Living-Deliberately.com

Last night, as David inevitably fell asleep on my shoulder during the opening previews, I sat and watched a movie that was so excellently done it will probably make my favorite “top ten”, if such a list was actually compiled. It’s been on my Netflix queue seemingly forever; I’ve wanted to see it since it first came out and have no idea why I put it off so long, but that a more perfect story for where I “was” yesterday couldn’t have been chosen.

I love it when I’m just going along through life and then, WHAM! A work of quality hits me over the head. An artistic work beautifully done with a coherant plot and point, but not in-your-face. Rather with a touch of nuance and subtley that is quietly profound.

There’s plenty to distract if one refuses to quiet themselves and just recieve the message. The protagonist is Jim Carrey and with him, the temptation is to wonder how the same man can do The Mask and still pull of a serious film. His love is Kate Winslet with three colors of hair at different points in the movie (and it’s orange, green, and blue not brown, blond, and red). It proves to be a valuable distiction because as with most “Focus” films I’ve seen, the time sequence can hop around. The hair color of Clementine helps provide context! If one is F-word sensitive, it shows up a few times. But if one can look past the outward into these character’s eyes, and hear the story, it’s well worth the time spent.
I love that this story, this work, was anti-formulatic. To do it in a straight-forward Hollywood way would have been insulting to the integrity of the story. The Focus Film house usually treats it’s audience with quite a bit of respect, pays attention to detail like the little inanimiate objects around us and how they effect us, how we use them for bookmarks in our minds. Our memories hop all around sometimes and it was neat to see a movie capture that effectifively. It was layered and like I said, profound. It reached the human core, that longing place where we want the pain that comes from intimacy to go away and it follows through the supposition of what that could result in should we get the chance to try.

The movie is The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The title comes from a poem by Alexander Pope called Eloisa to Abelard and is a (long) tale of intense love, tragedy, separation, and extreme grief. In the midst of his torment he contemplates the naivete of an easy life:

“  How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
“Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;”
Desires compos’d, affections ever ev’n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n.”

And yet, the reality of his love is not like that and even with the pain and imperfection of the lot he’s been given, he longs for them to be together in spite of it all. The film honestly communicates that lump-in-the-throat vulnerablity of knowing that even though life is messy we prefer it to not loving at all. That inter-personal connection of really being “known” by another, faults and all, is craved at our deepest core. Through the film, we are reminded that our wounded selves may recoil at pain and may want to wash it all away, but in doing so the good and wonderful, the happiness and joy goes along with it. To remove it in all, or even in part, is not an honest memory.

“  From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from Heav’n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv’n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn’d whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint ‘em, who shall feel ‘em most.”

I think about it when I consider birth order. I’ve never read any books on the subject; just had conversations with other moms. How much does Nature versus nurture come into play? Is my fourth baby really more like a third? Is my fifth baby more like a fourth? Is it as if she never was?

It think about it when the sky changes hue and the ground gets wet and the trees start to bud. I remember days upon days spent in bed hooked up to a contraction monitor, wondering if she would die in birth like Britton did. Phone calls and letters from those were concerned; people I didn’t know cleaning my toilet and making my babies a sandwich and telling me how to shop for caskets. March became more than just waiting for spring. It became something that seemed it would never end and yet chokingly obvious that it would.

I think about it when the sun shines bright but the wind is piercing, like yesterday, like the day she was born. So fast and taken away. A poloriod from a  nurse showing me spikey red hair and a fat little body. And then that doctor, white coat, teal scrubs, balding hair, softly and tenderly giving me the “list” of defects. The heart we knew about the ones we didn’t; I broke down crying when they told me her thumbs had too many creases and I knew then we’d started a process where many other people would know much more about my little baby than I as her mother would. Counting fingers and toes was no longer my job.

I think about it when I’m busy and feel like I have too many things in a day to do anything well. I remember the days of nothingness, of helplessness. Of feeling like I was living in a void, a secret hospital world where no one outside knew where we were. Watching her open chest for days, her tiny heart beating and fighting. Measuring swelling, stroking the one place on her that wasn’t marred by tubes: the top of her head. Finding a routine built around doing nothing but watching. That lonley feeling in the rocking chair, knowing my empty eyes reflected the sky outside, wondering where my life had gone…the busy mommy having 3 in 4 years, and where were my children, and the worst fear I used to have was how to diaper all three of them. My naivete was torn away, my soul irrevoccably changed.

I think about it when I hear My Jesus I Love Thee, or see it on the piano at a friend’s like I did last night. I think about it all spring long, when her coming, her being, and her leaving is everywhere. I wonder why she came and what effect she’ll have as each year passes on anyone but David and I. People move on, we have too. It’s more intense this year as I’m miles from her grave. I’m dreaming of her every night and it’s always the same: she WAS here, she was real.I can still smell her in my dream. And then she was gone and there is no way ever to bring her back. Someone I wasn’t sure I wanted when she was conceived turned out to be the most influential human being in my life and what twisted irony is it that I’ll spend the rest of my life longing for, and being thankful for, a chance to have her.

We just found a delicious new hot sandwich, a little burst of special in an otherwise ordinary day. Maybe I’m not window shopping in a trendy part of town, glancing at museum and boutique offerings and lunching alfresco at an iron table and listening to french accordion music. But the sandwich sure gave the best of that experience, packed with bright herb and olive oil flavor, savory chicken, and grainy, wholesome bread.

I found the recipe in the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living, my favorite of the year as it’s the gardening issue. The sandwich is Chicken and White Bean but I varied somewhat as I was out of the primary herb it called for, Rosemary. You can find my variation posted on forums.beansandricemealplan.com. We ate them with our new favorite snack find, Archer Farms Kettle chips, Buffalo Wing flavor, from Target.
I have the french accordion music playing (the soundtrac from Amelie) and the requisite bistro chocolate dessert waiting.  Ooo laa laa.

• next to go on the purging track: socks. This is typically a January 1st ritual but due to finances, it had to wait a bit this year. The old, huge pile of mismatched, holed, stained socks gets tossed (maybe burned this year, wicked laughter) and everyone gets new ones. Like old Pilgrim with his burden on his back, mine tends to be that stupid sock pile. Yes, I know they could become sock puppets, cleaning rags, craft fodder. But more likely, if they stay around, they will get pulled back into the laundry rotation. They are my dirty little secret. Yes America, I am incapable of making socks last throughout a year. My kids don’t outgrow them; rather, they get lost, separated, or stained beyond repair. And no, I will not darn a sock that cost less than a dollar. It’s scrubbing out a pair of pooped in underwear that came in a “six for three bucks” pack. Throw the nasty things away! So, freedom is mine baby, and who cares if someone is out there shaking thier finger at me. They don’t do my laundry!
• Sarah, Sarah… I need a poem fix! A spring poem! Something to accurately describe this deliciously wet and bright rollercoaster weather! e.e.C or SCS…no matter. Got something?
• The best thing about having a case of the blues is the MUSIC. Last weekend David took W to see the Curious George movie and I read several reviews of the soundtrack, all of which described it as a CD that kids would love and so would their parents. Jack Johnson was nominated for a grammy (I think? Maybe even won?) and his guitar style is similar to John Mayer and Dave Matthews. Folksy and cozy and sweet. His voice is most like a dusty warm sunbeam on a lazy day. Great CD!

My apologies to Billy Joel. Oh, and the garbage men of our city, who have had to deal with piles that look like we are still in the process of moving.

I feel used and abused. The clutter monster has attempted another take over. I don’t buy all that “feng shay” mumbo jumbo that I can’t spell, pronounce, or instill. But there is something to be said for the power of dark, lurking corners where light can’t penetrate because there are too many boxes in the way.  Something to be said for the arrangement of furniture in a room and how it affects the senses.

Last week I tackled the kids’ rooms. We had piles of boxes, floor to ceiling, in these little crooked rooms. Boxes with photos and negatives and baby memorbilia. Boxes with all the various sizes of clothing to keep and pass on to the next sibling. All of it too sensitive for our non-climate controlled storage area. Crammed into every corner was the paper trash, little gadgets and collectibles the kids gather, then loose sight of where to put it all and so they “stash and dash”.

9 bags of trash, the purchase of two large plastic bins, and those wonderful “BIG” Ziploc bags  later, the rooms have a clean, peaceful feeling again. I kept only what I absolutely had to or earnestly loved. The rest went away.

Today I hit the craft and school closet. More used and abused feelings there. The homeschooling industry is huge and I feel taken advantage of as I gaze at my shelves of half-tried curriculum. Little systems for teaching phonics. Too many math programs to admit to. Scads of “living books” picked by someone else that never resonated and therefore were never read to the subsequent students of that age because I couldn’t bring myself to pull them out again.

It creats apathy. Dare I say I’ve found myself bored with homeschooling? Tired of it? Not willing to quit because the kids are thriving but feeling nauseated with every approach to that closet?

Sunday a church friend asked how school was going and I said I thought I was going to throw the whole thing away and start over. Today I just about did.

Gone are the half-colored in books, the mostly done workbooks, the boxes of little letter tiles I never take out. Getting sold or given away are the story books that we didn’t enjoy yet were sold to our gullible selves as “must haves”. With each toss into the trash bag I felt myself get lighter. Like the real purpose was coming into focus.

It’s kind like when you have a first baby and you register and get all kinds of paraphenalia that you “need”.  And then by baby number four you figure out you need breasts (or another milk supply), diapers, some basic clothing, and a sling. A good bag and a wooden rattle or two. On crazy days, a swing or seat my come in handy and you need a car seat. But that’s about it. Streamlining brings freedom. Gives you more time to actually hold, sing to, and teach the sweet baby rather than organize more STUFF.

And that is what I think I’m sick of: organizing school STUFF. I don’t want planning books and charts, or worse…some “guide” that makes me it’s slave and thus overlook my kids’ faces. I’m sick of book lists put together by other “experts” that I buy thinking they will educate my children…when what I really need to put my energy into is actually READING to them. Not assembling more lists and systems.

David wants us to READ. Learn math and explore. Be together, share with one another, enjoy one another. I want to stop yelling in frustration. Whaday know…one leads to the other.

My closet now is re-stocked with three kinds of paper, crayons, colored pencils, puzzles, clay. Reference books and a nature study crate ready to take to the park with watercolors, sketch books, and field guides. There is also math and phonics and our favorite history books and CD’s. Our composer CD’s are ready to be used again as are our library cards.

It’s ironic to me that homeschooling parents, especially mothers, can still feel guilty for “not spending enough time with thier children”. We’re with them all day! Or are we? I think my problem is that I’ve been here in body but my spirit is often elsewhere. How sad that the “elsewhere” has often been just maintaining clutter. Trash man, take it away!

• little pockets of snow are still clinging in corners and tree nooks as the single digit temps keep things icey. We are still under a winter storm advisory so I think a cozy day is in order. We’ve got cookies to bake…frosted sugar, Hazlnut thumbprints, Rocky Road bars, and chocolate shortbread.
• the road away from insomnia seems to have seen some progress: I ran again yesterday, had a glass of wine before bed, and slept like a rock. I woke only to acknowledge slightly the times that Fat Baby wanted to nurse and when W came in to put his cold feet on my calves. I think I actually look worse for the wear this morning, complete with dark circles and bags, but that exhausted feeling in my chest has lifted so it must be an improvement.
• Major purchase for us: our new Dell Notebook will be here next week! Money was the ONLY reason we didn’t take this chance to convert to MAC. I’m a little bummed about that but at least we are achieving mobility and a fresh start of a machine; something totally new for us. The probable reliablity should help greatly as we continue the launching of our two internet businesses.
• We hit the snack jackpot this weekend and there’s a new post about it on forums.beansandricemealplan.com. Coming as soon as I can get it written is my latest restaurant review.
• Daughter-dear had me cut about 6 inches off her hair last night. She’s been begging for shorter hair since she no longer needs a ballet bun. It was the constant struggle to get her to keep it brushed better that made me break down and give in but it was honestly painful cutting that strawberry gold hair last night. She’s cute and bouncy and feels pretty today and I’m glad for that; we all need little pick-me-ups now and then and at my core, I’m a big believer that we should be able to have our hair the way we feel the most “us” no matter what other people say. Length of hair is certainly not the battle field I plan to die on.

Just another Monday morning, where the coffee is good, the ground outside is wet, and a day of “getting back to it” is before me. Dishes, laundry, school, shopping, baking, writing. I love Monday’s pragmatic beauty, for the functional home it has in my week, for it’s balance it gives to Fridays, for it’s late-to-get-dressed-let’s-find-our-proverbial-feet goodness. Routine and the return to it can be beautiful.

We have SNOW! It’s our third and definately the most deliciously winter blanket we’ve had so far. I LOVE this place! Two days ago I was running in short sleeves and this morning it suddenly started snowing, sticking easily to the ground. It hasn’t stopped  and we have enough now to not  see any grass poking through. David and W have gone out to see the Curious George movie but the rest of us have been sledding! After our hamburger break I’m back out to get some photos…it’s already covered the footprints we made just 15 mintues ago!

My friend Sandy shared an experience that she had with her children earlier this week during tea time. “Tea Time” is a set aside part of each of our weeks with our kids to sit and read poetry, nibble on special cookies, and set the table. It is sucessful by varying degrees. For instance, I learned that my little pyromaniac children can’t handle having candles on the table or the whole thing’s a bust. Something about the temptation of having wooden match sticks and the responding high flame detracts from the rhyme and meter of the poem…

Still, each week, we keep on. With toddlers around there are many interuptions. Getting frustrated can be easy. It never looks like the sweet and rosy imagined expectation a mother could set herself up for: spilled tea, kicking siblings under the table, ringing phones. But if one leaves that behind there is something else to discover.

The Last Duchess, read by Sandy in bold, comments in italic:
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall
Sit down in your chair P before you fall
Looking as if she were alive. I call
No he can’t call her if she’s dead. Let’s just listen and see what he means
That piece a wonder, now: Fra’ Pandolf’s hands
(giggles over Fra’ Pandolf)
Worked busily a day, and there she stands
I’ll pour you another bowl of cereal in just a minute
Willl’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra’ Pandolf” by design, for never read
Yes, honey, they do talk funny
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance
Ds - I don’t know what he’s saying but I think this one has got some rhyme in it
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
P, put all four legs of the chair on the floor
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Hey, there’s another rhyme!
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Me-do you notice that each line stands on its own but also carries over to the next line? Oldest - huh?
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra’ Pandolf chanced to say “her mantle laps
over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
P, sit down before you fall!
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat”:such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
Hey, I think I get that one line to another that you were talking about now.
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad,
Middle ds - Mom, are we going to play the piano next? Me- yes, honey, as soon as momma finishes reading this poem. Ds - I like my poems better.

And so it goes. I read this on a day when I’d begun running again. I’m struggling with insomnia and going to bed earlier was no help at all. I’d decided to try more excersize; I do a basic yoga routine daily but some cardio probably wouldn’t hurt. We had this gorgeous high spring day and one of my kiddos was out with dad for the day. I packed up the rest of them and we headed for the Greenbelt. It looked like this:

Set up the stroller, tie little laces on the roller blades, ask the daughter for the 10th time if she’s sure she doesn’t want her skates; we are going a long way.

“No Mom. I just want my basketball”.

Stretch. Buckle baby, cover his legs with a blanket, wipe his nose. Walk 50 feet.

“Mom” said he… “my skate is toooo tight”

Squat athletically, loosen skate. Kiss forehead. Walk 50 more feet.

Speed up. Almost jog. Make it about 100 feet.

“MOM! My basketball fell into the creek and is floating away!”

Okay….instruct dd to run down to the bridge and see if she can cross. Do standing leg lifts while waiting. When she comes back to say it’s fenced off, console her tears at loosing the ball her daddy said not to be careless with. Set off on a good walking pace.

Make it to the bridge and start to run. Look behind and see daughter dear lagging behind.

And so forms a pattern: run 100 feet, jump in place for a minute or two while she catches up, warn W not to go too fast on his roller blades and scare the other walkers, run 100 more feet and start the process over.

Down to the cemetary and talk to all the dogs. Notice the waterfalls and stop to sniff the first daffodill in bloom. Roll daughter dear’s sleeves and wait for the little boy to water a tree. Run 100 more feet.

Finish it all with standing pushups on the playground while they swing and play and get mulch on thier socks.

When I am done I am sweaty and have had a hard work out. Mission Accomplished.

The baby slept the whole way.

Running, like poetry, assumes you will maintain a certain pace. For real endurance though, interval training is recommended. It builds strength and the ultimate ability to go longer. When I set out to do that intentionally the frustration level is greatly diminshed. And there’s that confrontation with expecation again. Life with little kids around means intervals. It means stopping along the way to answer questions, smell flowers, meet thier needs. We will stop. Start. Go slow, push hard. It doesn’t mean the process is futile just because it doesn’t look like we imagine it should. As Michael Card would say: there is Joy in the Journey. I might not have a cute little ipod with favorite tunes and a footprint that matches the beat, ponytail bouncing behind me. I can’t clock my mile. My kids though, beg for the park like they beg for the special cookies and book of poems. Something greater is at work. Sucess is being measured by a different stick.

My uber-web-dude (and bil Joel who I thank very, very much for all his effort and time) has got my forum up for my beansandrice web service! The actual subscription part with the menus and grocery lists is still under contruction but the forum is free and anyone interested in welcome to come check it out! Just head on over to http://forums.beansandricemealplan.com/

Surreal. Dreamlike. Those are the words used to describe Dali’s work. Melting clocks, wierd reflections…realistic in style yet dreamlike in content. You get the idea.

This day has continued on in surreal form. I can’t call it a “bad” day. “Bad” is too common, too universal for things that are negative. Not everything that has happened today is “bad”. Bizarre might be better. Like a movie. It’s almost laughable how every single event is going to have some oddity attatched to it and eventually I gave into defatigation and learned to roll on the curve. Consequently, I’m not a basket case of nerves or in tears or seeking to dive up to my neck in melted chocolate while listening to very loud Nina Simone….

After 10 I sat down to get my meal plan and grocery list together. David was suposed to be out of town by 8:30 and called near 11 to say he was still across the street and waiting for the printer to fufill the order and his boss to get his stuff so they could get out of town. Seems he had his own surreal day with nothing going according to plan. The baby used my thigh as his snot rag while I did math. A got in a “fight” with the computer: that looks like a 10 year old talking back and hurtling insults at the computer’s half of the chess game he was playing. C and W played with matches. Anna called and sympathized. At least I knew it would be normal for me to be going crazy at this point!

The lady at work didn’t know me when I went to pick up our paycheck and looked at me as if I was holding up the office. The bank was almost deserted (of tellers!) at lunch time…guess it was a slow day or they had a TV show to watch or something. At Wendy’s the take out speaker was broken so they had an employee with a headset taking manual orders. Bet they had a surreal day too!

We went to Target where a very helpful fellow shopper saw me looking at TIVO boxes and explained me exactly how to wrangle DSL, Voice over protocol, cell phone, long distance, and recording my favorite shows. One of my kids had an accident. The book I was shopping for, that had a huge display just four days ago, was sold out. They don’t carry my brand of mouthwash anymore.

And speaking of books, there are alot of good titles out these days! i always am interested in the books that pay homage to other literary works, like The Jane Austen Book Club or Dinner With Anna Karenina. And then there just the ones that are simple, that make you pick them up and wonder if they are worth the sticker price like “Eventide” or “Running With Scissors”. I almost picked up “The Evidence of Things Unseen” and something about Tuscany. Must spend more time in the library.

The grocery store was another excersize in the bizarre. Who thought of spraying the produce with those stupid jets of water? Wet produce does NOT mean fresher produce. And things need to be washed and DRIED to keep from rotting. Buying wet, leafy, bunches of beets and leeks is gross. From there we headed to meat. I find it excersizing to concentrate on the prices of various butt roasts while my 8 year old decides it’s time to analyze the sitcom they snuck in this morning but maybe that’s just me.

Not one single brand of sausage that doesn’t use MSG. The canned good aisle smack jammed with mothers and carts full of kids and elderly people in the little cars. Baby grabbed Ramen when I wasn’t looking and chewed a package. Had a conference on the cereal aisle to explain to 10 year old that 5 year old wasn’t expected to have the same level of self control as he and would he PLEASE stop kicking him from around the side of the cart?!

Jam, syrup, miniwheats, milk. Sweet little lady caught my dozen eggs in midair just as the baby launched them. I grabbed the sour cream just in time before he ooozed it down his shirt. They didn’t have my book title either. The stalks of rhubarb that were too long for thier bag and kept falling out through the holes of the cart. The dollar John Wayne cowboy movie that the baby kept launching into aisles previously stacked quite neatly…on and on it went. The sweet bagger with the curly moustache mixed up my cold and dry goods….okay, that might be an OCD confession :-).
Getting home brought no sigh of relief. Tennessee mud sticks to everything, even, it seems, plastic grocery bags. ’nuff said. Baby toddled off two separate times to put my bacon and sausage packets in a closet. Funny ‘eh? And when I found the sausage I discovered he likes to chew on the styrofoam package it comes in. Bet that passes through as easily as pencil erasers, marbles, and number one cuisineairre rods. Two hours later I found my missing groceries under a seat in the car. Note to self: don’t take a 10 year old’s word that “I doubled checked and that’s all of it mom”. Remember those mixed up cold and dry goods? When they are separate it’s not a big deal if a bag of dry stuff gets left in the car for a little extra time…
It’s a gorgeous spring like day with a bright blue sky; the kind often in Dali’s paintings while nightmarish mayhem quietly happens in the foreground. Baby is in bed and the kids are watching Where The Red Fern Grows which is probably going to make them pine after dogs. I’ve got a roast to put on for supper and then a full body bath in melted chocolate while listening to very, very loud Nina Simone doesn’t sound so bad….

because I know you all think I have a rosy, perfect life right?

So far today…

• I woke up with a 5 year old bouncing on my head asking what was for breakfast. Morning people….
• the baby dumped an entire cup of coffee into a full and open drawer of clothes
• said baby had a blowout, thanks to his dad, who must have been in a hurry this morning and got the diaper fit too much like low riders
• said baby (again) had just a 15 minute morning nap, due to extreme noise as oldest two ran through from outside continuing thier “mudball war” into the sacred territory of the house

and it’s not even 10 yet.
It’s grocery day. Wanna come?

Happy Valentine’s Day! For us, this marks the beginning of a “rest of the month love fest” :-).

It started last year when we decided to shift more of our gift-giving focus off of christmas and onto a day about showering one another with love…Valentine’s Day! This gives us a much more meditative and less commercialized christmas time and gives us a chance to fully indulge in the clashing pink and red chocolated gushiness in February, un-burntout from doing it so soon in December.

Then this year we noticed our entire month’s cash flow was at the tail end of the month. Before Dave Ramsey I never paid attention to cash flow; just bottom line numbers. But now I’m watching *when* stuff comes in and *when* they have to go out and this is a weeble-wobble of a month; all bottom heavy. So rather than postpone our merry making or skimp and call it enough, we opted to just spread it out over the rest of the month!

We started today with the accumulation of cards that have come in the mail. Over breakfast they opened Gigi’s valentines, Nana’s care package, Auntie’s cookies and Grandma’s cards. Warming: seeing my nine year old (almost 10…yikes!) read each and every word of every card. They really savored the whole experience and I was glad I’d saved them and given them the gift of anticipation that has been satisfied.

Today we will sew heart shaped pouches to hold thier cards. Tomorrow they’ll get love letters from Mom and Dad. Thursday we’ll bake cookies for our gift boxes (family, you are part of this too and expect Valentine’s Day to last the month for you as well!). Each day will highlight some other aspect of loving one another. There’s a date night for Mom and Dad in there too and at the end: thier gifts. A zip line, a baby swing, a walkie talkie set, and a potter’s wheel. I found the cutest wrapping paper with hearts all over it!

They are all quite sick with the croup today; nasty, barking coughs. It’s pj’s and coziness till it’s past. Good thing about croup is that at least it’s usually short lived.

This morning we had buttermilk biscuits and milk gravy with Great Northern Beans. W thought they were jelly beans. Jelly Bean Gravy would have been interesting ‘eh? It was warm and filling and David especially appreciated it as the plane was very late this morning and they were out in the cold from 4:30-6, unable to get on to the job of unloading. The sky is bright blue and the sunshine already yellow; it’s not warm but it is beautiful. I’ve discarded the insane thought that I might not garden this year and plunged full steam ahead into preparations and plans. I can’t get the digging and dirt going just yet  like my friend Misty in Florida but I can start dreaming of bulbs and hostas and rhubarb and rows of corn. And Bantam Red Rock chickens, which I’m hoping to raise this year!

I’m warm and happy today. Biscuits, gravy, hot coffee, sweet notes from my babes, and one is in the dining room whistling a little tune. It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day :-).

Snow floats
Snow flurries
Snow gropples (this one we learned in Iowa. “Gropple” is that hard, pellet kind of snow.)
Snow spits (This was one of my father’s favorite weather descriptions. “What’s the weather like today, Dad?” Dad: “It’s spitting snow.”)
Snow drops (that’s the big, wet snow)
Snow blankets (don’t see much of that here in Tennessee, but we sure did in Iowa!)
Snow dances
And my new favorite that I heard in church today: “Well, Ah looked artside and I seed them chicken feathers spinnin’ down and Ah didn’t think Ah would make it this mornin’.”

How appropo! Chicken feathers indeed! Yesterday’s snows looked just like the down from pillows. I kept rooting for them to band together. Alas, we have just brown mud and ice today though I bet we had at least 5 inches fall from the sky.

Heavy, fat, and wet “flakes”, if you can call these little clumps that, have been falling for hours as we work our way up to an expected accumulation of 3-6 inches today. I just find myself staring every few minutes. What is it that makes watching them so encompassing? Is it the slow motion of the drift downward? The way each one swirls slightly and dances with gravity before landing with a whisper? I don’t know but it’s got my interest even more than this morning’s Olympic offferings.

We’ve decided we need an action verb for “pouring snow”. There’s no term! Rain pours, drizzles, sprinkles, showers. Snow can flurry and then you have nouns: white out. Blizzard. Dusting. But what about a word for when “it’s really coming down hard” or just fast and steady?

In other news I’ve been thinking about boxes and how eager we are to put people in easy little categories. One of my forum ID’s is even “box breaker” because I can’t stand to be hedged in by another’s description. And that is just what I was reminded of this week: It’s not that I have a problem being defined as a “christian” or “reader” or “mother” or “southerner”. The problem is that when someone else pegs me as such it  is not so much the truth of the label that is the hinderance; it’s that the box is really what they view a mother, christian, reader, southerner, etc. to be. And thier perception may not be an accurate portrayal of what either my aspiration is *or* what the actual model is, allowing for my own errancy. Don’t box me in, don’t dismiss me as your version of what something is…allow me to grow, to communicate what I’m trying to do, to be. Don’t think of me as a finished product that can be handled, analyzed, and then set aside to move onto the next, more interesting object. I’m organic, I’m changing, I’m developing. I will bust the box and I’m not looking for another, bigger one, to take temporary residence in only to bulge it’s seams later on down the road. I am me, created with skin that stretches, that sheds and reveals new layers. I need air to breathe and to grow; take it from me and I’ll fight, like the plant whose tender roots escaped the ball and is reaching down outside the pot.

magical white stuff that fell rapidly from the sky late last night. And the kiddos are out on thier disc sleds, utilizing not only our hill but the neighbor’s as well, and standing with sticks to use them as skiis, and running and shrieking in utter delight.

Two good inches easily and there is a layer on every branch of every tree. Schools are closed and birds are searching and my camera was out before the sun was up properly. The sun is shinning now but not for long; there is more snow in four days’ forecast and sometimes we know too much joy.