LOST A SOCK

2011 in the rearview

Initially I thought to comment, Well that went fast, when I realized it was time to recap the year that just started five minutes ago.  But then as the past year came into better focus, I knew that the quickness of its passage was less about its days and moments, and more about the fact that the years--they are really moving.  I love growing, I love getting older, I love my grey hairs and tiny little wrinkles left from smiling, I love change.  Bring it, 2012.

But first, for the short and sweet in the record book, allow me to recap 2011.

We began the year as we always do, on a ladder with paint brush in hand.  (Myself, that is. Not my kids.)  My kids were elbow deep in homeschool, and in a bin of dry rice and beans at the time, and we were eight months into our wait for our baby to be referred to us, from Africa.

This was a path that I somehow knew I would walk, at least in the years after I became a mom, though I never could have predicted our story thus far to present as it does in this moment.  While waiting for our referral, we began learning of so much corruption surrounding the situation in that particular country, and eventually we made what felt like the only ethical choice to make, given the circumstances, and we brought our paperwork back home.  I know with certainty that even now, had we stayed the course in spite of our concerns, we still would not have had our baby home today, and if we felt waist-deep in a terrible situation at the beginning of the year, without going into detail, we would have been up to our eyeballs by now.  Even our own agency, who we once had so much faith in, has not emerged with clean hands, and it leaves me feeling just sick for the babies and children who are involuntarily growing up in the center of this cold and dirty hurricane.  In this way the world appears uglier than ever to me, having joined the scene ready to help a child or children as we could, and then having witnessed such an unfolding.  It left me feeling hopeless for the kids at the center, and so very sorry for the well-intentioned adoptive and birth families caught in the swirling periphery. 

I am sorry to say that I came away from this once-exciting time to experience a grief I hadn't known before- a miscarriage of sorts, only for which there are no pre-determined parameters for how one should expect to feel after spending the better part of two years preparing for and dreaming about this very real baby that would join our family, only to walk away with empty arms.  Adoption is not just a thing that people decide to get into, but something we get into with our whole hearts and with our kids and families and friends and finances.  We create space in our homes and excitedly count down until this little person who already feels like one of us, comes along to finally be one of us.  The process, then, of giving away the toys I had saved, the blankets and clothing I had collected and telling each and every person of our turn of events left me mournful and exhausted.  The winter went long, and it felt dark and sometimes lonely.

I journaled a lot through that time, and searched to find the silver lining day after day, because it was the best of my options.  And I opened myself up to the possibility that I could somehow come out of this experience with greater breadth, and build something from all the little pieces.

By the grace of God, I met a friend of a friend very soon after that, who somehow got me instantly, right where I was, and sat with me in the space where I chose to work through our adoption into its roots.  My sadness for everything that had ever failed was palpable, then.  I saw all of that emotion and heartache, some of which I had carried with me since I was my own little kid, and I picked it apart and allowed it to become something new when it was ready.  I had grown into a better mother for all I had learned, and a better self for what I now understood.  The process, the preparation, the loss and the disaster we witnessed was what we simply had to endure for all that could come out of it and still is yet to come.  

And just like that, Spring arrived.

We were okay. We were all okay.  We were built for these sorts of deep life lessons-- a whole Master's Degree, really, on what fear and disappointment and love are all about.  How thankful I am to have come through all of this with a heart open to possibility, though it was no picnic at the time.

It was Mother's Day before I knew it and I was the mom of three amazing little kids, and we spent the morning on a hike, and laying in green grass, absorbing the sunshine.  I will never forget that Sunday morning, because I think it was one of the most perfect, ever, in my book.  I hired our wonderful babysitter for a few hours a week, beginning last Spring, to give me the occasional break that I didn't know I could (should!) grant myself and my kids. I became more familiar with poetry and bounced along on positive, super-fun music.  We had kitchen dance parties in the afternoon and at night, just the kids and I, or the kids and I and Kevin and Sant and Leslie-- all through the house with the music blasting.   

I threw caution to the wind and painted on all sorts of canvases, and put hardwood floors in our house and painted a few walls more.

We saw art.  We made art.

We plastered art all over our walls, and we didn't apologize for the mess.

We hiked,

and we drove,

and we celebrated.  

I felt that I should meet my inner perfectionist, somewhere in all that, and shake her up a little bit.  The world was not perfect, and I was not perfect.  The world was ugly and messy and dissapointing, and I needed to stare into all of that to understand that it was somehow part of something beautiful.  And so with each opportunity, to this very moment, I am asking myself what I can do with the beautiful messiness, and who will still love and accept me should they walk right into it with me.

And the answer, of course, is this little, solid group of friends and family whom I have intentionally placed around myself, like a group of fluffy pillows to pad my falls.  I am blessed.  Not lucky, as I tossed out there in my last post.  I believe, actually, in neither luck, nor coincidence, nor accidents.  I am here and happy and more whole than ever because I chose to experience awe and gratitude, again and again, for all of the blessings that come my way.  I am following my intuition as best I can, always chasing truth and what is real, and facing the hard work as it shows up, so that I can continue growing into the best version of myself-- all of those failings, and all of that messiness included.  There is more work to be done.

I added to my inky collection last summer, the word that hums through the undertones of my life, and five little birds in flight, for the five of us- Kevin and the kids and I, making this journey together.

We traveled a good deal this year, down to Indianapolis to spend some days with these little buddies of ours while their Mama delivered their new baby, 

and with these buddies of ours (also speaking of new, third babies) to Wisconsin Dells for a fun vacation.

We did the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee this year with family, 

in a mountainside cabin with a view and a settling energy I will never forget,

and we found ourselves floating down a river in bright yellow innertubes.

Kevin and I took a trip to Vegas for our eleventh wedding anniversary, 

and we experienced Utah and Arizona, where we hiked through quiet and still, rocky caverns.

I collected twenty-three pages of favorite quotes this year,

and finally figured out a layout and an atmosphere that is comfortable to me, here.

We saw the Dalai Lama speak in person over the summer, and I attended a fantastic monthly Buddhist meditation class.  Each Kevin and I did something we said we would never do again, and spent the last six months settling into churches we both love, each of us supporting the other with where we need to be.  We've gotten involved with a monthly soup kitchen, and we've met more new friends who have turned out to be icing on the cake.

We've created bonds with our homeschool buddies and taken lots of day-trips.  I bought an iPhone, I conquered every version of Angry Birds, I took the kids to see lots of plays and musicals this year.   

Kevin and I saw U2, which was hands-down, the best concert ever (even if I failed to bring my real camera).

I read this year.  I read and read and read and read, 

and it was one journey inward (and backwards and forwards) after the next.

We said good-bye to friends, both very real friends and quasi-real,

and we watched quietly the sun set,

the silkworm dangle,

and the Autumn breeze blow.

We hosted the holidays again,

and counted ourselves so blessed for full tables and full bellies.

We enjoyed the glow, 

remain present,

and bring nothing but hope, bravery, possibility and love to the year ahead.

Leap

Here we go.  This is it.

A street not far from me is lined with the Yellow Maples every Fall.  Our zoo has the perfect line of them, as well. For whatever reason these trees are the last to change each year.  They hang on until the end, until someplace in November when they can really get noticed.  Everyone else has transformed to bright colors and fallen, and then it is time.  Each leaf, swirling to the ground, in the strange, cold wind.

They are bright yellow now.  They are half gone already.  

Things that do not grow and change are dead things.

In which camp do you fall?

I have long dreaded this point in the year, but here we are, looking each other straight in the eye.  I am ready to breathe it all the way in.  The piercing cold that stings my sinuses and my face, and dries my throat and pokes my lungs.  Trudge through the snow that soaks our socks and lies in clumps, melting into salty puddles all over the kitchen floor.  Sopping wet gloves and scarves.  Layers of sweatpants tangled up and inside out.  Near impossible to just get up and go.  White and deep and dirty and obnoxious.  Something good emerges.

Story of the Three Bears

Just before she moved away last month, my girlfriend showered my children with birthday and Christmas presents, all at once.  As part of that showering, each of the three of them received a Build-A-Bear gift card, which is super because it is an experience-- something I find way more valuable than stuff, and also it is fun because they never get to go there.  

Ask them.  They will communicate this to you with a sing-song whine that emphasizes the word Neverrr.  This melodic whine, emphasize Never, a rite of passage for American middle-childhood, yes?  We'll go with it.

Anyway, I think that everyone has now been there once.  In the past I have gone in with one child or another and allowed bear choice, sound choice and an outfit choice, using their gift card to cover as much as it could, and then I would pay for the rest.  I had never been in with all three children at once, however, and just cannot shake the feeling these days, the more aware my children become, that it is my job to at least somewhat counteract the intensely consumerist plateful of awful that we are continually fed by the American Media, foi gras-style.

So back to the Teddy Bear Store.  

In addition to your teddy bear, you can buy sequined skirts and graphic tees, high heel shoes, bling boots, roller skates, satin underwear, sun glasses, and uniforms for every major football, baseball, basketball and hockey team imaginable.  And the bear creation ends at the back of the store, marching wide-eyed children through floor to ceiling displays of stuff for newly created BFF's.  

I kind of like this place.  Should I say that?  I have this very same Love-Hate thing with Disney. I think it magical to pick out and stuff your own teddy bear, kissing his sweet little heart before you place it inside him and have him sewn up.  It is fun in theory to personalize him.  But it's really tough to get out of there, with the average kid, without dropping fifty bucks on a bear.  That times three in our case, and the only word that comes to mind in the equation of three teddy bears and a hundred and fifty dollars?  Ridiculous.

As we walked in today I handed everyone their gift cards, and explained that they needed to spend the thirty dollars that was on each card, and no more.  When we picked out the bears, I attempted to direct people towards the fifteen dollar area, and away from the twenty-fives.  When they chose voices for their bears, I helped each child calculate how much they had spent thus far, and what they had left to spend on clothing and accessories. When it was time to choose clothing and accessories on the remaining one, eight and ten dollars?  It was hard.  

For a few minutes I felt like a heartless jerk, obvious money in my wallet that would easily cover the extra two dollars needed for a football, six fifty required for pants.  Kevin's mom was with us today, having just appliance shopped for her kitchen before this magical stop, and in my heart I hoped she would go along with my Applied Lesson In Real Life Budgeting.  Minimally, I hoped my heartless jerk colors were not shining through too brightly.

After a while the kids figured it out.  They had to choose the accessory that they really wanted, instead of a handful of things that seemed pretty neat.  This place, for whatever reason, made the word No intensely more felt than in the toy aisle at Target or when presented with shrieks over (no) Halloween candy for breakfast, at the kitchen counter.  I stayed with it.  Kevin's mom offered that she could make little pants and shirts for teddy bears as Christmas gifts, and later at lunch applied her own situation to teach the kids- that she'd just spent her money on a new stove and refrigerator, and would forgo dinner out or new shoes because buying is about making choices.

Little by little, I really hope to teach them the great benefit of living within their means. 

Currently, the free red bow that came home around Jack's black bear's neck has been transformed into a karate belt.  And Marin's heart bear has been further accessorized with Finding Nemo training pants, the plastic crown from her Halloween costume, and her own black dress shoes.  All new friends have been introduced to their twin bed cohorts, and are adapting nicely.  We are doing just fine.

Slight turning point

I read this last week, and loved it-- a quote from Louise Erdrich in The Painted Drum:

Life will break you.  Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning.  You have to love.  You have to feel.  It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart.  You are here to be swallowed up.  And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness.  Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.

...

Why hello, mid-November.  It appears we have reached the end of all of these warm, colorful sunshine filled days and weeks and months.  I've let it carry me all the way through from the Spring, and here we are.  A good many of the leaves are now resting in the cold November puddles, having been blown off by the good wind that came through, or the rain.  The so-often-lately rain.  

The cold and darkness are here and I find myself feeling around with my fingertips and my hands, and listening, in that darkness, for the song of early Winter, and Christmas.  I will need to join in, still remembering that while the days were sunny and warm and our shoulders were kissed with sun tans, we were tasting the apples.  As many as we could.  (Literally, sometimes.)

They were sweet.

Think Different

Here's to the crazy ones.

The misfits.  The rebels.  The troublemakers.  The round pegs in square holes.

The ones who see things differently.

They're not fond of rules.  And they have no respect for the status quo.

You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or villify them.

About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.  Because they change things.

They invent.  They imagine.  They heal.  They explore.  They create.

They inspire.

They push the human race forward. 

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?  Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?  Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?  We make tools for these kinds of people. 

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genious.

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes...

I guess you could take that title one of two ways, but I was quoting a fun and energizing song.  My oldest child has been singing it without taking a breath, I think, for several days now.

I wanna celebrate and live my life, 

singing Ayo! Baby let's go!

So it is mid-September already, and we are about to witness the color scheme of these pictures shift from their Lake Michigan blues, sands and silvers to green.  All green!  

(And soon, bright red, fire orange and explosive yellow, yes, friends?  Fall is upon us.)

See that special kind of Autumn late-afternoon sunshine?  There it is!

My favorite.

And monarch butterflies all around, and Canadian Geese up above in their V-formations for the long journey South-- the kids and I wishing them well on their way.

Early Fall, September, draws me to the outdoors even more so than during the summer months, I think.  It is a different time when sweatshirt weather taps you on the shoulder by surprise, and then the two of you play chase for a few weeks, until finally you're ready to snuggle up by the fire together for a few long months.

I remember once during my senior year of college, being asked randomly by a professor what my hobbies were.  And truthfully I did not know myself well at the time.  I worked, a lot, and went to class-- lots and lots of class, and I went on dates with Kevin to the movies and to the local bar with my girlfriends for Malibu rum & pineapple juice over ice, in little plastic cups, for a buck or two.  

"Hiking," I blurted out in response.  And then I sort of stepped outside of my self and cocked my head to the side and gave a puzzled look to the girl who just said that, because I did not hike, then.  At all.

But it was like we were meant to be, the woods and I, and my rapidly growing-up family.  I just could not have understood this, back then.

What would I have done back then, with my one wild and precious life?  (I love that Mary Oliver quote.)  Back then, I would become a shiny new teacher, and a partner.  And now?  An experienced teacher-- in my best classroom yet, and a partner redefined many times over, in this year fifteen.

What will I do now, with my one wild and precious life?  Now that I am here? Photograph and explore, paint and sew, cook, travel, dabble in poetry, meditate and exercise bravery.  And learn and grow alongside my children every day.  Breathe it in deeply and be who I am, a girl on land, in the process of becoming whatever comes next.  It feels like the perfect thing to do, because there is no external force, no person's opinion, no thing I can ever think of that would be worth waking up to say, I am not the person I want to be.      

So early September calls my crew to hiking shoes and the changing woods, and of course to the zoo, and to the apple orchard every year.  

Mmm, yes, the apple orchard.  We understand by now, the differences between the Galas, Granny Smiths and Red Delicious, and that to get an apple off of a tree you must first twist, then pull.  And after that, of course, shine it up on your pant leg and take a big bite.

Everyone right down to Marin can weave the tale of Johnny Appleseed, and bake cobbler, and create apple art.  

I honestly cannot put rhyme or reason to it.  Nothing more than it being the perfect way to celebrate September.

I did these things with KJ and Jack in the very first few weeks we ever homeschooled, a few years ago, and every year since.  By now my big guy has mostly outgrown apple prints, but I am lucky enough to have a new preschooler coming up through the ranks, and she is very excited about investigating cores and seeds and textures with her Kindergarten brother.

This, our third year of homeschooling, is the year of the project.  Exploration! One true, unapologetic mess after the next all for the sake of enjoying, and also learning at the same time.

Dare I say I think we are getting a rhythm down?  

(Year three, friends.  Sense emerges.)  

When I compile our list of topics to investigate, we generally start in the same place each year and build.  We are lovers of the outdoors, and so we do trees and plants in the Fall.  And Native Americans.  And Space, because it's fun.

Jack is especially interested in all things Space, here with his diorama-in-the-works that includes the Hercules constellation, wielding his giant club somewhere in the neighborhood south of the Little Dipper.  We were also so excited to read of the fifty newly discovered exoplanets this week.  What great timing, Scientists.

So honestly I was a bit unsure of my footing, stepping out of summer this year and into the cooler season.  I knew I was doing well with sunsets on the beach and pb & j's and rock collecting, so I was not thrilled with letting go just yet. But little by little, through the process of diving head first into our school year and embracing the goodness that comes with the dawn of a new phase, 

we've arrived here.

Happily!

And it's birthday season!

Marin, myself, my sister and KJ all together in just a few short, super-celebrated weeks.

My sister and sister-in-law?  Pure genius.  This is how you weave together a couple very different party themes, apparently.

My baby is now three, and my oldest on the brink of nine.  I remember nine, vividly, and I attempt to remind myself over and over that he will too.

Here's to making it count: every day, every step, every exchange. And every swiftly changing leaf, and child.

August, Late.

We are closing out our final week before we begin school for the year.  Of course we homeschool, so we can still hike, paint, or whatever we like to do during the summer... only there is a new breeze blowing in.  And it smells like a fresh box of crayons.

Summer and I, right now, are standing together holding hands like two nine year old girls.  I know she has to go, but I'm making her promise that she will return soon so that we can spend long, sunny days together again before I know it.

(She promises.)

As we wrapped up summer camp a few weeks ago I took a look at all of the great things we've done in the last few months, and thought about what we were still lacking.  We needed a little more hiking, a little more time with the warm waves, and a little more purpose-free art.

Off we went.

The kids befriended a stick bug,

Marin and I buddied up for Trail Seven,

we constructed a backyard teepee (nobody tell Marin that the Indians didn't have Nerf Bono glasses, m'kay?)

and in a surprising twist of Haircut Salon Fate, my guy asked for short hair.  

My instinct was to slap the scissors right out of twenty-two year old Tiffany's hand, and send her to time out for even allowing him to entertain the idea while getting a normal trim.  But alas there was no reason for him not to have a new style-- a big kid style, at that, and so I agreed.

What next, driving?  Radio control?  Coffee drinking?  

(Noooooooooo.)

With the arrival of September's sunshiny, cooler days comes birthday season in our family.  September is the month of cake, is what I am telling you.

Little Missy will celebrate her third birthday next week.

And her sixteenth the week after, apparently.

Somewhere in the middle of this coming month my sister and I will celebrate our birthdays, and finish out with KJ turning nine after that.  And two days from now, or three because we can never remember exactly which day we are supposed to recognize, Kevin and I will head into year fifteen together.  

Time flies when you're having fun.

And we are.

Love Will Find You Out

It’s okay to fall apart.
You don’t have to know the answers.
All those pieces you’ve been holding for so long while you raced around your life looking for the last roll of scotch tape, go ahead, let them fall.
Let them fall.
Every last piece.

It’s okay to scramble.
You don’t have to be calm now.
All those plans you’ve been stringing together like a macaroni necklace in kindergarten–
every last one is beautiful, so beautiful, so go ahead.
Keep grabbing at everything you ever wanted and always feared you’d never have.
Every last beautiful dream.

It’s okay to hope against hope.
This is not a time to be reasonable or rational.
Run, run as fast as you can against the tide that is crashing down now.
When the last wave sweeps over you
and every hope has been dashed
You will still be here, right here
and you will not be sorry you tried to make all your sorrows disappear.

It’s okay to cry.
Even if you are a man. Even if you are a mother. Even if you feel each tear
as an accusation against your strength, your resolve, your natural equilibrium.
Cry in the car. Cry in the shower.
Cry in bed when no one is listening or looking.
Cry when you kiss the kids goodbye for school.
Cry when you do the dishes.
Berate yourself for not being able to get it together
and then cry anyway.
How else will you know you lived, if not for these tears
reminding you were not made of metal, wood or steel
after all?

It’s okay to be lost.
Throw away the map. Leave the keys in the car.
Get out and walk.
Forget about everything you ever knew.
Crumple up those directions and move now from memory
The memory of your heart
The memory of your breath
The memory of that one time you laughed so hard you cried
The memory of that one kiss, the one that left you longing
to be loved for ever and ever.

At the end of your unraveling,
you will look down and see your own feet
that have carried you so, so far
and you will decide for once that it is okay
to sit down
to rest
to hold out your hands
to lift up your head
to open your heart
to the possibility that you were never alone after all
not for one minute

That Love was right there
in her terrible silence
not quite sure how to say it so you would believe her
that you were a thing of rare beauty on the earth
That She still has your macaroni necklace
That She’s been following you around,
making maps of all the places you’ve been lost,
so you’d know how to get back when the time came
to put it all to rest.

Go ahead, be disappointed.
Nothing turned out how you hoped.
Sit under a tree and tell me the whole of it
and I won’t say a word.
I won’t say a single word.

This is the secret nobody knows.
All these days Love carried my heart in her heart.
I was her favorite, even as I cried,
and now I am sitting under her tree
listening to you
the way she listened to me
while I swore she was never ever there.

It’s okay to feel lonely.
At the end of your wanderings
when there is no more scotch tape
and you can’t find your macaroni necklace of dreams anywhere
your heart will trace an unpredictable path
to this place and you will have just enough courage
to let Love tell you the terrible beautiful truth
of how loved you were
and how even now, at the end of everything
it’s not too late.

 

--words by Jen Lemen

Not Perfect

This week marks our tenth and final week of summer camp for the year, leaving us with little more than a week or two for school-free afternoons.  We are in the home stretch, with brand new boxes of crayons and washable markers, piles of age-appropriate workbook, and curricula--- almost typed and printed out for future, frequent reference. 

Last spring I imagined that the summer would be busy, and that it would also allow time for staying close to home.  And there was that, a bit.  Marin mastered about fifty percent of the upper-case alphabet, and potty training, we played lots of Memory and snoozed on the couch during a handful of afternoons… because finally the teacher was off, and we could.  Part of me wishes to share that I hauled baskets filled with wet sheets and beach towels out to my laundry lines in the effort to save the Planet from dryer-overuse as I had in summers’ past, and that we walked our nearby trail more, but we did a bit less of those things this summer.  

We swam—we did that a lot.  And we did roller coasters, bouncy houses, splash pads, hot dogs and cauliflower on the grill.  Concerts, museums, playdates, overnights, vacations-- we did those, too.  We were out exploring the world and enjoying our people this summer, for sure.  We were away from home so much sometimes that I felt like I was barely seeing my bed, let alone the evening comforts of my living room couch, before it was time to get up and begin the next day.  

I did manage to shower every morning, except one, before camp drop-off. {Great success.}

A funny thing happened this summer, though, as it sometimes does when we get really busy: I had to let some things be.  You know what I’m talking about—running out to this or that and often leaving a mess behind as we exited.  And when we returned home to those tasks, I sometimes chose to read, nap or meditate first, instead of hopefully later or not at all, once the mundane tasks were crossed off my list.

Those two taunting words, bad mom, often crept in with this rebellious permission, as the kids battled with light sabers and each other in the back yard while I bounced around the Internet within earshot of them, but not engaging.  I sometimes wondered if Kevin thought I wasn’t keeping up with my end of some mythical spousal agreement we do not actually have, where I expend my every ounce of energy on collecting dirty dishes.  I have spent years running myself silly with homeschool and engage with each of the kids all day long, and in the little cracks of time in between keeping our laundry very folded and our pantry very stocked and our checking account very balanced.  And then if there was time later, generally in the middle of the night, I could read or meditate or write a blog entry.  

I am learning to re-prioritize and balance, and to choose my self when it is applicable, just like my kids do effortlessly for themselves all day long.             {They are really onto something.}

Letting go of that need to prove I can do it all is not a new concept. I have been fiddling with it for as long as I have been a mom, as is so common in our culture, but it became a non-negotiable in these recent months, and oddly something I had to learn—that my imperfections could serve as a way to access freedom, and even as an invitation to be loved.  I am sometimes guilty of saying the wrong things, forgetting what I had promised to do, taking too long to respond to emails, and now occasionally I plop down on the couch when there is potential work to be done.  And I ask silently for what all of us are really looking for in our messy, imperfect lives-- please love me anyway.     

Truthfully, I realized that maybe the issue wasn’t so much that my house was always so clean, because clearly not with three active children, but instead it was the scathing, unkind judgments that I had been laying upon myself for what I considered Not Perfect.  

Truly, the story of Leo Buscaglia that I love so much, with the fall leaves scattered about his living room floor, has become my own story this summer, only with scattered pairs of sandals in front of the closet doors and overflowing recycle cans—as evidence that we were busy out in the world experiencing, and that when we are at home, we are living first and upkeeping second.  I am finding the balance here, slowly and with new footing.

A work in progress, friends.

Summer Sampler

To Marin with Love

I am currently reading the book The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd.  I do not normally tend to read fiction, but I felt somehow drawn to this one. It is amazing.  It is the story of a girl named Lily, who was being raised by her father after her mother died when she was just four years old.  And through the first parts of the book as she describes her life with her father, she goes into great detail about the ache she feels for her mother.  She dreams of being hugged and held and snuggled up into her mother's chest so that she can listen to her heart beat.  And she talks about all of the things that she and her mother would do together when they reunite one day:

The next ten thousand years she would fix my hair.  She would brush it into such a tower of beauty, people all over heaven would drop their harps just to admire it.  You can tell which girls lack mothers by the look of their hair.  My hair was constantly going off in eleven directions, and T. Ray, naturally, refused to buy me bristle rollers, so all year I had to roll it on Welch's grape juice cans, which had nearly turned me into an insomniac.  I was always having to choose between decent hair and a good night's sleep.

Reading this reminded me of Melissa Fay Greene's book, There Is No Me Without You, which I read a couple years back when we just began our adoption process.  In it she spoke of the children whom she encountered in the orphanages of Ethiopia, pointing out that she could tell which children had once bonded with a mother and had lost her, as they expected-- and stared, and waited for, some sort of response or praise from adults when they spoke to them.  Children who had never bonded with a mother made eye contact infrequently and did not expect positive, encouraging responses, and often did not even understand how to receive them.  

So this morning as I lay in bed, engrossed in Secret Life of Bees for more than an hour already, Marin came along.  She climbed onto my side of the bed and as I placed my bookmark in my book and set it aside, and she straddled my chest with her feet and plopped down on top of me.  She then picked up one of the two strings from the beat up hooded sweatshirt I was wearing, and pretended to put on "lipsticks" with the end of it.  She brushed her face with the soft end of the string and then mine to make us both pretty, and then she asked if she could paint my fingernails with it.   

All of this made me think of Lily, of course, as I had just come out of reading moments before, and I thought about my own relationship with my daughter-- the validation I give her and the self-esteem through the million little interactions we have each day.  We share a physical and emotional closeness.  

As she happily pretended to paint my nails with a sweatshirt string, I thought of how she has been asking to have her nails painted recently, and how I have been telling her, When you're bigger.  

But this morning felt a little different.

Sitting on the bathroom counter as I lightly brushed each nail, she excitedly squealed, "I am big!  I am big now!  It's so pretty!"

And mostly I thought to myself, giving her this pretty pink badge to wear for the week, This girl is loved by her mother.

Long Weekend Happy

1. The smell of a bookstore

2. Long weekends with Kevin home, and enough free time to take it in

3. Asparagus, broccoli or cauliflower tossed with olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper and a little parmesan cheese, charred on the grill

4. Writing with smooth ink gel pens

5. Longevity (and hilarity) (and safety) (and perfection) of sisters

6. Snuggling up with my kids, reading together

7. Hiking with my amazing people

8. Laying in my bed in the middle of the afternoon, on fresh, cool sheets

9. The way warm summer sunshine feels on my skin

10.  Songs with good messages

11.  Knowing when to clean up toys and when the mess is only play put on hold

12.  The colors and light throughout the movie “Something’s Gotta Give”

13.  Rocking my baby (toddler!) as many times a day as she wants

14.  Sunrises and sunsets

15.  The way my skin feels tight after an afternoon swim

16.  Twenty-two pounds and counting

17.  Realizing shared interests, and talking them to death

18.  A really good, can’t-put-it-down book

19.  Bright red, sweet baby tomatoes right out of the back yard

20.  Noticing tiny pictures on my vision boards come to life

21.  Spending quiet evenings with my girlfriends, no matter what we do together

22.  A clean swept kitchen floor

23.  Elephants

24.  The way I don’t want to slow down to meditate, but then when I do, I never want to leave that place

25.  Taking walks in late fall afternoons when the sun gives that orange glow, just newly returning to sweaters, brown shoes and socks and hearing the wind blowing the leaves in the trees and crunching as we walk through

26.  Crushed up crackers in broccoli cheddar soup

27.  The quiet peace and sheer excitement that coexist perfectly late at night on Christmas Eve

28.  Starbucks coffee.  Black with a little ice.

29.  Wild flowers

30.  Finding the strength to do what I once believed myself incapable of

31.  Driving with all of the car windows open, great music playing on the radio

32.  Encounters with strangers where you realize a deep, momentary connection, and wondering what that was all about

33.  The softness of my children’s skin and the smell of their wet hair at night, after a bath

34.  That moment of gratitude after realizing I reacted to something in precisely the way I would have wanted, had I time to plan

35.  The feeling of such freedom that is driving across the country

36.  Sleeping at night with a fan blowing cool air into our bedroom window, while laying snug beneath several layers of blankets

37.  The moments just before the moment you’ve been waiting for

38.  Sliced bananas and cool whip

39.  The quick sound of my camera’s shutter

40.  Waking up to realize I’ve been dreaming about loved ones who have passed away

41.  Stopping my day to tell one of my kids that I love them.  That I really, really love them.

42.  Black-eyed Susans

43.  Perfect lines of trees

44.  Taking the kids apple picking

45.  Noticing elderly couples together, and hoping for the gift that is growing old with the person you love

46.  Soft green grass, blue skies.

47.  Hearing my kids crack each other up

48.  Jackson’s gifts of backyard flowers

49.  Opening ourselves up to the possibility...

50. A nice big glass of afternoon chocolate milk

SnowBlogging. Now with Vitamin D.

The quiet, untouched snow at sunrise.

The rising, curling steam as the sun touches frosty surfaces.

I needed to get out in it with my camera.  It was literally two degrees when the kids and I piled into the car for a drive this morning, but we bundled up and kicked up the music.

My favorite winter days are those just after a snow, when the white stuff is still mostly untouched, and calm, and the sky is as blue as can be.

I go for my reasons.  My kids go for theirs.

These little guys give hope for Spring.

I would like to place some sort of beeping device on this house, for the very first moment the owners decide to sell it.  I could live here forever.

Nature's little snowflake-holding cups.

I actually stopped here at the library to return our books.  Alas, they remained closed for the day.  They have a few snow drifts to contend with.

A little ice, a little snow.  Just a little.

I imagine that these business owners felt as hopeless as I did by yesterday afternoon, when the snow just kept coming.  Today, however, we celebrate.

The snow plows really did a great job overnight.  There was hardly a road untouched.

I'm so glad to have these giant trees to keep some color around in the winter landscape.  I remember when I was a little girl, my Aunt Kathy having lots of these trees near her townhouse up in Rockford, Illinois.  I would run around in the fallen pine needles in the dirt, collecting pine cones while she laid on her white and yellow soft plastic lawn chair getting some sun.  I easily remember the smell of the trees and the unique ridges in the pine cones.

I will also remember these creative neighbors.  Hilarious!

My sister told me today that we are due for more snowfall this weekend.  I am not sure exactly where we are going to put it.  

How much snow did you get?

SnowBlogging

This is a picture taken out my front window at three o'clock this afternoon. We received about two feet of snow in twenty-four hours.  This is how.

Yesterday morning, in anticipation of the snow, the kids and I headed out to run a few errands.  While driving near the lake in our town, we saw that there were hundreds of ducks and geese sitting on the ice and snow and we made a snap decision to turn into the nearby gas station, purchase a few loaves of bread and feed the birds pre-blizzard.  

We were not even properly dressed for being outside in such cold weather, but it was seriously such an awesome experience.  There were literally hundreds of geese and ducks, charging the kids, honking and quacking at them for more and more bread.  They couldn't toss it fast enough!

Suddenly the Mallards got a memo and all at once they took off into the sky. We were right in the middle of these quacking, flapping guys, and what a breeze they produced!

After that we were left with only geese, who were okay with having their soft feathers touched as long as they were stuffing them silly with bread.  Nice trade off.

If there's anything we know about feeding geese, however, it's that they are greedy.  And if there is anything that geese know about getting food from humans, it's that the five year olds are for chasing.

Needless to say, when the boys were finished giving out bread, they had to run as fast as the could so none of these guys jumped in with them!

I had this great idea for homeschool science, where we would measure the snowfall every hour.  The boys formed hypotheses for how deep they thought it would get and we made observations about temperature and wind and inches.

We were cooking with gas by early morning (notice our planters disappearing above)

but soon the winds picked up and the drifting began, making our measurements inaccurate and near impossible (and also, quite funny for the kids.)

We eventually located our front porch,

wherein We equals Not Me, but he who worked from home.  This was only the first round of shoveling, unfortunately, because after this we received a solid six more hours of lake effect snowfall.

Morale dipped.  Quite a bit.

And finally late in the afternoon, the snow stopped falling.  We had lost our planters hours before,

and by nightfall, our dog!

So as the clouds begin to break and the sun sets, today also happens to be Groundhog Day.  Little Punxsutawney Phil suggested an early spring.  

Um, yes please?

I hope you are digging out if you, too, are buried in snow!

Leap!

And the net will appear.

Here's hoping for a little more leaping in 2011.  I've got both exciting and humble goals for the year, having set my personal bar higher than ever.  This year is going to take some effort and some stretching, and hopefully lots of successes along the way.  A freshly painted kitchen, a renewed pass to the zoo, a better structured school day and creativity at my hand.  I have no idea how it can happen, but I am dying to dip my toes in the ocean again.  I will show more gratitude, and take the risk when I find myself teetering between serious nerves and something wonderful.  I will use both my words and my silence more effectively, and I will pack away all of my too-big clothes. Because they will be, again.  I will continue to live honestly and go where there is no path and leave a trail, in whatever small or large situations I am given. 

We're off to a good start, four days in!

The first week of January always makes me feel like I'm sitting before a gigantic, shiny present with a big bow on top, and I can't wait to open it up and see what the year brings.