Why, yes. Yes, I did. This girl needs a pick-up. A zero-air conditioned, roll the windows down, sunburned left arm, 800 dollar, cigarette lighter still works, so you'd better not plug your laptop into it unless you're looking to start a fire, cracked rust-colored seat like the skin on some hands working hard to keep things moving in a growing, going direction pick-up.
I'd need a dog. Definitely. A dog with his tongue hanging out so far, it nearly cleans the road underneath us. I'd put rolls of barbed wire worry back there, firewood of the self-consuming variety, compost for the good dirt. I'd help friends move, even in the summer. I'd take a load of the past that's been sitting in my basement to some newer, more useful place.
In my pick-up, I'd buy more than three bags of salt for the water softener. I'd get paper bags of groceries and just toss them in the back like Sally Fields does in Murphy's Romance, and the door would creak when it opened but I wouldn't oil it because this pick-up likes to make a little noise, like the old man who yells from his porch, "Slow down! Life is passing you by driving that fast!"
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Today's Little Things
1. Day One: VBS at St. Paul's. The theme? Jungle Adventure. Nora: One happy lion.
2. The driver's side window has been giving me trouble for awhile now and finally fell off the tracks, disappearing into some unknown region inside the door. Armed with a power drill and a refusal to pay someone else to do something I just might be able to do, I took off the door panel and managed to get the window back on track. I'm covered in tar and scrapes and a couple of bruises, but it was worth it just to throw my hat up in the air and holler once I heard it catch and lift back into place.
3. I'll get you a picture soon. The garden is... Is. I put down a drip line around the tomatoes and cucumbers and went searching for straw to mulch. No luck, but I might have a source around here.
4. A car ride with three kids on the way to McDonald's. We're making up different "emotion/object meals" we could have once we get there. One wants a Grumpy Kid Meal. Another wants a Shirt Meal. And the third has requested a Bug Meal. I mistakenly ordered the fish sandwich with cheese only to find they'd only put half a slice on it. I don't usually complain, but if I would have wanted half a slice of cheese, I'm sure I would have specified. I guess I got the Grumpy Kid Meal, too.
5. Nora has been obsessed with Phineas and Ferb this summer. It could be the summer vacation theme. It could be the kids inventing impossible things theme. It could be that there's a secret agent platypus in it. Whatever the case, she loves it, so tonight, I made her a Phineas doll. When she wakes up, this is what she'll find. Yes, he's naked. No comment.
6. Okay, the truth is I just ran out of energy to sew clothes for him tonight. I'd better not hear this used as an excuse for this type of situation in the future.
7. Ukulele band practice coming up soon. Yes.
8. Nora actually ate carrots and spinach tonight. Yes, I had to pretend to be a bunny the entire meal, but it was worth it.
9. [ ]
2. The driver's side window has been giving me trouble for awhile now and finally fell off the tracks, disappearing into some unknown region inside the door. Armed with a power drill and a refusal to pay someone else to do something I just might be able to do, I took off the door panel and managed to get the window back on track. I'm covered in tar and scrapes and a couple of bruises, but it was worth it just to throw my hat up in the air and holler once I heard it catch and lift back into place.
3. I'll get you a picture soon. The garden is... Is. I put down a drip line around the tomatoes and cucumbers and went searching for straw to mulch. No luck, but I might have a source around here.
4. A car ride with three kids on the way to McDonald's. We're making up different "emotion/object meals" we could have once we get there. One wants a Grumpy Kid Meal. Another wants a Shirt Meal. And the third has requested a Bug Meal. I mistakenly ordered the fish sandwich with cheese only to find they'd only put half a slice on it. I don't usually complain, but if I would have wanted half a slice of cheese, I'm sure I would have specified. I guess I got the Grumpy Kid Meal, too.
5. Nora has been obsessed with Phineas and Ferb this summer. It could be the summer vacation theme. It could be the kids inventing impossible things theme. It could be that there's a secret agent platypus in it. Whatever the case, she loves it, so tonight, I made her a Phineas doll. When she wakes up, this is what she'll find. Yes, he's naked. No comment.
6. Okay, the truth is I just ran out of energy to sew clothes for him tonight. I'd better not hear this used as an excuse for this type of situation in the future.
7. Ukulele band practice coming up soon. Yes.
8. Nora actually ate carrots and spinach tonight. Yes, I had to pretend to be a bunny the entire meal, but it was worth it.
9. [ ]
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Digging My Fingers In
The exhaustion of the dirt and sun and the work of two women bent over the rows, building a family's health, but even more than that--rooting themselves in faith. Because these gardens are established in faith. Who would believe that something so small, so light, so insignificant could feed the entire world? You, seed, are how I see God working in me, root and blossom. The Word in me may only be a couple lines glanced over while on the way to the kitchen sink, but how those words sink into me. Yes. More of this please, Lord. And if I think on those words, tend them, water them with suffering, warm them with joy and believe. If I trust, then this root is established.
Today, Pastor Blanco spoke of becoming established. I've heard that word used so many times, and it hit me--the epiphany, the showing forth--don't weed the carrots because they aren't established yet. And there I was, bent over my life trying to pick through the parts I wanted to keep and the parts I wanted to pull and toss. But I'm not established yet--and this premature sorting could prove fatal to that which allows me to root, to establish, to grow in this fertile plot grace upon grace.
And I am so tired right now after this good day of work. Words are hard to find. So, this is less poetry than it is the thinking behind something that will grow. Of this I am absolutely certain. Thank you for these lessons today.
Today, Pastor Blanco spoke of becoming established. I've heard that word used so many times, and it hit me--the epiphany, the showing forth--don't weed the carrots because they aren't established yet. And there I was, bent over my life trying to pick through the parts I wanted to keep and the parts I wanted to pull and toss. But I'm not established yet--and this premature sorting could prove fatal to that which allows me to root, to establish, to grow in this fertile plot grace upon grace.
And I am so tired right now after this good day of work. Words are hard to find. So, this is less poetry than it is the thinking behind something that will grow. Of this I am absolutely certain. Thank you for these lessons today.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
More Stories from the Garden: Growing a Mother
Tonight I leaned into my mom's shoulder, and she stroked my hair the way she used to when I was just little. For some reason, the tears started to well up, but I didn't pull away like I normally would have, busying myself with something small in the kitchen, especially if I'd spent the day being tough, and I was being tough today. And tired. I think God's answer to some of my prayers for help completing projects results in me waking before the sun comes up with a sudden burst of energy, so at 5:30 this morning, I was up and working on my online class. Then it was off to the diamond mines (the world outside of plants and animals and flowers).
The mosquitos were talking about my blood type. I'm sure many of you overheard conversations like this today. I doused myself in bug spray and spent a good 4 hours working outside--replanting beans and onions, weeding by raking my fingers around the new plants. They're so fragile right now, especially the carrots. For those of you out there with carrots coming up, resist the urge to hoe or pull weeds near them right now. They are clinging to dear life and need a bit longer to establish their footing.
Growing so far, I have purslane, lambsquarter, a brave dandelion, grass, 354 volunteer tomato plants, 79 volunteer squash plants, and dill. Somewhere in between all of this noise are the rows I planted.
My mom called to say rabbits had been eating her beans. She wanted to know if she could spray pepper spray on the plants to deter them. I told her to just go to the source and mace the rabbits. I've got orange beetles eating my leaves, but I've started a homemade pepper spray here ( 1/2 cup of dried peppers to a quart of water, set in sun for a day, put in spray bottle and go to work--don't spray this in your eyes. Not that I ever have.)
I planted flowers in pots and lined the front steps with them. Walking into my house right now is...I could just stand in front of the house for days. Maybe Nora would bring me a snack and some juice.
Speaking of that girl, she went to sleep tonight after we'd read a book about the different emotions we have saying she felt loved and excited. Score. (This book is as much for me as it is for her. I make so many mistakes with her. I pray and pray to remember patience, a gentle voice, to put myself in her little summer flip-flops.) I just worry so much, and I become over-protective and dogmatic, perhaps. I need to loosen up a little. Truly. And this brings me back to my mom, my head on her shoulder, and now the tears are finally falling free. Because being a mom is not for the faint-hearted, requires tears. Tears like a garden needs water. But mostly, I need to remember to laugh. Would you pray for all moms tonight? And if you are a mom, pray twice. We need all the help we can get for our children's sakes.
The mosquitos were talking about my blood type. I'm sure many of you overheard conversations like this today. I doused myself in bug spray and spent a good 4 hours working outside--replanting beans and onions, weeding by raking my fingers around the new plants. They're so fragile right now, especially the carrots. For those of you out there with carrots coming up, resist the urge to hoe or pull weeds near them right now. They are clinging to dear life and need a bit longer to establish their footing.
Growing so far, I have purslane, lambsquarter, a brave dandelion, grass, 354 volunteer tomato plants, 79 volunteer squash plants, and dill. Somewhere in between all of this noise are the rows I planted.
My mom called to say rabbits had been eating her beans. She wanted to know if she could spray pepper spray on the plants to deter them. I told her to just go to the source and mace the rabbits. I've got orange beetles eating my leaves, but I've started a homemade pepper spray here ( 1/2 cup of dried peppers to a quart of water, set in sun for a day, put in spray bottle and go to work--don't spray this in your eyes. Not that I ever have.)
I planted flowers in pots and lined the front steps with them. Walking into my house right now is...I could just stand in front of the house for days. Maybe Nora would bring me a snack and some juice.
Speaking of that girl, she went to sleep tonight after we'd read a book about the different emotions we have saying she felt loved and excited. Score. (This book is as much for me as it is for her. I make so many mistakes with her. I pray and pray to remember patience, a gentle voice, to put myself in her little summer flip-flops.) I just worry so much, and I become over-protective and dogmatic, perhaps. I need to loosen up a little. Truly. And this brings me back to my mom, my head on her shoulder, and now the tears are finally falling free. Because being a mom is not for the faint-hearted, requires tears. Tears like a garden needs water. But mostly, I need to remember to laugh. Would you pray for all moms tonight? And if you are a mom, pray twice. We need all the help we can get for our children's sakes.
Friday, June 3, 2011
When You Find a Friend, Love that Friend Forever
1. In a bed many months ago, Nora and I prayed for friends--friends for her to play with, people who were her size and had similar interests (animals with large eyes, kitties who meow and prowl, very small plastic ponies with hair you can comb and style, that kind of thing). And while glancing down at the church bulletin, there it was: "Register for Preschool at St. Paul's in Utica." And not only did Nora find friends there, but I've found some women who stop my heart with their strength and song and cooking and laughter and realness. And we are singing and supporting and talking and laughing. I didn't know how dry my well was until it was filled again.
2. Kids. Kids everywhere. Kids in my kitchen asking about solar energy and composting. Kids designing telescopes and security cameras. Kids picking flowers and planting flowers. Kids splashing the moms perched on the edge of the kiddy pool. The sounds of their laughter, their peace and perfection. Each one so different, so filled with God's light blinding my heart open again, clearing it out of anything shadowed, dusty. In my house yesterday, the fullness of this life was so present in the sound of two boys and a girl--friends at last. To accept the gift of a mother who trusts you with her most precious. This made me feel so good.
3. And Nora dances in the kitchen while I make sandwiches with the jam we made from scratch, and she's holding the butterfly magnets she painted with Grandma, doing a dance of life and transformation, the way she's metamorphosed in the love from all those folks who are her height.
4. She is in the laundromat tonight thinking of our prayer sharing. My hoping friends, I encourage you to ask what you can be praying for each other. When she first asked me that question (And what can I be praying for you?), it changed my life. And now, if you'd like, leave something here for me, and I will be praying for you, heart open and handing it to our Father who brings the rain and the sun and the friends you'll love forever. His gifts are real. Ask for them.
2. Kids. Kids everywhere. Kids in my kitchen asking about solar energy and composting. Kids designing telescopes and security cameras. Kids picking flowers and planting flowers. Kids splashing the moms perched on the edge of the kiddy pool. The sounds of their laughter, their peace and perfection. Each one so different, so filled with God's light blinding my heart open again, clearing it out of anything shadowed, dusty. In my house yesterday, the fullness of this life was so present in the sound of two boys and a girl--friends at last. To accept the gift of a mother who trusts you with her most precious. This made me feel so good.
3. And Nora dances in the kitchen while I make sandwiches with the jam we made from scratch, and she's holding the butterfly magnets she painted with Grandma, doing a dance of life and transformation, the way she's metamorphosed in the love from all those folks who are her height.
4. She is in the laundromat tonight thinking of our prayer sharing. My hoping friends, I encourage you to ask what you can be praying for each other. When she first asked me that question (And what can I be praying for you?), it changed my life. And now, if you'd like, leave something here for me, and I will be praying for you, heart open and handing it to our Father who brings the rain and the sun and the friends you'll love forever. His gifts are real. Ask for them.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
When I Don't Know
what to write,
what to do,
what to live,
what to breathe,
what to say,
what to love,
what to let go,
what to sing,
what to grow.
I ask.
And then I make myself present
to a lonely, holy house
as I beat down the fire
inside burning
to simply take it
all without permission.
what to do,
what to live,
what to breathe,
what to say,
what to love,
what to let go,
what to sing,
what to grow.
I ask.
And then I make myself present
to a lonely, holy house
as I beat down the fire
inside burning
to simply take it
all without permission.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Girl Who Denied the Day
"...the day itself cannot be construed as an enemy; it is what gives you the materials you have not only to contend with, but to work with, to build whatever you are capable of building. If you deny the day completely, you are lost." -- Stanley Kunitz (reflections from a poet and gardener)
The girl who yelped. The girl who helped. The girl who broke. The girl who glued.
The moon that howled. The sky that cowled. The earth that shook. The hand that took.
If you are crying, let it oil the rusted shut heart. If you are laughing, watch it shake the bitter fruit free. Sweet bell song. If you have sticks, pick them up and warm the home and light the fire that calls your children home to whatever 7 day porridge you've made from the gleanings from the edge of this field, this tiny, hoping life. And if the rains fall hard and the path washes away, don't tremble because the good earth below you waits and the new path breaks open if you'll be brave enough to take His light and put one foot in front of the bright song you've flung into the space before you. Called you home. Sank your tired eyes with lids that closed the curtain over bloodshot, life-damaged sight. You can be comfortable in the middle of not-knowing.
This is the day the Lord has made.
The barn swallows are fierce.
The root is fierce projecting shoot. The baby cries from the treetops and the wind lifts her down into her mother's swaying arms and she doesn't know if she should discipline the wind or the baby or the tree or her own hands shaking under their precious delivery.
The barn swallows. The barn swallows. The kittens she had are somewhere in the barn. Let me see them, mama.
Close the door and lean into the prayer. You are meek but never weak, brave woman. Lift the cargo. Make the house. Build the bed. Sweep the garden. Mend the branch. Rock the kitchen. Comfort the floor as you lay there with hands that sweep the passage free. Crawl through the light opening or a day you refused to deny.
The girl who yelped. The girl who helped. The girl who broke. The girl who glued.
The moon that howled. The sky that cowled. The earth that shook. The hand that took.
If you are crying, let it oil the rusted shut heart. If you are laughing, watch it shake the bitter fruit free. Sweet bell song. If you have sticks, pick them up and warm the home and light the fire that calls your children home to whatever 7 day porridge you've made from the gleanings from the edge of this field, this tiny, hoping life. And if the rains fall hard and the path washes away, don't tremble because the good earth below you waits and the new path breaks open if you'll be brave enough to take His light and put one foot in front of the bright song you've flung into the space before you. Called you home. Sank your tired eyes with lids that closed the curtain over bloodshot, life-damaged sight. You can be comfortable in the middle of not-knowing.
This is the day the Lord has made.
The barn swallows are fierce.
The root is fierce projecting shoot. The baby cries from the treetops and the wind lifts her down into her mother's swaying arms and she doesn't know if she should discipline the wind or the baby or the tree or her own hands shaking under their precious delivery.
The barn swallows. The barn swallows. The kittens she had are somewhere in the barn. Let me see them, mama.
Close the door and lean into the prayer. You are meek but never weak, brave woman. Lift the cargo. Make the house. Build the bed. Sweep the garden. Mend the branch. Rock the kitchen. Comfort the floor as you lay there with hands that sweep the passage free. Crawl through the light opening or a day you refused to deny.
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