I'm here on a blow-up mattress in the basement of my sister's house in Colorado. Nora is asleep now after complaining of an upset tummy. We gave her half a Tums, which she sucked on for about 10 minutes. "You should just chew that up, Nora. It will work faster." "Me? You mean I should chew it up this year?" She wasn't even being sarcastic, that sweetheart. She really wanted to know if she could eat it this year. Anyway, back to my theme for the evening.
The first thing I will say is that I rarely read while I'm visiting my family. In fact, I don't really do much reading at all these days. (Let me qualify: I don't do much "leisure reading" these days.) This might sound silly, but I've prayed about this, something to the effect of "Lord, please help me not miss reading so much while I'm in this particularly busy season of life. You could also help me not think about nachos so much, too." I even tracked Pastor Jurchen down once to ask his opinion about whether or not there would be libraries in heaven. I remember before I gave birth to Nora, I read voraciously. I think in one week, I read the entire Lord of the Rings series including The Hobbit. The next week, I hardly left the bed, turning page after page of the Clan of the Cave Bear series, finally making it to the last book (1 million pages later) when Ayla gives birth to her new daughter. I think Nora showed up the next day. This probably explains why I requested sagebrush tea instead of any of the other drugs they had available for childbirth. Oh, I even read the Lonesome Dove series, too. (I think I'm simply trying to impress all of you with the shear volume of reading I am capable of completing in a single week. Yeah, I didn't think it was working either.) Boy, I'm really having a hard time staying on track here tonight.
So, here's what I packed for the trip:
1. The Bible (for obvious reasons)
2. The Earth Moved: On the Remarkable Achievements of Earthworms by Amy Stewart
Yes, this is a real book, weighing in at a little over 200 pages. I too am wondering how much you can really say about worms. But in order to earn my Composting badge for the Farmgirl sisterhood, I have to maintain a compost bin for over a year (this is year two for me), produce at least 5 gallons of "black gold" compost (I've definitely done this), use it on your garden (have you seen the zucchini?), and read this book. I want that badge, so I'm reading this book. If you see me in front of every 8th grade science classroom next year with a sign that says, "Earthworms have hearts, too! Somewhere..." in protest of their seasonal dissection, you'll know why. At 200 pages, I'm expecting there to be a little romance in this one.
3. Eats, Shoots, and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss
Yep. Another Farmgirl badge. And there are other reasons. Okay. I'm going to just admit this to all of you: I am an English professor, and I am terrified of grammar. There. I said it. Grammar is an issue of confidence for me, not so much confidence in my grammar skills but confidence in myself as a human being who can remember things and use them. The basic premise of an education, which I've had, stems from these two ideas, right? What is knowledge? Something you remember and use. I'm convinced that I've forgotten everything I know about grammar, about vocabulary, about...almost everything. Perhaps this is part of the process of becoming "new." I'm praying about this one, too.
So, there you have it. Worship. Worms. Words. That's what you'd bring to Colorado for a week-long vacation.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Simply Counting a Few of Them
1. Nora eating three helpings of Swedish meatballs even though I burned the sauce. "I LOVE it." Note to self: Burn Nora's food more often.
2. A trip to Colorado starting tomorrow. The long drive from the plains, then up and over the Rockies to the western slope and the blue house that grew me.
3. In the Word this morning. There is some heavy recovery/uncovering going on, something He's working out, but I can't articulate it yet. Gideon and the broken vessel, the light a triumph, "This is the sword of the Lord." How we must become like those broken vessels for the light to triumph, the heart exposed. I listed the symptoms of a hardened heart and those of the open one, realizing my heart opens and closes, timid then courageous, like a face you can read, then a story that puts its hand over its own mouth. Even sitting down is something courageous. I forget that sometimes, moving immediately into self-criticism. Anyway.
4. I got a visual on the aphids this morning and sprayed them with homemade pepper spray. I did not get it in my eyes.
5. Four little barn swallows peering out from the nest they must leave soon. They were singing like a barbershop quartet when I walked out. The one on the right was one of the Statler Brothers, I'm pretty sure.
They were singing this song. See the resemblance?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKzesULKLn8
6. And you and all the love you gave away today.
2. A trip to Colorado starting tomorrow. The long drive from the plains, then up and over the Rockies to the western slope and the blue house that grew me.
3. In the Word this morning. There is some heavy recovery/uncovering going on, something He's working out, but I can't articulate it yet. Gideon and the broken vessel, the light a triumph, "This is the sword of the Lord." How we must become like those broken vessels for the light to triumph, the heart exposed. I listed the symptoms of a hardened heart and those of the open one, realizing my heart opens and closes, timid then courageous, like a face you can read, then a story that puts its hand over its own mouth. Even sitting down is something courageous. I forget that sometimes, moving immediately into self-criticism. Anyway.
4. I got a visual on the aphids this morning and sprayed them with homemade pepper spray. I did not get it in my eyes.
5. Four little barn swallows peering out from the nest they must leave soon. They were singing like a barbershop quartet when I walked out. The one on the right was one of the Statler Brothers, I'm pretty sure.
They were singing this song. See the resemblance?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKzesULKLn8
6. And you and all the love you gave away today.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
I've Got Problems but Not Really
I spent some time exploring the garden, hands and knees, grass stained jeans, new garden gloves smelling like sickly plastic, remove them, dirt under nails, live with the blisters tonight and have much to report. (Forget grammar. You are a woman moving hands in a dark space and finding fragments. Name them. Don't look back.)
I use this book, pulled from a box of Great Aunt Dorothy's things after she moved on from here, the small woman who saved lightbulbs and used tissue, the woman whose dressers I painted, whose double bed I sleep on. She followed each blossom with a paintbrush labeled for each plant and hand pollinated her garden. She was a good gardener, married to my Grandpa's brother.
When I was at Grandpa's funeral, I watched his little brother's hands all day because it was like seeing Grandpa's hands moving, drinking coffee, making a sandwich.
I may be losing my potatoes, planted on Good Friday, 24 holes, shovel dipped into dirt, the right, top side of it worn shiny from the boot stepping down, tossing the potato seed (2 eyes each) in and covering them quickly--they may not make it. Symptoms: Yellow leaf, obvious holes in leaves, signs of ants (ants are good for the garden, but if you see them, you may have another type of bug problem--carnivorous soldiers hunting aphids' sticky honeydew.)
You may hold a wish in the ground for many months, and this might be the way it ends. But I have the luxury of balance, the kind that says I should expect some take if I also ask for some give. We are all in this together: the aphids, and ants and potatoes, the planter and Grower.
Zucchini intruding everywhere and the sweet peas cling to the fence, and everyday, I walk the perimeter of the patch growing, kicking them back and teaching them about where they are allowed to go because there are tiny, fragile things growing that can't understand the loud, large leaf they are hiding under.
You, red bug, are not a lady, longer torso, and I'm sorry that I found you eating basil because despite the balance, I am not afraid to pinch. This is something I've had to learn, not out of a hatred of beetles, but for the love of basil. I can deny that there are things that would harm us, turn my head, my heart, but this won't prepare me for when I face them. And we do face them.
Broken stem. Lifeline snapped as the gardener forces you into the cage. I forgot to check each day as they grew, helping them stay within the wires that will become the spines they stand so tall upon. All those I've hurt but didn't mean to hurt.
Curled leaf. An obvious symptom of something I can't identify. Introverted. Protective. I will just wait for you to tell me.
Despite the zucchini's persistence, I still love it. Strong vine pushing life everywhere it can.
The jewel.
You are looking at a pickle, a very small pickle. Something hit me tonight. It will sound so silly when I say it out loud: God loves cute. Just look in your heart. You can feel it there, too. I know you can. You will want to protect this small thing. You will want it to live. You will want to see it do everything it was meant to do.
I use this book, pulled from a box of Great Aunt Dorothy's things after she moved on from here, the small woman who saved lightbulbs and used tissue, the woman whose dressers I painted, whose double bed I sleep on. She followed each blossom with a paintbrush labeled for each plant and hand pollinated her garden. She was a good gardener, married to my Grandpa's brother.
When I was at Grandpa's funeral, I watched his little brother's hands all day because it was like seeing Grandpa's hands moving, drinking coffee, making a sandwich.
I may be losing my potatoes, planted on Good Friday, 24 holes, shovel dipped into dirt, the right, top side of it worn shiny from the boot stepping down, tossing the potato seed (2 eyes each) in and covering them quickly--they may not make it. Symptoms: Yellow leaf, obvious holes in leaves, signs of ants (ants are good for the garden, but if you see them, you may have another type of bug problem--carnivorous soldiers hunting aphids' sticky honeydew.)
You may hold a wish in the ground for many months, and this might be the way it ends. But I have the luxury of balance, the kind that says I should expect some take if I also ask for some give. We are all in this together: the aphids, and ants and potatoes, the planter and Grower.
Zucchini intruding everywhere and the sweet peas cling to the fence, and everyday, I walk the perimeter of the patch growing, kicking them back and teaching them about where they are allowed to go because there are tiny, fragile things growing that can't understand the loud, large leaf they are hiding under.
You, red bug, are not a lady, longer torso, and I'm sorry that I found you eating basil because despite the balance, I am not afraid to pinch. This is something I've had to learn, not out of a hatred of beetles, but for the love of basil. I can deny that there are things that would harm us, turn my head, my heart, but this won't prepare me for when I face them. And we do face them.
Broken stem. Lifeline snapped as the gardener forces you into the cage. I forgot to check each day as they grew, helping them stay within the wires that will become the spines they stand so tall upon. All those I've hurt but didn't mean to hurt.
Curled leaf. An obvious symptom of something I can't identify. Introverted. Protective. I will just wait for you to tell me.
Milkweed. Technically a weed. Beautiful. Monarch. Lining the irrigation ditches in Colorado, collecting the brown and yellow caterpillar that would prove I too could become new, unrecognizable, full of flight. I let them grow. Of course, I do.
Despite the zucchini's persistence, I still love it. Strong vine pushing life everywhere it can.
The jewel.
You are looking at a pickle, a very small pickle. Something hit me tonight. It will sound so silly when I say it out loud: God loves cute. Just look in your heart. You can feel it there, too. I know you can. You will want to protect this small thing. You will want it to live. You will want to see it do everything it was meant to do.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
At a Loss for Words
Something has made it hard to find words lately. This happens sometimes. Already I'm noticing the vague wording here: "something" "sometimes" "it" "this".
This groping in the dark room of explanation doesn't scare me as much as it used to. Instead of the terrified hands waving the space in front of me, grabbing anything, nothing, terrified to drown in "somewhere" "it" "something" "this," I sit still, let Him carry me across this emptiness.
Yes, I understand this is an emergency, as in something will emerge, the emergent space like the ripple in the water, a feather floating down, the sand cracking open to reveal the words you've been listening for this whole time. Still yourself a moment because some new something is about to become real. You don't have words for it because you've never encountered anything like "this" "it" "something" you are sharing this space with. Soon you'll introduce yourselves and then the hands will meet and some new word, some blooming syntax, this remarkable story will be whispered, the kind that lights the blank room, the firefly in your palm.
There is no stopping God from completing the work He has begun, and I know without a doubt that He is working in this "sometimes" as sure as He makes, He carries, He sustains, and He rescues.
This groping in the dark room of explanation doesn't scare me as much as it used to. Instead of the terrified hands waving the space in front of me, grabbing anything, nothing, terrified to drown in "somewhere" "it" "something" "this," I sit still, let Him carry me across this emptiness.
Yes, I understand this is an emergency, as in something will emerge, the emergent space like the ripple in the water, a feather floating down, the sand cracking open to reveal the words you've been listening for this whole time. Still yourself a moment because some new something is about to become real. You don't have words for it because you've never encountered anything like "this" "it" "something" you are sharing this space with. Soon you'll introduce yourselves and then the hands will meet and some new word, some blooming syntax, this remarkable story will be whispered, the kind that lights the blank room, the firefly in your palm.
There is no stopping God from completing the work He has begun, and I know without a doubt that He is working in this "sometimes" as sure as He makes, He carries, He sustains, and He rescues.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The 4th
The 4th was my Grandpa Smith's favorite holiday--possibly because of the BBQ, or maybe it was the setting things on fire aspect of the day, or, and I think this is probably the most likely explanation, he loved watching all of his grandkids as we sat on Grandma's quilts in the grass sway-necked with mouths shaped into the letter O as the powder caught fire and exploded into a screaming fountain of dangerous stars.
I remember Grandma's lilacs and the word "Howdy" written in cursive at the top end of her sidewalk, how the clean, warm smell from the laundry vent greeted each visitor, there for a "second lunch" of leftover spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies. (We lived right down the dirt road from her and would often tell her we hadn't had lunch yet just so we could eat her cooking. We told her this without thinking about how it might reflect on mom. When you are young, you don't think about those kinds of consequences.)
Grandpa had an enormous garden and would tend it as Grandma's back never did well with the work it required. He'd bring his harvest in, and she would can and can and can. Peaches, green beans, stewed tomatoes, pears and apricot. The two worked well together, meeting each other at the intersection of their strengths, and filling in where one was weaker. They were evenly yoked.
I will write more about the ranch one of these days because it is the kind of place that has grown beyond simply being a location from one's childhood. Formative. That's the word. That place was formative.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Dear Tow Truck and Lost Wallet:
Even when you decide to tow away the car because we're 30 minutes late while we take the 5 kids to the Lincoln Children's Museum where my sister will unknowingly lose her wallet, we'll still be okay. Even if we have to walk 3 blocks in the melting heat only to find the blank space that once held our car leaving us stranded on the corner of 17th and P with 5 kids in 100 degree weather, we'll still be okay. There will be a small convenience store owner who will give us the name of the towing company in town, and she'll sell the kids bottled water and chips, and they'll move things to the back as they sit in a row on the bottom shelf snacking, and my sister will call the tow place and say, "Colorado plates. Bring my ID. How do I get there without a car? Take a taxi. 5 kids. I see." And she will look in her purse to see if she has enough money and not find her wallet because it was left at the museum, and then a woman in the store will turn around and say, "I'll take you to the tow place." And my sister will say, "They need my ID, and I lost my wallet, and the museum closed 2 minutes ago." This woman (let us not be discouraged) will say, "Let's go right now and bang on the door. They'll let us in." And they'll do just this and, they'll let my sister in, give her the wallet, and this woman will drive her 5 extra miles out of her way to the lot, and my sister will be back in less than 30 minutes with the car to pick us up, and the kids, who are cool, full of junk food and happy as can be will climb in, and we'll be on our way again. And when my sister thanks the woman she'll say, "Oh, I was wondering what I would do for that hour before I had to pick up my sister."
So, the next time you try to get us down, Tow Truck and Lost Wallet, just remember that we may not know where all our stuff is all the time, but God does, and He'll always find a way for us to get back home.
So, the next time you try to get us down, Tow Truck and Lost Wallet, just remember that we may not know where all our stuff is all the time, but God does, and He'll always find a way for us to get back home.
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