Desert Meditation

If colorful flowers can dot arid landscapes, offering quiet beauty and cheer......



.......if slender-rooted, wind-whipped greenery clinging to hard flat rock can thrive, even crack the rock......




.......how much more shall we, made in the very image of God, move beyond mere dwelling, to beautiful, fruit-bearing, growth.

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"I've heard your anguish, I've heard your hearts cry out.
We are tired, we are weary, but we aren't worn out.
Set down your chains, until only faith remains.
Set down your chains."

~~~~"Life Uncommon" by Jewel

Kindred Hearts

Friendship. Tried. True.

If you’ve linked over to Cassie’s blog you may have read the post where she expresses pain from a cruel situation. Betrayal of friends is tough. The mean girls from my childhood have been replicated, and it pains me. Pains me terribly. Because they have hurt one of my cherished children. Deep disillusion. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Still.

I told Cassie that, in time, and possibly when she least expected it, she would discover sincere friendship.

In consoling my children I often wonder if my words are right, if they are true in the reality of a situation or if they just sound wise. It’s hard to know. Not everything I believe is concretely validated.

However, sometimes God gives a front row seat to a scintilla of his goodness. Oh my, the sweet awe.

Such a front seat blessing occured this week after the play that we attended in which Cassie’s friend starred. She and he have not seen each other at all this school year because of misaligning schedules. Even kids can become too busy to keep in touch.

In the last moment of the last scene of the play, Cassie’s friend took two flowers from a vase and handed one to his leading lady as they exited, stage left. Applause was loud and long. What a great show! The lights were turned up, my daughters and I raised from our seats, and headed to the aisle stairs.

There, standing at the bottom of the steps, was Cassie’s dear friend, holding the flower shown in the picture, with an eager glad smile on his face. Cassie lightly stepped toward him, he handed her the flower, and they hugged a heartfelt, tender hug, while sincerely, emotionally exclaiming how very much they’d missed each other! To others it probably looked like an ordinary pair of friends hugging, but the four of us knew how gratifying was this reconnecting, how needed. This moment in a crowded theater amidst jostling actors and audience members was absolutely lump in the throat, tears in the eyes, as if no one else was around beautiful. Neither kid knew just how much the other meant until they had been separated, left to wander among less than kindreds for months. Wonderful it is to be known.

Cassie’s friend had no idea what she’d been through, nor did he know how desperately she needed his genuine friendship at that very moment.

After catching up and promising to get together we headed for the car and home. Glowing, tears in her eyes, gently smiling, Cassie uttered not a sound. She didn’t have to.

But I did. I whispered, “You have a true friend, an always friend.” Tears rolled down her blushing cheeks, she sniffed the yellow flower, nodded and answered emotionally, “I do. I do.”

The contented filling from reconnecting with a flower bestowing friend would not have been so deeply encouraging had Cassie not first painfully lost something which she’d held dear, a thing which turned out to be false.

“In my loss I rejoice, for what I have found.”

Holy ground.

The Witching Hour

If you've managed to rummage through my archives enough, you may have read the 2006 July Fourth posting, which recounts the evening that Sammy, our dog, sniffed out a baby opossum playing dead under the lush leaves of our vegetable garden, while we were outside roasting marshmallows. Our normally easy-going beagle barked like a psycho.

For some odd reason Tom has always been taken with 'possums. He thinks they are cute. (Don't even ask what this means about his attraction to ME!) He rescued the little unharmed baby creature from Sam and, after much convincing, set him free. He and the girls were worried about the baby's survival chances. I was hopeful that the little guy would reconnect with his mother. (The above photo is the opossum right after rescue from the tomato patch.)

Two weeks later, at midnight, Sammy began barking like a maniac. Sure enough, there was a critter out there, on the fence. It was the baby 'possum, back for a visit. It only took a few midnight visits before Tom was hand feeding the 'possum and scratching the little bug-eyed thing's noggin.

Okay, rewind. Three years ago Joe named our beagle Samwise, after the true and faithful hobbit friend of Frodo, in 'Lord of the Rings', because our newly weaned puppy, Sam, was Joe's loyal friend right from the start. In the 'Lord of the Rings' books Samwise has a creepy nemesis named Gollum, who is constantly trying to steal the precious ring from Frodo. Samwise is on to Gollum, and foils him every time, faithfully warning Frodo.

Fast forward. Last summer this 'possum became Sam's nemesis right away. Each night the pointy-nosed, rat-tailed marsupial waddled along the tall fence pickets in the quiet darkness of night, until he came to rest among the branches of our flowering shrubs. For a few weeks Sam went bananas every single time, barking, jumping up against the fence, looking at Tom wild-eyed as if to say, "He's an enemy! Warning, warning! Don't TOUCH him! What the heck are you DOing!! Flee! Flee! Danger, danger!" Naturally, my animal loving family picked a name for the nightly visitor: Gollum.

Can you picture this? While a glowing-eyed, pink-nosed, slumping animal skitters along cedar pickets, Sam, after waking from his bed, begins tearing through the house. The crazed beagle then shoots out his doggie door. Clawing at the lawn as he streaks to the corner of the yard he hurtles his muscular body into the shrubs, where he then jumps, snaps, and barks, like a deranged nut. Tom, usually awake at this time, smiles and mutters contently, "Gollum." Out the door he saunters, cat food and veggies in his fist. Joe, also awake, meets Tom in the yard with a flashlight. The girls, not supposed to be awake, tippy toe in their little jammies down the walkway, squealing with girlish delight to watch as Daddy feeds the grizzled Gollum, then scratches him between his eyes. At midnight, mind you. Me? I remain in bed wondering how I ended up in the looney bin.

(Okay, this scraggly nocturnal creature IS sorta cute in an ugly kind of way. I have been known to participate in the Gollum Ritual. Thankfully, most nights last summer we just rolled over and went back to sleep. So did Sam.)

Tom was sad and concerned when the cold, rain, and snow kept Gollum away for two seasons.

Sam barked his crazy bark last night. We thought it was cats. The following morning, however, Joe told us that at midnight when he heard Sam bark he looked out his garden window, just in time to see Gollum hunching and skittering along the pickets, heading for the shrubs, looking for a good scratch. (This photo is Gollum after a head scratching last summer.)

Tom's little buddy is okay. He's so happy!

Good-bye peaceful midnight. Hello looney bin.

(Now I know why Grandma referred to midnight as, "The Witching Hour.")

Cell Phones - Revisited

Okay, is this a cosmic joke on me?

Tonight all you blogger friends who commented about my last post, the one about cell phones, came to mind. Why, you ask? Read on.

This evening I took my daughters to the theater, to see a play which starred one of their friends. Marvelous play! But guess what?

Yes, even though we'd been told three times in the moments preceding the play to silence our cell phones, the gray-haired fellow (65?) who sat directly behind Caroline let his phone ring twice before the play began. He gleefully sent a return text to whoever rang him up, after telling and showing his wife all about it.

"Okay," I thought. "This is too funny considering all the cell phone yapping I've been doing in the last, oh, 24 hours. He'll mute his phone in a few minutes. Calm down, old girl. You're being too critical. Iain says this guy's connecting. Lighten up! Something to admire. Find it. Well, he IS keeping his wife and friends entertained with his stories of getting drunk on different types of beer and wine-in-a-box." (Sometimes one can't be too picky on the sort of thing admired.)

The lights darkened, the play began, I relaxed. Five minutes into a 90 minute performance his phone rang. The sound split the silence in the audience. He eagerly sent a return text. The phone rang again, again, again, again, again, six times all together in the first half of the program. When I turned my chin over my shoulder in a sort of sidelong glance, he responded, "Oh, sorry."

You may think I'm lying, or at least exaggerating, and I know I am struggling with a bad attitude about this, but the ringing happened again, again, again, again, again and again before the play was over. Yes, six more times during the second half, twelve in all. I counted. I breathed deeply, and I counted, and I really did enjoy the play - somehow!

TWELVE TIMES!! (Taking shallow breaths now, can you tell?)

We were sitting in the center of the theater so there was a large circle of irritated, passive people who were too polite?/self-conscious?/chicken? to say anything.

Funny thing? During the 15 minute intermission, yep, his phone was quiet. Not a peep.

Oh well.

(Bottom of the Pacific Ocean!!!!)

Just Because You Can, Doesn't Mean You Should

The beach. The glorious Oregon Coast! My two friends and I were there for a long weekend, a supposed holiday from home and hearth, not because home and hearth are undesirable, but because we needed an emptying of sorts, to better live our lives.

The drive up and over was filled with delightful catching up, and sorrows shared. A good beginning.

Interrupting our revelry, her cell phone notified her there was a text message. Nothing important. Her co-worker texted, "Have a fun time! Wish I was there!" in text speak.

Similar messages were sent five or more times before our 2 hour drive ended.

Settled into our lodgings, we headed for the shore, to walk and be soothed at the sea's edge. She checked for messages. Ha, yes, a funny phrase from another friend. One of her adult daughters sent a funny picture. Her son sent a funny picture. Her husband asked where was the new tube of toothpaste. In the presence of our coast's guardian, the Pacific Ocean, lighted with millions of sunshiney sparkles, ebbing, flowing, hissing, crashing, salty-scented, squealing gulls, seaweed littered sands, shells and foam, and there she stood, staring at her tiny tiny screen at a picture of her grandson slobbering. "Isn't that funny!!"

Getting irked, was I, just a little. A teeny bit. "Shake it off," I told myself. "Keep your mouth shut."

At meals, in town shopping, back on the beach, in our room visiting, sharing, out came that cell phone with calls, messages, nothing crucial, just little 'funny things.' For all four days. Interruptions everywhere.

Irritation turned into zeal - I wanted to stomp that phone and throw it into the ocean, or was it HER I wanted to stomp and throw. Both!

I believe the term going around is 'absent present'. This is what she was, for though she was physically with us, her dealings were back home. She never really left home. She brought her trivial day-to-day stuff with her and subsequently dumped it at our feet.

I did manage to get to the beach alone, to unwind. Somehow, though, the purification, the washing I'd become accustomed to on these trips was elusive. Try as I may, the annoyance barred the full-fledged escape I needed.

I felt gypped.

I have a cell phone, yes, yes, I do. It's the family phone, intermittently used, given to the kids when they are on outings, or for emergencies, and for calling home when we are on trips. It costs us $17 a month. We seldom use all our minutes. And, yes, I understand cell phones for businesses. They are indeed handy. It's the silly stuff, the constant silly stuff that bugs me, when taken immediately, as if there were no such thing as an 'off' mode. When do the minds of these constant chatterers digest life's daily input?

Peace constantly shattered leaves little room for gently swirling, settling thoughts, dreaminess, even meditations. I wonder, what does this do to the psyche, to be always chattering, always 'on'? How vivid can experiences be when they are disturbed, when the mind is unnecessarily pulled away to another person, another place?

I was born 100 years too late.

A Quiet Life

Naturalist Olaus Murie was a quiet man, who lived a quiet yet profound life.

When questioned about his ability to get along with everyone, including the very disagreeable, he answered simply that in each person he met he looked for something to admire.

Something...to admire.

Give Us This Day......

Bread.

White and whole grain, rye, buckwheat, and oat.

Cornbread.

Biscuits.

Bagels, muffins, Artisan breads.

French. Sourdough. Irish Soda. English Muffins. More.

But my favorite bread, on a drippy, gray, almost dreich day........is honey whole wheat, warm from the oven, with a little soft butter spread on top. What's your favorite?




I can't wait to see the smiles on Tom and Joe's faces when they enter the house after work and school, the aroma of freshly baked bread greeting them.











To give such pleasure is a joy.









Simple Things.

Tearin' Up the Road

As you may know, Cassie is learning to drive, and I have been the one teaching her so far. She’s a quick study, with a bit of a lead foot sometimes.

To ride with someone who is learning, to know years more than they do, to have experience galore compared to their none, tends to make one take shallow breaths until the key is turned off.

I find myself trying help her avoid rookie mistakes by anticipating her responses, her tendencies. To keep my instructions full but brief, to keep alert yet calm, takes a lot out of me. See, I don’t know all of which she is capable. I don’t know all of her reactions ahead of time. I’m not in her head. One false move and we could die, maybe taking others with us. (Wish we had that “L”, Iain.)

Yet, I have a sort of confidence that I know her enough, and I know me enough, and I know human behavior enough to keep the car where it belongs, when it belongs there, even with my daughter driving. However, anything could happen. Sobering thought.

God, on the other hand, is inside my head, he does know how I’ll react, and one false move, well, is there such a thing?

I take great comfort in the knowledge that my Teacher knows his business and knows me much better than I do. He’ll keep me where I need to be, all the time. I don’t have to worry.

But I do have to do some driving.

St. Augustine Revisited

Joe came home from school energetic and vibrant after a "really good discussion" today.

He read me this quote:

"For as the same fire causes gold to glow brightly, and chaff to smoke; and under the same flail the straw is beaten small, while the grain is cleansed; and as the lees are not mixed with the oil though squeezed out of the vat by the same pressure, so the same violence of affliction proves, purges, clarifies the good, but damns, ruins, exterminates the wicked."

St. Augustine, "City of God, Book 1, Chapter 8"

Thought provoking.

Revisited: Been thinking about this quote. It reminds me of Romans 9. Also of the passage that says something like Jacob I loved, Esau I hated.

It's easy to think of God as a kind, wise grandpa who gently lifts us from a destructive path, carries a big stick to shoo away those people and things that would hurt us, with a twinkle in his eye, and doting pats to our little heads, straightening our halos, a grandpa who requires us to remind him of what needs doing down here in the universe. Or, to think of him as an angry, lightening-hurling, crazy-mad sort of megalomaniac just looking for an excuse to torture humans. He is neither.

It's imperative that we get this as right as we can, the true nature of God and his creation, otherwise, well, won't we be following a different god than the God of the Bible? Won't it be a different faith? Isn't our salvation at risk if we don't have it right, if we aren't believing the Truth, but some watered down, plucked, twisted, synthetic pseudoversion? Paul implores of us to, "continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling [does this mean anticipation and excitement, maybe even anxiety?], for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose." (Philippians 2:12-13) Some interpret that passage to mean you have to earn your salvation through works. That's inconsistent with the rest of the Bible. Was Paul intending to communicate to us that we need to know for sure that the belief we stake our very lives on is The Truth? That we understand correctly? To keep striving for more accuracy, and thus clearer alignment with this Truth, as God changes us from within? This makes more sense to me.

This whole God thing is not so sweet and easy as I was taught it was in Sunday School. "...but damns, ruins, exterminates the wicked." I want to get it right, because it matters, more than anything. And I feel the urgency, and the longing, to know.

Color of Prosperity

Yellow is supposed to be the color of prosperity.

If that's true, our valley is in good shape!

These delightful daffolils are blooming in our backyard right now.

On our daily walk today the kids and I saw this sight repeated in the yards of neighbors, parks, and other places. It's a jovial time of year!

Daffodils: Smiles in the shape of skirted bells!




"A garden is the best alternative therapy."

~~~Germaine Greer

"How fair is a garden amid the toils and passions of existence."

~~~~~Benjamin Disraeli

Of Yuk.....and Dragons

Being basically computer illiterate, it has taken me awhile to discover that this blog looks really yukky when viewed with Internet Explorer - at least, when I look at it with my I.E.

I created it on Safari and Firefox, and when I look at it with those browsers I like the look. It's green and cream, orderly, easy to use, and pleasing on the eye. On Explorer it's white where it should be cream, black where it should be green, the post text should be light brown, not black, and the comments and quotes on the side, besides being hard to read, look absolutely horrid in an ugly orangey color and without their neat little boxes. Blyaaaa. Besides the colors being off, the design is all goofed up.

So, for you who see it that way, I'm sorry. I appreciate your viewership all the more, after knowing what you have to endure.

I wonder if any of you see it with Internet Explorer the way I see it with Safari and Firefox, or if it's always just going to be ukky for you?

I suppose the fact that I have an Apple Computer in a world of PCs may add to the disconnect, too.

Frustrating!

Today a new movie theater opened in our area, offering tickets for a dollar, so the girls and I took them up on the offer. We went to see Eragon. What a wonderful way to escape! I loved it. Anytime I can escape for awhile to a fantasy land where there is no technology, I'm pretty much there.

And the way I feel now after this browser discovery, I think I'd be better off flying around on a dragon this afternoon, than sitting here griping.

I'll go walk the beagle. That always helps!


Postscript: For my own tallying, I just received my first whiff of spring through the open window - a delicate scent of something blossoming somewhere, carried on the wind, to my waiting nostrils! Be still, my heart, sunny days and happy moods are on their way!

One of Four and a Rubik's Cube

On Thursday Tom's mom had a frightening heart episode and her kidneys began to fail. She was rushed to the hospital in the nick of time. The cardiologist recommended her heart be stopped and restarted, like a computer, to get its rhythm back. It worked! Whew.

Being an adopted child, Tom was blessed with four parents, two natural, and two adopted. All loved. We lost his natural dad some years ago. Both Tom's adopted dad and his natural mom died within 3 months of one another two years ago. That was a rough spell. As the last one of four remaining, Tom's adopted mom remains a very precious person in Tom's life. He was raised an only child thus the bond between them is quite significant.

This morning we learned that Mom's kidneys are functioning again, not up to snuff, but quite sufficiently. She's diabetic, so this is a concern. Her heart sustained only minor damage but should need no tweaking in the near future. It looks like she gets to go home today. YAY!!! She misses her doggie, and he misses her. A tail wagging, joyful reunion awaits.

My dad had a small stroke a few days before Christmas. My mom seems a bit more frail each time I see her.

I don't like this.

But I accept it.

We have entered into the ranks of brave, compassionate souls who care for kids at home, have kids in college, and have parents who require just a little more time and care. When I say I don't like this, I don't mean that I dislike that our parents require more time and care, I mean that something is potentially coming which I am not emotionally or mentally ready to wrap my mind around. When I believed Dad was going to die in December a veil parted, giving me a glimpse of that which left me feeling like I was free falling, no ground in sight.

I'd better buck up, huh.

God is gracious to go slow with me, to let me adjust in the quietness of my overly sensitive heart (another one of my mom's descriptions of me - overly sensitive. I 'think too much' and am 'overly sensitive'. Wanna be my friend??!! Ha!)

On a more upbeat note, Cassie solved her brand new Rubik's Cube in three days! Holy Moly! No wonder math is so easy for her, and not so much for me. Caroline was right on her heels, with a little help from big sister. They get their brains from their daddy.

I feel stupid.

But that's okay.

:-)

Signs of Spring

Erupting all over the city are signs of spring!! Our backyard is perking up, too, as these daffodils and hyacinth attest.







Chopping wood is high on Tom's list of Favorite Things To Do. No fooling! In the rain, in work clothes, with a smile.




Cassie practiced driving again yesterday in the Autzen Stadium parking lot, with me as her 'Adult over 21' to guide her. A furious windy wet snow flurry offered itself to her growing list of inclement weather experiences. When the flakes fell hardest, she expertly stepped on the clutch and brake, yanked the emergency brake, shifted into neutral, opened her door, jumped outside and caught several snowflakes on her tongue. Caroline and I joined her!

Winter and Spring! Youth and Maturity!

Harmony.

Balance.

All at once.

I'm feeling cheerier today.

Bonus Features

"Well, Penny, like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method." ~~ Karen to Penny in, "Stranger than Fiction"
-------------------------------------------------
Watching the bonus features on the DVD for the movie "Stranger than Fiction" rekindled something which has been flickering in my mind for years.

I've always loathed Will Ferrell. The characters he has played have, to me, been vulgar and stupid. The few interviews I've seen with him were silly, nausea provoking, and quick, gimme the remote - turn this OFF! idiocy.

"Stranger Than Fiction" was recommended to me by people I trust, so I kept an open mind when I learned Ferrell was the lead. To my pleasant surprise he was excellent in this mostly serious role. Just brilliant. Huh? Will Ferrell?

For some reason I found the incidental interviews on the DVD's bonus features somewhat perturbing. The cast and crew described the lead actor in words incongruous with my perception of "Will Ferrell." Humble? In the moment? Intelligent? Interviews with Ferrell himself astonished me. He behaved like a normal, mature adult. "Remember," I told myself, "he's a performer, playing a part. Stupid is the act, not the whole man. There is more."

Just as there is to each one of us. Rumination began.

Let's face it, not unlike a celebrity with his professional and private persona, most of us have our public and private personas, the public image being remarkably different from our private genuine selves. In order to fit in, or be invisible, to hide, or to impress, a facade is created and projected to the world: this is me!

Masked, lest we be found out, we walk our paths. Society is a cruel mistress, rejection is hard and fast, crippling even. Posing prevents our true faces from being seen and thus judged, and yet to be false, to bury ourselves in fakery induces a sort of madness. We search. We stumble. We excuse and we rationalize. In our conditioned states we sense something is terribly wrong, but what? Out of touch with our integrity, our honesty crusted and scabbed over, we play the roles which protect us, roles we've created from trial and error all our lives. Ridiculously complicated roles.

To stop the sham. To just stop. To quit piling on the crusty muddy costume of pretense so that what is normal and true can be revealed would be incredible relief. Right? To cease the posing!

But to be seen! To be known! Vulnerability terrifies! I know some of the evil that lurks in my heart, and I am not certain of what is good about me. Do I have the courage to look deeper, further, to come to realize the full extent of both? And to reveal them outwardly? To make use of my good gifts, I must discover them. To eradicate my evil, I must face it, admitting it exists. Vulnerability is required.

How I long to sort of unzip my costume from head to toe, kicking the rumpled heap aside, in order to step away from it in courage and confidence that the truth of who I am is enough to accomplish my purpose from God. I don't have to fake. I don't have to hide. I don't have to perform.

Besides hiding me and shielding me from unsettling aspects about myself, does this costume protect others from me?

More ruminating is required. And prayer.

I still don't like Will Ferrell's typical work, but I do have a tad more respect for the man. How weird that bonus features on a DVD would stir me to contemplate personal authenticity.

Mysterious Ways!


Postscript: I'm back to brooding again, yes, 'tis true. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I just need some sun. Sigh.......

"24"

You think you know a person.

Jack Bauer doesn't know who to trust.

His brother, Graem, used to be a heartless, rude ER doctor, until he got his arm cut off by a helicopter rotor up on the roof and later was smashed by another flaming copter, but that was after he did unspeakable things as an x-file.

Jack's dad used to be good ol' Farmer Hogget. What happened?!?!?! No more, "That'll do, Pig"?

His sister-in-law, all innocence but we can tell she has a secret, was previously Mrs. Ned (Lois) Quartermaine, for goodness sake, a free-spirited Brooklyn girl, before she was crippled by her flying hero husband in a car crash and landed in a wheel chair.

Tom Lennox used to be good at Numb3rs before his Space Shuttle training, and long after he bugged Ally McBeal. Reed used to be married to a Million Dollar Baby, and he was John Denver, and before that he was dying of AIDS as Bekka's one true love, Jesse.

And that evil digit-less guy who was after Mighty Joe Young, well, he's after the USA now!!

Poor Jack Bauer.

Hope he's in good hands, with David Palmer!






The writing of this post took place between the hours of 12:00 A.M and 1:00 A.M.

Viewer Discretion Advised - it will make NO SENSE if you have not watched as much TV as I.

Miscellaneous

"In relationships, whether it is man-woman, parent-child, or among friends, we are there to set the other free, and not impose upon them any more chains than they are already wearing. This is not an easy thing to do. In fact, it's one of the hardest." ~~~~Tom Crum

"This is the true joy in life. The being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy." ~~~ George Bernard Shaw

_____________________

When Cassie was a tiny tot we planted a Blue Spruce tree in the front yard and named it Hope. "Hope for the future! We shall watch it grow and be constantly reminded that life goes on, that things grow and become mighty! There's always Hope!"

Hope has grown tall and strong, taller than each one of us, even Joe who measures over six feet. A pretty tree! Christmas lights on it in December, light green, supple new growth in the spring, sprinklers wetting it in the summer. Such fragrance!

Today we cut Hope down. New plans for the yard demanded it. Tears were shed. Mouths turned down. Shoulders sagged.

Joe said, "I've been telling you guys for years, in this world there is no Hope. Believe me now?"

We have another little evergreen tree in a pot that Tom saved from somewhere years ago. It's about four feet tall. We're going to plant it...

and name it...

Doom.

Just in case.

Oregon

Let me say it right upfront, I am a native born Californian - Boo Hiss! - I know, I know. I'm hardened to the contempt from you Oregon Natives. You can't hurt me anymore. Birth through twelve I lived in sunny California swimming, biking, roller skating, climbing trees, and going to school. It was fun. Then, to Oregon we moved and I've been here ever since.

I LOVE OREGON!! It's gorgeous. West of the Cascades it's green and lush, eastern Oregon is high desert glory. With discovery and fantastic vistas around each corner, I am constantly inspired by this great location, my home.

Yesterday we drove up to Willamette Pass high in the snowy Cascade Mountain Range. Breathtaking scenery lined the highway as we drove along its bends and slopes. Hinting at its upcoming arrival, Spring has somehow begun the glowing of the woods. Thick, luminous green moss-coated rigid tree branches and trunks created a surreal enchanted forest. Tiny, plump, bud nubs silhoutted against the pale gray skies spoke of life and leaves to come. White capped, clear, cold waters bubbled over rocks and boulders as if singing joyfully that nature was about to burst forth with newness and growth.









Our mission was simple: snow tubing at Willamette Pass, on Presidents' Day. A friendly amount of folks had the same idea. The girls hooked onto the tow rope and up they rode!




Looking like sugared doughnuts, these tubes sat ready for action.





"Smile, Honey!" Snap! Relaxing to the rhythm of one last wintery hurrah before Spring.



With one final Winter Fix under our belts, we stand ready to embrace-----Spring!

ADHD

Tom showed me an ad he ran across this week in a newspaper.

It said something like:

Do you find your mind wandering from tasks or conversations that are uninteresting or difficult?

In conversations do you start to answer questions before the questions have been fully asked?

Do you say things without thinking and later regret having said them?

Even when sitting quietly are you usually moving your hands or feet?

Do you have a quick temper, a short fuse?

You may have Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder!


Then it went on to ask the ADHD reader to join a clinical trial where experimental medicines will be tested. I have every confidence that these good people have the best of intentions.

Tom has all those behaviors. He's had them all his life. Ben has them, too.

And do you know what, I've never thought they needed medication. I can't imagine them any other way. They are fascinating, enjoyable people to know. When I am seeing life from the ground, they let me know what it looks like from the sky. When I'm above the water, they give me the underwater view. It's absolutely terrific! I feel like an absolute bore sometimes when I'm allowed into their amazing energy. Neither one of them feels they are suffering in any way, they enjoy life. We enjoy them.

However, in the course of his life, Tom has withstood too much criticism and condescension because of his fidgetiness. He has been made to feel inferior because his behavior is misunderstood as wrong, or bad.

I wonder, is there some sort of pinch in society that programs us to channel everyone into the same pigeon-hole? And then, when they don't fit, to fuss around, squish, prod, and medicate them until they do? Devalue and dismiss them if they won't?

What makes us think that way? To label people, categorize them, and then, worst of all, to rank them?

It's true that some symptomatic folks have a rougher time of it than Tom and Ben, and maybe they would like to calm their brains down a bit for an easier time of it. My heart and support go out to them. They need to do what they need to do without being stigmatized.

But for those expressive, energetic ones who feel fine until society tells them that fine means Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional, as quoted in the "Italian Job," I say, "Hey, you ARE normal!"

After I read the article Tom showed me, we hopped into the car to go buy milk. I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror on the visor flap as we motored down the street, and noticed my expression of sober thoughtfulness. "Tom, how come we don't see people with so-called ADHD as within a normal range with everyone else? Why don't we just adjust to the differences? Why homogenize people with medicine? It seems ridiculously small-minded to me, to expect everyone to behave the same, and when they don't, well, drug 'em!"

This issue is quite interesting to Tom, since his behavior fits the bill.

In an enthusiastic voice, left index finger stabbing the air above the steering wheel, he blurted, "Hey! Look! They're putting a new roof on that house!"

Pause.

We simultaneously burst out laughing! He agreed with me. And now we have milk.

Church Lady

"I'm telling you that the church has really crippled women when it tells them that their beauty is vain and they are at their feminine best when they are 'serving others.' A woman is at her best when she is being a woman."

"My friend, Jan, says that a woman who is living out her true design will be 'valiant, vulnerable, and [daring].' That's a far cry from the 'church ladies' we hold up as models of Christian femininity, those busy and tired and rigid women who have reduced their hearts to a few mild desires and pretend everything is going just great."

~~~ ~~~ from "Wild at Heart", by John Eldredge
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There she was, sloppy, slouching, sighing......and 'serving.' Half-heartedly. Same as last week, and the week before, and the month, year, and decade before that. The perfect epitome of the church lady. Not Dana Carvey's "Now isn't that special" Church Lady. No, this was the real deal. Looking into her corpse-like eyes chilled me to a shiver. "Look at her, Tom. Look. She's been that way for twenty years. Still walking behind her husband, going where he points, picking up his things, silently." Resigned, sincerely believing she's serving God, she has given up the best parts of her, willingly trading them for a fool's notion of a 'godly woman.'

This is the woman who is living out what the Christian subculture tells her is the noble woman, the one who works, who serves, who in 'submission' throws herself down and out with the bath water in order to promote her husband. Her young daughters look up to her as their example, practicing the killing of their desires thinking them sinful. "Women are to remain under the complete leadership of men." Yep. Don't misunderstand, here lead doesn't mean lead, it means dominate. For Eve isn't to be trusted. She ate the forbidden fruit first. Women must be tamed for they are baaaaaad.

The problem isn't the fact that the husband is the ultimate decision maker. When an irreconcilable difference of opinion presents itself, then the man is to make his best informed choice, which settles the matter. This is what leadership means. A wise woman kindly places her trust in her husband, for he is the one God holds responsible for the results of the marriage. This isn't the problem. It's a woman's joy to use her life and gifts to help her husband with his goal of a healthy, godly marriage. It's her goal, too. It's why she married him. They represent a team, two thriving human beings who will each stand alone before God, working in this life together to come to understand spiritual realities.

Men who have both oars in the water are in awe of their women. They don't fear them. They don't resent them. They love, respect, and know them. Constantly surprised by decades of unexpected feminine delights, these enlightened men live with tiny satisfied smiles playing around their mouths. "Smother this girl and you'll miss it," they wisely advise. "Keep your senses alert, boys, tip of the iceburg. There's more where that came from." "Forget about her age, man, look into her eyes. Life! Fire! Wisdom!" Men desire to be invited into a full on experience with a lusty intelligent woman. Their women eagerly invite them. Complete satisfaction.

Unless she's constrained by the foolishness of some hypnotized misguided schlump a woman will delightfully dance in natural step with the rhythms of life. It is in this capacity that she offers help to her man, help that flows as naturally as water from a spring. To share her many dimensions thrills her as much as it pleases her mate. Magical synergy.

The problem comes from that foolish misguided hypnotized schlump. When he has his way, he dutifully trusses his woman's passion, spirit, and self-expression then shoves her into that fusty, restricting box marked "Submissive Christian Woman." It doesn't take long before she's as passionless, insecure, narrow-minded, and misguided as he is, which seems to be the goal of the Christian subculture.

It's easy to spot that 'perfect Christian couple'. The Stepford wife has lost herself, stopped dreaming, and the man strangely resembles a spoiled sophomoric teen. Obeying what he's been taught, he orders. She serves. Serves, not helps. Serves, not delights. Serves, not inspires. Serves, not leaves him breathless, howling at the moon, exhausted from encountering a vital, mysterious force of nature who truly desires him: his wife. He's a conditioned tyrant. She's an efficient, depressed, swirly-eyed minion. A sticky straight-jacketed union which looks like something from hell, not heaven.
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I remember when you were his dog.
I remember you under his thumb.
Yeah baby, when he would call
Every time, you had to come.

Hey, baby, you're a free girl now.
Hey, baby, you're a free girl now!

~~ "Free Girl Now", by Tom Petty

Our Old House

For years Tom and I have toyed with the idea of remodeling our house. It's about 70 years old, a bungalow. Very cute. Lots of character. Home, sweet home!

It's small. 1100 square feet. In the 1940's a medium sized family would live in a home like ours. Medium sized, you know, two parents, two or three kids, and a dog. The doorways are arched, there are many large, lovely, leaky windows made of wood and glass, the layout is simple and sensible, the doorknobs are glass. The front door is solid and heavy and sticks when it rains so that you have to bump it a few times to get it open. The grated floor furnace ticks soothingly at night as it pumps heat into our rooms. The antique window screens are easy to unlatch and wash, and they keep the bugs out just fine.

We've updated, added some personal touches, made it more comfortable, a little more fuel efficient.

This little house has played a major role in creating a very close-knit family. It has character, humility, charm, and comfort. Its cozy size has forced us to master social skills such as sharing, consideration, and generosity. When you get mad there is nowhere to run. You slam a door and the whole house shakes. You holler and the neighbors know your business. It keeps you honest. You care about a distraught person when you can hear them crying in the next room. You go to them. You can't ignore the many moods whether happy, excited, frustrated, sad, or cranky. You learn to control yourself, and you learn to communicate. The living space, being common to all, creates a healthy knowing.

Tom and I agree, we could live anywhere and be a loving family, but it's easier here where the air is fresh, and the character is genuine.