you took to organize the mumbo jumbo your kind makes for themselves the more you believed and the more time you had to spend on what matters to you … drinking up the woodland, feeling water on your flesh. There was time for good-deed-doing, darling, and time for each other.”

She was tucked in her bedroll now, which after her season with us was quite polluted with rainbow dust. The kids would draw in it from time to time.

“And your wishes were passed on to your babies,” she mumbled, snuggling in. “You never spoke of them, but they are always with you two, so each night I sprinkled them because, you know, children believe. They just DO. And I can confess now, they have all seen me. We chat when you’re asleep. So you see, they think I’m a dream and still they believe. And they will always believe in themselves, in magic. They will always make time for what’s important to them They will .…”

The bus pulled away the next morning under a low, grey October sky. He stayed home from work again this day as much to keep me aloft as to soak up our last minutes with Mariposa. I wish you could have seen the neighbors’ faces when a flock of geese dropped on our front yard! Alas, I’ve never quite conquered my liberal use of the word, but I’m better than I used to be.

One goose wandered to the lily bed, where Mariposa was crouched beneath the browning leaves. A blink later they took off and moved into their perfect V. As they did so, a glimmer appeared and we knew she was flying. I couldn’t keep from crying.

I looked at my hands and gasped. Then I couldn’t stop laughing. They were rainbow glittered tears.

vanquishing vampires

2006-05-19T09:42:00.000-05:00

A simple kiss
Scooped into his warm arms
I feel his heart in his chest
I’m shielded from harm

A simple kiss
Scooped into my arms
A small head on my chest
I shield them from harm

A simple kiss
Scooped from demons’ arms
I feel my heart in my chest
Loving, living, safe from harm

ramblings caught between a noisy brain and a blank page

2006-05-18T10:42:00.000-05:00

Something’s happening inside I can’t control. I can’t label it. I can’t harness it. I’m trying to write my way out of it but nothing is coming except stories of vampires.

Joy vampires.

Sucking the joy from my veins.

So if I know they’re there why don’t I fight back? Kick them off? Do something? Maybe if I just let these tears come I could close the wound on my neck.

Maybe if I locked myself up with the blankness of my new journal I could get something out. Why do I always pressure myself that it has to make sense?

It doesn’t have to make sense.

It could just be one long freaking run-on sentence that describes what I think is the sea creature pulling this ship down into the depths and asks, without editing itself, why in the world I let the sea creature hold on when I know a good whack with the ore might break its knuckles and cause it to release me and I could sail back toward my sweet island of characters I’m waiting to explore and turn my back on all the feelings I’m best served when I ignore them.

See, one long run-on sentence, not that run-ons come any other way but long.

So, it’s holding on to my little boat, and yet it must be hunted. And I don’t know what else to say, but I had to keep from slipping off my plane again … that’s where the creature’s friends team up on me. Down there, in the disconnected, disinterested crowd that is life with moms from school and moms who are neighbors and all these women judging each other because, really, they’re judging themselves.

Pulse racing.

Heart racing.

Head aching.

Where is that creative beast?

I hear you calling me.

I feel your hunger.

Why won’t you come when I call you?

I have food … somewhere.

If only I had you here, we could each whack the knuckles with an ore and then row for our lives.

Disconnected.

Disinterested.

I think I’ll take a nap. That will shut up all the other stuff.

Until I wake up.

So instead I start singing and the tears start coming. This song always makes me take a breath. It’s a prayer, but today I hear more. Even though it’s a song from church, this time it’s me talking to my own creative self and my own creative self begging to be heard.

Will you come and follow me if I but call your name?
Will you go where you don’t know and never be the same?
Will you let my love be shown? Will you let my name be known?
Will you let my life be grown in you and you in me?
Will you leave yourself behind if I but call your name?
Will you tend to cruel and kind and never be the same?
Will you risk the hostile stare, should your life attract or scare?
Will you let me answer prayer in you and you in me?
Will you let the blinded see if I but call your name?
Will you set the prisoner free and never be the same?
Will you kiss the Leper clean, and do such as this unseen
and admit to what I mean in you and you in me?
Will you love the you in you if I but call your name?
Will you quell the fear inside and never be the same?
Will you use the faith you’ve found to reshape the world around
through my sight and touch and sound in you and you in me?

And in typing it here I once again am soothed. In the bit of “The Artist’s Way” I attempted I was struck by Julia Cameron’s connection of our creative selves to the ultimate creator. So is it really wrong to see my creativity where others see their creator?

Sometimes distant.

Sometimes near.

It knows me by name.

And takes me back when I ask.

Sometimes I embrace it.

Sometimes I scream at it.

It knows me by name.

And forgives me when I ask.

I think I’ll keep singing. Maybe let the tears run at last. Maybe I’ll find my creative beast before dinner, feed it, and we can take a few whacks at those knuckles. Perhaps if I give it cheesecake it will do the rowing for our lives while I write those vampires out of my head.

Sunday Scribblings: The Books I Would Write

2006-05-15T10:18:00.000-05:00

A swim through my head

If my brain were the Beluga Whale tank at Shedd Aquarium I might be able to capture more of these ideas and make something real. Instead, I look through the thick glass and see myself float by, trying to organize a cookbook of sorts.

Boo cannonballs into the tank, Bunny-less. I’m beginning to wonder if the tattered Bunny will survive to answer the question: What did an adult Calvin say upon finding Hobbes in a box in his Mom’s basement? Boo’s feet touch bottom and he shoots himself to the surface, passing Sensei halfway up.

Sensei fascinates me. He’s so approachable. And yet … And yet … And yet it’s easy to be intimidated by him. He enters a room and is immediately respected. The kids just don’t want to let him down in any way. “I always work double hard for Sensei,” Boo said one night after karate. I’d love to compare and contrast all the things Sensei teaches the kids and all the things we moms try to teach the kids.

Peanut shoots by, a purple whisp crowned by a pink anemone. She stops to look at Tommy sitting on the bottom then scoops Pooker into her maternal instinct and raises him from the tank. I call bottom dweller Tommy because he reminds me of the Denis Leary character on Rescue Me, though not quite so desperate. When my Tommy gets his name he will still be a single guy with a murky depth. His stories surprise me … but everyone should investigate the demons in the darker corners of human nature, that way they won’t creep up on you.

I put my face to the glass, shield my eyes to limit the glare and look in the distance of the tank. There’s the single mom running away from life with an abuser. The young man starting medical school. The teenage lovers with no money for gas and the retirees making a dream vacation come true. Someone lets 50 license plates fall in with a sploosh. They flutter before littering the bottom of the tank. Fuzzier are the women who are the two sides to every mom. Alter egos? SuperHero and Villain? I pull away from the tank and realize that I’m not sure of anything aside from how the squinting is hurting my face.

The Angel's Kiss

2006-05-13T08:57:00.000-05:00

This is the spot where the heavens touch the Earth. Your grandma once called it an Angel’s Kiss and the name stuck, like the kiss. You are touched by the angels. How else could such a little man carry around such a big heart, such a generous spirit, such a kind soul, and guard it all with the power of Ninja?

At 7 I think you’ve reached a point where you’ve drawn a circle around yourself. Those welcomed inside find a second circle, much harder to enter than the first. Actually, I think encounters there are more your stepping out than anyone else’s stepping in.

My problem is I just can’t resist you. I want to hold you close and soak up your goodness, your brilliance, your confidence. You, with your generous gigantic heart, want to stand back and share yourself with as many as you can.

Some might call you the problem child. Some might say its middle child syndrome. Some are put off by your independence. Sometimes I call you my challenge. I’m flattered to say it’s because you are so much like me. You go with your gut and often react before analyzing. The difference is Dad. The part of you that is your dad is your ability to react; analyze; then harness your passion with the analysis and react again. I have so much to learn from you.

You are a problem solver. You can fix most anything and have been able to since you were 2. I’ve seen you put yourself in the middle: You stick up for your smaller, quieter peers at school. When you were 4 you stood between your sister and an older kid who shook his fist at her at the park. You have zero tolerance for injustice.

“Why are there poor people?” you asked one day.

You accepted that things aren’t fair, but still wanted to fix it. “I’m going to give my stuff I don’t play with to poor kids.” You were 5.

When I first gazed upon your face your forehead was black and blue. “It’s because he came so hard and fast,” the nurse said. You pushed your way free and from that very moment you were your own man … and you had your father’s eyes.

Perhaps this is what makes me so weak where you’re concerned. Those dancing chameleon eyes … sometimes more hazel than brown, sometimes more gold than hazel … but always dancing, the left one just above the Angel’s Kiss.

Of course kids are kids and you never thought about your birthmark until Kindergarten. It was then your pattern with your peers emerged. You do your best to handle it on your own, only confiding in me occasionally, usually when you’re frustrated behind all hope. You squeeze me tight and sprinkle me with kisses and I know that you know you are loved for who you are. And I leave your room those nights knowing I, too, have been kissed by an angel.

The blogosphere is flat

2006-05-11T14:01:00.000-05:00

Dear Chris,

I know you thought you were done arguing the whole flat vs. round thing more than 500 years ago, but I’m here to tell you that you’ve lost this second round. Sorry, despite the common moniker “blogo-sphere” the existence out here is quite flat. I know. I fell off. But hey, I’m back to tell you about the trip.

No sea monsters at the end. Not even any water. Just a vastness of space filled with party planning, party execution and party clean up. I interrupted the space with everyday things such as a playdate for Mr. 5 and making a work deadline, but more on that in a minute.

I thought I was managing things well. While not posting anything myself I had been able to keep up with the company I’d made out here for a few days before I dropped off the edge all together. You see it isn’t a sphere, but millions of planes intersecting at unimaginable angles. I’ve been lucky to have so many stop at mine and stay a minute. Then I stop at theirs and stay a minute. Soon minutes become hours because you keep intersecting more and more interesting planes to explore. So some weaning had to occur if I were to prepare everything for my impending guests and make that deadline.

Things were going well as by last Wednesday I had weaned myself completely from this world and was deep in the throws of scrubbing my kitchen floor and shuttling children to sports when the floor fell out from under me. I had misunderstood my assignment and had to re-write my article on infusions. Correction, article on infused liquids.

So, in the course of proving that the blogo-sphere is flat I proved something else, in the lyrics of Karyn White: “I’m not your Superwoman!” Sure I can look as though I’m doing it all, but the resulting meltdown caused me to go deep inside and admit to myself that I’m not Superwoman. SuperMom. Whoever. And it’s not worth trying to be.

So I slid off the end of my blogo-plane and took everything I’d worked so hard to build this year down with me. The journals are tucked in corners, out of sight of visitors, so many partial sentences and half scratches etched inside. The Total Gym is gathering dust at the end of the bed. Most every ounce of creative juice slipped from me through my vocal chords as my fingertips gave way and I let go of my blogo-plane, screaming all the way to the bottom.

But it wasn’t like those stories before your first trip, Chris. No demons or devils, just a lot of rungs to climb to get back where I feel the new me belongs.

You asked an interesting question the other day. You wanted to know, if I truly had fallen off the edge of a flat world, how did it feel and how did I find my way back. Well, here’s your answer.

After a day of celebrating my daughter with family I was full of love, many kinds of love, kinds I can’t get into here as this letter would be far too long. What I hadn’t filled myself with was food. I hadn’t had much the day before either … unless you count wine and tobacco. Yes, when I fell off the edge I crashed hard into old unhealthy patterns of Marlboro Lights and mixed drinks. Two beloved vices I have squeezed out of my life in the name of living healthier. It was nothing to rival the excess of the college years (thank goodness), but without much else in my stomach I paid the price. So after a fabulous day I woke about 2 a.m. with my insides raging. Physical drainage caused the mind to run roughshod through a jungle of neglected, overblown real-life tasks to catch up on. I was having a hard time calming myself down. I started prioritizing and that’s when I heard it. The items on my to-do list were thundering through my head … like the sound of a rope ladder falling many stories down the side of one of your original ships.

And that’s when I knew. In the post-party silence I would get back to taking care of me – eat right a few days in a row, get some sleep, take a machete to that jungle of annoying tasks such as bill paying and clothes washing – I would climb those rungs back up to where I really wanted to be.

So here I am, back on my blogo-plane of existence, proof, Chris, that it’s no sphere out here at all. You won the first round by bumping into a new world. I won this round by bumping into my old self and remembering why I left her down there with no ladder.

I’ve got more brush to clear. Write back soon.

Love,
Laura

Sunday Scribblings: Why I Live Where I Live

2006-05-01T14:48:00.000-05:00

These are fake journal entries, but I couldn't help comparing and contrasting these two stages of my life.

May, 1996
Friends for dinner last night, so the pictures are finally on the walls. We moved up to this apartment in January from the one-bedroom on 16 and I still can’t believe we live like this. Sure there are a few things I don’t like about it, but when you take on life in a rehabbed high rise you have to take what you can get. The fact that my uncle lived in this building when he was newly arrived from Louisville and it was the YMCA 30 years ago adds to the intrigue.

I love that we have space to spread out. I love that we have TWO bathrooms. I love that when I walk upstairs (yes, stairs in our apartment!) the first thing I see is Chicago spread out before me, the El like a lifeline and the buildings on either side like arms pulling me into the city’s chest … waiting for me to listen to its heartbeat. I love that the first thing I see when I get out of bed is the mood of Lake Michigan as it hugs Shedd Aquarium. I could watch the winter waves for hours, trying to grasp their anger. I could soak up the shades of summer blue for days, trying to submerge myself in their kiss. One thing I’ve learned living downtown, the land and the lake are one and they expand and contract with the seasons. I wish there were a way to draw the people spilling into the water each summer, and the water chasing them away every winter.

It’s going on two years since we looked at each other and said “Let’s do it.” We left that cozy Mid-Missouri comfort zone and dove into big city life. I wouldn’t change a thing. Sure we pay $1500 a month in rent. Sure we pay to park the car. Sure we pay almost $2 a load to do laundry. So what? We’ve only got one car and I haven’t driven it in almost three months! I love challenging myself to see how long I can go without driving. And the laundry room is just a few steps from my door now. I don’t even have to leave the building. And we don’t mow a lawn or shovel snow or do any of that stuff, though I wouldn’t mind some flowers on the deck.

Can't imagine what would pull me from this life ... except maybe a day job. But that's coming around in time. Last week I actually lucked into a noon-to-eight and he and I had dinner together.

May, 2006
They're out back with Eva so I have a few minutes, maybe more. I love that they’re all old enough now to stick out in the fenced backyard with the dog and know they can play to their heart’s content. I still go outside with them when they want to ride bikes on the cul-de-sac. Mr. 5 still needs reminders of the rules and the world doesn’t work the way it used to. At 8,7 and 6 my brothers and I and all our friends roamed free through sub – urbia. Can’t do that these days.

“Haven’t you ever noticed all the freaks and fruits live in the suburbs?” My New Jersey friend used to ask in a more colorful way than is fit for print. He hated going into the sub – urbs and was actually afraid of them. He was right.

But on this little tract of land, from which I must drive to get anywhere, we have three happy kids, the dog Hubby never had growing up, the flower garden I’ve always wanted and dinner together every night. On this little tract of land we have played in the sprinkler, dug in the dirt, fallen and scraped near every part of our little bodies and spent nearly every day of our lives because here, in Missouri, people can afford to live on one income and have a parent stay at home with the kids. It was an economic impossibility in Chicagoland … even in its sub – urbs. And living in the city here wouldn’t be cost effective either. Sure we could find a house for the $1500 we pay a month out here, but the schools stink. I can’t stay at home and afford private school of any kind for three kids. So, a fine district in the sub – urbs it is.

So many people I know bemoan how having kids has robbed them of one thing or another. Sure, having kids thrust some changes upon us, but we’ve never called them sacrifices. Living in the sub – urbs is tolerable when you can close your front door on it.

This time of year and Christmastime are the hardest. But the pangs for city life are irritating pinches now instead of those heart wrenching squeezes that crippled all forward motion. What we've built here is good. And when we look at what we're able to give the kids we see no reason to leave, at least not until after Mr. 5 graduates high school. Of course that could change, but the cold hard economics of the situation are these: We couldn't afford to buy this house now. The prices have changed that fast. We have three happy kids. We have each other. And no one else we know can say their housing payment is the same as it was 10 years ago! Besides, I-55 will lead us right to the Shedd's front door whenever we're ready to go.

Check it out

2006-05-01T14:47:00.000-05:00

Great images from the first weekend of Jazz Fest. Enjoy!

Soul mates

2006-04-27T15:20:00.000-05:00

I’ve been waiting for you
I knew you’d come
The one who’d look through me
Deep into me
Past all the deflectors I put out there
And into my soul

Yes
I knew you’d come
Now here you are

Your first touch
A touch of knowing
Not of discovering

Your first kiss
One of satisfaction
Not of hunger

I’ve been waiting for you
I knew you’d come

For more Poetry Thursday, visit Liz.

Imagination gone awry

2006-04-26T12:54:00.000-05:00

“Our secret ingredient?” Insert tension-building pause here. “IMAGINATION!” Can’t you just see The Chairman tearing the cloth away with that martial-artsy flair he uses each episode of Iron Chef America? Well downtime last night was quite productive as the kids broke out the clay and all the plastic dishes I would allow. They created their own Iron Chef competition (complete with interviews and commentary) and hubby and I “judged” their creations before we ate our real dinner. Of course it was the first three-way tie in Kitchen Stadium history!

Dinner segued to homework and some family reading time. All in all it was great night. Then it happened. Mr. 6 got caught putting his imagination to bad use: He tried to cover up a note from his teacher about a teensy-weensy (not kidding no-big-deal) incident at school. why? Why? WHY as humans must we go through this process of learning that lying really is just too much work?

I remember the bust that really brought it home for me. I was about 12 and had forged my mother’s signature in a similar case … caught cursing on the Catholic playground I was to write down what I said and have her sign it so I could give it to the principal ... yup ... a nun. Anyway, what happened at school was not as big a deal as lying was. So we had to deliver this message to Mr. 6 and I had all those same feelings in my stomach that I used to have when I got in trouble myself. I hate having to teach these tough lessons of life. Lessons such as:

*Just because her parents let her do it doesn’t mean I’ll let you do it;
*Lying is worse than touching stuff on the walls in the hallway at school;
*It takes a stronger person to walk away than it does to strike a blow;
*Sometimes you have to stay and fight, you can’t walk away;
*That rotten feeling in the pit of your stomach is far harsher punishment than I could ever dole out, but I have to punish you anyway.

It’s in the postgame that I realize – as awful as it was for all of us – we handled it OK. He went to bed knowing he was in trouble, but also knowing that we love him. I went to bed knowing he understood these things, but wondering when he’d lie again. He’s a kid. There are envelopes to push. Even the good kids push them. We haven’t even hit the smoking, drinking, sexing years. So I’m going to start asking for advice now. What did you lie about as a kid and what happened when you got caught?

Sunday Scribblings: Chocolate

2006-04-24T12:32:00.000-05:00

Funny how one word sets the brain in motion. Shall I write about how I discovered this vice, having given up tobacco and beverage upon becoming pregnant? Shall I write about the amazing health benefits of a bit of dark chocolate? I love that my new vice is actually good for me! How about its history in San Francisco? In the days before refrigeration, San Francisco’s cool climate allowed for the perfect processing of chocolate. I’m fascinated by the idea of a man landing in just the perfect spot on Earth to create an empire, seeing the opportunity and seizing it. (Think Ghirardelli Square.) Or shall I write about how a fine Cabernet Sauvignon and a bar of Scharffen Berger make for a date these days? This put me on to something, so I gave myself 30 minutes and 500 words to share part of our trip last year.

We’d learned on our first trip after children that this was a precious gift, the fact that his parents were willing to move into our house for a week so we could get away. This time we would spend several days in wine country, then his conference in San Francisco. So we arrived in St. Helena after a stop in downtown Napa for lunch. We squeezed in a quick tasting before everything seemed to be closing. We weren’t too hungry, and knew we could get a complimentary bottle back at the inn, so we stopped at Dean and Deluca, where we picked up some amazing fresh bread and fruit and, after a near crippling bout with indecision upon facing the selection, some lovely cheeses. As we paid we saw it on the counter: Scharffen Berger … as featured on Food Network … as unavailable in the Midwest. Two bars, please.

At our first tasting the next day we were presented with a plate of delicacies that were to be taken with certain wines. I saw the lovely English Bleu Cheese and just knew Hubby wouldn’t taste it. Then I saw the chocolate and thought: “Oh! I just don’t understand how chocolate and wine could possibly be good together. How do I graciously get out of this?”

Conversation, education and two tastes later, Hubby bit into the bleu. I was stunned! “OK,” I thought, “This IS all about adventure, isn’t it?”

So when the time came I took the chocolate with the suggested vintage. It was one of those movie moments where … if it had a soundtrack … Handel’s Messiah would have rang out. What glorious surprise, what gracious simplicity, what grand complexity, what heaven on Earth this combination of quality chocolate and big booming Cabernet Sauvignon. (Let’s be honest: A Hershey bar just can’t be beat when you’re a kid. And, to this day, I simply must have several s’mores every summer. But I’m not 8 anymore, and there are times when the chocoholic in me needs more. I had found it at last.)

The toughest thing about a vacation is that it must end. You simply must return to your real life. (Ha!) But food and photos help me make it last. His parents (oenophiles in their own right) had dutifully signed for all the wine we shipped home and stacked it in our dining room. And on my second-to-last day in San Francisco I meandered through the Financial District to another food Mecca, The Ferry Building Marketplace. I found several non-Midwestern delicacies for breakfast and then, after marveling at the mushroom stall ($400 per ounce for certain dried varieties!) I heard Handel again … a whole stall of Scharffen Berger! I cradled my Nibby Bars in the carry-on all the way home. And so, after the kids are in bed on a Friday night, it’s a big Cab and a Nibby Bar and our Midwestern family room becomes a Napa Valley bed and breakfast.

The Untouchables

2006-04-22T08:35:00.000-05:00

You don't realize how quickly time slips away until an old friend says: "I've got a conference. Are you free April 21? I'll be in town!" Then you get together and realize it's been five years.
All the kids are, of course older. The one who was 12 is now out of high school ... an early graduate. The one who was in second grade is now 12 and the one who was 4 is now in second grade! And your friend, the married mother of two, is now a single mom trying to be everything she can for her amazing, resiliant kids as well as something ... anything ... for herself. All I could do was listen, give her squeeze, tell the high school grad how proud I was and assure the 12-year-old that, though it annoys his mother, as a man it is his duty to leave basically empty containers in the refrigerator and pantry ... as long as he always ALWAYS refills the toilet paper roll!
My heart ached as I thought of her ex-husband, who is also my friend. From what he suffers it is hard to discern, but all the signs are there for certain struggles within his own mind, as well as his evident addictive nature and refusal to get help. So many people have reached out and, from what we're able to gather, he has walked away from each of them. This team of three marches on, getting stronger every day. I'm so proud of all of them, and so thankful that there are some friendships time and distance just can't touch.

Road Improvements

2006-04-20T07:51:00.000-05:00

The brown wreckage cried out to me
In what could only have been a Dryad's voice
Scarred earth
Felled trunk
Rootball to the sky
"Your tax dollars at work"
The sign said.
Tears came to my eyes.

Throughout his Chronicles of Narnia I truly enjoyed C.S. Lewis' descriptions of the Dryads, the woodland people connected to trees. "You could tell she was birch," he would write as he described one of the children looking at a Dryad. And then there was the scene in The Last Battle where the Dryad comes to the king and he witnesses her death as, in the distant woods, her tree is cut down. I guess it had more impact on me than I realized, because it was all I could think of as I did my Wednesday night route from karate to gymnastics and back again along a road that's being "improved."

For more Poetry Thursday, check in with Liz.

Sunday Scribblings: When We were Wee

2006-04-17T11:30:00.000-05:00

I grew up in a family just like the one I have. Perhaps that’s why every so often I’m compelled to call one brother or the other to apologize. Siblings will be siblings.

We pounded each other. We egged each other on. We tattled. We kept secrets from our parents for each other. We had a blast. Looking back on my childhood my parents are pale shadows on the walls of a clubhouse filled with friends and my ever-present brothers. We’d dig and climb trees, ride bikes and swim. My friends and my brothers' friends were generally siblings and together these packs of children would comb the neighborhoods.

We wandered through a time when kids were still at home during the day and you could always find someone to play with. Garage doors were up. Adventures were waiting to happen. We’d take our allowance to the pharmacy, which was a much farther bike ride that I can imagine allowing my kids to take, and we’d buy baseball cards and football cards and candy and sit on the steps and rip open the pack and chew the nasty gum and see if we got any Cincinnati Reds or Pittsburgh Steelers. When I was growing up, teams had extra nicknames such as The Big Red Machine or The Steel Curtain. Boxing was a real sport on free TV. And the pharmacy was locally owned, no Walgreens.

On the way home from the pharmacy we might stop at the bridge a street over from our house. Nothing grand, but we could lean our bikes against the concrete barrier and scramble down to the creek. There was always stuff to discover there in the corrugated tunnel beneath the street. We’d get wet. We’d get muddy. We’d capture crayfish or minnows or tadpoles. Then we’d go home and drop our bikes in the yard, cut through to the backyard and see what happened next. Other days we’d ride to the lake near our subdivision and do stupid stuff there. Then there would be the inevitable “No boys allowed” times when I would be with a friend dancing to the soundtrack from Grease or playing Barbies.

We moved to a new suburb at the end of 7^th grade. In this neighborhood there were no fewer than 10 of us who ran around together. There were crushes and kisses and nights when someone would sneak out and TP someone else’s house. And as much of it as possible was filed away until one of us needed ammunition against another. After all, we were adolescents now.

We’d team up against each other. Once Red and I locked Mr. Middle out of the house and he got in trouble for breaking down the door. We got in trouble, too, but not as much because we didn’t actually tear the doorframe from the wall! Of course Mr. Middle and I had our moments as a team, too. Usually it involved a contest to see who could get Red to cry first. Siblings will be siblings, and yes it is cruel. But there were other times, too.

There was the time we were home alone and we thought it would be fun to play in the rain. This was all well and good until the lightning started and we kept playing. The neighbor guy pulled around in his El Comino and did something that didn’t usually happen in our house. He cursed at us: “What the hell do you think you’re doin? Dumb kids. Get your asses inside now!” Then he parked in our driveway and made sure all of us left our wet clothes in the garage and went in to change and that we stayed inside. Neighbors can’t do that anymore. I can’t imagine what would happen these days if a neighbor made three idiot kids remove their wet clothes in front of him and go in the house. He was right to get us out of an electrical storm. He was no weirdo. Today he’d likely be jailed. I can’t decide if this is good or bad.

I came along a few weeks after the 1970s started and came of age in a Donald Trump/Duran Duran world. But Easy Bake oven? Whatever. Strawberry Shortcake? Whatever. I was more of a General Lee and Millenium Falcon kind of a girl. Like my daughter, I’m a blend of princess (I totally coveted my neighbor’s Barbie Styling head.) and TomBoy (I loved dismantling our clubhouse with my brother’s new tool set.). Neither my daughter nor I could be like that if we didn’t have our brothers. I was the girl who was friends with all the guys in high school. To get a date I had to meet guys from elsewhere in the city.

And looking back that was OK. Because the few times I did date someone from our school my brothers hated it. Like Dash on The Incredibles … “Stay away from my sister!” Who knew? Not me. Not then. Now the whole idea of it just makes me smile.

They are two of my best friends. Despite the poundings, the eggings, the tattlings. Despite the fact that they recall our childhood in dramatically different ways than I, part of how I am is all because I got to grow up with them. And, despite them running my stuffed Snoopy under the sink and turning him gray by leaving his soppy, floppy body on my purple bedspread, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Color my world

2006-04-13T13:23:00.000-05:00

He scared me the other night … really he did: “Its funny how we always move right when we get a place the way we want it.”

Alexandra’s post was in my head. And the truth in his words would have had me quaking in my shoes had I been wearing any. I had just scaled the biggest wall in our house (the one that has whispered to me for nearly six years: “Heehee. You can’t paint me!”) with a coffeeish, chocolaty smoothness Laura Ashley calls Sand 5. The wall reaches from the floor by the front door up through the staircase to the ceiling above Mr. 6’s bedroom door. With it scaled I have three smallish walls in the hallway upstairs remaining and the main areas of our house will finally be conquered … before the out-of-town guests arrive in just a few weeks.

But his words echoed in my ears. Perhaps it was all those moves … eight places in eight years! Once upon a time getting a place the way we wanted it meant actually hanging pictures on the walls. It meant no mysterious closed bedroom door with packed boxes stacked behind it.

This is different. All of those places had white walls, cheap mini blinds and white dishes. (After almost 14 years we just replaced the dishes we received for our wedding. Very exciting to the chef in me!) So this time “getting a place the way we want it” is something more.

We’ve colored our world. At last … we’ve colored our world. With the “Mock-me” wall newly tinted and the hallway done all that remains are the odd angles of the master bath. It will be dark blue with a splash of “Pumpkin 6” (Thanks again Laura Ashley.) that picks up our beloved Blue Dog in the next room.

The colors move through the house, the kitchen and family room share a hue, but feel different because of the way the light plays. Each of the kids chose the color for their walls (with a touch of parental restraint, of course!) so lavender, pale green and cornflower blue are splashed against the corners of our house. There’s the striped wall in the dining room, the product of a stormy January weekend a few years back. And the modern look of the black shelving against the chambray walls of our room, which I surprised him with after a business trip.

It’s more our house than ever … though the landscaping still exists only in our heads. That will be another few years more, but it’s OK. The place will be the way we want it on the first try.

Sunday Scribblings 2: Real Life

2006-04-10T10:15:00.000-05:00

This week I decided to take an approach to fiction that went back to those good ol’ days when I wrote on deadline: Timed and trim. I gave myself 30 minutes and 500 words. So when my time was up I couldn’t edit anymore. (Hope there are no typos!)

It wasn’t a big deal that the electricity was out. It was 2 p.m. and they could see just fine to read or play a board game. The kids whined a bit about no TV. It was amazing to her how little they associated the need for electricity with the things they do every day. They just do them, and don’t understand that in real life something makes those things work. She’d never thought about teaching them this until these moments when the power was out. And she had never really thought before about how much electronic gizmos distracted them from things they enjoyed.

Dinner was interesting. Her husband suggested keeping the fridge closed, saying it would keep the food colder longer. It made sense, but it annoyed her. She hadn’t thought about the fact that, if the power were out too long she might be replacing hundreds of dollars in food.

So, it was peanut butter and jelly for everyone. They found some graham crackers and chocolate bars in the back of the pantry, even a few marshmallows that weren’t too hard. He had left a few logs under a tarp, so they had dry firewood, which was a blessing. It was early April and, though the daytime temperatures had been pleasant, the heater was still needed at night.

He got out his guitar and played while the kids tried to figure what else in the house didn’t need electricity. Ms. 8 realized that playing hair salon with her dolls wasn’t like a real life salon. It didn’t need electricity. They all got great new ’dos. And the boys discovered just how many battery-powered toys lit up and looked very cool in the dark. They brushed their teeth by candlelight and were tucked into their beds with extra blankets and socks on.

Mr. 6 had talked his dad out of some batteries and was quite content reading by flashlight. His sister did the same, but it didn’t take long for all of them to fall asleep.

Normally he might be online or watching TV. Or she might be. But this night, alone in front of the fire he grunted at the inconvenience and she again worried about the cost of replacing the food.

“It’ll be fine,” he said moving in for a kiss. And, instead of pushing away for concern of the kids coming downstairs she did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She let herself melt into his touch. It had been nice just being together, no distractions disguised as necessities of life. And there was no way those kids were going to walk around the completely dark house. She gave in and it was like it used to be, back in those days before kids, alone in that tiny apartment where they kept the heat low to keep the bill low. For some reason it felt more real than it had in a long time.

Real life is what happens when the power goes out.

A quick note

2006-04-08T08:42:00.000-05:00

I've been very excited by the return of our favorite Louisiana hot sauce to grocery store shelves. Baumer Foods' facility on Tulane Avenue in New Orleans suffered so much damage they have decided to rebuild in nearby Reserve, La. Until they are at 100 percent this summer, they have been working with manufacturers in other parts of the country. A press release said they are in touch with employees and there will be jobs for all able to return to work at the new plant. They produce quite a few sauces, etc. We just love Crystal. Internet sales aren't up just yet, but I'm adding them to my Shop N.O. list out of pure excitement. On another New Orleans note, my dear friend tipped me off to a Newsweek article March 20 that listed several re-opened restaurants and several more intending to be open by Jazz Fest. The story offered a link for updates. If you have a a favorite something New Orleans please send a link to add to my list. Thanks!

Taking a stab at Poetry Thursday

2006-04-06T09:03:00.000-05:00

I have just been obsessed with culling the Sunday Scribblings site. I have had so much fun, been so inspired, so moved, so shaken by reading answers to Laini and Megg's question. I have many questions to answer, too, and hope to do that later today, but I have to cross some things off of the list you'll find here. It's just been so exciting scrolling through so many new blogs!

I've never tried to meet Liz's poetry challenge before, but when all this stuff was in my head yesterday I took a stab at using my to-do lists as a creative writing challenge. Why not investigate how I feel about some of these tasks? It might tell me exactly why I put some of them off. I loved Ticharu's comment on my last karate post. Really, truly, the wickedness in some tasks is all in my head. That he mentioned the cat pan truly crystalized things. It truly is a loathesome task, one I haven't been responsible for in almost 9 years! (Love you, honey!) Speaking of Hubby and Ticharu, here's a link to their internet band. Allrighty, I've stalled long enough. Here's a little thing I've decided to call Sinus Pressure.

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Gotta send some e-mails
Gotta make some calls
Gotta clean the house up
Gotta paint white walls
It’s likely I’ll put that off

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Chance to interview hot chef in town
Mr. 5 has to come along
Chance to win website contract
That would make new skills strong
Chance to breath in spring
It’s likely I’ll just skip that

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

No school next week
No schedule really
No hope the boys will get along
No plans means imagination roams free
No limits

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Grocery lists
Unwritten to-do lists
Crayons across the table.
“Let’s color, Mommy.”
I’ll organize my thoughts tomorrow.

Sunday Scribblings No. 1

2006-04-03T11:00:00.000-05:00

What would you attempt if you knew you would not fail?

If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I’d attempt to become a carpenter, to build things with my hands that could function for lifetimes. I love the smell that comes from the wood, and the power that comes from the tools and the amazement that comes from seeing pieces rise together as a single entity. My grandfather was quite gifted, creating portraits in inlaid wood; furniture; and functional items such as candlesticks and cup racks and salad bowls and tongs. If I knew I could turn the lathe and get a candlestick, I’d start turning. If I knew I could swing a hammer and hit a nail, I’d come out swinging.

If I knew it wouldn’t look like a melted marshmallow on the end of a stick I’d draw someone’s face.

I’d create art … any kind of art … without paper or a keyboard … maybe even without words.

I’d tell my mom how I feel.

I’d run onto the floor during my daughter’s gymnastics class and tumble the length of the gym.

I’d strap on ice skates and do a triple triple then reach backward, lift one foot over my head and spin until … until … until the wind created by my own whirling numbed my ears and burned my lungs.

I’d sail alone for a day, with nothing to listen to but my own thoughts and the waves, and see if I could go 24 hours without talking!

My favorite karate code

2006-04-01T09:15:00.000-06:00

Have to: Pay bills; Tend to Spring duties such as scrubbing/weeding/pruning.

Need to: Make some headway on a story assignment due in one month.

Want to: Take a long walk on the neighborhood trail, scrapbook next to the open dining room window while listening to hubby try to get the kids up and running on their bikes in the cul de sac.

The havetos are the things in life that can only be avoided for so long. I am very good at avoiding them as long as possible. I hate my checkbook. I hate doing laundry, although I hate it less than I hate cleaning bathrooms. (By the way, I hate the word hate, but it is the shortest linguistic route to the dreadful mood these jobs bring over me.) These things I can avoid until, like dust bunnies on a hardwood floor, they tumble across the room at me one day and say “Haha! I won again! I am now too big and too menacing for you to avoid. You HAVE TO take care of me today.” And, once these mountains are made molehills, my mood is brighter.

The needtos are an odd combination of wants and musts, a neverland where responsibility and desire embrace. They are the things in life that need to be tended to, but don’t bother me so much as the havetos. I need to cook dinner tonight. I need to write that story on infusions. I need to help the kids with their homework, chores, etc. If I take care of enough needtos in a day I don’t worry about avoiding the havetos and then I sit down and indulge myself in the wanttos.

The wanttos are quite obvious, they are all the things I’d rather be doing in place of being responsible. They are the things I stuff inside because they seem too silly for a mom, for an adult, for someone who must balance her checkbook. And no matter how many wanttos I check off a list, whether it’s for a day or for life, this is the list that never seems to stop growing. And that just makes me feel greedy and selfish.

So I stop to ask myself “Where is the line between self nurturing and selfishness?” Because the more I tend to myself the more I feel I have to offer others, but do I push those I love to the edges some days in order to tend to myself? Isn’t that selfishness?

A person’s unbalance is the same as weight.

It’s so true. Anytime I feel one area of life not getting what it needs, I feel heavy, slothly, defeated. Unbalanced. So, the mail can’t go out today, so who cares if I pay bills? And I pull a few weeds each morning while waiting for the school bus, so it’s never one huge job. And, hey!, I cleaned the downstairs, so that’s that. Now I’ll scrapbook, listen to him with the kids and savor some of his fabulous grilled chicken for dinner. Here’s to keeping your balance.

That kind of day

2006-03-29T09:59:00.000-06:00

I love the kind of day that is nothing that you thought it would be. Mr. 5 was more than happy to meander with me, nothing particularly exciting, but all better than cleaning the house! We had such a good time. No sooner had we arrived home and heated some leftovers for lunch than the phone rang. My best buddy in town was inquiring about a pop-in.
I love a good pop-in … completely unexpected, totally wonderful. It was a short visit, during which she, too, partook of some leftovers and caught me up on what’s going on in her life as I filled her in on the little things that cause big excitement in our house. I especially love it because with her I can just be who I am … laundry all over the living room chair, Legos all over the coffee table … photos and scrapbooking supplies all over the dining room. It’s nothing like when one of the moms from school pops over and we stand on the porch because I wouldn’t dare let them see how we LIVE.
Talking with her always charges my batteries … I usually realize the true potential of at least one of my crazy ideas and she gets to play with toys and collect kids’ hugs, which seems to charge the batteries of a 30-something single girl.
Hubby came home and said nothing about the laundry (still on the chair) or the fact that I spent the day shopping for our upcoming gatherings rather than getting the house ready. He kissed me and thanked me for making one of his favorite dinners. It was that kind of day … the kind that leaves you all warm and tingling inside.

Sometimes you just have to let it all out, even if it seems grossly self-indulgent

2006-03-27T15:58:00.000-06:00

When I wrote about Ms. 8 last week I said “I could say about a million things about mothers and daughters here. The relationship, to me, is one of life’s most mysterious.” That was my way of not saying what I wanted to say: I have known two kinds of women in my life, those who admire their moms and those like me, who cringe at every indication that they are just like their mothers. I’ve never met someone in between. So when, after praying for a son, I was given this precious Peanut, I was more terrified than ever. I always thought I would be a better mother to a son, and so each day has been a balancing act. I try to give her the things I take from my mother and want to hold on to, which are many, actually, but I try to teach them in a different way. I grew up in a darkness I only gave name to about 10 years ago. Its genetic imprint left a red welt on my back after my babies were born. And so I feel I must explain the twist in my stomach the first time my daughter said “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Mom cried in church. It wasn’t an incessant, sobbing kind of crying, more of that slow tear down the cheek that turns into a steady, unstoppable stream. And, all the while, nothing behind her eyes.

Mom cried at Christmas. I must have been about 8 when I came around the corner into the living room. There, by the light of only the tree, she sat alone on the sofa crying. I would become accustomed to these Christmas Eve cries, though I never have accepted them. “My grandfather died on Christmas Eve,” she said. Well, at 8 years old I thought this was something that just happened to her, so she tried to explain that she was a little girl when he passed. I would grow into this fact over the years only to realize the power of environment on a very small child. She never knew him. But the mourning that went on around her has affected every Christmas of her life, and many of mine, too. My husband has a hard time understanding that I never knew the joy of Christmas until he came along. This year I’m trying to explain why I don’t want the family I grew up in at our house on Christmas. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want any crying in my kids’ Christmas collage.

Mom cried when she listened to music. Back then we listened to records, which some people nowadays don’t even know what they are. But there’s something about growing up with records that colors the soundtrack of your life. The crackles, pops, hisses, become part of the songs. The perfect sounds we get from our modern recordings somehow diminish the roles these imperfect recordings played in our lives. But the instant gratification of programmable music players somehow can’t diminish the prowess it took to hit that third groove on an album when all you wanted to hear was that third song. But I digress. I don’t remember seeing her dance, or tap her feet or even sing along. Music would render her motionless, perhaps staring out the window over the kitchen sink, crying with nothing behind her eyes.

Sometimes I feel moved to tears in church. I’ll listen to my daughter singing or watch my oldest son greet those around us. When our youngest was smaller, I would watch my husband keep him quiet, happy, distracted, comfortable because I didn’t have the strength to wrestle his 30-pound frame in my lap for an hour. I would see the line of hubby’s strong jaw against the fluffy tuft of 2-year-old hair and think “I really do have it all. Thank you God,” and feel tears come. I would never, ever let them fall because no one should watch their mother crying in church and wonder why.

Sometimes I am moved to tears at Christmas as I sing at the top of my voice, even when there is no other music playing. Or as I listen to the sound of the three of them lying on the floor and looking up into that unattainable, magical world that is a lit Christmas tree in a dark room. Those are the times being George Shrinks would be really cool. You could just climb up in that Christmas tree. I am moved to tears, but I would never, ever let them fall because no one should watch their mother crying at Christmas and wonder why.

Sometimes I look at the history of mothers and daughters that runs through my veins and think “There’s just no way out. There’s no avoiding it. You already are too much like her. And she’s too much like Gram. You tisk when the kids do annoying things, though you know they don’t do them out of any malice. You sigh when you don’t get your way as a means of passive control. Who are you to think you can stop the inevitable genetic destiny you and she face? Who are you to think you can break a generations-long cycle of women who pass their own depression and self-loathing on to their daughters?”

And then I see my husband’s face and I know I am not alone. And I see him in her face and know she has something I didn’t. Her dad is willing to stand up and say “Get help if you need help. I don’t care what it takes.” If my dad ever said this, my mom just never took action. But Dad is a separate bag on my luggage cart.

I see my husband’s face and I hold on to him. He who loved me even when I stopped smiling. He who loves me even when I push him away. I hold on and I pull myself up and I pull myself out because I don’t want my daughter to ever, ever come to me again as she did that day she was 2 and rub my shoulders and say: “Mommy, it’s OK. Don’t cry Mommy. It’s OK.”

This made me cry harder and it made me confess to my husband that something was wrong this time around, something after this baby wasn’t coming back together right and I needed to talk to somebody who wasn’t him, a stranger who might not be frightened by the fact that I was in a sobbing ball on the living room floor, with my toddlers staring at me and my newborn in a play yard. (This episode was something I kept from him for years.) I needed to talk to somebody, not because I was afraid I’d hurt anyone but because I was afraid I’d hate myself even more than I already did and that much hatred could never be hidden from my daughter.

That was six years ago. And I don’t cry in church and I don’t cry at Christmas and I dance when the music plays … and sometimes when it doesn’t. And my daughter looks at me and smiles and says “I want to be like you …” and for the first time in her life, I am not afraid that she feels that way.

Going on like this always seems grossly self-indulgent to me because I don’t come from a childhood that you could label as anything more than generically suburban. There was no violence or neglect or abuse or danger. It just was. I just was. So maybe that’s why I’m striving for more now … a childhood of vibrant color for my daughter so that the pictures of me in her brain are of dancing. And maybe that’s why all the writing I’ve been doing these past months, a kind of writing I bottled for so many years as I concentrated on reporting and editing, has brought me to this grossly self-indulgent moment. Because moving all this luggage out has left more space inside for me to grow into. The school bus will be here soon. I think I’ll go put my dancing shoes on.

She's poetry

2006-03-23T16:51:00.000-06:00

We spent the day together, relaxing, laughing, playing, being kids. Of course there were snow angels and snowball fights. There was the attack of the mutant crazy German Shepherd, the hot chocolate and then there were Shrinky Dinks.

The kids had never done these before, so it was fun watching them explore. There were four sheets of dink paper, so to avoid a fight a took the last one and used it myself, creating a tiny sun catcher of sorts out of words such as Expect Magic, Grow Wings, Feed your creative beast; Sigh; Breathe; and, of course, iris, wildflower and maple. As I kept going, I kept coming up with more little words to map my blogosphere. Soon I was just staring at my dink paper.

“What’s wrong,” my daughter asked as she carefully colored in a flower she was tracing.

“I don’t know what I want to draw next,” I said.

“You’ll think of something,” Mr. 6 chimed in.

“Ya,” said Mr. 5, who had abandoned Shrinky Dinks for his “private birthday Play-do.”

“Who knows,” Ms. 7 said, “maybe something will pop up that you never expected … like a magic boat in the air.”

Like a magic boat in the air.

I’ve been thinking I’ve been a bit stingy in sharing my daughter in this space, but her magic boat is the first concrete image I’ve been able to conjure. (And I didn’t even conjure it! I’m borrowing it, actually.) She looks like her Daddy, but she’s the only one of them with my dark brown eyes. The only thing I can imagine would come close to describing my difficulty putting words to my daughter is this: Catching fog. As a storytelling device fog’s mysterious and frightening but for me it’s magical. It’s as close as we’ll ever come to walking in the clouds. I can feel her all around me, influencing so much of what I do, but words for the sensation escaped me until she pulled her magic boat out of the air.

“What’s that mean?” I asked, tucking her into her lavender bedazzled bed, appropriately stuffed with fluffy friends. It was something new she’d tacked to the wall.

“It means be who you are,” she said as matter-of-factly as you can possibly imagine. “If you’re yourself all the time, no one can take your beauty away.”

Well, I thought, aren’t you about to turn 8, not 18? And I hope when you are 18, you still think eXaCtLy liKE THAT! A few more words went back and forth between kisses and hugs and soon she was asleep.

And today, thinking about her boat, her beauty, her bounce, I realized she is poetry. I could say about a million things about mothers and daughters here. The relationship, to me, is one of life’s most mysterious. When I’m asked to describe her I often boil it down to this: She is the perfect blend of princess and tomboy. But there’s so much more. She’s sparkle personified. She’s the zip of a dragonfly. She’s the bend of a willow. She is my daughter, and when I think of all her bright beauty and confidence I pray the world won’t break her spirit. And my prayer is answered in conversations such as this. And then I climb into her magic boat and we do our nails out at sea. And I think of the only verse I can ever remember to this Martina McBride song:

In my daughter’s eyes, I can see the future, a reflection of who I am and what will be. And though she’ll grow and someday leave, maybe raise a family, in my heart I hope you’ll see how happy she made me. I’ll be there, in my daughter’s eyes.

No School! No School! No, No, NO SCHOOL!

2006-03-21T08:06:00.000-06:00

That was the song of Mr. 6 this morning ... standing at my bedroom window shaking his behind and singing. It's the first time weather has closed our schools in two years, which makes it his first-ever snow day. Aaah. A day of snowball fights and hot chocolate ... I don't expect I'll get much written today!

Corn Snake

2006-03-20T11:08:00.000-06:00

It’s a warm day, perhaps that’s why my skin feels so tight.
I swerve.
I slither.
I feel as though I’m cracking out of myself.
I feel as though my usual colors are dulled, but not for long.
I swerve.
I slither.
I am one long muscle.
I am working to free myself from this skin that feels too tight.
It itches.
I scratch.
It cracks.
I'm free from that old self.
I move beyond it.
My yellow, orange and black are darker than before.
My muscles are stronger than before.
I’m shedding bad habits, one at a time, and this brightens me.

There was an exciting development in our house last week. Mr. 6, who has been studying karate for about six months now, was told it was time to take a belt test. This meant his first one-on-one workout with sensei, the highest ranking teacher at the school. Mr. 6 was an odd combination of excited and nervous, but, as always, confident. He would be trying to show sensei that he knew enough to move from white belt to advanced white belt. In the style he studies there are solid belts, which show a certain proficiency, and striped belts (advanced white, for instance, which is white with yellow running through the center) that show a progression of knowledge, but not quite the next level of proficiency. Mr. 6 had a blast showing what he knows and sensei was so impressed he skipped Mr. 6 to the next solid color belt, yellow.

I was fascinated listening to this man who has taught public school as well as karate for several decades. The ease with which he spoke to a crowd, the ease with which he spoke to students of all ages and the pride he took in each of their abilities was beautiful.

As each group advancing came forward he had them show those gathered some of what they know. He talked about how a white belt means you’re pure, an open book, he said, ready to learn. And as you learn, he said, the belts become darker. He had my son, and each of the others, remove their belt after their demonstrations and lay them at their feet.

“Step over that,” he said to Mr. 6, whose gaze was fixed on the yellow belt in sensei’s hands. “You’re beyond that now.” And he presented my son with his yellow belt. I thought my son would burst with pride.

This idea of knowledge darkening our pages was interesting to me. So often darkness is used to describe something menacing, dangerous, evil. At the dojo, darkness means knowledge, a powerful, positive thing. And the darker the belt, the more powerful the body, the deeper the knowledge, the more positive the self image of the student who has earned it.

And, as I filled journal pages answering the questions Claudia posed last week and worked my way toward Meg’s question I kept coming back to the fact that we are all making big changes, darkening new pages with more words, more art, better images of ourselves. But even as we make these changes we find there is still more to know, another level to work toward.

We shed one skin, celebrate the new one for awhile, then realize that it, too, feels too tight. So we work our way out and discover what’s next.

“Sometimes you’ll have a student who’s really been working hard,” sensei said as he came to the 40-something mom advancing. “They’ll skip the striped belt and move to the next solid color.” (Here I felt an extra twinge of pride in my son.) “Put your belt down,” sensei said to her, unfolding an orange belt as she placed her yellow one at her feet.

“Step over that. You’re beyond it.”