Story
One can bear anything if one can put it in a story. - Isak Dinesen
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40.
In less than forty days I will turn forty years old. Why is this birthday such a big deal this year? Sure, it’s cultural. And it is one of those significant birthdays I guess. But it’s mostly me, I think. Which is the problem, actually. The two problems really. Me. And thinking. I can easily become convinced that I am the only human who gets lost in the what ifs and the what have already beens. I’m so tempted to step head first into the hole of self-pity and wonder what on earth I have to show for forty years on this planet. If my life is half over (or…
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the why. because I needed to remind myself.
I’ve already bemoaned the fast pace of my days lately. But I still feel a little like reflecting. I’ve missed a handful of days in the past few weeks writing on the blog in case anyone is keeping track. Because computers are so tricky smart, however, I can tell that not many people have, in fact, been keeping track. Which leads me to more whining and self-pity. I truly try not to even look very long at any stats in regards to this blog at all. But as they appear on the opening dashboard of the home page it is hard to avert my eyes every time. So I notice…
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the definition.
A graduate of high school now lives in our home. Which makes three of us, I suppose. When Riley was just a little kid, seven or eight, she asked me a question. “What does bittersweet mean?” And so we talked about it. About bittersweet. The rising joy and the crushing sorrow. The tinge of grey skies around all the bright yellow sunshine. The Amy Tan quote I read years earlier about happy and sad sometimes being from the same thing. She was only a kid. A squirt. A curious and forgetful sprite. But even little kids understand big truths. For months, maybe even years, after that conversation Riley would be…
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The walk down that infamous lane called Memory
Of course she’s been on my mind lately. Nineteen. Graduation from high school about to be in the rearview mirror. So much change about to be her world. Having nine years between child number one and child number the rest has always been a heart-wrenching way to raise a family. That age gap has allowed an obvious opportunity to watch time pass. And my, how the time has passed. Graduation is barely a week away. So maybe you’ll humor me a little as I share a handful of little Riley pictures. The little Former Rileys who make up the Now Riley. When she let me pick out her clothes and…
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Dear Wendell Berry. I hope you read this.
Dear Wendell Berry, If my eyes are blood-shot tomorrow morning and I’m unable to stay awake during breakfast with my six children, it is your fault. If I sell all I possess in order to purchase back the farm on which I grow up, I hold you responsible. I don’t like to make extreme statements, but I have just finished what might become my favorite book of all time, beating out long-standing favorites Fair and Tender Ladies and To Kill A Mockingbird. I also could be delusional. Perhaps I’ll be thinking more clearly in the morning. The later morning, I should clarify, as it is currently 1:51 a.m. and I…
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last weekend I was sick. and I thought about this.
When I’m really sick I think about my momma. When I’m really happy I think about her too. Isn’t that sort of funny? Who doesn’t think about their momma during the highs and the lows of every day existence? People whose mommas live down the street. Human nature is a curious state. Rich people don’t usually spend their days thinking about money. And poor people think about it all the time. Healthy people aren’t spending afternoons pondering illness but sick people think obsessively about getting better. When I was sick recently here’s what I was thinking about my mother. She suffered. Oh, goodness. How she suffered. I was lying in…
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when Facebook is a winner
We still haven’t done the precise math to determine if it was fifteen years ago or sixteen. I’m sure it’s irrelevant. It was the year Kevin and I worked together teaching at the same small school in Virginia. That’s when we met Rodney. A tenth grader. (Or maybe a ninth grader?) He was just one of those kids who stands out. In the best of ways. Already an independent thinker. Seemingly unimpressed with entering the woes and dramas that some kids believe is a rite of passage in the teenage years. Kind. Intelligent. Polite. A good kid. The kind of kid we were glad to see try out for soccer…
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mountains.
Our marriage retreat was in Asheville. Hands down one of the prettiest towns I’ve ever visited. And we stayed at The Grove Park Inn. A gorgeous old-fashioned one hundred year old rock beauty. The view from our room was spectacular. When I’m in the mountains, I don’t want to be anywhere else. And what I want more than anything is to never leave. To stay stay stay. And I get sort of frantic the very second I arrive. Breathe in. Look around. Feel that cozy safety of the ensconcing hillsides. Because immediately I begin to think of being forced to leave. The tearing away. The mountains in my rear view…
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Keigley Campaign. Paris Mountain.
The forecast said the lows were in the thirties. (But no rain was predicted.) Circumstances dictated that we only had one free night instead of our regular two. Budget restraints dictated that our gas allowance would not stretch to include a two hour or more drive. But the calendar said the Keigley Campaign was slated for this weekend. And we’ve discovered that if you don’t seize the day, the day seizes you. If you don’t simply make the time, that time always evaporates and is nearly impossible to redeem. We looked over our map of state parks. We’ve conquered pretty much every nearby park. Except one. One we usually overlook…
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then. now. next.
Vividly, I remember it all. (Sort of.) But so clearly, so recently, it was true, that I often brace myself for the reality of it right now before I look around me and am reminded that time has escaped our clinging grasp and changed our present as it is wont to do. There was a time when our house was overrun by littles. A bevy of tinies we had. A stir. A commotion. An entrance – we made one everywhere we went. Five children under the age of six. That was our reality. Two toddlers six months apart. A newborn when those two were not even three. Diapers for a…
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holding her hand
I lie in bed with my four-year-old daughter. We’re holding hands on top of the blankets. Her eyes are closed, I’m half reading a novel and half gazing at her tender, sunburned cheeks. My little Finnian. Our time together is both sweet and bitter. You know the combination. We have our moments – my youngest daughter and I. She is strong-willed and she is loud and she demands attention and as the youngest daughter in a family of so many, she currently adheres to the philosophy of “by any means necessary”. She is me. And I am her. You can imagine the struggles that creates. But I love her. Oh,…
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island thoughts. the difference four years make.
The rain never came. King Solomon, the weather ap, the forecasters behind that free tool – they were all wrong. And we were grateful. We held the day like a gift (as all days are). Fripp Island. It’s been four years since we last visited. And goodness, how the years have changed us. Years measured by the height of my son against the waves. And I can’t stop myself from saying . . . “Last time we were here -” Otto didn’t even exist! Piper Finn was wearing swim diapers. The preschool crowd we ran with was afraid of waves. No one except Riley could even swim. And now. And…
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Coming Home, Being Thankful
I drove to Virginia early last week with just the kids. It’s been a tradition for many years for the moms and the kids to gather the week before our annual July Fourth party and spend time prepping for the party, corralling small children and laughing at nonsensical things. The husbands generally join us later in the week as soon as their jobs make it possible. So it was this week. And for the ride home Riley is staying with Emma a few extra days and driving the car Kevin drove up home. Which is why we were driving home Sunday with six kids instead of one and two grown…
