Finally, Real Snow!

Caroline enjoys the icy-covered pond.

Snow begins falling in earnest around seven in the morning and continues beyond two in the afternoon. Rare for our fair valley.



Tom's snowball just misses Caroline. Today's white stuff is premium snowball material. We end up thoroughly whited with snow, red-cheeked, and breathing heartily.

A blue heron takes flight overhead at the pond, large wings flapping like some ancient winged creature. (Click on this, and any of the other photos, for a better view.)

Cassie learns to drive in the snow in the Autzen Stadium parking lot, learning first hand the difference between two-wheel drive, and four. She counter-steers by instinct during slides and fish-tailing, tests the brakes, giggles,...and grins. Hmm, acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.
While she's an Oregonian, her mama is a native-born, shoe-scorning Californian. What can I say? Acorn, tree.

This is winter. We are content.

Relief

Snow gently falls.

Soft. Still. Illuminates predawn,

Blankets mud, vehicles, naked tree branches, the unlovely and the beautiful, homogenizes. White.

Feathery flakes, wide, irregular, contribute their individuality to the common.

Feels like peace.

Under porch shelter, blanket clutched around burdened shoulders, bare feet, lungs relax into deep, cold pulls and pushes,

Scent and taste of hope, renewal.

Arms of Mercy embrace, comfort, assure,

Good will conquer evil.

Have patience.

Look within, walk your path, steady, true, accompanied,

Break down, restore, break down, restore;

Such is the creation of wholeness.

Floundering

(Because my mind and emotions are still sorting through this topic, I'm not going to edit this post. It's out there, raw, rambling, and real. I want to remember how I'm thinking and feeling right now.)

I don't understand, and yet, I do.

Pockets of evil thrive behind closed doors, or out in the air for all to see. Beatings, rape, incest-rape, the torture of the innocent, of children, sometimes by family members - the protectors!? - catatonic drunkenness and drug abuse, violence of all types, unspeakable terror, murder.

Children born and raised in unsafe environments learn to cope, and yet they are haunted, twitchy, nightmare-ridden, and sometimes imprisoned. How to survive such horror, is it possible to rise above? Truly?

I've lived a sheltered life. That's the first time I've ever said it because I've found it embarrassing.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. I'm on-my-knees grateful.

A book has been teaching me just how fortunate I've been. (Yes, Angela, it's that book. I'm not enough of a drinker to find anesthesia sufficient to narrow my widened eyes and soften the shock. But it's good I am encountering such as I am. Still braving each chapter, hoping to make it to the end. Thanks.)

Decades ago, a woman I know of was raped by a total stranger while walking home from the library. A nice lady who had a kind husband and sweet young children, a safe home. Wrong place. Wrong time. Her violation changed her, took years to battle in her heart and mind, bruised a large portion of her soul, and became her identity. "Raped." Nearly losing her husband, distancing herself from her children for far too long, it was the grace of God and her still strong belief in him that carried her through to other side. Grace for courage. Grace to deal. Grace to forgive. That last one was the stickler.

Not to diminish the stark invasion of her life - physically and mentally - she was raped once. One time. She had an incredible support system. She was lifted on gentle, nourishing, tender-loving wings. Yet recovery was excruciating. Understandably so. An experience like that should happen to no one, ever, at all.

Like a phantom, this brave woman hovers in my mind as I read about Vonnie who suffered innumerable flesh-tearing rapes from the time she was four when Grandpa 'needed' her. Eventually so did cousins, classmates, men she met in bars (Why repeatedly return to bars, I keep asking myself? This I don't get except that old habits die hard, or the benefit outweighs the trauma.), strangers in the dark, cops, boyfriends, brothers, and yes, dear old Dad. And I'm only halfway through the book.

Her mom, sisters, and cousins know this is going on. It happens to them, too! They don't talk about it much, they say it's just the way of men, no support, nor organized rebellion except to fight back like wildcats. But men are stronger - most of the time.

And so are parents who hurt little kids, tiny trusting beings whose salty tears mean nothing to the possessed adults who inflict things better left unspoken.

While suicide is high among the abused, somehow quite a few of the persecuted survive, even know beauty in their lives. The birth of children, kindness, honest-to-goodness love.

The processing of such profound evil, a systemic violence so all-emcompassing it's considered 'normal' to its victims and perpetrators, is an exercise in confusion and disorientation. There are no pigeon-holes in my mind fit for raw ugliness of this capacity. I hesitate to create a bright, clean cubicle for slimy, gruesome behavior, the likes of which I'd rather not know.

But I have to put it somewhere. Otherwise it'll rattle around infecting my thoughts indefinitely. It needs a place to settle, to become a reference point.

Or maybe it should never settle. Maybe it should keep me stirred up because when I realize the devastation such behavior causes I wince, I writhe in my soul, and I consider that any person has the capacity to, under certain conditions, commit horrendous evil. Even me. I don't know if there is a hierarchy of sin, if little white lies are lesser and sadistically violent crimes are at the top of the list. It certainly would seem so. But I know that the source for them all is the same. The human heart. The same heart capable of enormous compassion and beauty.

I don't understand, and yet, I do.

Spiritual Acuity

A few weeks ago our computer began to crash so I backed up its contents.

After the re-installation process I ended up with a mishmashed, bloated photo library. Through a long, winding process, which I won't describe here, my nearly 6,000 count swelled to over 13,000. Better too many than not enough, but still.

Yesterday I began the tedious, time-consuming process of deleting the duplicates. Four years of photos and you know what I discovered for the umpteenth time? Life is beautiful. Imperfect, but beautiful. Interesting, deserving of my attention far more than the books I read, the movies I watch, or the blogs I enjoy - including my own.

With each series of photos I reviewed came remembrances, emotions. Bodies changing, scenery, too. But the fantastic thing was that these were not just photos of people, places, and events, no, these were memories filled with taste, touch, smell, hearing, and seeing beyond the borders of each frame. In my mind every photo came to life just as in Harry Potter's world. Love, laughter, pain, irritation, beauty, sounds and smells, breezes and heat, hellos and good-byes, the pleasures of life and its trials, too. The photos aren't fictional artistic renderings, they are pieces of my life, very real representations of my history, my forming.

Once again I was reminded that life is broader and more complicated than photos can depict or words iterate, than movies can portray or music evoke. We all know this. Literature and other artistic outpourings have their place in aiding our understanding and giving voice to our afflictions and triumphs. But it dawned on me that as we've become a sort of Wal-Mart world - where cheap and easy imitations are greedily snatched and exhibited as though they are the real thing - we have begun to lose the deep, the genuine. Imitation confuses us. Quantity bludgeons quality. Ambition conquers excellence.

While truth surrounds us always, too often it's the imposter who successfully lures our attention. While the mystery that is life beautifully carries on we look away, choosing instead to focus on the battering inferior substitutions which rain around us, drenching our cognizance, sapping our strength with their ever-presence. Writings of worth are buried under heaps of mediocrity or worse. The same is so of music, films, theater, dance, family, home, and more. Dazed, we accept the heaps and bemoan our loss.

My heart sighs, whispers to the human race, "Together, let us trade the Wal-Mart world of subpar books, demoralizing music, gratuitous movies, mindless television, and wasted, empty-calorie living for that low-ceilinged, fusty shop run by the gentleman with a heart and the too-small studio of the soulful artist. Discard the pointless and rude, repeatedly relish that which uplifts or gives reflection. Mourn with the crushed, lend a hand. Stop and listen to the life-battered street musician, or the teen victoriously getting it right on his saxophone. Leave a cold television set or that popular paperback for a night at the cultural center; a good play, a creative exhibit, awe-inspiring dance, or live, mood-altering music, all of which offer the element of 'oops'. Vigorously scrape off the barnacles of cheap, popular, and easy. Tenaciously seek under and throughout for the genuine. Awaken to love in your midst - embrace it. Pack essential gear, load family into the car, head not for a campground or an RV park but for the wilderness of beach or woods, desert or jungle. Submit to the elements. Thrill to survive. Learn a secret or two. Dare to discriminate. Pop soap bubble delusions, demand the genuine. Come to know the difference between the many and the few. Discover heart, discover life."

McKenzie River

A beautiful river, my favorite in Oregon, the McKenzie.

Tom had MLK Day off. We drove up to the Cascades to breathe in their frigid freshness.

Jolly burst of color in the midst of the startling - for us - cold. The temperature here was in the mid to upper teens.

Exhilarated sisters clown around.

Hard, crunchy snow, temperature in the single digits by this time as we were higher up, and these three began to hike around.

Beautiful moon casting its reflected light followed us home.

As we headed toward a wide spreading sepia sunset, the bright moon low and to our left, shadows and trees and cityscape silhouettes met us. Invigorated relaxation.

We made it home before the colder temperatures settled into our valley. Last night the moon was a clear, bright white I've never noticed before. Tom says it might be because there's no moisture in the air. The girls and I braved the chill, standing, hopping, gazing until our bare feet screamed to go inside.

Heading Home

One year ago this month we found a way to make our dream come true, to add onto our home creating room for our girls to have parties, for our sons to come visit, for our parents to recuperate, for future family members to spend time with us. Room to spread out, play, share. For over a year we have been making the dream reality.

In the process of finding the dream, I lost me.

Soul searching words, meditations, insights - gone. Beauty and pain overlooked, shoved down, 'Save it for later, too much to do.' Nose to the grindstone.

At the same time I am pleased with our material progress. The house is coming along. We'll be painting and carpeting before we know it, moving into new bedrooms. Cassie and Caroline, so patient and kind in their tiny room, no room for most toys - up into the attic they go - clothes jammed into too small closets, too tight drawers. Soon they will have a room fit for princesses. They deserve it.

And Tom and I will have room for a chair from which to read, or knit, or sit alone in the dark and think the thoughts that have yellowed with age and nearly died over the past year.

A hard, hard lesson was learned during this year of prioritizing the temporal. Tom and I are made of tough enough stuff to be ground down to the core - for 12 months - and yet survive. We beat the stress for a change, rather than have it obliterate us with remorse and hurt. Understand this, it was hard. Bickering ensued, disagreements and pouting stamped around. There was stress. And strain. Every single day. In our exhaustion we all but lost sight of the true. But we weren't overtaken. For the most part we managed to keep our cool, our patience, and our togetherness, knowing the ordeal was temporary, but we are not.

I am surprised. Awestruck, really. If you'd asked me a year ago how I thought this process would play out in the day-to-day I would have told you that there would be dozens of screaming matches, doors slammed enough to loosen the hinges, household items hurled and smashed, and regret aplenty. Rabid turning on each other would lead to guilt which would haunt for years to come. "Why do we do this to each other?" Such has been our normal reaction to prolonged, uncontrollable stress.

This time it didn't happen that way. Why? How can it be that I am so surprised, how can we have made it this far in our growth as individuals and as partners and not have noticed? Like Christmas in my heart I understand that God has given us this wearing down process to show us what we otherwise would not have realized. We are never so lost that we can't be found. Even again and again.

"God creates everything out of nothing - and everything which God is to use He first reduces to nothing." ~~ Soren Kierkegaard

Our lesson contains a nugget: The inner man is fragile and strong. Fragile in that neglect will dim it indefinitely. Strong in that sincere concern sparks re-ignition, eyes to see, to notice the starvation. Easy to dim the light, easy to become lost, for temporal things - though lousy substitutes - are great imitators. Inattention allows the fake to deceive, to mask the real, breeding a certain discouragement, for one senses that something is amiss, ill-fitting. Eyes to see, yes, to see and know that a precious thing is shriveling. Then, a heart to fight, a strong inner heart, engaged once again in the real.

For now the testing is over. Awake at last, Tom and I begin taking in our surroundings; we shake off the disorientation, look up and around, see one another, sigh. Smile. We made it. "Hello." Reaching hands, interlocking fingers, faces relaxed, feet walking toward the smooth path, for God knows how long. We begin to find.

It feels good under my feet, this fresh but known path.

I've missed us.

I've missed me.

A Retrospect

January 22, 1973. Roe v. Wade. Abortion laws overturned in the United States opening up abortion on demand.

I had to run my calculator just now to count the years as my brain couldn't wrap itself around the fact that this landmark Supreme Court decision happened thirty-five years ago.

Ten years into the abortion debate I found my life increasingly speckled with pro-life activists. Materials were given to me as I was pregnant with my second child, information that made me physically ill. Even as precious life grew inside of me I learned about gruesome procedures designed to terminate life within a woman's womb, about court rulings upholding the 'right' to do such things. I became aware of innumerable political activists on both sides of the issue marching, writing, and fighting.

I am a passionate woman. I am a mother. Babies have always been mysterious, beloved wonders to me. I didn't pick a side in the debate, it picked me. As sympathetic as I am to women who find themselves pregnant against their desire, allowing death is not something I support, barring life-of-the-mother type scenarios, which are extremely rare.

In 1983 I found my newly abortion-aware self invited to become co-director of our county Right-to-Life. When the woman who'd been director of the organization had to move out of state, my friend, Karen, agreed to take over, and she asked me to help her. I talked it over with Tom. Together we decided I should join the cause in this capacity.

It'd been awhile since this group had met, connections had shriveled along with communications. Karen and I jumped right in. In no time we created a Board of Directors which consisted of a doctor, a lawyer, pastors from two denominations, a couple of teachers, and the two of us. We talked. We educated ourselves. We planned. We organized. We got to work.

Both Karen and I had dabbled in journalism in high school and college so a newsletter was a natural step. From scratch we created a monthly six-page periodical filled with political and support information, medical news, book reviews, local events, opportunities for involvement, interviews with people of note on both sides of the issue, editorials, and more, all written and compiled by the two of us in our kitchens and living rooms. The response was huge. The mailing list grew.

Money came in without our asking, money we used to fund our printing expenses, pay for materials, and to support local crisis pregnancy centers.

Soon we found ourselves invited to speak to youth groups, study groups, churches, and schools. Our talks, coupled with films and guest speakers, led to invigorating question and answer sessions. A local radio station invited us for a lively on-air two hour interview complete with an extensive Q & A session with its radio listeners. We found ourselves repeatedly interviewed on television. People of all ages were thirsty for information and we were happy to help them sort it all out.

One moment vividly stands out in my mind. After one of our out-of-town speaking engagements I was approached by a gentle young woman in the parking lot as I made my way to my car. She carefully pulled a limp newspaper clipping from her wallet and handed it to me. It was a letter I'd written to the editor of the local newspaper she subscribed to, a letter stating my views on abortion and the reasons why. She said, "I just want you to know that I was completely, actively pro-choice until I read this letter of yours. It opened my eyes and changed my heart. I keep it here in my wallet where I see it every day. It inspires me to speak up for mothers and babies whenever I can."

My mind and body seemed to stop when I realized what she was saying to me. I had changed her life through my words. It took me a long time to grasp the implications of that. I am ever thankful that she took the time to tell me the impact I had on her for it taught me that no effort is too small to make a difference. As far as I know this dedicated woman remains a tireless champion of the unborn.

After more than two years of long days and nights spent writing, answering mail, keeping the books, lecturing, attending meetings, and taking long phone calls at all times of the day and night by people eager to learn from me or tell me their stories, I was pretty much burned out. I had two sons of my own to raise and a patient, supportive husband. They needed all of me. I resigned, leaving the organization in very capable hands, the baton successfully passed.

Each January 22nd I pause to size up the advances made in the effort to protect the unborn. I've always felt that most people will make the right choice if they know exactly what they are dealing with. Education is the key. As knowledge increases, abortions seem to decline.

A lump forms in my throat when I contemplate human beings rationalizing the killing of innocent life for their own convenience or reputation. I know it's not an easy decision for most, that those who abort often agonize over their situation. I am sympathetic, I am. But at the risk of sounding bland, two wrongs don't make a right.

It's my hope that one day we as a civilized people will look back on these days of women sacrificing their unborn children as a dark, dark era in the history of humanity; that human life will be restored to its place of honor and mystery.

"An Unfinished Life"

In watching the movie An Unfinished Life for the fourth time I was moved, yet again, with the beauty of the film, the story, the layers, the final words.

Two older men, Einar and Mitch, long-time friends, wounded by life, restored by truth, sitting on the porch of Mitch's cabin sharing words in muted, pensive tones:

Einar: You think the dead really care about our lives?

Mitch: Yeah, I think they do. I think they forgive us our sins. I even think it's easy for them.

Einar: Griff [young granddaughter] said you had a dream about flying.

Mitch: Yeah. I got so high, Einar, I could see where the blue turns to black. From up there, you could see all there is. And it looked like there was a reason for everything.

No R&R Club Membership for Me, Thank You Very Much

"He who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden." ~~from Plato's The Republic

Three aunts, an uncle, and two great-cousins are proving the 'calm and happy nature' part of this quote to be true. All mid-80's to mid-90's, going strong, enjoying life, experimenting with new adventures, and sharing their love and wisdom along the way. Sure they have health issues, aches and pains. Their bodies creak, and their vision and hearing are skittish. Certainly they've had their share of hardships in life. But their minds, ah, their minds are elastic, confident, curious, and balanced. It's not simply a matter of positive thinking. It's positive being which leads to fresh thinking and the courage to try new things. It's focusing on what is good in life rather than what is disagreeable.

To this I aspire.

The opposite disposition, the frazzled and discouraged, tends to crash early on, it's true. They head for the end of each day like a frothy horse for the barn, and more often than not, sitting underneath a frazzled and discouraged outlook is a reclining chair with a remote control nearby. The R & R Club. Once a bottom learns the backwards flop into the cushiony seat of a recliner, once the arms and feet do the simultaneous dance of raising the foot rest, once the remote control becomes a fixture on the armrest, nearly all is lost. It's just a matter of time from there, my friends. From years of succumbing to this flirtatious, quicksand-like trap the lounging spine, hips, and knees take the shape of the chair when reclining and when rising to walk the stiff, bent walk of the R&R member.

It's a downward slide, usually premature, to the unnatural mindset of 'old.'

I remember one time Tom and I invited a couple who are ten years younger than we are over for Sunday lunch. Having been separated from them by time and miles we were eager to share a leisurely afternoon. The night before our planned get-together I confided in Tom that I wondered if we'd seem old to them.

I needn't have worried.

Before the first hour yielded to the second the conversation had been hijacked - by them - to the subjects of aches and pains, feeling 'cold all the time', the necessity of afternoon naps, scaly rashes, blood sugar dips and spikes, thyroid levels, cholesterol numbers, the need for fiber as 'constipation has become an issue,' and 'I feel chilly. Do you have any lap blankets in here? We always wear lap blankets when we are home."

I sat there, the fattest, grayest, cheeriest person in the room, struggling to keep a straight face, to keep the guffaws inside, nice and quiet.

"Are they serious?" I asked myself. It was obvious that age-fear had captured the minds of this couple, imprisoning healthy bodies, brainwashing them into false thinking and behavior.

Glancing at Tom I saw upwardly peaked Norwegian eyebrows hovering over somewhat alarmed eyes. I quickly looked away, suppressing the laughter. Sad, sad was the scene playing itself out in my living room, yet the absurdity of it induced astounded humor.

I'd just turned 50. The couple had just turned 40.

I just don't think in those terms.

"Have you noticed, now that you are older, that it takes much longer to heal from injuries and illnesses?" asked the still-in-the-prime-of-his-life husband.

"I guess so," I said, while thinking, "Get me outta here!" Steering the conversation like a drunken pirate only led me back and back and back to the same old stuff. Pills, holistic doctors, and natural remedies. Organic green grass drinks for breakfast, and goat milk for lunch. Nothing wrong with those things, but they didn't seem to be working for this couple.

Maybe a little chocolate now and then and a potato or two would help. Vodka in the wheatgrass smoothie.

Yes, I realize that health is not something to take for granted, nor is a good attitude any guarantee of a long and limber life. Genes play a role along with the will of God. Calamities happen. We live in a dangerous world. I do suggest however, that with whatever we are dealt we can choose to make the best or worst of it.

To a large degree happiness is a choice.

And so is 'old age.'

Slammed

Poise is the art of raising the eyebrows instead of raising the roof.

I learned that little bit of whatever-you-want-to-call-it when I was in college.

I practice it now and then.

Today, for example, I accidentally discovered that for months a 'friend' has been shamelessly using me as a stepping stone to try to further herself. In her insecurity she succumbs to the ploy of attempting to tear me down to build herself up after she has allowed me to open doors for her.

Decades ago I would have been wounded to the quick and angered. Today, the eyebrows lift. It still hurts, but not to the tender interior of my being. No anger boils within.

So, I guess this is a chance for me to see that, hmmm, maybe there has been some growth in the old girl - me - after all.

Not anything to brag about. But a little encouragement goes a long way.

To you, my faux friend, I utter a sincere Thank You. Though your intentions are selfish and unkind, in the end it has done me good. I'm sorry that fears assail you. I wish you strength to see that there is a higher way to exist, and it is available to you.

Godspeed.

Riverdance

Go see Riverdance if at all possible.

It will amaze you, inspire you, touch you.

What men and women are capable of!

Music by hand, lips, and voice. Words. Dance. Energy. Color.

Took my breath away and gave it back to me full of wildness and vitality.

Key Moments

"I discovered that if you really keep your eye peeled to it and your ears open, if you really pay attention to it, even such a limited and limiting life as the one I was living on Rupert Mountain opened up onto extraordinary vistas. Taking your children to school and kissing your wife goodbye. Eating lunch with a friend. Trying to do a decent day's work. Hearing the rain patter against the window. There is no event so commonplace but that God is present within it, always hiddenly, always leaving you room to recognize him or not to recognize him, but all the more fascinatingly because of that, all the more compellingly and hauntingly. If I were called upon to state in a few words the essence of everything I was trying to say both as a novelist and as a preacher, it would be something like this: Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace." ~~~ Frederick Buechner

Lacy snowflake alights on a friendly nose. (Click photo for better view.)







Early morning breakfast. Good man. Hearty grains. Simple is true.








Spanish homework. Practice. Practice, practice.







Hmmm...the mysteries presented when one stick, wet sand, and a teenage girl combine.

"...because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."

Peppered With Glimpses

"Our days are simply peppered with glimpses of God all around. The trick is to catch those flashes, to wallow in the present and soak them up so that on those grey days when life is more like a game of hide and seek, our souls can receive balm from the memories of God echoing around us. Seeing God in everything today will help provide sustenance on those days when we refuse to be distracted by God's playfulness."

~~~Frederick Buechner, as paraphrased by Liz

(Thanks, Liz, for sharing this quote.)

Great Books - Terrible Books

How some books reach publication is beyond me. Why some people consider themselves 'writers' is astonishing as well. I suppose I should be content to know that there are clear-eyed editors out there who know how to wield the red stamp of rejection. Bless them for sparing us from narcissistic drivel and just poor writing.

When winter's lack of sunshine ushers in bouts of Seasonal Affective Disorder I enjoy reading thoughtful books, uplifting accounts telling of events and people who have risen above life's sludge to realize their faith, their potential, or a deeper understanding of what is True.

I was given such a book recently, or so I thought. P.U. This book is a stinker! Written by a wannabe hack who can't decide if she wants to be a poet, a biographer, or the purveyor of pointless, titillating tales, it was only with a sense of fairness and hope that I finished this disoriented book. I was left feeling not only ill at ease but gypped. She wasted my time!

Frustrating it is to find inferior 'work' wrapped in a luscious title, with glowing reviews from (read the fine print) people and publications I've never heard of. Yes, I admit it, I became caught up in the manipulation of a creative cover and clever title. Reading the content, however, was like finding coal in my Christmas stocking. At least I could burn the coal for warmth or draw funny pictures on the sidewalk. But this piece of swill only takes up precious space in my home, for I cannot bring myself to burn any book. Reconsidering that.

What comes to mind is the old adage which states that most books would have made great articles; most articles would have made good paragraphs. I would add that some paragraphs would make good spit balls.

The hunt for a new-to-me great book continues. Anything to rinse this foul taste from my mouth.

Snow and Daffies - Huh?

Saturday evening it began to snow. In no time our tulip leaves, the same ones seen here, looked like this. They were completely buried soon after this photo was taken.

All that snow has melted already. We are in the banana belt of western Oregon. We get the fun, but not the mess.

Usually.

Areas further west, between the Willamette Valley and the Pacific Ocean are having quite a time of it though, with mud slides, downed trees, and wet snow making everything worse.

The folks further east, in the Cascades, have treacherous driving conditions on the roads and heavenly Utah Powder at the ski resorts. Yin and Yang, baby.

You can watch the news to see the devastation in California and Nevada. Wow.

Three storms, one-two-three, and we are feeling it. Another snow is due tonight. The skies have 'that look.'

We shall see.

For you kind souls who have inquired, my family and I are fine. Like I said, banana belt. So far, so good.

It's January 7th, and surprisingly, these brave (foolish?) daffodils are already peeking their chubby little heads and slender leaves through the mulch in one of our flower beds, watered aplenty by torrential rains, as well as melting ice and snow. I expect my one type of tulips to be banzai bulbs; they are always up and taking a ragged beating in the middle of winter, though they don't flower until true spring. But the daffies usually wait their turn, remaining nestled in the warmer earth. Will they make it? Probably. Still, I rubber-necked when I saw these brave soldiers this morning, thinking I must be crazy. Nope.

Always, the hope of new life.

Nature keeps me on my toes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

At the same time my heart and prayers go out to those who are suffering the terrible effects of these storms. Heartwrenching. And yet, such courage is shown in times of tragedy. Courage that sustains - and inspires those of us watching from our safe havens.

January Winter in Western Oregon

Hail came with temps in the low 20's...











...and did this...














...and this....












...and this...










...and this.

(Click on the photo to get a better view of the diamond crust of ice on the lawn.)









So we did this...











...and this...









...and, when I lifted our bedspread in curiosity about the big lump under it, I discovered that Sammy did this (little sneak!)




So happy that we did this (how I love our flannel sheets)!








Yawny January. Chilly outside, cozy inside.

...and a Happy New Year!

Christmas has come and gone leaving this heart warm and reflecting. I love Tom and the kids! They are wonderfully creative, gloriously unique. Amazing. Selected moments spent with each one have reminded me all over again just how special they are. The depth of my love for them increases. It's been a good season.

I've reconnected with my brother after months - years - of us being 'too busy' to communicate. He, like us, has had big projects lately. He thinks of me. I think of him. This week we took the time to share once again. As if we'd never been apart we picked up right where we left off. This, too, amazes me and gives me pause as I think of the nature of love. Long-lasting. Sweet. Strong.

Being knocked about by life seems to either grow mellow wisdom in a person, or it leaves them cold and hard. Lately I've been impressed with the many mellow-wise folks I am blessed to know. They inspire me, give me hope that I can age like a fine wine instead of a dried up lemon. The wisdom to listen to others, taking in what they have to communicate, no matter how haltingly the words may come. The wisdom to forgive - really forgive - in realization that we are all messed up, that we'll all say or do the wrong thing now and then. Let it go, move on, truly forgive. A twin to the wisdom of forgiveness is the allowance to change, to give each other space to grapple with life, and then to recognize resultant growth, rather than to mentally keep our fellow sojourners frozen in a time when they were, perhaps, not their best. Everyone deserves fresh consideration now and again.

Another learned wisdom, perhaps the hardest of all, is the wisdom to grow up. Not lose your youthful curiosity or fling your dreams away, no, but to become understanding, compassionate, wise from the experience of living, to reach out rather than defend, to realize consequences rather than smug self-gratification, to nourish the innate ability to be a blessing to the world rather than a curse.

I'm tempted to dismiss the hard, dried-lemon behavior of the one person this holiday season who left me perplexed, to just forget about it. And I will. I won't harbor ill feelings, but in the hope of learning something here I am pondering the reasons why. I can't fathom why a person of several decades would deliberately set about to hurt others, to disrupt Christmas with an attention grabbing, stormy display of immaturity, selfishness, and greed. Happily I am not hurt by it, just mystified, wondering why. The reasons will remain unknown, I have no doubt, but there is wisdom to glean in the missteps of another, if only to pause long enough to feel the weight of them, their unpleasantness, and then to make a personal determination to steer clear of such behavior myself. Let such unkindness not come from me. Heaven forbid! Yet, when I do falter, and I will, may I know immediate regret. Not only does this person show no remorse, but there seems to be a long-term plan in place for the destruction of others. If only this entangled soul was aware of the truth, which is so obvious to everyone else: while we remain unscathed, implosion is claiming this embittered heart. It's sad to watch.

Ah, but this emotionally enmeshed person is but one little blip on a distant shore of the Holiday scene, barely noticeable amidst the hours and days of happiness, togetherness, understanding, and a healthy family environment. No complaints!

We've even had a cleansing snow to blanket the holidays, cozying our winter scene, if only temporarily.

December 28th. Just a few days remain of 2007. It was a very good year. A busy year. A testing year. We began our home addition waaaay back in January when it was merely a bright idea. In February we began drawing up floor plans and securing financing. Many months of blur and here we are, about to insulate and sheet-rock. We should be able to move in before the onset of Spring, Lord willing.

What made 2007 a very good year? We learned that we, as a family of six, can undergo the stress of a long-term building project and come away close, respectful, even joyous. The strain only proves that our ties are strong rather than weak and easily frayed. A valuable insight.

2008 remains ahead, a dark mysterious place, to be lit one step at a time. Questions. Hopes. Dreams. Plans. They could all go out the window at any moment. So many variables, so much potential for celebration, and for sorrow.

Time will tell.

A marker arrives in a few days, a milestone which speaks to those who will listen. It speaks of what has passed. It speaks strength and renewal for what is to come. Chin up. Courage. Anticipation. Let bygones be bygones. Give it your best shot. Great expectations. Steady, slow-burning hope.

Happy New Year. May you be one who ages like fine wine, and may the disturbers of the world wander far far from you and yours!

Winter Skoal!

Jesus, Lord at Thy Birth

Hail the heav'n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Ris'n with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"

 
It must have been awesomely terrifying for those shepherds, but what a moment, this invasion of God into the mortal realm! A turning point for all of mankind.

May the Truth of Jesus' birth - and purpose - reach out to you in new and deeper ways this Christmas and in the New Year to come.

Merry Christmas to All!

Tradition

One of a set of five remaining ornaments, this heavy, gold orb has been passed down through Tom's branch of his family tree for five generations. Tom has respectfully hung it first on each of our Christmas trees for the past 27 years, and removes it first when the tree comes down.

It's a part of our tradition. The presence of this antique ornament serves as a constant reminder of those who have come before, and helps us remember that we carry on a tribe, a klan, a family.

Someday, if the globe survives, it will hang on a tree even while those of us in this household walk the earth no more. Someone may hang it ceremoniously, just as Tom does, and we will join those remembered. Perhaps our lives will have inspired, just as so many before have lifted and encouraged us in the living out of wisdom and love.

Christmas offers many such opportunities to get one's bearing, straighten the ship, find True North.

Family.

Heritage.

Belonging.

A Little Giggle to Brighten the Day

This is so cute! From Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In - a show I was not permitted to watch while growing up in my strict California-Baptist home in the 60's - here's Goldie Hawn explaining the Time Zones. It's short. Go on, indulge!

Bumper Snicker

Tom and I saw this bumper sticker today and got a chuckle out of it:

"Consider this: Amateurs built the ark. Professionals built the Titanic."

Hmmm. I guess it all boils down to who thunk it up in the first place, huh.

Another way to look at: As Tshsmom, her husband L., Tom, and I know, we amateur builders rock! (Though Tom and I haven't mastered cubits, yet.)

Christmas Cheer

“Can you come and clean this house of ours?” croaked her weak voice. “We have guests coming and I’m still too weak to do it.”

“Of course! How does Sunday sound?”

Relief in her voice.

I told her not to worry about lunch, that I would bring the two of them some food, serve it, and clean the kitchen afterwards.

More relief.

Cassie, Caroline, and I spent a good part of Saturday in our kitchen preparing the healthiest food we could think of to serve these dear folks as they continued to battle the Cold of the Year. I made a big pot of homemade chicken soup, fresh from some stock I’d just simmered up from a free-range chicken we’d had on Monday. Added to the stock were nutrient-rich veggies and tender chicken along with fresh herbs and seasonings. Yes! “This smells like the best sort of remedy!” Tom said as he followed his nose to the steamy-windowed kitchen.

Cassie and Caroline began stirring up the dough for french baguettes, the flour puffing around them as they kneaded with vigor.

Added to these intoxicating aromas was the heavenly scent of three loaves of Honey Whole Wheat bread. "Will there be any for me?" begged Tom, again following his nose. "You betcha!"

On Sunday, when we took our carefully chosen and prepared foods to our patients, along with our cleaning supplies, we were greeted with fatigued faces, stoopy shoulders, and gratitude. They looked a bit ragged and sounded worse.

Immediately it was clear to me that their spirits were in need of something new, something different, something stimulating. They were firmly stuck in the sickness rut where mere survival is the effort of every day. From the box of Christmas gifts the girls and I had wrapped the night before, I handed a gift to each ailing person. A little spark ignited in their eyes, yep, I saw it. Everyone has a little kid in them, a kid who responds to gifts, to Christmas, and most especially to love. It was sweet to watch this couple, married for sixty years, as they slowly opened each gift, registering delight and wonder.

Good start!

After cleaning for a couple of hours I stopped to heat the soup and bread and to slice some sweet juicy oranges. The girls set the table. The couple remained melded to their recliners - tired, but warm and relaxed. The sight, sound, and smell of food being prepared and carried to the table seemed to energize them. Heads lifted from pillowed chairs.

After a few slow bites I noticed their spoons moving quicker. Repeatedly knives in steady hands scraped at butter to smear on bread. These two ailing people quit talking altogether, lost in the food, lost in the instinct to eat and be well.

“I think they like it, Mama. They’re quiet,” Cassie said. We all laughed. I thought of Oliver Twist asking, “Please sir, I want some more.” Oliver didn’t receive his ‘more’ but these two did. They actually closed their eyes in bliss as they bit into each orange wedge as though tasting the sweet citrus for the first time, savoring its deliciousness, even though they’ve been eating oranges for 80 years.

Pink returned to their faces right away and energy to limbs. They began to talk, to laugh, to make jokes, to thank us, to tell stories as we worked around them. Jolliness took over the household.

After our lunch dishes were washed and the leftover food clearly marked and stored for subsequent meals, Cassie, Caroline, and I grabbed dust rags and Pledge. We began the cleaning of table tops, book shelves, chairs, and nic-nacs. Everyone crowded around me as I cleaned the china cabinet, for the grandpa and grandma were recounting histories of the treasured items. Up and out of their chairs, bending to reach a little crystal pitcher here, a teapot there, these two were markedly different from the wispy, pale folks who greeted us in the morning. Revitalized, even their voices were stronger.

Transformation.

Cassie drove us home through rain and bits of snow in substantial traffic. As the wipers thunked and air leaks shrilly whistled, my mind whirled as I contemplated the difference that the gifts of love, labor, and food had made to my loved ones. “I feel like a princess, as though my house is cleaning itself right before my eyes!” said the appreciative granny, relieved of her burden. “Thank you for that delicious food! I can’t wait for supper tonight!” said the grandpa who had been frequenting the supermarket deli for sticky, preserved food during the previous three weeks of illness. I didn’t know.

Rather than dreading upcoming visitors, Granny and Gramps now eagerly look forward to sharing their home and holiday.

Cassie and Caroline learned first hand the gifts of gentle care and service to those in need.

I am relieved that these precious people are safe and cared for right now.

Christmas has come early for the four of us.

Release the Hounds

Four week break from school.

No driving the girls to classes and tutors.

Christmas shopping, baking, and gift wrapping completed.

Decorations up - so pretty!

Time. Regimen free.

An offering of contemplation.

Moments to fill with my best friend and our kids.

Sam - Joe's Christmas gift four years ago. A Christmas dog. Playful.

Today is the first day of the rest of my....Christmas Holiday.

Don't spend it all in one place.

Spirits higher this morning.

Sleep helps.

Freedom.

Sunshine.

This body needs to get into motion - this Me body.

Whoosh...

Advent Calendar Tells No Lies

The children's eyes are shining - the doors are opening - Christmas is coming!

Working Together for Good

Somewhere along the way I lost myself.

Where am I?

Who am I?

Maybe I’m not lost, maybe I’ve been growing all this time but am hidden.

Hidden behind the role.

Hidden behind the urgent.

Hidden behind the armor which protects me.

Powerful wings lifted me from the nest; the nest moved leaving no forwarding address.

Powerful heart created this, a new nest, and it is enough.

Or is it? Is rootlessness healthy? Can it be overcome - completely?

Am I my past or am I my present? A combination, you say. True.

While I create in my new nest what was missing in the old, I create pain for myself even while others are content, happy.

And thus I hide. Hide my pain. Hide my longing. Hide my tears.

For pain, longing, and tears are not wanted. I do not want them.

But they are real.

From this rent heart springs determination

Love

Giving

Honesty

Who am I?

Where am I hidden?

I am me, just as always, growing, changing

I am hidden in the measureless love of God

Nurtured by true family

And, yes, it is enough.

Mind Wash

Overwhelmed.

Stuff of life

Problems, stress

Building project - ten months and counting

Red tape

Ailing parents

Dead car

Doggie surgery

Last week of school

Unexpected expenses

Christmas.

---

Perspective.

Joy of discovery

Solutions, growth

Building project - easy progression

Intelligence cuts red tape

Recuperating parents

Expert Tom repaired car

Surgery prognosis: excellent

Fall term = much learning

Unexpected income.

Christmas!

---

To clear my overstuffed head and heart I shall venture outdoors empty-handed, to simply feel the weather.

Breathe a prayer of gratitude, linger.

Solitude.

Simplicity.

Settling down.

Searching quietly.

In serenity is strength.

Unreal Estate

Yesterday was a successful day. Two long-looming problems were solved to everyone's satisfaction and relief. By me.

Yet, the hen-pecking nature of life won't let me relish the contentment for one full night. Nope. New problems nag and niggle at me. It's too early and too late to be awake thinking about the red tape of existence in a 'free society.'

I have indignation constipation.

For the sake of anyone reading this I won't go into detail because who wants to read frustration at Christmas. Geez Louise, I don't even want to know about it let alone write or read it.

Suffice to say I'm reminded of the Matrix, a film I should watch several more times. There's a scene (and I'm sorry Matrix fans that I will probably butcher it in my sorry recollecting) where a guy (see? I don't even remember his name...) orders a steak in a restaurant. He says he knows it isn't real, that it's an illusion, but he enjoys the pleasure of it anyway. He doesn't care that it's unreal.

I don't enjoy living in the city, in the 'civility' of society. It feels like prison. While running errands on Sunday, Tom and I were discussing how the city seems benevolent and yet when the hologram shivers a little you see the stern reality behind the facade. It's benevolent as long as you follow the rules. One hairy toe over the line - aka questioning authority, independent thinking, or managing your own affairs - and you pay.

"Your helpful original ideas are not wanted. Get in line, Sheep." That's how it feels.

We own our home and property, right? Hmm. What does that even mean? (Oh no, I'm getting into it. You'd better go somewhere else. Listen to John Denver sing about Christmas in the post before this one...scroll down... warning, warning Will Robinson!!) I'll keep it short. Our neighbor and we agree that we want to adjust the property line four feet to right a mistake that was made by a surveyor and the city decades ago which leaves an unsatisfactory, to the both of us, situation. We are in complete, friendly agreement. Four feet. No utilities will be effected. No landscaping, just four feet of lawn. He wants to do it. So do we. Future home owners will be better off if we do. Win-win, right? No, the city wants us to pay nearly three thousand dollars to acquire documents for them to peruse in order to decide whether or not to give us permission. Permission! To alter four feet of personal property which will actually bring the two properties up to the city's code, a choice we are making on our own. The city planner even told Tom, as she researched the properties with him sitting right there, that it all looks kosher to her, but we have to follow procedure anyway, and pay the permit fees. $650 for permission alone - to buy and sell four feet of personal property. If on the off chance some city yahoo denies the permit, we are out thousands of dollars. For nothing.

Is it just me? Is this perfectly okay? Am I merely turning into a curmudgeon?

Mind you, the three thousand dollars doesn't include the price of the land.

Red. Tape.

Indignation constipation.

I just want to go to sleep.

I'm going back to bed.

Maybe I'll solve a few problems tomorrow and find a more regular mind.

Quiet Place to Rest

This is John Denver singing Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913 by Robert Bridges, while a slideshow of traditional prints illustrates Christmases past. This song has been repeating through my mind with each winter day that glows and darkens as I anticipate the quiet dawning of Christmas Morning and all that its celebration means to me.

I hope it gives you a quiet place to rest for a few moments, too.

Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913

A frosty Christmas eve when the stars were shining,
I traveled forth alone where westward falls the hill.
And from many, many a village in the darkness of the valley,
Distant music reached me, peals of bells a-ringing.

Then sped my thoughts to olden times, to that first of Christmas's
When shepherds who were watching heard music in the fields.
And they sat there and they marveled and they knew they could not tell
Whether it were angels or the bright stars a-singing.

But to me heard afar it was starry music,
The singing of the angels, the comfort of our Lord.
Words of old that come a-traveling by the riches of the times,
And I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.
And I softly listened, as I stood upon the hill.

~~~by Robert Bridges, 1936

Peace and Safety in Daddy's Arms

Guilt over my Grinchly rant, (see previous post) and the posting of gross photos used to illustrate my point, set me off on a hunt for a pleasant photo in my personal library. Sweeping southwest landscapes and majestic glacial vistas caught my eye. Then this picture came up. Taken three years ago this week, this family photo shows Caroline sleeping on Tom's chest while he wears a shirt she'd selected and given him on Father's Day of the same year which reads, "World's Greatest Dad".

Sweet, isn't it.

Better?

PSA: Ah-Choo!

"Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go..."

Grandparents adore their grandchildren. Grandchildren adore their grandparents.

But when little children become sick with bubbly noses, weepy eyes, and germy hands, parents need to sacrifice on behalf of love. Sick kids need to be kept warm - or cool - and nurtured with all that a parent has to offer. Forget about taking ill kids to your loved ones' home for holiday meals, to school, or to church and Sunday School. Forget about the Nativity program, and forget about having people over for a Christmas party. Especially the elderly whose bodies have a harder time beating winter's nasties.

Stay home. Care for your child. Care for yourself. Care for others by keeping them out of your home until the health of your entire family is restored.

Cancel with your apologies. Those spared will bless you while they maintain health and vigor throughout the holiday season.

And the rest of us will thank you for keeping your sickness and that of your little children out of public places.

A dearly loved woman is languishing at home, sick in bed for the second week, missing her favorite time of year. As her house becomes dustier, her pantry emptier, her laundry piling higher, she remains weak and discouraged for she'd rather be writing her Christmas cards, wrapping gifts, and helping her husband decorate their beautiful home. This grandma and grandpa have had Christmas diminished due to the thoughtless parents of underdressed, coughing, runny-nosed kids who gleefully lap-climbed and kissed their beloved granny. What would happen if she gently pushed them down? To force her to choose between accepting the love of her family or hurting their feelings is unkind at best. She is paying the price for her timid kindness now, while the kids have gone on to infect who knows how many others.

While I do what I can to help and cheer her, I hope this lovely woman regains her health and strength before the Season of Perpetual Hope passes her by.

(This Public Service Announcement was brought to you by one ticked-off woman.)

((Nooooo, these are not my kids pictured. I know how to use tissues and a washcloth.))

A New Day - Storm Clean-Up

The storms have come and gone leaving messes all around. In Oregon, the coast had the worst of it, with wind gusts above 120 m.p.h. Can you imagine? Trees were toppling all over. Now flooding is occurring along with landslides and power outages. A couple of people perished, which is so sad, especially at this time of year.

In western Washington massive flooding is still causing havoc, lives have been lost, travel rerouted or halted altogether. The good folks up there are being rescued and aided. It's all over the news. Our hearts and prayers go out to them all.

Thankfully we here on the Old Homestead - as Joe likes to call our place - suffered only a few broken branches and mucky lawns from all the rain. Everything else made it just fine. A little raking, replacing a bucket here, a chair there, and our clean-up was complete. Our fair city is back to normal.

As these photos show, today we had rain and sun, sometimes at the same time which is so beautiful. I love the way the sun catches each raindrop making the droplets resemble glistening diamonds falling all around. So pretty! Tall, lush evergreens were bedecked in millions of these jewels. It was far more festive than all the Christmas lights and decorations springing up in yards. But our rain sparkles are temporary, which is good news for flooded areas.

Beauty and mayhem co-existing.

Tom, Cassie, Caroline, and I ran several errands today, without our sweaters or coats! I don't know the official temper-ature, but it was pushing 70 degrees, I'm certain. "We were so freezing cold just a few days ago!" Caroline said. "So strange!"

We are supposed to clear up, dry out, and chill down again by week's end.

Thanks to all of you who expressed concern for us. We sure appreciate it!

May you be warm and safe where ever you are!

December Storm

It was a dark and stormy morning...

Yeah, and it still is. Stuff is blowing everywhere, the electricity comes and goes, the rain continues to pelt the windows.

I LOVE IT!