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perspective. take twenty-eight.
Perspective. It’s a loaded word. You just drop it there and it means everything. I just did a search on my blog for the word “perspective” and gobs of posts filtered up because they featured the word. It’s a biggie. I’m always grappling with it, embracing it, dancing around with it, trying to see it with new eyes. It means everything and determines so much. Remember a few weeks back we had some friends in town for an annual apple picking weekend? There we all were. Picnic table. BBQ. Autumn breeze. Autumn smells. Autumn life. I glanced over and saw three cell phones. Hashtag conversations. And I sighed my ridiculous…
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I will not define myself by my flaws.
Why do we define ourselves by the very thing we like least about ourselves? Victim. The shy one. Divorced. The girl with the scar on her left cheek. Like some dangerous self-fulfilling prophecy that keeps us low before anyone has a chance to push us back down. We do it with our homes. The house with the broken shutter. Right next to the dumpster. The one whose lawn is unruly and whose trees need to be trimmed. With ourselves. The bad haircut. The out of date clothes. The acne scars. Like we’re asking people to see what’s awful about us. I dare you to like me. I dare you to…
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slow down.
Lately my heart is beating to the mantra – “Slow down. Slow down.” I’m saying it to myself. I’m saying it to my husband. I’m saying it to the sky and to the wind and to the sunshine. And I’m especially saying it to the five littles who live under our roof and the one not-so-little who lives in another country. Slow down. And we’ve been trying. (We’re still plodding along in our “Just Say No” campaign. It’s progressing kind of nicely friends.) I just feel so very aware of the sheer speed at which life moves. I know that, in so many big and little ways, RIGHT NOW is…
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real life conversations overheard.
Mosely and Bergen were chatting on the front porch. “Hey Bergen,” she says. “We have matching pants – both jeans.” “Yeah,” Bergen acknowledges. “Well, kind of, I guess,” Mosely changes her tone. “Your jeans are not really blue. They’re more like green and brown with dirt all over them.” To which Bergen Hawkeye responds, with a shrug of his eight-year-old boy shoulders, “I lead a rugged life.”
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Prairie Primer – Beads
We’re near completion of book two in our Little House on the Prairie series. Our history study through this book has focused on the Osage Indians. The curriculum is full of great suggestions and good ideas for extra activities to enhance this unit of study. Five years ago I would have felt the pressure to cram all of the suggestions into our days. Currently that tug is no longer strong against me. When I saw the suggestion of creating beads for Native American-esque necklaces and belts I almost skipped right over it. But then I thought of my ones. And how each one of them love to do bead work.…
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the answer for the long days and the hard ones.
You’re sure the kitchen will never be clean. The yard can never stay tidy. The laundry will always be dirty. The dirt on the floors will always return. The water dripping from the tub can never be controlled. The mold fights back harder than you. The taste of hopelessness. The smell of it heavy and lingering on your clothes, like the smell of burned chicken or a lone french fry lost in the bottom of your oven. It tastes bad and it seems to last and last. And the only hint of a cure I’ve ever found yet is sunshine, wind, grass and trees. A step outside and a look…
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The Two Nights Baby Timmy Was Missing.
Two long nights. For two very long nights Baby Timmy was missing in action. Baby Timmy. Otto’s precious sleeping/living/hang out blanket. (If you’ve ever seen Baby Timmy, you know “blanket” is a bit of stretch for that tired, tattered bit of has-been blanket.) But he loves it and we love Otto and so, by default, we all love Baby Timmy too. (It’s funny, of course. We worked to wean sweet little Mo-Town from her long-ago blanket addiction. But young Sir Otto’s blanket affection has never even been called into question. Some might say it’s because with Child Number Six parents are more lenient. Or more exhausted. Or worse at their…
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cover blown.
Bergen is a night owl. I guess he inherited it straight from both of his parents. And occasionally a part of his solitary evening involves him lying in bed and working out plans to quietly enter our bedroom after we have fallen asleep and cuddling up under the covers with us for the remainder of the night. Now – I’ve always known this was true. I mean, a boy in your bed the next morning is a pretty easy give away. Recently, however, Bergen’s slip of the tongue gave him away twice. First time: “I don’t care for that one squeaky area at the bottom of the steps,” Bergen confided.…
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it takes years . . .
It takes years and raising children and late nights and early mornings and heartache and mending heartache to afford a person the opportunity to step back, look around, gather what you know (and what you’ll never know) and find some sort of peace with what is while still experiencing the pain of what the world takes from you – the giant losses – heart break. loneliness. broken promises. divorce. betrayal. the death of people you love. disease. – the lesser losses – sadness. bitterness. disappointment. unmet expectation. pain. and yet not missing the gifts the world still retains for you – the giant joys – healthy children. love. hope.…
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Merry Autumn Days
Merry Autumn Days By Charles Dickens ‘Tis pleasant on a fine spring morn To see the buds expand. ‘Tis pleasant in the summer time To see the fruitful land. ‘Tis pleasant on a winter’s night To sit around the blaze. But what are joys like these, my boys, To merry autumn days! We hail the merry Autumn days, When leaves are turning red; Because they’re far more beautiful Than anyone has said. We hail the merry harvest time, The gayest of the year; The time of rich and bounteous crops, Rejoicing and good cheer.
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when play imitates life
These are the best conversations …… “Want to play with me momma?” “Sure – what should we play?” “Okay. I’ll be the son and you be the mom.” Umm. Alright.
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Sunday evening scratch scribbled on the blank side of a bulletin.
Grateful. People in a room. Strangers in so many ways. Words spoken into a microphone. Truth. Agony. Suffering shared and shared. We’re all a mess of ugly and grace, beauty and dark gaps. It’s all so much more than I could ever comprehend. And it bubbles up and trickles out and I wouldn’t stop it from splashing down my cheeks if I could. It’s beauty-filled and hope defined. And it’s more than church. It’s Jesus and feet and hands and heart and all things practical and holy.
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this week at Wildwood …..
Friday afternoon brought new kittens. And these kittens brought about a new haircut for Mosely. How would newborn kittens require a haircut for a kid? Well. If you’re nine and it’s dark outside and you want to check out the welfare and health of the brand spankin’ new kittens and you think it would be harsh to shine a bright light on a passel of newborn tinies then maybe you would decide to use a candle. And if you’re Mosely you might think a birthday candle would be sufficient light for such an adventure. You’d be wrong, of course. Wrong on so many levels. And in your error and in…
