The Circle of Life

The sun peeks out, the buds swell with rosy color blushing velvet cheeks, and the fragrance of lilac fills the air. I do believe spring has come . . .

And yet, the nights still chill and the odd snow/rain storms interrupt our celebrations. Winter has dragged its heels and refuses to leave. Surely this has been the longest winter of my life, but also a highly productive one. Much reading and learning, much cleaning and discarding of the house and the heart have busied my wintry space. Oh, but how I long for winter to be over so that I can be carefree in the meadows a-bloom with newness. I am ready for some outdoor dancing. These cottage walls have closed in a bit around my burgeoning spirit.

My journal and my Bible have been my steady companions throughout these frozen, snowy, Narnian Days of a season spanning the demise of one year and the dawn of the next. I have scribbled countless pages and spilled oodles of ideas and notions and hurts and fears all washed in prayers and tears of sorrow or laughter, depending on the moment . . . depending on the mood. I corral these pennings safely between the covers of pretty journals and then squirrel that bound journey away in a box of other solo musings that may someday brighten, enlighten, or entertain a reader. For now the journals congregate in a “box” of writings which overflows onto the neighboring spaces like a library outgrowing its confines. ‘Tis becoming a bit eccentric around here even for my eclectic decorating style, I muse, as I grapple several of the excessive volumes and topple them into a nearby basket. My definition of “tidy” has expanded right along with my ever-growing acquisitions from the world of print (both my own and others).

My children laugh that they will need to check in on me regularly as I age; for fear that I will be imprisoned (or worse, crushed!) by my bookish habits. The neat and tidy shelving that holds biographies here and cookbooks there, British Lit in this precise place and American Lit sprawling on another shelf, and all the rest of the obedient books lined according to subject or author have been joined by a rag-tag set of newcomers. This legion of recently-acquired titles clumps together according to newness and eagerness to be read. This stack by my bed holds deliciously fun reading for bedside or bathtime. I see Barbara Pym beckoning me to give her a chance to win my heart but Bess Streeter Aldrich has newly arrived and plopped down on top of Miss Pym. And so the stack grows, yet the day remains a mere 24-hour stretch. (*sigh*)  Hold tight ladies and gentlemen of the bedside stance, I shall get to you all in good time.

I glance over to my sitting room and flinch in surprise at the stacks and piles and careless sorting of titles that defy demarcation, but cry out to be taken in hand. Books with titles keen to encourage slowing down or saving time, dancing freely or thinking deeply. In the midst rises a tower of overflow from Rachel’s burgeoning shelves – Peter Pan and Wendy have landed here alongside, Aslan, and Miss Princess Sarah Crewe and so many more childhood favorites I have a notion would be worth rereading now that I have rediscovered them right at my fingertips.  But, today I have no time, so I must return these to Rachel’s room.  Surely her shelving cannot be full to capacity?  But as I pop into her room for a quick peruse, I find (you guessed it) stacks of books on the dresser, on the floor, and atop other books awaiting a permanent place. Oh dear!  The Inn appears full here as well!  I return to my room and find another semi-full basket (which now tops out).

TRA-LAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Fleeing downstairs at the call of a whistling kettle, I absent-mindedly trip and tumble on the pyramid of “top list” reads I have gathered around my favorite reading chair. Flora Thompson (in several volumes), Elisabeth Eliot, Sue Bender, and Molly Wizenberg shutter toward the fireplace in an avalanche of print. “Whoopsies!” I laugh as I leap over the cascade and rescue the teakettle from laryngitis. While the teapot steeps I return to scoop up the books and set them safely out of the walkway, but a dilemma arises . . . will that stack over by the tea table safely support another pound or two or good-reads? Maybe this shelf’s contents can s-q-u-e-e-z-e a bit to the left and take on one more . . . nope . . . oh bother! Okay, I’ll just heft this load over next to . . . But, sadly I see that I have no next to’s left next to anything. I have bibliophilic excess EVERYWHERE in this house! (Don’t even ask me about our full-sized guest house next door which houses office, guest rooms, and heavy-laden BOOKSHELVES! AAAaaaahhhhhh!)

What to do? What to do? I scurry around clutching a vital part of my “collection” and end up dizzy from turning this way and that in search of SPACE. I catch a whiff of Lavender Earl Grey emanating from the Blue Willow teapot and I immediately set down the books on the ottoman (a free surface . . . imagine that!) and make off to find a teacup and saucer. The teacup cupboard teems with teetering china beauties alongside sturdier mugs and French demi-tasse café ware all stacked and steadied just so. I peruse but fail to find a favorite for this mood, and so I venture to the dining room and browse the offerings ensconced in glass-fronted displays, antique sideboards, and open-shelving. Copious choices vie for my attention, some even calling from a tabletop unsuitable for housing teacups. Oh my, I sputter . . . the bookish dis-ease seems to have mutated thus far and now includes a tea-cup flush, which looks to be spreading to the teapot realm as well!

Now rather than panic, I choose the only sensible route: I quickly select a vintage Blue Willow teacup and saucer, carry them to the tea tray, which I then transport carefully (so as not to stumble on any books that may have toppled since my last sashay through the keeping room) to my favorite chair and tuffet. Alas, when I arrive I discover the books earlier placed atop the footstool. Naturally, I lay the tray on the chair, gather up the superfluous volumes, set them on the floor next to the hassock, heft the tray from chair to footrest, and then proceed to pour out a cup of refreshment.

While sipping slowly I gather one of those “overflow” books and open it to take a peek . . .

and the circle of life here at Wisteria Cottage continues . . .

. . . as does the miscellaneous stacking of books.

“I doubt this bibliophilic penchant will prove fatal,” I say with a grin as a child peers down through the banister, calling out, “Is everything okay?” in response to the recent spate of crashes and bangs. A smile creeps across my face as I recall the years I rushed to their playroom to inquire about safety following a loud noise.

The circle of life continues . . .

* * *

Postscript:

I confess . . . I have Elizabeth Brown's affliction.  Are you acquainted with Miss Brown?  Truly we are cut from the same cloth (minus the red hair, of course).

Gentle January

“Where has the time flown?” I wonder as I gaze out on the blustery day. Predictions for power outages and flooded creeks fill the headlines of our local paper, and yet I sit beside my fire in blessed coziness. It is good to be quiet in the midst of a storm. So it is with life these days . . .

January as a child signaled CHANGE in my home. My mother would pack away Christmas before the New Year arrived and set about remaking our life in the first month of the dawning annum. Often times that entailed a big move to a “fresh start” or at the very least we would evacuate our present life with a whirlwind cleaning frenzy complete with fresh curtains in the kitchen, fresh spreads on the beds. To a point I enjoyed the “carnival” atmosphere, but once I began my own life with my own address I abandoned that family tradition in favor of a very quiet entry into January.

Our tree stands tall and tinkling past January sixth, and then we celebrate with cocoa and treats as the ornaments come down to loving wrappers and snuggled-away safety until next Christmas. Once the last jot of holiday dust has been dispatched we arrange the furniture right back where it always goes . . . tradition. Books tumble from bedsides and closets (hastily hidden before the series of celebrations with guests) as we move back into our same-old daily routine. I love the same and the old . . .

The excessive feasts of the Nativity fade into hearty soups and crusty bread products; frothy cocoa mugs step aside as clear fragrant (calorie-free) teas take center stage in the slimmer days of January. Red and gold candles scented with spice burn low and sputter, only to be replaced with rich creamy vanilla pillars that burn brightly in the darkened eves. January seems to cry out for simple and quiet. We oblige with pleasure.

’Tis the season for beginning that series of books sitting in community upon the shelf. So Elizabeth has entered Jan Karon’s world of Mitford, while Lydia crosses the pond to Peter Mayle’s Provence; Rachel takes flight with C. S. Lewis into the wonders of Narnia and wins the prize for fastest devourer of a collection – two days per book with the final book just begun this morning. Hmmmmm . . . what will come next? Wizard of Oz? Peter Pan? The Five Children and It? The choices cheer from the bookcase, “Pick me!”

I have fallen back to my beloved old routine of multiple reads on multiple topics all at the same time, though I struggle to finish Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver – for me, something just lacks in the prose sprinkled with dullish essays of conservation and lack-luster recipes for garden wealth. I can’t get a visual of Barbara’s home or gardens or surrounding lands. Her family and friends remain sketches and their lives empty of color. I just want to cry out, “Barbara! I know full well what a ripe tomato looks like, now show me your life and loves in bloom and fruition.” But alas, the chapters drag on and I sputter along in my resolve to finish this book (my third attempt due to a friend’s gushing praise of it being “cute” – I find it bland). So, while my fingers linger on these required pages, my eye roves to the latest arrival from my mail-order treasure hunting of used books: another gem by Elizabeth Goudge. I am slowly filling my shelves with her gentle, picturesque novels sharing lively lives and colorful descriptions of the simplest of pleasures found in a day’s measure. I crave color and fragrance and windy wisps of prose that catch me up and carry me aloft into the writer’s magical world. A peek in through the windows to Miss Goudge’s world offers so much. Thus, I begin to cave to the temptation to set the Kingsolver book aside once again, trading plain cake for fancy flavor.

As for my most interesting read these days, The Music of Silence fills that spot. Benedictine Monk David Steindl-Rast opens wide the doors of his heart and shares the sweetness of a day punctuated by praise. His simple text, coupled with the famous recording Chant, unlocks the mysteries of a Catholic tradition I have never taken part in. My religion-lite upbringing followed by Protestant teachings beginning in the later teen years and then later-in-life reading about monks and nuns in novels and then biographies never fully explained the rich tapestry of prayer woven throughout the monastic daily life. Brother David has invited me in and I am savoring the experience. When I happened upon this fifty-cent book at the library booksale last month, I figured the cd made it worth the price alone – I failed to notice the treasure of experience that lay between the simple dark cover. The music of silence fits perfectly with my January’s pace.

Thus it goes in Gentle January around Wisteria Cottage. I haven’t posted much of late because I keep waiting for an “event” or inspiring photo shoot to replenish my blog trove of thoughts. The gardens slumber and I have taken this opportunity to rest my still-recovering elbow so that it returns to “normal.” To date I feel nearly 100% with no lingering arthritis or such, but I must admit that I relish the idea of taking just a bit more time away from stresses and strains at the elbow and the heart in this quiet, restful month. And so I rest . . . and read . . . and simmer . . . and smile.

Truthfully, the best tale to be told around here can be found in the cozy, snuggly pace of a family in hibernation. Well-fed, well-read, and very well by all accounts summarizes my time away. My camera lies fallow (a fact my children have noted with pleasure) while my journal fills up: So much germinating while hibernating. Spring-time plans for gardens and summer-time thoughts of dining from the bounty keep us from completely walling off tomorrow as we glide through another stormy, windy day of thanking the Lord for providing such peace and calm in the midst of a world tossed to and fro.

With prayers for all of you and prayers for those precious ones in Haiti, and prayers spoken from the heart of all matters, I have been hauling a bushel-basket of prayers to the feet of the Almighty these days as I pace my day with prayer times that my monk friend has inspired. He hears . . . He knows . . . He listens . . . all ways.



p.s.
My computer also lies fallow much of the time these days, but I plan to step in to say “Hi” at each one of your lovely blogs in the coming days. The writing of letters, answering of emails, returning of phone calls, and commenting on blogs seem like the perfect activity for a Gentle January day.

Oh my! The power just flickered, so I must leave off the wandering chatter and post or I shall surely lose it all and spoil my “gentle” day. ; D

Eddying Thoughts Tumbled Out on a Tuesday

Anuna’s mellifluous harmonies waft about the room. My diminutive blue willow teapot steeps with just enough tea for me. My devotional moments drift into prayers of the deepest nature reaching the depthless font. All stresses fade, all tensions melt . . . for just a brief moment I rest in complete peace. I am home.

My mountain-top moment begins to fade, even as I weep for it to stay. Phones jangle, appointments demand, dust settles . . . my feet touch earth with a thud.

I shy away from the computer, knowing that tidying tasks and planning details should devour these productive morning hours. Absently I pick up pen and journal and fall into another stream, swirling down a spout of tumbling thoughts and gushing feelings – a waterfall pouring forth from these moments set aside from the routine.

I came here to my little cozy spot on the web to share something . . . but the basket I carried here stands somehow strangely empty. Did it spill out? Did I fail to gather anything?

Maybe it is enough to simply say, “Hi” without a carefully orchestrated message or diligently uploaded pics. Maybe I can simply rest and fill teacups with friendly invite to send a simple “Hello” back my way.

Of late, my life has been sloshing high and low on waves of lurching activity outside the normal confines of cottage and gardens (and will continue to do so as we prepare for a trip to Disneyworld from the 14th through the 22nd), but for just this little moment I sit peacefully in my favorite cozy chair and gaze out at the brilliant foliage garlanding the gardens even as the roses blossom and bud relentlessly.

I sigh . . . I smile . . . I count the gifts of a gentle life.

I thank Him.

Though the headlines bombard me with fearsome predictions and dire assessments, though advertisers attempt to shift my thinking away from simple living in favor of indebted complexities, though accepted practices crowd life with superfluous events, I linger in this moment of complete satisfaction – knowing His grace nourishes me sufficiently unto abundance. I thank Him for infusing me with so many gifts, seen and unseen, appreciated and challenging, popular or unusual . . . still and all, I thank Him.

Dancing off to a-typical drumbeats, I think of Madeleine L’Engle’s words from Walking on Water: Reflections on faith and art:

Often we forget that he has a special gift for each of us, because we tend to weigh and measure such gifts with the coin of the world’s marketplace. The widow’s mite was worth more than all the rich men’s gold because it represented the focus of her life. Her poverty was rich because all she had belonged to the living Lord. (p. 26)

She adds the thoughts of Emmanuel, Cardinal Suhard:

To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.

How aptly these words sum up my little life in this little town in such a little speck of time and yet how BIG it all feels when I awake each morning. Each decision, thought, and movement sparks a reaction somewhere, somehow, some way. May my mysterious ramblings and curious dances bring glory to God, I pray.

And now I have babbled on long enough and have yet to remember exactly why I decided to open up this window and jot down something to share . . .

Still and all, I have come to say “Hi” and for today I hope that be enough.

Happy Tuesday, my sweet friends.

: D

A Moment's Gift

Such fatigue I feel. This monthly cycle’s “reset” time has drained me so. I sit in this quiet room, gentle strains of Barry Phillips' Cello sedate me further, and I enjoy deep, slow sips of tea laced with lavender.

I sit.
Just sit.
Simply sit . . .

And it is good.

I seem to have gently acquired the gift of being good to myself. Where once I picked up a stick and drove myself onward until collapse, I now see value in slow-moving times. I label them equally productive and find a special fruit therein.

Prone to driving lists and endless stacks of “musts,” I rebel placidly and float through a brambled tangle, past a bank of snags, and under a bridge to a peaceful pool with only the moment as my companion.

My needy tasks of the day do not melt away, but instead stand at bay as I linger just this much more . . . For I know a freshened soul scours pots with joy and sweeps away crumbs with a dancing step when she feels filled with peace. The peace in knowing life has been presented to her in a series of tiny packages, strung together like pearls, one moment after the other, wreathes her to advantage.

This peaceful pause sparkles like a diamond and I cannot resist its allure.

Since the dishes shall surely remain as they are, and the hummingbird at play in my potted pelargonium shows every inclination of vanishing in an eyelash’s flicker, I shall stay put for just one more good moment.

Aaaaaahhhhh . . . it feels so good to receive a gift.

The Day of Rest . . . THAT WORE ME OUT!

I sit here in a quiet household. Some shower, some have gone to attend business, and others slumber still. I so enjoy these few moments of pin-dropping stillness wherein I read and meditate and pray. Today I read:

We always expect the Lord to come to us in joy.
Instead of that He sometimes comes to us in a big disappointment.

~~ Amy Carmichael ~~

I laugh out loud, shattering the silence. I take a sip of tea and sit back to scoop up the final spoonful of honeyed-yogurt topped with the last of the blueberries, fresh and so expensive that I savor them one by one.

I lower my lashes and admit that I attach such significance to my daily joy; I seek to find the moments of joy knowing God will be there . . . and yet on some days I find him, as Miss Carmichael notes so aptly, in a BIG disappointment. Take this past weekend, for example – I established that Sunday would be an ultimate day of REST. I set apart my schedule to include the lazy reading and finishing of Some Lovely Islands, a slim and delightful volume of travel days that I wanted so to devour and savor without the nagging thought of chores. Next to that I placed a book newly arrived from a dealer, entitled French Island Elegance.

(Doesn't this cover just speak volumes
of the delightful vacation resting between those covers?)

So I set about a flurry of Saturday chores and baking (the most scrumptious sourdough-rye-seeded bread to accompany a big pot of chili – where was my camera?) and all manner of gardening tasks, like watering my parched lands in this oh-so-heat-filled month of August. (Truly August ranks as my least favorite gardening month.) I ended the day with tired body but smiling face . . . tomorrow I rest.

Sunday dawned with roosters crowing and after rising from my sleepy hollow I took a bowlful of goodies out for the feathered folk to share. I lingered and laughed as they strutted and scuttled around to inspect the mélange of tea leaves, avocado fragments, wilted tomatoes and cucumbers, and a smattering of tired berries laced with feathered greens of all sorts. A feast to linger over on this restful Sunday.

I wandered the gardens a bit, feeling the dampness left behind by the early morning sprinklers, and walked in peace. Today there would be no hurried showers or bustling off to church; with the flu spreading and school newly begun, we have chosen to stay behind our garden walls until the truth of the threat bears out. Worship can and will happen here as vibrantly as in our pew-filled congregation. I thank the Lord for the freedom we cling to that allows us to worship as we choose.

I returned to my cozy kitchen, brewed a pot of tea, and settled down to read. A little excitement bubbled up when Gary and Rachel came to report that while slipping out to run an errand they witnessed an apartment fire downtown. I immediately inquired of some friends’ safety, as they live quite near the fire. No danger for them, so I set about praying for those roused from bed by a chilling cry of “Fire!”

All too soon my quiet morning evaporated when Gary hobbled in with a severely damaged ankle from a mishap at the treehouse – a building in progress. A bleeding, bruising, swelling appendage caused me to swoon (literally, I must confess) as I ran for supplies. I bathed and treated the wound and found it to look awful, but it appeared unbroken and remarkably free of much pain for Gary. He hobbled around demonstrating that he felt pretty good. I swooned again. It pains me to bind up the wounds of my children, but really frightens me to see my husband – The Rock – bleeding. I made him comfortable and returned to my tea and book . . . and then put the book down. Some dvd entertainment filled the balance of the afternoon, as I cooked and did some laundry and tidied a bit here and there.

The cool Fall-like weather we eagerly anticipated did not materialize as predicted by meteorologists. The temps soared and we began to hear fire trucks and sirens of all manner screaming down the nearby highway. Hmmmmmm . . . All too soon I smelled smoke, saw ash floating in the air, and ran outside to see the blue sky filling with ambered waves of smoke. I ran to the internet and searched to find info . . . a tidbit would suffice to calm my concerns. All up-to-the-minute local sources supplied LOTS of fire information (apparently this area had hosted a few more fires after the early morning blaze downtown), but nothing about the latest smoke-filled event. The gusty winds of the day continued to blow, earlier having destroyed our metal/canvass cabana at the poolside. Without any information, I merely prayed a blanket prayer for those that may be affected, including my own family.

I tried to return to reading, but found myself merely gazing out the window at the fleeting butterflies and hummingbirds that dance so merrily this time of year. From blossom to fountain and back again goes the merry dance. (Where is that camera when you need it most?) A woodpecker crashes the party now and again. A goldfinch drops in unexpectedly, has a hurried bath, and then flits away to play with her flock of friends all a-twitter in the majestic oaks. I began to smell thicker smoke odors and see the wafts of grey pass by my window. Should we get ready for a quick exit? Could Gary drive with that ankle? And then my mind fell to the very lowest of points and I began to think of the silly things, like bemoaning the fact that our dinner invite to a friend’s place may be cancelled. I know myself all too well . . . when fear begins to grip its tentacles around my mind I retreat to the least painful thoughts like the loss of a good meal in a time of emergency.

I grabbed the computer and looked again. No update. I glanced outside and noticed a lessening of the smoke. Wishful thinking? I asked Gary to confirm. Yes, but he noted that a wind shift may be the cause. He then informed me he felt good enough to dress for our dinner date. I couldn’t think of leaving the kids with an unknown fire raging somewhere. I balked. He changed clothes. I scanned the horizon and waited. I applied mascara and lip gloss with one eye on the lace panels, and detected bluer skies for certain. I returned to the computer and finally found an update. The fire raged through a neighboring town (25 miles away) and continued to destroy homes and businesses in its path. (Today I read that 60 structures have been lost, many of them homes. At this moment it is merely 50% contained. I continue to pray . . .)

We did enjoy dinner with our friends, the children remained safe and sound at Wisteria Cottage, and Gary’s ankle allowed him significant mobility without any crutches. A bit of hobbling and his comfy blue clog slippers allowed him to slip in and out of restaurant without notice as a wounded man. Amazing! Today he awoke with much less swelling, fully-scabbed wounds, minimal bruising, and a looooooong list of To Do’s for the day. He remarked how refreshed he felt from a good long night’s sleep. (Elizabeth set her alarm to release the chicken folk at 6 am – she went back to bed and slept late.)

I, on the other hand, dragged myself out of bed with a little less-than-normal vigor, the victim of my own worrisome ways. I brewed my tea, fixed my breakfast, and grabbed my stack of morning reads like every ordinary day. And then it hit me . . . this day feels ordinary. Praise God! After the hub-bub of yesterday’s Un-restful day, I happily face this day in the ordinary way. We do not reside in a shelter awaiting news of the charring or not of our home and all worldly goods. I do not need to pass through the automatic doors of a hospital to visit my husband, as he has but a mere wobble in his walk and no more. Despite the many blips on the radar screen of yesterday, life remains typical and around here that always feels GOOD!

I shall finish my tea, gently remind Rachel to be mindful of her time as piano lessons will be at noon, and carry on with the vacuuming, laundering, cooking, and all other activity in the keeping of my home on an ordinary Monday. I will pause often to pray for those who have a new routine today, one they did not hope for, and I will remember Amy Carmichael’s words and rejoice that the disappointments of yesterday truly did yield joy when I let go of the mental gymnastics of a worrier.

And maybe, just maybe, I may finish off that book of island touring in England and hop on over to The Caribbean and her neighbors for a glance at that new book of beauty. For now, I gratefully swallow my last sip of tea and set off to find what today holds. I know joy can be found, I may just need to blow away some smoke to see it.

Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Photo Taken by Rachel

Taking another day of respite . . .
and maybe another . . .

* * * * *

Such bliss to don garden gloves and escape to the gardens for some peace and respite amongst the blooming roses and budding autumn clematis. What’s this?!?!? Roses gone rogue? Shoots shooting to and fro, barring safe passage down the walkways? When did these canes sprout in medusa-like proportions?

And so the gentle stroll took on the likes of a deadly task, until . . . a few snips and the tossing of wiggly thorn-encrusted tentacles onto the stone pathway and then a child happened by and joined the task, hauling away the dangerous detritus. Said child enlisted aid of another child wandering the path and the laboring one found herself with four more hands to hoist the prickly product. A passing husband added another set of aiding appendages. The task became a lark filled with laughter and bursts of cautionary warnings as the REALLY BIG STUFF came down swiftly.

Soon the task of pruning ended and the long-awaited assessment of sprinkler problems happened. A swift trip to B&C Hardware solved the nagging problem of toting watering cans to fill in where broken sprinkler heads failed to reach. As that project spun away in success, an empty flower bed caught my eye and a vision of herbs in a “patchwork” pattern, much in the spirit of Disneyland’s Storybook gardens, captured my fancy. The plans spilled out amongst the gathered gardening ones. Then a call for a retaining wall and a fresh load of soil floated about with nodding heads seeing another new garden plot in dreams for even greater produce next year. Tasks and toil melted into dreams and ideas and led to a time of counting our blessings.

August traditionally depletes this gardener with its heat and relentless dryness. This year the heat persists, but hovers considerably lower than in past summers. Rain forecasts predict October droplets . . . maybe. No one puts spade to ground for new garden beds this time of year, but it serves as a wonderful time to stroll the gardens, assess the progress made in the past year, notice failures, and dream for the coming season. Our single apple-on-the-branch continues to ripen and entice us to dream of the tomorrows in the garden when we will be toting heavy-laden baskets to the kitchen for baking and canning and eating with abandon. This solitary apple serves as an appetizer to hope.

Photo Taken by Rachel

In between the gardening tasks and gardening dreams I managed to write a bit, read a bit, cook a bit, and laugh a lot. Gary and I even managed a convertible ride through the mountains, straying so far to capture the beauty of view and verdant landscapes that the moon beat us home. We drove down the lane to our cottage with darkness falling and Gary decided to turn off the headlamps and test all the turn signals on this vehicle we use infrequently. I laughed at the blessing of a man who keeps things checked and running, and I laughed even harder at his truly unique methodology. “Normal” cannot be counted on around here. : D

My day of respite and rest included NO BLOOD PRESSURE READINGS. I have appreciated all the comments, emails, and encouraging ideas regarding my medical mishaps. I agree that my “normal” may be a bit higher than the statistics would indicate, just as my heart rate has always exceeded the “typical.” I feel great and my immune system seems to be standing at sentry because we had a close encounter with “the dreaded contagion” in the flu world and not a one of us succumbed. We have decided to prudently keep our community events to a minimum during this time of heightened fears of infection, but truthfully we celebrate these simple days of tethering to the hearth.

Speaking of hearth . . . the herbed chicken stew with sourdough (whole wheat) dumplings received rave reviews at dinner last night.


Even my dumpling-disliking daughter Elizabeth found the solid lumps to be tasty and enjoyable. I cannot rave enough about my cast iron dutch oven. Once the cool days set in and the woodstove hums merrily all the day, I will attempt to cook atop it. My last woodstove did not have the cooking plate so the top proved an unsatisfactory stove. But, enough of wintry talk, fall has yet to show up to the ball and I have many tasks at hand (most pleasurable) before I can dance in the turning leaves, let alone the falling snowflakes.

Tasks . . . a never-ending call to time-management, self-control, and simplification. I look around at the empty teapot. Today I indulged in orchid oolong – my favorite tea in the whole wide world. Such a sweet perfume and delicate flavor, but due to its extreme cost I employ pioneer common sense and sprinkle a few of the precious leaves into a tea infuser filled with silver needle tea. The silver needle serves a mild hostess to the fragrant orchid leaves and the whole pot bows to the orchid’s reign. Thus I sip a frugal cup of luxury and sit here praising God for another wide-open day of beauty found right under my fingertips. I shall not leave the home again today, except maybe to take a drive or dine at our favorite Mexican casa (it is date night, after all) – maybe luxury will rain upon me further and I will receive both dinner AND a drive. Ah the thought of such bounty makes me smile.

Today I entitled my journal entry: Gentle Living. Simply Rich.

Having known poverty and wealth, having known hunger and surfeit, having known bondage and freedom, having lost loved ones and gained new ones, I count my life RICH for what I find in the simply joy of a day’s worth of blessing blossoming with abandon all around me. There once was a time when I discounted what I had and set my sights on riches out of hand. The frustration of that endless journey caused exhaustion and collapse that forced me to sit. Having lost the drive I gathered what lay within arm’s reach and found it satisfied. Sadly, once refreshed and invigorated I stood up and caught sight of the far horizon and once again my ingrained human habits jerked at the reigns. Each day requires me to decide. Today I choose to live in this moment and it feels so good.

Wisdom grows with age, but my restless human spirit weaves tethers of shiny gold distractions across my path. Care must be taken with each step . . . but I so often run with abandon, tripping, falling, skinning my knees, and bruising my self-esteem. Fortunately I heal and set out again. I will never “get it” completely but I have found a good many folks that will reach out a hand or offer a kind word of encouragement when needed. You have all been a blessing to me. I thank you.

And now I must away from this box and don an apron for some breadmaking and then add a straw bonnet for garden tending and then . . .

Relaxed

What a wonderful weekend filled to the brim with TIME.

We took time to R-E-L-A-X and read and

wander through the gardens with butterfly nets

(or just a friendly finger),

Play in the kitchen with sourdough starter,

And so much more.

Who knew that a smattering of days without an appointment on the calendar could yield such bliss?

This Monday morning found me smiling and eager to play some more. Sure we have music lessons and marketing to be done, along with vacuuming and laundering and all the other cottage duties . . . but somehow I could not let the weekend feeling go without one more walk in the gardens before the week truly begins.

I found dew upon the fresh garden faces, which brought a smile to mine.

I sought vibrant color yet to be washed away by the heat of the day.


And I saw the promise of more to come.


The quickly-changing landscape always surprises me. Here sits a shy sweet bud of Anne Boleyn rising to bloom just a day or two ago.


Today she looks thus.


Tomorrow . . . hmmmm, as always, I pause a bit before “deadheading” this beauty when all her petals have fallen. I wonder, as many have through the ages, what really happened to bring about Miss Boleyn’s untimely demise. Evil on her part? Or another’s? I clip ever so swiftly and gently when the need arises. But for today, I shall merely enjoy the beauty of this delicate English rose.


Pondering has been my lot this past weekend.

Pondering why Blogger labeled me “Malicious” and blocked me from blogging for hours on end.

Pondering the similarities/differences found in our Sundays here at Wisteria Cottage and those of a turn-of-the-20th-century Sunday afternoon in France (in the country just outside Paris) as so beautifully filmed in Un Dimanche a la Compagne/A Sunday in the Country – a French film I adore and watched again this past weekend.

Ponderings continued as I finished up a tepid biography of Earl Hamner Jr (Walton’s creator – another fave of mine) and dove right into Where the Lilies Bloom. How did I ever miss this latter gem while growing up? Mary Call’s spunky nature holds her family together through wildcrafting (gathering of herbs and plants for medicine) in her Appalachian homelands. The trials of this 14-year-old who becomes head of household, tethered by poverty and a raft of untenable promises from an insistent parent, tugged at my heart and dredged memories of my own. Sadly the book ends abruptly and without satisfaction. I felt cheated when the storyline cut off sharply with a tidy summary as if the authors (Bill and Vera Cleaver) simply dusted off their hands and moved on to the next item on their writing list. I felt cheated . . . I wanted more time with this rag-tag family . . . I demand a sequel.

I retaliated by moving on down my own list of waiting-to-be-read. While glancing through the pile o’ books stacked to the stars, as my dear husband groans in pursuit of a spider on the ceiling whom he cannot access due to the rolling waves of books piled in plunderous plops next to the bedside, my eye catches the cover of Sue Hubbell’s A Country Year: Living the questions.


I snap it up and carry it downstairs for a re-read. I read this many years ago as an evaluative tool to decide whether bee-keeping held the key to our financial future. I loved the book, though we determined the path to financial freedom held no bee skeps for us. I think this week’s forecast of temps up in the 90s holds the very promise of lazy days of reading. Sue will be a fine companion once again.

Thus, I wandered in and out of the weekend duties as if in a fog of freedom – and it felt WONDERFUL!

This morning I carried my books and breakfast out into the coolness before the heat and breathed in the joy of another week virtually free of appointments.


I smile when I recall the blood pressure numbers recorded each evening – now in normal ranges . . . without medication. I put fork to food and enjoy a yummy omelet filled with sprouts and cheese, and YES there lies a chocolate treat upon the very same plate!


Elizabeth found a most scrumptious recipe for fudge pie in a coconut crust in the Whole Foods for the Whole Family cookbook by La Leche League. Delicious!!! (Whole foods can be fun and sassy when called upon to be a decadent dessert.)

SO in an attempt to carry over a bit more of the relaxed pace of the past weekend, I dove in and enjoyed every morsel of this chocolate goodness.


I intend to keep it up all week long.

Now forgive me if I cannot get to your blog to leave a comment or two, but Blogger has proven to be in a snit with me. (Have I landed on some “enemies list” due to expressing Free Speech? Quite possibly so!) Has any one else found the pathway to blogs blocked? Rather than fume about Big Brother and all the rest of the incendiary politics filling up the American Way of life, I choose to wander on out to visit the chickens. My how they have grown???


The cock-a-doodle-doos bring smiles to our faces each morning we rise in this country life. (No neighbors have grumbled – hooray . . . the joy of country acres between back porches.)

I sip the last of my tea, enjoy the morning, stroke my kitty friends, chat with my children, think about my husband hard at work on a new project, and embark upon another week of living in the country way.

And so I ramble on and away to who-knows-what along the way in the coming week . . .

Happy Monday!

: D

Dusting Off a Thoughtful Thursday

What joy! I arose this morn to be greeted by a gray sky and a chill wind. I squealed with delight as I donned a fleecy covering and went out to release the chickens. Now and again God gifts our dew-parched lands with a crisp hint of autumn smack in the middle of summer. Though this has proven the mildest summer of our nine years in residence here at Wisteria Cottage, the break from the monotonous blue-sky, heated-dry spell washes over me like a refreshing sprinkle of rain. (Dare I hope these gray travelers overhead contain moisture destined from my thirsty gardens? Oh yes, I do!) Customarily our August days blast like a furnace, with many days topping 100 degrees. BUT . . . I do hasten to add that each season experienced here has held a unique temperament, no two seasons alike despite the same title.

I sit here nestled in my favorite floral chair, sipping white jasmine tea from a blue willow tea cup, and I thank the Lord for so much that has risen to greet me already in this day. Top of my list: My blood pressure hovers gently above “normal” without any medication. Next: Gary’s business has picked up (taking him away to LA this day with my laptop . . . thus I tap away on my daughter’s testy Vista-born model). Having gone from languid to overloaded in a flash, our business has resumed its health and no longer borders on closure. God be praised.

From here on out my heart flows over with praises to God for health, harmony in my family, and a heartiness in daily life that catches me up in an eddy of praise-filled joy even on the most difficult of days. (“Do we have more difficulties than most?” I used to wonder wearily, but have since found our lot to be just right despite my reflex protestations to the contrary.)

I have learned a simple secret along this pock-marked path I call life:

Let Go

Set Free the things clutched so firmly

Let life escape my imprisoning ways and the spontaneity of life and its many blessings will roll me like a playful wave, leaving me unscathed to play another day.

Once upon a time I assigned every facet of my life a value and kept a meticulous accounting. I sniffed in disdain at activities not offering a tangible, goal-oriented return. I fell victim to programming by those I perceived to be “successful” and I pared away all but the essential elements needed for SUCCESS. Sadly, my definition of success narrowed to include only the perfect, impressive, admired, applauded, and coveted. Unhealthy goals became nooses that strangled me, choking off my unique gifts.

In addition, I learned (quite painfully) the lessons of life in a fickle world (even a Christian one). My Grade A performances reaped applause and rave reviews immediately, but faded quickly – even yielding harsh critique in time. An off-day or a misspelled word became a tragedy in my precarious world of rules and etiquette. I flogged myself emotionally until I broke and admitted FAILURE. Like a ray of sunshine after a horrendous torrent, my brokenness showed the way to joy. The washing flood of tears revealed the pathway hidden under countless layers of earthly dust I had painstakingly collected. The wracking of my sobbing shoulders loosed the chains I had wrapped so tightly in the name of discipline. Like a butterfly broken free from a chrysalis, I stretched and soothed the cramped wings I had ignored in my futile quest.

Old habits die hard . . . especially when others depend on your slavery to meet their goals. I found my fabulous new-born wings weighted down with all manner of debris and decay. I had to lighten the load or lie immobile in my own dust. Slowly I severed the ties to things and thoughts inconsistent with freedom and joy. My load lightened. Some rushed to help me, but like a true butterfly I had to perform the task alone. Besides, I found that even the most well-meaning aid kicked up dust and imperiled my tenuous progress. Without malice I found a quiet hollow and set about simplifying my life.

I found a portal to joy whilst I worked quietly in that solo place – for unlike my expectation that “removing” things from my life would yield space, emptiness, loneliness . . . I found the opposite. The more “Stuff” I discarded, the more light and life I experienced. The material world and all my lacquered ideas had sealed me away from vitality. Simpler surrounds cleared the fog and I saw richer, deeper, fuller, sweeter, softer, longer, lovelier, and oh so many more treasures gleaming through the chink in my worldly walls. Where once I had set such store by the things my hands could make or my voice could command or my mind could devise, I now stood spellbound at a drop of grace . . . a gift of such beauty that I had not earned, nor ever could.

Sadly, my cloak of pride lasted longer than all the other obfuscating obstacles. I clung to the tattered fabric of “being right” because I feared that admission and abandonment of so much of the “acquired but useless” in my life would blow out the flame of joy burning just out of reach. I wanted to be fully free, BUT experience had taught me (been drilled in to my head during childhood) that everything has a price and a fool shares all for free. Would I find another booby trap if I let go my final garment of self, as had happened so often in the past? Did I grasp at a figment, only to be laughed at when I tumbled? Did those voices of shame and anger in the dark fringes really know the truth? Should I return to their calling command?

With little left to gain from my threadbare past, I slipped from the cloak of drab and walked through the crack in the wall and into a warm meadow. The sliver of light I had been drawn to proved but a glint. Once past the last vestige of prided wall I saw the landscape spread far and wide. A glance over my shoulder afforded a last opportunity to retreat into the dusky din of my conjured land of success, laying as it did in swirled dust-choked darkness. I turned to the light-filled expanse, inhaled the sweetness of a cloverfield and ran headlong to dip my toes into a crystal brook of icy chill. I found my arms free to follow my feet in dances of no purpose, save to celebrate the lightness of the moment.

Amazing! When I let go all but the simplest facets, my life grew into abundance. To run free and naked without fear of failure or loss . . . surely the Garden of Eden seeded this place!

I no longer seek perfection, for I know it cannot be found in this world. Instead, I find joy in catching sight of silvery shooting stars and flecks of pure gold glancing off a sunlit pond and every other fleeting moment of awe and wonder – rewards for keeping the dust at bay. My new world falls under storm clouds of fear and worry. My new world gets cluttered and tattered and jumbled just as the old dark one did. (I live here, you see, and am such a clutter-loving soul, it seems -- and did I mention the garments of pride I keep finding in my closet? Who knew pride came in so many colors, sizes, shapes, and fashions? Ugh!) The saving grace still rests in the rays of pure hope and love and joy that break though the clouds when I least expect it, but most need reminding. A rolled-up sleeve, a dustcloth, and a bended knee sweep away the gathered glop and I espy a sparkly glimpse of “what will be,” the glittering glint of “what awaits” contrasted with the indelible memory of that distant land of darkness and dust and ALL THAT WORK. This ray of hope frees me to dance today with joy and peace of mind.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see some girls and kitties frolicking in the blissful coolness of an August afternoon and I do not wish to miss another moment of it now that I’ve finished my “dusting” for the day.

Respite Wednesday

I walked through the gardens today while the dew lay fresh on the meadow (I could never refer to this green carpet as lawn or even grass – the wildflowers/weeds dot the blanket of spongy green with such abandon that no self respecting gardener would dare name it lawn). My bejeweled flip-flops sparkled as my hem wicked up the dampness. The fresh cool morning air signaled another cool day . . . and I rejoiced.

The heady rose perfume suffused the air with such potency that my mind swirled and I felt taken up with visions of piles of petals, like fallen leaves, ripe and ready for jumping into. (Surely that dream has also occurred to some other rose-lover save only me.) I would be loathe to sacrifice the blooms for the gathering, but what fun to dream about it.

Just yesterday I came across this proverbial saying:

Never Let Your Memories Outnumber Your Dreams

So true . . . to which I would lately add:

Never Let Your Fears Overshadow the Promises of God

The days strung together to form weeks have so much joy laced within the hours, and as the sun moves the shadows grow and shrink. I have spent the better part of the last few days cultivating my joys much as I cultivate my flower gardens. Each time I venture into my gardens I stand amazed at the colors and textures and leafy differences each blooming beauty holds. I prize David Austin’s English Roses above all else for the fragrance and form and sheer hardiness that keeps them dancing in my garden in full fancy dress from one season to the next. Rarely do I find a bush without bud or blossom. The hedge of roses encircling my decking sunk roots to soil in my gardens only last Spring, yet have bloomed three or four times in succession already and show no signs of slowing down.

“Pictures?” you ask. “Do you have photos to share?”

Ah, my sweet friends I don’t, as I found myself out amongst the beauty without bulky camera in hand. It seemed counter-productive to hasten back into the house, possibly catching sight of the dishes piled high in the sink or the laundry spilling from the chute waylaying this Joy-seeker from her task toward joyful observances, breaking the magical spell of freedom and limitless horizon for soaking in the memorable and the dreams all at once. So, I gambled that you would enjoy “word pictures” spun from my memory just as much as a snapped moment; thus I babble on.

A trip to the chicken lands boosted my ego as they ran to greet me, roosters tripping and stumbling in their ego-filled way as they strove to be first to choose from the lot of goodies. Yes, dear friends, we have nurtured two roosters. Bossy Bob and Dapper Dan (we just couldn’t find a way to amend Miss Priss appropriately for the newly-revealed gender) crow each morning to bring up the sun and prance around in the daylight hours, showing off the most glorious black-green-purple-blue feathered sheen. They are regal looking until they stumble or slide on gangly feet and tip from over-developed breasts (and under-developed brains, I surmise).

I never imagined I would fall under the spell of chickens, let alone goofy roosters. But, yes . . . I admit to being smitten over their antics and foibles and silly, silly ways. Sadly there cannot be two roosters with four hens and thus Dapper Dan has been chosen to find another accommodation. Being my favorite by a LONG shot (I know, I have broken all the homesteading rules about naming and petting a meal component), I choose not to think about what the next few months may hold for this dopey guy. For today it shall be enough to giggle and guffaw over the prancing and dancing of a flock of fowl. Watching them wrestle over the smattering of cherry tomatoes and watermelon rinds, I make a mental note to find six bad tomatoes next time, as a mere four red balls has made for a most exciting game of catch-me-if-you-can, but also resulted in someone pecking another in frustration over the competition for red foods (their favorites). Did I mention that a hen did the pecking to a rooster? Oh how funny this topsy-turvey world of feathered folk has proven to be.

But enough of chickens and weedy meadows and even roses, for my middle girl has just finished The Story of Painting by the Jansons, a wonderfully informative survey of the history of painting (you probably guessed that, didn’t you?), and requires my computer for a French lesson. Her diligence astonishes me; regardless of the weather, momentum of the day, or temper of her spirit, Miss Lydia completes all schoolwork and music practice without delay (except when I hog the needed laptop). Would that all of my children operated so . . .

Aaaaaahhhhhhh, I wish you could hear the beautiful harp music that now fills the air, as Lydia has switched out French Lesson for Harp practice. It sounds as I imagine Heaven must sound.

And so my mind floats again to the dreaminess that comes so naturally to the woman who swims through this blog making ripples for others to see. Those ripples felt like splashes of a drowning woman recently as I wrestled so with fears and concerns over my own issues and those of the many that I love (some only through virtual channels). Today’s reading of Psalm 20 rests in my heart and mind like a sweet lozenge of comfort and healing. My trials have not washed away, nor have those of others, but the hope and promises of my Lord and Father have comforted my aching heart and smoothed my worried brow, setting me to play in a garden of such splendor that only His mighty hands could have fashioned. I may dig holes, add water, prune off the faded, and plan for the beauty, but only He holds the key to sending the power that sets it all awash in color and fragrance and heady fun.

This respite Wednesday I bid you laugh and celebrate the dreams of our heart that only a Father’s love can make come true. Miracles happen every day . . . as evidenced by that hummingbird I just espied drinking deeply from a geranium I inherited from an aged gardener who resided by the temperate coast, which has not only adapted to my chilly mountain air, but flourished and bloomed for five years thus far! I cannot conjure a miracle, but God can do anything He chooses – even keep an annual flower for my zone in bloom for years to nourish the migrating hummingbirds. He really does keep His eye on all things of this earth.

With that I shall bid farewell as I happily dance away to continue playing in His daycare (and will continue to rest peacefully in the shadows of His nightcare wings).

Happy Respite Wednesday

Sipping Summer Slowly With Delight

Last year summer vanished in a wildfire and a series of heat waves that thundered through my life and stole away my joy. (Okay, I admit I groused it away on many an occasion, but still . . .) This year I made a promise to myself to find the fountain of joy in the midst of my lesser-favored time of year. So far I have found a freshet that shows little sign of waning.

The coolness of our summer temps delights me no end. I can even be out in the gardens at midday without crisping in a flash. The damp dew-speckled pathways grow lush with pennyroyal and I celebrate the herbal “lawn” I have sought for years. Chamomile proved too delicate for my arid lands and thyme too rampant – though both still grow merrily here and there effusing the air with each crushing footfall. This minty-sweet pennyroyal carpet boasts deep purple flowers and happily spreads with abandon in the shady and sunny spots.

I do not court any of the traditional lawns as they prove too greedy for my rain-free locale in the cleft of the Sierras. So, when I discovered this patch of persistent purpleness I kept my eye on it, expecting it to curl up and vanish or grow leggy and unsightly. On the contrary, each mowing produced a renewed vigor and the driest of spots sported patches taking root with glee. Now, I am sure in some gardens this little runner would be despised, but I see it as a gift. Running across the damp leaflets in the early hours brings a tangy excitement into the air, and at dusk -- as I scurry around with secateurs and tidiness in mind -- the fragrance of after-dinner-mint brings a smile to my face.

I grew up in apartments and condos that offered little in the way of “gardens” to roam, but my steady flow of reading ignited a dream of one day having gardens to ramble with sights, sounds, and smells to feed all the senses. My “Secret Garden” dream spun so long ago while reading and lounging in the afternoon heat continues to grow and expand with each season. Just the other day I bought a trumpet vine of the most vibrant coral-red. Its two tubular blooms have called the hummingbirds to celebrate its arrival. One day I will have a splendiferous vine engulfing the remaining patio post (of most practical black metal, though rather un-beautiful for the moment . . .).

Even now I sit upon my deck, hearing a distant neighbor practice a real trumpet (he/she’s quite good actually), listening to the splash of the fountains, catching giggles from the surrounds as the girls run and discover newness since yesterday’s games. So many things I nearly missed as I mapped out my To Do list of chores and deeds that filled the day from end to end.

But then . . .

I stopped and remembered that I had vowed to enjoy this summer as never before. Dishes can be loaded or sudsed after sunset, or even later if I choose to stay out and watch the bat ballet that occurs each eve at twilight. Feeding the chickens their final snack before bedtime proves a most enjoyable game with many vying for the honor of being “popular” with the feathered-ones. Tonight’s fare includes melon rinds and seeds, tomato tops, eggplant remains, and mushy raspberries absent-mindedly forgotten in the bin – my loss, their gain.

I now refer to the chickens as feathered folk or happy ones, as we still cannot discern whether we have a rooster (or two) among the lot. All research and questioning of those chicken folk we know has resulted in the same answer: Just wait and see. So we wait and wonder and chat about ideas should we have one or more roosters. To date we plan to keep one rooster with the hopes of raising our own chickies next year; any additional cockerels will be offered as pets to others. So far they all act like hens . . . but what do we know?


Thus my days run one into another with a gentle read to fill any quiet moment.
Of late I am enjoying The Heart on the Right Side by Carolyn Jourdan – a true story involving a career girl who leaves her DC senate aid position to come home to rural Tennessee to help Dad run his country doctor practice while Mom recovers from a heart issue. So far it has proven a delight without the pitfalls of most books I have attempted this summer. I don’t care to read of someone else’s intimate antics, nor do I want a mouthful of cursing on each page. I began Blessed Are the Cheesemakers based on a recommendation and then quickly tossed it aside as the material simply annoyed me with its baseness. (Glad I borrowed the disappointment from the library.)

I have found as I gain in years that I love a good true-life adventure more than an orchestrated novel. Each has a place in a well-balanced diet of reads, but the truth of a life lived out in ordinary detail and drama fascinates me. To see how one handles life as it comes, not as it has been created for effect, grabs my heart every time. Thus blogs interest me so. This one cannot decide which house to buy (if any), that one has just finished her house and moved into a new phase, another travels to many delicious destinations, while yet another stays home with feet in boots to observe life with as much joy and wonder as those traipsing over new paths. Summertime fun in a houseful of kids spills laughter across the web, at the same moment that a quiet cottage shelters one who struggles to understand some facet of life. Somewhere out there a woman counts the days ‘til her beloved returns, and in an entirely different corner of the world another wipes away tears of great loss.

LIFE . . . living . . . lively . . . alive . . .

I see the blog as a farmer’s market of lives open for a visit, extending a hand of friendship, seeking more than just the passing bump of another in the checkout line at the market. Each Saturday I rise earlier than usual and hurry off with my woven baskets, a fistful of cash, and the eager anticipation of buying fresh fruits, vegetables, and eggs from the people who worked to bring in the crop. I shake hands that held the very produce that I will in turn prepare and serve to my family. I am learning them all by name and by crop and by personality.

"Yes, that man makes the best pesto, but his gruffy nature detracts from the quality. A smile would go a long way in boosting sales with me." (Do you hear the challenge in my voice? Will my smile game bring forth a flash of pearly white along with the pesto purchase next week? I’ll keep trying.)

"That Peach Guy has the sweetest disposition and his peaches sweeter still."

"Hurry, hurry I want to get to Jonette’s booth before her eggs disappear. Gone by 8:35? Bummer! Hey, those patty pan look fabulous – I’ll take four!"

And on it goes as I savor the summertime fun of shopping the farmer’s market, strolling the cool evening gardens, reading a light and fun book (keeping tissues at hand for those few “moments”), and wandering around the blog-o-sphere to peek in and see what each of you happens to be up to at the moment.

I sip. I savor. I soak it all in. And it is good.

Keeping a promise. Finding a new way. Reaping joy.

How’s your summer going?

Perfectly Imperfect

“We don’t all live a Fairytale, you know!” sobbed a dear friend who sat at my table wailing of life’s injustices as I poured cup after cup of tea in another cottage during days gone by.

“Did she mean to imply I did live a fairytale existence?” I wondered in surprise as I mentally cataloged my life:

- Five young children (two with special needs)
- Husband I adore but rarely see due to work demands
- Budget screaming BANKRUPT at every turn
- Emotional baggage of sufficient quantity to sink a life
- And on the list grew . . .

Many years have passed and my children have grown significantly, my husband works at the jobs he chooses while occupying an office on our property, my budget stopped squeaking, and the baggage return emptied of much extraneous debris . . . and yet I still find much that belies a fairytale, despite the charge that still comes my way on occasion.

Now, I will not lie and say my life sags and groans with burdensome sorrows and such, but in an effort to “Keep It Real” around here, I felt I must speak up and say:

“I’VE BEEN HAVING ROTTENESS IN EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR THE PAST WEEK OR SO!! (And I don’t like it one bit! Nope!)”

[Hmmmm . . . I thought I would feel magically better somehow. If this were a fairytale that would have worked.]

Absent pixie dust or a magic wand, I have only to keep hanging on to God’s proffered hand and slop through the sludgey-ness while looking for something to celebrate rather than dwell on the gripes. Gripes like . . . a nasty infection on Lydia’s leg, which the pediatrician “on call” at our regular office diagnosed as MRSA and treated accordingly. Did I mention that he was wrong BUT THE OFFICE FAILED TO CALL WHEN THE TESTS CAME BACK NEGATIVE, or that the bill reflects a “NEW” patient charge – we have been with this group the entire nine years we have lived in this town? When I called to “correct” this error the assistant informed me that it had been several years since Lydia had been seen and thus they had to update her files and charge the “new patient” fee per standard billing practice. “Does that make us a new patient?” I queried, “I thought updating was standard procedure with patients. It seems to me you are penalizing us for remaining healthy.” She sympathized but did not remove the fee. Now I know why they didn’t accept Rachel’s updated info at the same time I updated Lydia’s chart, but preferred to wait for her next visit.

But I blather on without brightening the story by admitting that this $20 poke prompted me to do something I had been planning to do for some time—namely, remove all of my kids from the pediatrics mill in town to the wonderful family practitioner that Gary and I see when needed. Why did I wait so long? Because . . . I did. : (

So, that chewed up some of the joy-factor in the past several days, but resulted in good. How, I wonder, can a lost credit card statement with a late fee attached feel good? Well, it doesn’t and I fumed. Being particular about details and budgets (I am the Chief Financial Officer, after all), I constantly battle the whims of having an absent-minded professor for a husband/business partner who never frets over money or fees or any other foible of money. “It’s just money,” he shrugs. (*GULP!*)

Dare I even mention the blown valve on the propane tank last night that cancelled out Elizabeth’s invite to join her for a soak in the hot, bubbly spa for some girl talk? Further resulting in a total lack of hot water – read: “No Showers” – until today when the valve was checked and given the okay. And by the way . . . why did it blow in the first place? Reply: [SHRUG.] “It just happens.” FUME! And then . . .

STOP! I need to hit the pause button and get a grip. Are you reading what I am writing here? I just read it over and I cringed. With all the terrible stuff going on in the world and in the lives of those I know and in the lives of those I may never meet . . . I am griping because my spa couldn’t be heated. Now that’s SAD!

BUT . . .

I know these sniveling complaints merely distract me from the deeper fears and worries and woes and failures right here in my own life and heart. I prefer to sulk over a lack of comfort rather than address my real issues . . . because I can’t do anything to change them. Now I know I should simply turn all this fretting over to the Lord and let Him take care of me and the situation. That would alleviate the grumpiness building in my heart, but it doesn’t happen when I hang onto it. Lately, I’ve been hanging onto the little gripes and ruining goodly parts of each day. Why? It just happens sometimes, I guess. Regardless of why, I needed to switch gears . . .

Last night Gary took me out to dinner and then we sat down to watch Mamma Mia. I hadn’t rushed to see it when it came out despite the rave reviews, because I’d also heard some warnings of moral failure in the film. Hmmmmm . . . last night I decided to take a $2.50 chance and give it a go. With my twirly azure-blue print skirt topped by a white peasanty blouse, and full knowledge of the ABBA catalog of lyrics, I felt like a member of the chorus as I sang and danced my way through the frothy, colorful bit of nonsense that made me laugh out loud and shed a tear. Without the confession/forgiveness between mother and daughter I may have found it severely lacking, but that salvaged the earlier foibles somewhat and I enjoyed the party. Did Pierce Brosnan’s singing make me cringe? Yes, a wee bit, but the sweetness of his courage to belt it out in love touched me, for I married a man who can only carry a tune in a bucket. (Once long-long ago as a shy young suitor he sang sweetly to me. It was truly awful . . . and I loved every minute of it!)

As the mom laments over how quickly the daughter has grown up, my daughter Elizabeth turned to me and said, “Does it really go that fast mom?”

I stopped . . . a tear welled up . . .

"You can’t believe how fast it goes,” I choked up in reply.

I realized that it has gone far too quickly even for a mamma that chose to stay home each day to raise her children and keep her home. I used to joke, on those most tiring days, that I wished for a cryogenic chamber to pop my Littles into so that they would stop growing temporarily while I rested, thus I wouldn’t miss a bit of their precious growing years while I recovered from the day-to-day dose of living with them constantly. Sometimes, I confess, I wish I could freeze the blogdom so that I could keep up with all of you and your wonderful lives without losing track of all I have and do and experience here in my own life. Of late I just can’t make it around to everyone in a timely fashion (and some of you share so much and so frequently!), and I must just accept that. Just as I must accept all these little and BIG blots in my “Fairytale” life.

I admit I love my life and its road to Happily-Ever-After . . . even on those days when the Ogres roar and the slimy bogs sing with danger. So, will I ever learn to merely pass by the singing bog of *blech* without stopping by to orchestrate the song and tidy up the details before I journey on? My great-grandmother always said, “Let go and let God” (I think she learned that from attending al-anon meetings to help her alcoholic sons). Today I shall attempt again to let go the gripes and enjoy the joy.

As I cruise around the blogdom I find such sweetness and kindred feelings as each one of you opens your perfectly imperfect life up for a little visit. Your words encourage me, uplift me, touch me, call me to prayer, and beckon me to let go the ropes of slog and join in the celebration of life lived in the Palm of a Loving God who doesn’t expect us to be perfect. (In fact, He already knew how imperfect we would be and made plans accordingly.)

I dedicate this picture of two perfectly imperfect roses from my garden to all of you, my precious bloggy friends. When I took this picture I thought, “There’s a fine picture of friendship – full of holes yet exuding the most delicious aroma (maybe even becoming more aromatic due to the extra ventilation)."



Thank you, dear friends, for the gifts so sweet I find waiting for me at each of your blogsites.



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p.s.

Lydia just returned from a visit to the family practitioner who believes that the infection stems from a spider bite gone bad. (Dare I mention that when we visited the first doctor I offered that we believed it to be a spider bite?)

Oh well, I'm dedicating this day to celebrating my perfectly imperfect life; and so I will forgive the "imperfect" diagnosis and celebrate that our daughter's leg heals "perfectly" well despite it all.

Now, I'm off to the gardens for more sweetness . . .