I hung the world
On my living room wall.
I sat and talked with God
About the cracks in my world.
I watched the teardrops splash
Onto the continent of my self.
He told me of the new heavens
and the new world He will make.
He said it will endure.
I wondered what that had to do with anything.
And there was the map
Of the world I'd given up on.
The one I wanted my children to know.
His World.
His Future.
I lift my face beyond
The living room wall.
His smile
My smile
Will endure.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Why so blank?
Every once and awhile over the past few months, I have thought, "You haven't written a post in a while. What has happened that is meaningful, exciting, funny, worth sharing?"
Then I think, "Nothing, really."
But I know that's not true. Why the blankness? Why the challenge?
Do you ever feel like that?
I'm stuck there. Will let you know when I crawl out into the sunshine again. Hope you are well.
Then I think, "Nothing, really."
But I know that's not true. Why the blankness? Why the challenge?
Do you ever feel like that?
I'm stuck there. Will let you know when I crawl out into the sunshine again. Hope you are well.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Checklist
From 3:30 pm to 5:00 pm on an average weekday:
Disclaimer: This checklist is only valid for another week and a half, until Hubs' night shift is over, Charmer adds play practice after school once a week, and Engineer adds soccer practice at 5:15 once a week (When am I supposed to cook dinner? When are we supposed to eat it?). Oldest already has gymnastics once a week. You can see why I have a ONE activity limit per child. MAX. But this should be a subject of another blog post!
Next checklist: 5 pm to 8 pm (from Hubs leaving until the kids are all in bed — maybe.)
- Welcome each child home individually (even though they all come in the door in a rush)
- Remind each one to hang up coats and put shoes in the right place (or do it for them, *sigh*)
- Remind each one to wash his or her hands (as often as necessary until done, *sigh*)
- Ask about school
- Listen to more than one story about school at the same time
- Pour my "coping" cup of coffee (about 4 pm) as the first sibling altercation begins ("You interrupted me!")
- Remind them to get snacks
- Remind them to drink ("Stay hydrated!")
- Suggest that they go outside and play (weather cooperating . . . this is healthy for everyone involved)
- Visit briefly with Hubs who is surfing the Net news after a short day's sleep
- Start dinner
- (half the time) Wash the dishes needed to start dinner/eat dinner
- * Inspect/wipe/wash off children who are coming in from outside (if the weather indeed cooperated)
- * Help at least two children with two separate homework assignments in two separate rooms while cooking dinner and trying (maybe) to listen to "All Things Considered" on my pre-children Sony radio
- Kiss Hubs goodbye before he saunters off into the sunset of L&D night shift (in the Big Red Truck)
Disclaimer: This checklist is only valid for another week and a half, until Hubs' night shift is over, Charmer adds play practice after school once a week, and Engineer adds soccer practice at 5:15 once a week (When am I supposed to cook dinner? When are we supposed to eat it?). Oldest already has gymnastics once a week. You can see why I have a ONE activity limit per child. MAX. But this should be a subject of another blog post!
Next checklist: 5 pm to 8 pm (from Hubs leaving until the kids are all in bed — maybe.)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Make Me Fat
There's been a bit of construction going on in our neighborhood, up the hill on the main drag. At a location I pass several times a week. I finally spotted the modest sign nailed to a post by the road: "DD coming soon." That's right, the famous doughnut establishment.
After dropping Oldest off at gymnastics a few days ago, the boys and I passed that spot. I decided to share my doleful feelings while we whizzed by. "Oh, great. Another make-me-fat restaurant."
They loved that. Engineer guffawed. Charmer took a while, but he was on board with the sarcasm pretty soon after. I continued in a country twang, "Jest what I need, 'nother place ta Make-Me-Fat."
The next day at dinner one of the boys brought Oldest into the joke. Hubs was working so I didn't feel guilty about getting them riled up. Soon we had a whole table full of budding fatso rednecks. Charmer sits next to me, and he and I got into a little exchange.
"I don't need ta go ta that new make-me-fat restaurant," I insisted.
"Oh, yes, I'm gonna take yoo there and make yoo fat," he intoned, wagging his finger.
"Don't need ta go inside, I could jest drive by and look at it and get fat."
(Oldest stopped breathing and fell halfway over.)
"No, no! I'm a-gonna feed ya and feed ya until ya get faaaat."
"Why on earth would ya wanna do that?" I was truly interested.
"Ta fatten ya up so I can EAT YA! num num num num!" He scooped his hands to his mouth like little shovels.
I choked with laughter at this unexpected Hansel and Gretel take-off. We've got a real little actor on our hands.
As for the make-me-fat restaurant, well, at least it will be right across from the YMCA . . .
After dropping Oldest off at gymnastics a few days ago, the boys and I passed that spot. I decided to share my doleful feelings while we whizzed by. "Oh, great. Another make-me-fat restaurant."
They loved that. Engineer guffawed. Charmer took a while, but he was on board with the sarcasm pretty soon after. I continued in a country twang, "Jest what I need, 'nother place ta Make-Me-Fat."
The next day at dinner one of the boys brought Oldest into the joke. Hubs was working so I didn't feel guilty about getting them riled up. Soon we had a whole table full of budding fatso rednecks. Charmer sits next to me, and he and I got into a little exchange.
"I don't need ta go ta that new make-me-fat restaurant," I insisted.
"Oh, yes, I'm gonna take yoo there and make yoo fat," he intoned, wagging his finger.
"Don't need ta go inside, I could jest drive by and look at it and get fat."
(Oldest stopped breathing and fell halfway over.)
"No, no! I'm a-gonna feed ya and feed ya until ya get faaaat."
"Why on earth would ya wanna do that?" I was truly interested.
"Ta fatten ya up so I can EAT YA! num num num num!" He scooped his hands to his mouth like little shovels.
I choked with laughter at this unexpected Hansel and Gretel take-off. We've got a real little actor on our hands.
As for the make-me-fat restaurant, well, at least it will be right across from the YMCA . . .
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Red Jello
Rows of crystal goblets
at perfect attention,
each cradling translucent ruby
and snow cream stripes,
each covered with saran wrap
and secured with a newsprint-blackened rubber band,
waiting for me on the shelf
in my Grandma's fridge.
Okay, given the choice between high-class language and everyday talk, I need to be true to my background and go for the everyday talk.
A young child's memory of love: Red Jello with Cool Whip. Appropriate colors for Valentine's Day, but just by chance. Or was it . . . ?
My perky grandmother (perky in spirit; she sat down most of the time) would make these magical desserts en masse before my visit. Occasionally she'd be finishing them up as I arrived, deftly stretching the cling wrap across the top. I marvelled at how she could put it on so perfectly that if I held it at an angle, it disappeared. Most times they'd already be in the fridge lined up from back to front, second shelf down usually, at least two columns of them.
They weren't all for me, of course. But as I was the only little one around then, they were mostly for me. She would have one, too; we'd sit down at the big kitchen table and pull off the rubber bands, which we'd later put back in the drawer. (One of the Wonders of that house was the rubber band drawer: I could never fathom how they had collected that many green and red and blue skinny rubber bands.) Then we'd dig in with our spoons, down through the creamy white and into the cool red. The dessert dishes were shaped like goblets, with a stem and everything, and they weren't really crystal. They were better. Thick glass or something like that. Like at an old-fashioned ice-cream shop.
My grandmother knew how to make me feel special. How to make a simple thing magical.
Red jello with Cool Whip . . . nothing to do with my sweetheart. But everything to do with someone who loved me.
at perfect attention,
each cradling translucent ruby
and snow cream stripes,
each covered with saran wrap
and secured with a newsprint-blackened rubber band,
waiting for me on the shelf
in my Grandma's fridge.
Okay, given the choice between high-class language and everyday talk, I need to be true to my background and go for the everyday talk.
A young child's memory of love: Red Jello with Cool Whip. Appropriate colors for Valentine's Day, but just by chance. Or was it . . . ?
My perky grandmother (perky in spirit; she sat down most of the time) would make these magical desserts en masse before my visit. Occasionally she'd be finishing them up as I arrived, deftly stretching the cling wrap across the top. I marvelled at how she could put it on so perfectly that if I held it at an angle, it disappeared. Most times they'd already be in the fridge lined up from back to front, second shelf down usually, at least two columns of them.
They weren't all for me, of course. But as I was the only little one around then, they were mostly for me. She would have one, too; we'd sit down at the big kitchen table and pull off the rubber bands, which we'd later put back in the drawer. (One of the Wonders of that house was the rubber band drawer: I could never fathom how they had collected that many green and red and blue skinny rubber bands.) Then we'd dig in with our spoons, down through the creamy white and into the cool red. The dessert dishes were shaped like goblets, with a stem and everything, and they weren't really crystal. They were better. Thick glass or something like that. Like at an old-fashioned ice-cream shop.
My grandmother knew how to make me feel special. How to make a simple thing magical.
Red jello with Cool Whip . . . nothing to do with my sweetheart. But everything to do with someone who loved me.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Emptiness
A few days ago I was driving alone to take some things to my mother at the state mental hospital; a two hour drive one-way, but the sky was so open and inviting. It was a good time to think.
I reflected on a passage I had recently read, that challenged my perception of the word "emptiness."
Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
11.
Thirty spokes converge at the hub,
but emptiness completes the wheel.
Clay is shaped to make a pot,
and what's useful is its emptiness.
Carve fine doors and windows,
but the room is useful in its emptiness.
What is
is beneficial, while what is not
also proves useful.
- translated by Sam Hamill
I looked around at the brilliant blue sky and the open highway; both useful and beautiful in their emptiness. Before reading #11, the word "empty" had a largely negative connotation for me. You know the old litmus test for pessimism: "That glass is half empty." Or when we say someone has an empty head, well, that's not exactly a compliment.
Perhaps what I haven't seen is the possibility within the emptiness. Even its structural necessity, like in Lao Tzu's wheel. Perhaps we take it for granted. Perhaps I think it's not necessary.
Closer to the hospital, I turned my CDs on shuffle mode, and U2's song "Yahweh" began to play. "Take these hands/Teach them what to carry./Take these hands/Don't make a fist/No." The speaker is offering God each part of his body. The hands, I thought - to be useful, they have to be empty. There is value in leaving ample space in one's life for the Important. As a person. As a mother. As a Child.
When I arrived early in the hospital's waiting room, I made a list of things that are useful when empty:
An empty page
Empty hands
Empty time/schedule
Empty chalice
Empty highway
Empty sky
Empty mouth
"Empty" mind - clear, quiet, receptive
If only I could be empty of desire, I thought vaguely, watching the locked portal to the patient wards. Emptied of expectations, of hopes. Then, if she refuses to see me, I will not feel pain. I will be free, above it. Tao Te Ching #16: "Attain emptiness. Attain tranquility."
So much for that. I choked my way back to the car, wiping my eyes. I cannot empty myself of my humanity.
Maybe that is what I need to leave room for.
I reflected on a passage I had recently read, that challenged my perception of the word "emptiness."
Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu
11.
Thirty spokes converge at the hub,
but emptiness completes the wheel.
Clay is shaped to make a pot,
and what's useful is its emptiness.
Carve fine doors and windows,
but the room is useful in its emptiness.
What is
is beneficial, while what is not
also proves useful.
- translated by Sam Hamill
I looked around at the brilliant blue sky and the open highway; both useful and beautiful in their emptiness. Before reading #11, the word "empty" had a largely negative connotation for me. You know the old litmus test for pessimism: "That glass is half empty." Or when we say someone has an empty head, well, that's not exactly a compliment.
Perhaps what I haven't seen is the possibility within the emptiness. Even its structural necessity, like in Lao Tzu's wheel. Perhaps we take it for granted. Perhaps I think it's not necessary.
Closer to the hospital, I turned my CDs on shuffle mode, and U2's song "Yahweh" began to play. "Take these hands/Teach them what to carry./Take these hands/Don't make a fist/No." The speaker is offering God each part of his body. The hands, I thought - to be useful, they have to be empty. There is value in leaving ample space in one's life for the Important. As a person. As a mother. As a Child.
When I arrived early in the hospital's waiting room, I made a list of things that are useful when empty:
An empty page
Empty hands
Empty time/schedule
Empty chalice
Empty highway
Empty sky
Empty mouth
"Empty" mind - clear, quiet, receptive
If only I could be empty of desire, I thought vaguely, watching the locked portal to the patient wards. Emptied of expectations, of hopes. Then, if she refuses to see me, I will not feel pain. I will be free, above it. Tao Te Ching #16: "Attain emptiness. Attain tranquility."
So much for that. I choked my way back to the car, wiping my eyes. I cannot empty myself of my humanity.
Maybe that is what I need to leave room for.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Spelling Queen
Cue the music: ABBA's pop classic "Dancing Queen." I can hear the song in my head; if you need a refresher, click play below. I couldn't find a pure audio clip, so feel free to just listen as you continue to read.
Talk about shining under pressure: I have to tell you about my daughter at the school spelling bee. It's one thing to watch your favorite sports star keep his cool in a stressful championship moment; it's quite another to watch your firstborn child stand in front of hundreds of spectators, battling alone before a microphone and a panel of judges.
Scene One: Oldest's Bedroom, the night before. I stop in to tell her goodnight, as usual, after tucking her two younger brothers into their respective bunks next door.
"I really don't know about this spelling bee tomorrow."
"Oh?"
"But my class is counting on me to represent them. So I know I have to do it. But otherwise I don't really want to anymore."
A pause while I recall my own visceral memories from elementary school spelling bees: the churning stomach, the blank mind, the breath-stopping elation, the abject dejection.
"Spelling bees are not just about spelling well," I begin slowly, carefully. "They are half about stage fright. If you can manage your nerves, you will do better than most."
We chat about breathing techniques, speaking slowly, and how silence on stage seems much longer than it really is. She seems to hear me. She is quiet and smiles. I pat her hair. I hope I've helped. Did I say too much? I say goodnight.
Scene Two: Four hundred eight-to-eleven year-olds seated on the floor of a gymnasium, one long row of parents and family in folding chairs at the back, fifteen somber students seated in a wide arc on a stage with two standing microphones, and three officiating adults at a central table in front of the stage.
Her first time up at the mic, Oldest spots me in the family row with one of her brothers on my lap and the other sitting at my feet; I lift my fist in a strong "I love you" sign. We are here for her. She smiles.
My prediction proves true for many of the students; they rush through, skipping letters, clearly flummoxed by the enormity of the situation. Others, more clear-headed, eventually confront a word beyond their purview. After a half-dozen rounds, only three are left: Persistent, who hammers at the words as if they are from a foreign language; Machine, who emits letters in an uncanny precision that bespeaks hours of memorization; and Oldest.
Ah, you should see her.
She is comfortable in her skin. She stands poised before the judges. Her thoughtful pronunciation of each word, before she begins to list its components, communicates her understanding of its meaning. Her voice is clear and matter-of-fact. This battle is between her and the word, nothing more.
Once, when the speaking judge clearly mispronounces Oldest's next word (repeatedly putting a "d" sound on the end of "thespian"), I almost jump out of my chair with outrage. But Oldest pronounces the noun correctly and proceeds to spell it. With no "d". Unbelievable.
After several more rounds, Persistent meets her match with a particularly obstinate word. Now it is down to Machine and Oldest. Memorization versus Understanding. Hundreds of students, who have been amazingly quiet, begin to rustle, like wind through leaves. How much longer?
The boys and I use our Montessori-learned sign language for applause several times, cheering Oldest on after each success with silent upraised waving hands, snowflakes fluttering silently.
By the time a simple mistake hands Machine the championship word, Oldest has clearly demonstrated that regardless of runner-up status, she is the Spelling Queen.
I am so proud of her, for never wavering, no matter the outcome. For saying "Great job!" to Machine, and "Good luck at District!" I am thankful, that in her first year at a new school, fifth grade, the terminal year, in a new city in a new state, she is at home in herself.
As for Oldest, she is thankful that she does not have to study for the District Spelling Bee. There are many other things she'd rather do. Cue the music, but change "Dancing" to "Spelling." You shine, girl. You shine.
|
Talk about shining under pressure: I have to tell you about my daughter at the school spelling bee. It's one thing to watch your favorite sports star keep his cool in a stressful championship moment; it's quite another to watch your firstborn child stand in front of hundreds of spectators, battling alone before a microphone and a panel of judges.
Scene One: Oldest's Bedroom, the night before. I stop in to tell her goodnight, as usual, after tucking her two younger brothers into their respective bunks next door.
"I really don't know about this spelling bee tomorrow."
"Oh?"
"But my class is counting on me to represent them. So I know I have to do it. But otherwise I don't really want to anymore."
A pause while I recall my own visceral memories from elementary school spelling bees: the churning stomach, the blank mind, the breath-stopping elation, the abject dejection.
"Spelling bees are not just about spelling well," I begin slowly, carefully. "They are half about stage fright. If you can manage your nerves, you will do better than most."
We chat about breathing techniques, speaking slowly, and how silence on stage seems much longer than it really is. She seems to hear me. She is quiet and smiles. I pat her hair. I hope I've helped. Did I say too much? I say goodnight.
Scene Two: Four hundred eight-to-eleven year-olds seated on the floor of a gymnasium, one long row of parents and family in folding chairs at the back, fifteen somber students seated in a wide arc on a stage with two standing microphones, and three officiating adults at a central table in front of the stage.
Her first time up at the mic, Oldest spots me in the family row with one of her brothers on my lap and the other sitting at my feet; I lift my fist in a strong "I love you" sign. We are here for her. She smiles.
My prediction proves true for many of the students; they rush through, skipping letters, clearly flummoxed by the enormity of the situation. Others, more clear-headed, eventually confront a word beyond their purview. After a half-dozen rounds, only three are left: Persistent, who hammers at the words as if they are from a foreign language; Machine, who emits letters in an uncanny precision that bespeaks hours of memorization; and Oldest.
Ah, you should see her.
She is comfortable in her skin. She stands poised before the judges. Her thoughtful pronunciation of each word, before she begins to list its components, communicates her understanding of its meaning. Her voice is clear and matter-of-fact. This battle is between her and the word, nothing more.
Once, when the speaking judge clearly mispronounces Oldest's next word (repeatedly putting a "d" sound on the end of "thespian"), I almost jump out of my chair with outrage. But Oldest pronounces the noun correctly and proceeds to spell it. With no "d". Unbelievable.
After several more rounds, Persistent meets her match with a particularly obstinate word. Now it is down to Machine and Oldest. Memorization versus Understanding. Hundreds of students, who have been amazingly quiet, begin to rustle, like wind through leaves. How much longer?
The boys and I use our Montessori-learned sign language for applause several times, cheering Oldest on after each success with silent upraised waving hands, snowflakes fluttering silently.
By the time a simple mistake hands Machine the championship word, Oldest has clearly demonstrated that regardless of runner-up status, she is the Spelling Queen.
I am so proud of her, for never wavering, no matter the outcome. For saying "Great job!" to Machine, and "Good luck at District!" I am thankful, that in her first year at a new school, fifth grade, the terminal year, in a new city in a new state, she is at home in herself.
As for Oldest, she is thankful that she does not have to study for the District Spelling Bee. There are many other things she'd rather do. Cue the music, but change "Dancing" to "Spelling." You shine, girl. You shine.
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